Connecting the Ancient West and East: Studies Presented to Prof. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze (Monographs on Antiquity, 8) 9042944137, 9789042944138

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MONOGRAPHS ON ANTIQUITY

connecting the ancient west and east STUDIES PRESENTED TO PROF. GOCHA R. TSETSKHLADZE

Edited by J. Boardman, J. Hargrave, A. Avram (†) and A. Podossinov

PEETERS 2022

CONNECTING THE ANCIENT WEST AND EAST

Prof. Gocha Tsetskhladze at a degree ceremony, Melbourne, August 2012.

CONNECTING THE ANCIENT WEST AND EAST STUDIES PRESENTED TO PROF. GOCHA R. TSETSKHLADZE

edited by

J. Boardman, J. Hargrave, A. Avram (†) and A. Podossinov

PEETERS LEUVEN - PARIS - BRISTOL, CT 2022

MONOGRAPHS ON ANTIQUITY

EDITED BY

HUGO THOEN  L.B. VAN DER MEER

VOL VIII

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, microfiche or any other means without written permission from the publisher © Peeters – Bondgenotenlaan 153 – 3000 Leuven ISBN 978-90-429-4413-8 eISBN 978-90-429-4414-5 D/2022/0602/61

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface and Acknowledgments .............................................................................. Tabula Gratulatoria............................................................................................... List of Illustrations ................................................................................................ List of Abbreviations .............................................................................................

XI XIII XIX XXXIX

LIFE, WORKS AND REFLEXIONS

Gocha Tsetskhladze, West and East: why a Festschrift ? ..........................................

3

Laudatio Domini ...................................................................................................

13

Personal Recollections: John Boardman, Eka Avaliani, Alexandru Avram, Janet Buxton, Cecily Grace, James Hargrave, Paolo Maranzana, Alexander Podossinov and Simon Young .................................................................................................

15

The writings of Gocha Tsetskhladze, 1989–2022 ..................................................

27

THE BLACK SEA, ANATOLIA AND THE PONTIC HINTERLAND

 1. Sümer ATASOY Burial grounds at Tios ...................................................................................

51

 2. Eka AVALIANI The Roman cult of emperor worship: Was the Roman emperor revered as a god amongst Caucasian Iberians? ..................................................................

67

 3. Alexandru AVRAM (†) 519 BC: Persians occupy the North Pontic coast..........................................

75

 4. Staša BABIĆ ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’: Biography of a collection of Pontic pottery in the National Museum, Belgrade ................................................................

109

 5. Luis BALLESTEROS PASTOR The land of the Sun and the Moon: An interpretation of the emblem on Pontic royal coins ..........................................................................................

123

 6. Alexey BELOUSOV One forgotten Greek inscription from the Rostov region..............................

137

 7. Lucrețiu MIHAILESCU-BÎRLIBA Salt administration in Roman Dacia: An overview........................................

145

 8. Dorel BONDOC A new stamped Roman amphora from Cioroiu Nou ....................................

157

VI

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 9. Valentin BOTTEZ and Peter ROTHENHOEFER A gift for Dea Syria from Moukaporis, son of Ditoukenthos ........................

165

10. Hadrien BRU Oueinia, bureau de douane romaine de la province d’Asie, et les routes du marbre de Dokimeion ...................................................................................

173

11. Stanley BURSTEIN A view from the Fringe: Heraclea Pontica in the age of Alexander ...............

185

12. Alexander BUTYAGIN The Archaic necropolis of Myrmekion ..........................................................

195

13. Livia BUZOIANU et Maria BĂRBULESCU (†) La période de début du Principat dans les villes grecques ouest-pontiques à la lumière des sources littéraires et épigraphiques ..........................................

205

14. Dmitry CHISTOV Greek urbanisation of the North Pontic region in the 6th–early 5th centuries BC ..........................................................................................................

217

15. Altay COŞKUN Acampsis, Boas, Apsarus, Petra, Sebastopolis: Rivers and forts on the southern littoral of Colchis ...........................................................................................

241

16. Margarit DAMYANOV An essay on the history of Apollonia Pontica to the Early Hellenistic period

261

17. Madalina DANA et Dan DANA L’anneau du roi Skylès: Pouvoir et territoire au nord-ouest de la mer Noire

291

18. Edward DANDROW The coinage of Tios in Bithynia: Local history, religion and civic representation

313

19. Jan DE BOER Greek colonies, a middle ground and the hinterland in south-eastern Thrace

339

20. María-Paz DE HOZ Phrygian traces in Greek epigraphy of Roman Anatolia: Survival or identity revival? ...........................................................................................................

369

21. Irina DEMETRADZE-RENZ Defining urban space: The archaeology and topography of Mtskheta...........

387

22. Şevket DÖNMEZ and E. Emine NAZA-DÖNMEZ Achaemenid-period serpentine vessels from Oluz Höyük (Kritalia) and Harşena Fortress (Amasya), North-Central Anatolia ...................................................

409

23. Sergey DUDAREV, Victoria BEREZHNAYA and Svetlana KOLKOVA New finds of swords of Maeotian and Sarmatian types in the North Caucasus

419

24. Gabriela FILIP A fascinum representation from the Roman fort at Răcari, Dolj county, Roumania ............................................................................................................

429

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VII

25. Iulon GAGOSHIDZE Varkana – the country of wolves ...................................................................

435

26. Vladimir GORONCHAROVSKY Greek-Sindian interactions in the territory of the Cimmerian Bosporus in the 6th–4th centuries BC ....................................................................................

441

27. Cecily GRACE Can Gordion roof tiles help date the Midas Monument?..............................

455

28. Amiran KAKHIDZE The earliest bronze metallurgy on the Georgian side of the south-eastern Black Sea littoral......................................................................................................

463

29. Michel KAZANSKI Tombes à bouclier au nord et à l’est de la mer Noire à l’époque romaine: origines ..........................................................................................................

491

30. Viktor KOPYLOV (†) The mouth of the Tanais and its role in Colchian-Scythian trade in the 5th– first quarter of the 3rd century BC ................................................................

505

31. Sergei KOVALENKO Some rare coins from the Vasilii Rozanov collection .....................................

511

32. Vladimir KUZNETSOV Phanagoria in Archaic times ..........................................................................

521

33. Shota MAMULADZE and Emzar KAKHIDZE The main results of the archaeological excavations conducted at the fort of Gonio-Apsarus in 2015 .................................................................................

553

34. Manolis MANOLEDAKIS Paphlagonians and Phrygians.........................................................................

575

35. Paolo MARANZANA Cities in Roman Galatia and the emergence of urbanism..............................

593

36. Marcin MATERA, Nadezhda GAVRYLYUK, Dmytro NYKONENKO and Paweł LECH Some remarks about Konsulovskoe, a lesser-known Late Scythian hillfort on the Lower Dnieper ........................................................................................

611

37. Andrei OPAIŢ, Dan DAVIS and Michael BRENNAN The Sinop I shipwreck: A Black Sea merchant ship from the Roman Imperial era ..................................................................................................................

633

38. Krastina PANAYOTOVA Musical instruments from the necropolis of Apollonia Pontica .....................

647

39. Richard POSAMENTIR Dog not important, only staff important! .....................................................

665

40. Oksana RUCHYNSKA The main agonistic festivals in Tauric Chersonesus.......................................

683

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

41. Zsolt SIMON The pre-Achaemenid kingdom of Cappadocia and the identification of Kerkenes Dağ ................................................................................................

695

42. Tyler Jo SMITH Gorgons on the Go: An Athenian Black-Figure Skyphos from Berezan ........

703

43. Nikola THEODOSSIEV The Thracian tholos tombs at Ravnogor reconsidered....................................

723

44. Marina VAKHTINA On the Archaic fortifications of Porthmion...................................................

743

45. Maya VASSILEVA Bendis again ..................................................................................................

757

46. Yurii VINOGRADOV Forgotten monuments of the Cimmerian Bosporus ......................................

765

47. Barbora WEISSOVA Route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ in north-western Asia Minor: State of the art and new observations .....................................................................................

779

48. Everett WHEELER Roman Colchis, Iberia and Alani: Some notes as apologia.............................

791

49. Anne-Maria WITTKE Midas’ Gordion und das übrige Kleinasien: Überlandrouten als Indikatoren für Konnektivität ...........................................................................................

837

50. Şahin YILDIRIM Results of recent archaeological investigations of Archaic Tieion ..................

855

51. Stanislav ZADNIKOV and Iryna SHRAMKO Greek pottery of the 7th–6th centuries BC on Bilsk fortified settlement ......

877

52. Angelina ZEDGENIDZE Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula in the system of the polis of Chersonesus .......................................................................................

893

EAST AND WEST: GREECE, PERSIA, ROME, EGYPT, CENTRAL ASIA

53. Kazim ABDULLAEV Revisiting a phalera from Mound 20 in Noin Ula in northern Mongolia: Some iconographic aspects in Bactrian art.....................................................

907

54. Larissa BONFANTE (†) Luxurious funerals and sumptuary laws .........................................................

935

55. Osmund BOPEARACHCHI Greek Helios or Indian Sūrya? The spread of the Sun God imagery from India to Gandhāra .........................................................................................

941

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IX

56. Jan BOUZEK (†) Greeks and their neighbours: From similar start to acculturation .................

955

57. Mario DENTI Ritual pebbles: Pebbles between the living and the dead in the Mediterranean Iron Age ........................................................................................................

963

58. Jean-Paul DESCŒUDRES The Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe Istanbul 1503 .................................. 1013 59. Adolfo J. DOMÍNGUEZ Ethnic identities in conflict in ancient Epirus ............................................... 1023 60. Alexander FANTALKIN and Oren TAL Alexander Jannaeus’ defensive line against Antiochus XII Dionysus revisited once again...................................................................................................... 1055 61. Flavia FRISONE Wandering Samians in the West ................................................................... 1071 62. Oleg GABELKO Ceraunus, Chrestus and others: ‘Double-layer’ epithets? ............................... 1081 63. Verena GASSNER The early phases of Cult Place 2 in Elea-Velia: An archaeological palimpsest 1095 64. Leonardo GREGORATTI Are two Great Kings too many? Some considerations on Parthian kingship in the Classical sources .................................................................................. 1111 65. Yervand GREKYAN The Median empire and the highstand waters of the Caspian Sea ................ 1125 66. Louise HITCHCOCK, Laura PISANU and Aren MAEIR Magical mystery tour: The role of islands in connecting ancient West and East ................................................................................................................ 1147 67. Heather JACKSON Down in the dumps at Seleucid Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates .................... 1161 68. Vasilica LUNGU et Pierre DUPONT Timbres amphoriques rhodiens d’Archangelos ............................................... 1181 69. Andrew MADDEN Applying the Beazley method to mosaic artist attribution ............................. 1201 70. Andreas MEHL Seleucids as ‘Great Kings’? ............................................................................. 1237 71. Fergus MILLAR (†) Two Monophysite bishops between Roman West and Sasanian East............ 1249 72. Marta OLLER GUZMÁN L’hospitalité de Zeus, d’un côté à l’autre de la Méditerranée ......................... 1261

X

TABLE OF CONTENTS

73. Jari PAKKANEN and Maria Costanza LENTINI Crisis, divination and ‘killing’ pottery: Astragals and punctured vessels from a Classical-period well at Sicilian Naxos ........................................................ 1271 74. Alexander PODOSSINOV Heracles Celticus and Heracles Scythicus: The same narrative in the west and the east of Europe? ........................................................................................ 1291 75. Robert ROLLINGER How the Mediterranean became the Mediterranean: Some neglected pieces of evidence for the history of the mental mapping of an inland sea .............. 1307 76. Ligia RUSCU About the Lollii of Byzantium ....................................................................... 1333 77. Frank SEAR Republican theatres of Rome ......................................................................... 1341 78. Květa SMOLÁRIKOVÁ Herodotus and Amasis’ coup d’état ................................................................ 1355 79. Mikhail TREISTER Imported bronze hammered cauldrons from Asian Sarmatia ......................... 1363 80. Christoph ULF Migration – not colonisation: What motivated people to leave their community according to the texts of Archaic Greece ................................................ 1415 81. José VELA TEJADA The lost inscription of Argos (IG IV 556 = Syll 3 182): A case of Athenian propaganda in the 4th century BC? ............................................................... 1433 82. Ioannis XYDOPOULOS Κοινοὶ εὐεργέται and Ῥωμαῖοι εὐεργέται in inscriptions from Macedonia ... 1453 MODERN TIMES

83. Paul EVERILL ‘Over the hills and far away’: An essay on Anglo-Georgian relations ............ 1469 84. Oswyn MURRAY Between East and West: Memories of the Cold War .................................... 1477 85. James HARGRAVE What do they know of learning who only universities know? Surviving the dystopia of Australian tertiary education ....................................................... 1487

List of Contributors .............................................................................................. 1501 Index ..................................................................................................................... 1507

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am contributing this brief Preface on behalf of my co-editors. Others who have edited Festschriften will understand the difficulties, not least whom to invite, whom else to invite if space were unlimited, how many to invite, whom not to invite (a short but particular list of half a dozen or so), etc. The Tabula Gratulatoria includes the names of several from whom submissions were sought (but who were unable to fall in with the proposed timescale through pressure of other work), and others who, in an ideal world, would have been welcome participants, as well as former colleagues in other disciplines, etc. A target of 80–90 papers had been agreed at an early stage. Gocha’s links with Georgia, Kharkov, Moscow, Oxford (though alas not Linacre), Royal Holloway and Melbourne are all on display; so too his excavations in Phanagoria and Pessinus. We should like to thank all those who have submitted papers, some of which are very substantial pieces, many of them promptly delivered. Alas, Charon has been busy of late. We remember the late Maria Bărbulescu, Larissa Bonfante, Jan Bouzek, Viktor Kopylov and Fergus Millar, all of whom sent papers which must rank among their last works for publication. Jan Bouzek had known Gocha in the old East as well as the West for 35 years. We remember too Paul Peeters, our publisher, who died suddenly and young in March 2021. It was he who brought Gocha to Peeters. Even more devastating has been the equally sudden death of our dear colleague Alexandru Avram – the youngest of us – at Histria on the night of August 4th, an inauspicious date. He was busily planning what promised to be a fruitful retirement, freed from the time-consuming and -wasting life of a modern-day university professor, and was working on the proofs of the present volume at the time of his departure. A fine scholar and a warm individual; a bright light snuffed out. Not among the angels: one unwilling even to respond, another providing evidence of oddness in the Fens, a third undiplomatic. We are, however, safe from one who has interfered mendaciously with the dedicatee’s contacts in Germany and whose scurrilous babblings are little short of actionable. A strictly alphabetical arrangement of so many contributions would have been cumbersome. The Black Sea is the predominant theme, and papers concerning its four shores and their hinterland are contained in Part 1. Part 2 houses the remaining papers, with a short coda of three focused on modern times in East, West and South. A few papers from Part 2 might just as easily have gone in Part 1, and a brace from Part 1 might have been placed in Part 3, but to edit is to choose. A word on conventions: on balance, the Latinised forms of ancient proper names have been preferred where different authors opted for different spellings. In the biblio graphies, the standard (not necessarily the latest) English forms of modern place names are used. But in all a degree of flexibility has been observed. There will be some minor inconsistencies in transliteration from Cyrillic etc., not least because the present work is trilingual.

XII

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Whereas Festschriften are often produced by former pupils of the honorand, here all the editors are his seniors in years, and one was his supervisor in Oxford. This underscores the nature of Gocha’s achievements. The intention was to mark his 30 years in the West, i.e. a 30-year pursuit of East and West. We have missed the target; the fault is ours, or rather it arises from our indulgence of some late-running submissions (and then the disruption wrought by a nasty virus belting down the new Silk Road – plus the lamentable public policy responses to it); delay owes nothing to our publishers, Peeters, to whom we owe a great deal and give our warmest thanks, particularly to Bert Verrept. Likewise, we are much obliged to the Editors of Monographs on Antiquity, especially to Bouke van der Meer, for including this work in their series. It will now appear as a very early birthday present for Gocha at the start of his 60th year. James Hargrave

TABULA GRATULATORIA

Kazim Abdullaev, Istanbul University Mikhail Abramzon, Institute of Archaeology, RAN, Moscow Richard Ashton, Royal Numismatic Society, London Sümer Atasoy, Istanbul Eka Avaliani, International Black Sea University, Tbilisi Alexandru (†) and Suzana Avram, Le Mans/Bucharest Staša Babić, University of Belgrade Miqayel Badalyan, Erebuni Historical and Archaeological Museum-Reserve, Yerevan Luis Ballesteros Pastor, University of Seville Alexandre Baralis, The Louvre, Paris Maria Bărbulescu (†) Alexey Belousov, Moscow Lomonosov State University/Russian State University for the Humanities Christine Biggs, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, Canberra, ACT Ian Biggs, Australian Deputy High Commissioner, New Delhi (late ambassador to Turkey) Lucrețiu Mihailescu-Bîrliba, Alexandru Ioan Cuza University of Iași John Boardman, Beazley Archive, Oxford Dorel Bondoc, Museum of Oltenia, Craiova Larissa Bonfante (†) Anna Boozer, Baruch College, City University of New York Osmund Bopearachchi, University of California, Berkeley/CNRS Paris Valentin Bottez, University of Bucharest Jan Bouzek (†) Michael Brennan, Jacksonville, Florida Hadrien Bru, University of Franche-Comté, Besançon Stanley Burstein, California State University, Los Angeles Alexander Butyagin, State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg Michael and Janet Buxton, Brighton, Victoria Livia Buzoianu, Museum of National History and Archaeology, Constanţa Jean-David Cahn, Basel Joseph Coleman Carter, University of Texas at Austin Sir Bryan Cartledge, KCMG, Linacre College, Oxford Dmitry Chistov, State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg Matthew Cobb, University of Wales Trinity St David, Lampeter, Cardiganshire Simon Corcoran, University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne Altay Coskun, University of Waterloo, Ontario Margarit Damyanov, National Archaeological Institute with Museum, BAS, Sofia

XIV

TABULA GRATULATORIA

Anca Dan, CNRS – École Normale Supérieure, Paris Dan Dana, CNRS – ANHIMA, Paris Madalina Dana, Jean Moulin Lyon 3 University Edward Dandrow, University of Central Florida, Orlando Dan Davis, Luther College, Decorah, Iowa David Davison, Archaeopress, Summertown, Oxford Jan de Boer, Ghent University María-Paz de Hoz. Complutense University of Madrid Irina Demetradze-Renz, Ilia State University, Tbilisi Denise Demetriou, University of California, San Diego Gul Gurtekin Demir, Ege University, Izmir Mario Denti, Rennes 2 University Jean-Paul Descœudres, University of Geneva Adolfo J. Domínguez, Autonomous University of Madrid Emine Naza-Dönmez, Istanbul University Şevket Dönmez, Istanbul University Lieve Donnellan, Montenegro/University of Melbourne Owen Doonan, California State University, Northridge Catherine Draycott, University of Durham Sergey Dudarev, Armavir State Pedagogical University Pierre Dupont, CNRS – MOM, Lyons Susanne Ebbinghaus, Harvard Art Museums, Cambridge, Mass. Paul Everill, University of Winchester Alexander Fantalkin, Tel Aviv University Gabriela Filip, Museum of Oltenia, Craiova Kristal Flemming, Melbourne, Victoria Flavia Frisone, University of Salento, Lecce Oleg Gabelko, Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow Iulon Gagoshidze, Georgian National State Museum, Tbilisi Luigi Gallo, University of Naples ‘L’Orientale’ Verena Gassner, University of Vienna Nadezhda Gavrylyuk, Institute of Archaeology, Kiev Hermann Genz, American University of Beirut Andrew Goldman, Gonzaga University, Spokane, Washington Vladimir Goroncharovsky, Institute for the History of Material Culture, RAN, St Petersburg Cecily Grace, Bendigo, Victoria Andrew and Elizabeth Green, Hope, Flintshire Leonardo Gregoratti, University of Durham Yervand Grekyan, Institute of Oriental Studies, Yerevan Sven Gunther, IHAC, Northeast Normal University, Ch’ang-ch’un Jonathan Hall, University of Chicago Edward Herring, National University of Ireland, Galway Ruth Hind, Leeds Louise Hitchcock, University of Melbourne Ledio Hysi, Tirana

TABULA GRATULATORIA

XV

Nino Inaishvili, Batumi Shota Rustaveli State University Heather Jackson, University of Melbourne Monica S. Jackson, University of Sydney Bruno Jacobs, University of Basel Ted Kaizer, University of Durham Amiran Kakhidze, Batumi Archaeological Museum Emzar Kakhidze, Batumi Shota Rustaveli State University Maya Kashuba, Institute for the History of Material Culture, RAN, St Petersburg Michel Kazanski, Collège de France/CNRS, Paris Michael Kerschner, Austrian Archaeological Institute, ÖAW, Vienna/University of Leiden Lori Khatchadourian, Cornell University, New York Hyun Jin Kim, University of Melbourne Erich Kistler, University of Innsbruck Viktor Kopylov (†) Christian Körner, University of Bern Sergei Kovalenko, Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow Amélie Kuhrt, University College London Vladimir Kuznetsov, Institute of Archaeology, RAN, Moscow Paweł Lech, University of Warsaw Maria Costanza Lentini, Archaeological Park of Naxos, Sicily Jeffrey Lerner, Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, North Carolna Vasilica Lungu, Institute for South East European Studies, Roumanian Academy, Bucharest June McBeth, University of Melbourne Jeremy McInerney, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia Andrew Madden, Cardiff, NSW Aren M. Maeir, Bar-Ilan University, Tel Aviv Irad Malkin, Tel Aviv University Shota Mamuladze, Batumi Shota Rustaveli State University Thomas Mannack, Beazley Archive, Oxford Manolis Manoledakis, International Hellenic University, Thessalonica Paolo Maranzana, Boğaziçi University Michał Marciak, Jagiellonian University, Cracow Marcin Matera, University of Warsaw Vincent Megaw, Flinders University, Adelaide Andreas Mehl, Martin Luther University, Halle-Wittenberg Caspar Meyer, Bard Graduate Center, New York Fergus Millar (†) Margaret Miller, University of Sydney Lynette Mitchell, University of Exeter Martin Mohr, University of Zurich Jean-Paul Morel, Centre Camille Jullian, Aix-Marseille University, Aix-en-Provence Oswyn Murray, Balliol College, Oxford Penelope Murray, University of Warwick Jiří Musil, Charles University, Prague Dmytro Nykonenko, Khortytsia

XVI

TABULA GRATULATORIA

Marta Oller Guzmán, Autonomous University of Barcelona Andrei Opaiţ, Toronto, Ontario Jari Pakkanen, Royal Hollway and Bedford New College, Egham Krastina Panayotova, National Archaeological Institute with Museum, BAS, Sofia Ewdoksia Papuci-Władyka, Jagiellonian University, Cracow Evgeni Paunov, Vienna Peter Pavúk, Charles University, Prague Germain Payen, Lille Natia Phiphia, Ivane Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University Laura Pisanu, University of Melbourne Annegret Plontke-Lüning, Friedrich Schiller University, Jena Alexander Podossinov, Institute for World History, RAN, Moscow Richard Posamentir, Eberhard Karl University of Tübingen Daniel Thomas Potts, New York University John Prag, The Manchester Museum, University of Manchester Annette Rathje, University of Copenhagen P.J. Rhodes (†) Lynn Roller, University of California, Davis Robert Rollinger, University of Innsbruck Peter Rothenhoefer, Sun Yat-Sen University, Canton Oksana Ruchynska, V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University Ligia and Dan Ruscu, Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca Armin Schmidt, GeodataWIZ, Remagen Joanna and Tomasz Scholl, Warsaw Margaret Scrivner, Royal Holloway and Bedford New College, Egham Frank Sear, University of Melbourne Iryna Shramko, V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University Zsolt Simon, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich Alexander Skinner, Virtual Centre for Late Antiquity, London Adam Smith, Cornell University, New York R.R.R. Smith, University of Oxford Tyler Jo Smith, University of Virginia, Charlottesville Květa Smoláriková, Charles University, Prague Irina Sodoleanu, Museum of National History and Archaeology, Constanţa Maria Stamatopoulou, University of Oxford William and Judith (†) Stancomb, Market Lavington, Wiltshire Oren Tal, Tel Aviv University Nikola Theodossiev, Sofia University St Kliment Ohridski Richard Tomlinson, Birmingham Mikhail Treister, Bonn Christopher Tuplin, University of Liverpool Christoph Ulf, University of Innsbruck Manuela Ungureanu, University of British Columbia, Kelowna Marina Vakhtina, Institute for the History of Material Culture, RAN, St Petersburg Gera van Bedaf, Brill, Leiden

TABULA GRATULATORIA

XVII

Hazal van Nienke het Hoff, Istanbul Miroslav Vasilev, Institute of Balkan Studies and Centre for Thracology, BAS, Sofia Maya Vassileva, New Bulgarian University, Sofia José Vela Tejada, University of Zaragoza Bert Verrept, Peeters, Leuven Alexandra Villing, The British Museum, London Yurii Vinogradov, Institute for the History of Material Culture, RAN, St Petersburg Kostas Vlassopoulos, University of Crete, Heraklion Gerhard Weber, Villingen, Baden-Württtemberg Jennifer Webb, La Trobe University, Bundoora, Victoria Michael Weiskopf, Berkeley, California Barbora Weissova, Ruhr University, Bochum Everett Wheeler, Duke University, Durham, North Carolina Anne-Maria Wittke, Eberhard Karl University of Tübingen Greg Woolf, University of California, Los Angeles Fred C. Woudhuizen (†) Ioannis Xydopoulos, Aristotle University of Thessalonica Şahin Yıldırım, Bartin University Simon Young, Prahran, Victoria Stanislav Zadnikov, V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University Angelina Zedgenidze, National Resaerch University ‘Higher School of Economics’, Moscow

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FRONTISPIECE Gocha Tsetskhladze at a degree ceremony, Melbourne, August 2012 .................. WHY A FESTSCHRIFT ? Fig. 1. Medal awarded by Charles University, Prague, May 2015 ..................... Fig. 2. Gocha Tsetskhladze installed as a professor honoris causa, University of Bucharest, October 2015 ....................................................................... Fig. 3. Gocha Tsetskhladze at Pessinus with the Australian Ambassador to Turkey, Mr Ian Biggs, and Dr Christine Biggs, summer 2011 ...........................

II

11 14 25

CHAPTER 1 Fig. 1. The Black Sea Region settlements .......................................................... Fig. 2. The burial grounds at Tios..................................................................... Fig. 3. Tile-covered grave .................................................................................. Fig. 4. Sarcophagus burial ................................................................................. Fig. 5. Lekythos ................................................................................................. Fig. 6. Lekythos ................................................................................................. Fig. 7. Acropolis of Tios, remains of the church and the temple....................... Fig. 8. Lid of sarcophagus at the seaside ............................................................ Fig. 9. The graves in the narthex of the church................................................. Fig. 10. Three graves in the naos of the church ................................................... Fig. 11. The grave from the Sefercik district ....................................................... Fig. 12. The grave in Hıdırlık/Ören Tepesi ........................................................ Fig. 13. The grave in Hıdırlık/Ören Tepesi ........................................................ Fig. 14. Grave with two chambers in Öteyüz, Filyos........................................... Fig. 15. Grave with two chambers in Öteyüz, Filyos...........................................

55 55 56 56 57 57 58 59 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

CHAPTER 3 Fig. 1. The Achaemenid inscription from Phanagoria ....................................... Fig. 2. Drawing of the same inscription ............................................................

76 76

CHAPTER 4 Fig. 1. Black-figure cup, Col. Milosavljević Collection...................................... Fig. 2. Lekythos, Col. Milosavljević Collection .................................................

114 118

CHAPTER 5 Fig. 1. Stater of Mithridates Eupator ................................................................. Fig. 2. Athenian stater issued in 87/6 BC..........................................................

124 125

XX

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER 6 Fig. 1. Newspaper article on the finds from Melikhovskaya village ...................

137

CHAPTER 8 Fig. 1. Roman fortress at Cioroiu Nou and the civilian settlement ................... Fig. 2. The stamped amphora handle from Cioroiu Nou.................................. Fig. 3. The stamped amphora handle from Cioroiu Nou.................................. Fig. 4. The stamped amphora handle from Sarmizegetusa ................................ Fig. 5. The stamped amphora handle from Histria ........................................... Fig. 6. The three stamps of the producer Quartus ............................................ Fig. 7. The distribution of Quartus’ amphorae .................................................

161 161 162 162 163 163 163

CHAPTER 9 Fig. 1. The two silver casseroles ......................................................................... Fig. 2. Detail with the inscription ..................................................................... Fig. 3. ISM I 327 .............................................................................................. Fig. 4. Istros and vicus Quintionis ......................................................................

165 166 167 170

CHAPTER 10 Fig. 1. La Phrygie, avec le toponyme Oinân et sa région ................................. Fig. 2. La Phrygie Parorée et le Taurus méridional ........................................... Fig. 3. La Pisidie centrale ..................................................................................

174 177 180

CHAPTER 12 Fig. 1. Selected finds from the Late Archaic necropolis of Myrmekion: 1 – glass amphoriskos (inv. P.1885.26); 2 – glass alabastron (inv. P.1885.28); 3 – Corinthian exaleiptron (inv. P.1888.3); 4–7 – Attic black-figured lekythoi (inv. P.1885.18, P.1885.20, P.1885.22, P.1888.2); 8–11 – Attic red-figured lekythoi (inv. P.1885.19, P.1885.23, P.1889.8, P.1889.8). Collection of the State Hermitage Museum ........................................... Fig. 2. Myrmekion. Sector B. Late Archaic grave .............................................. Fig. 3. Selected finds from the sector M Archaic necropolis of Myrmekion: 1 – grey-glazed grey clay jug (Grave 8, inv. M.2018-337); 2 – bronze bracelet (Grave 8, inv. M.2018-523); 3 – grey-glazed grey clay vessel (Grave 7, inv. M.2018-310); 4 – one-handed Ionian cup (Grave 9, inv. M.2019-245); 5 – guttus (Grave 9, inv. M.2019-247); 6 – Ionian olpe (near Grave 10, inv. M.2019-272); 7 – Ionian askos (Grave 12, inv. M.2019368). Collection of the East Crimean Historical-Cultural Museum ....... Fig. 4. Myrmekion. Graves from the necropolis in sector M: 1 – Grave 6; 2 – Grave 3; 3 – Grave 7; 4 – Grave 8; 5 – Grave 9; 6 – Grave 10 .... Fig. 5. Scheme of Myrmekion site with sectors B and M sections: 1 – part of necropolis of the second half of the 6th century BC; 2 – part of necropolis of the first half of the 5th century BC ................................................... CHAPTER 14 Fig. 1. Possible reconstruction of the street network of Berezan settlement (in accordance with the data of 2018). Numbers of the excavation sectors

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

on the plan: 1 – Necropolis; 2 – sector S-1 (Northern-1); 3 – sector S-2 (Northern-2); 4 – sector North-western A; 5 – sector North-western B; 6 – sector T; 7 – sector G; 8 – sector R-1v (eastern); 9 – sector O-Western; 10 – sector O-Eastern; 11 – sector R-1 (western); 12 – sector G.Sh.; 13 – sector A1; 14 – sectors C4–6; 15 – sector B8; 16 – sector Zh ...... Fig. 2. Disposition of public buildings within the territory of the supposed civic centre of Borysthenes and 3D reconstruction. A – temenos with the temple in antis (‘sanctuary of Aphrodite’) (3D reconstruction after Kryzhitskii 2001); B, C – Late Archaic public buildings (probable hestiatoria) (B – structure no. 2, C – structure no. 1); D – ‘Apsidal house’; E – Courtyard with the circular altar ..................................................................... Fig. 3. Archaic residential block within the sector I in the eastern part of Myrmekion ................................................................................................... Fig. 4. Myrmekion, sector I, possible 3D reconstruction of residential houses located in the northern part of the block ............................................... Fig. 5. Nymphaeum. Speculative reconstruction of the Archaic and Early Classical street network, based on the architectural remains revealed within sectors B –C and G. Archaic architectural remains in black; Early Classical in red ....................................................................................... Fig. 6. Tyritake, built-up area revealed within sector XXVI .............................. Fig. 7. Residential houses in the western part of Tyritake ................................. Fig. 8. 1 – Street network of the Western Plateau of Panticapaeum Acropolis; 2 – Street network of the northern slope of the Western Plateau .......... Fig. 9. Archaic built-up area of the Upper Town of Phanagoria ....................... Fig. 10. Early Greek settlement in Anapa, excavations of the construction area of the Ocean Hotel..................................................................................... CHAPTER 15 Fig. 1. Ancient Colchian littoral from Apsarus to Herakleion ........................... Fig. 2. Rivers and cities of the Colchian plain ................................................... CHAPTER 16 Fig. 1. South Ionian oinochoai (SiA Id) and a Villard-Vallet A1 cup from the island of St Kirik, late 7th century BC................................................... Fig. 2. North Ionian bird bowls from the island of St Kirik, late 7th–early 6th century BC .................................................................................................. Fig. 3. The island of St Kirik and the peninsula of the Old Town of Sozopol, view from the north-west ....................................................................... Fig. 4. A cup with a dedication to Apollo Ietros from a man from Cnidus, found on the island of St Kirik, early second quarter of the 6th century BC ...... Fig. 5. Early Iron Age Thracian pottery from the New Town of Sozopol ......... Fig. 6. Copper smelting furnaces at Propadnala Voda site on the west slope of Medni Rid, second half of the 6th century BC ...................................... Fig. 7. Graphic reconstruction of a ceramic plaque with battle between hoplites and cavalrymen from the island of St Kirik, late 6th century BC .......... Fig. 8. Tunnel dug for laying water main in the limestone to the south of Sozopol, first half of the 5th century BC(?) ...........................................

XXI

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Fig. 9. Fig. 10. Fig. 11. Fig. 12. Fig. 13. Fig. 14. Fig. 15.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The site of Mesarite (in the foreground) on a hill above Sozopol (ancient Apollonia), view from the south-west ..................................................... The hill of the ancient fortress at the village of Ravadinovo, with Sozopol visible in the background, view from the west ....................................... Map of the near chora of Apollonia with Antheia(?), the site at Mesarite and the metallurgical site and the fortress at the village of Ravadinovo .... Map of the surroundings of Apollonia with toponyms designating various parts of the necropolis ............................................................................ Phases in the spatial development of the necropolis of Apollonia, 6th– 3rd centuries BC .................................................................................... The stele of Deines, son of Anaxander, ca. 500 BC ............................... The polyandrion in the necropolis of Apollonia, second quarter or mid4th century BC ......................................................................................

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CHAPTER 17 Fig. 1. Chaton de l’anneau (iconographie et inscription A) (Bucarest, inv. 10616) Fig. 2. Jonc de l’anneau (inscription B) (Bucarest, inv. 10616) ......................... Fig. 3. Jonc de l’anneau (fin de l’inscription B) (Bucarest, inv. 10616) ............ Fig. 4. Jonc de l’anneau (détail de l’inscription B) (Bucarest, inv. 10616) ........ Fig. 5. Lécythe attribué à Syriskos ..................................................................... Fig. 6. Lécythe attribué au «Peintre d’Icare» ..................................................... Fig. 7. Pyxis attique attribuée à Pistoxénos ........................................................ Fig. 8. Carte des espaces nord-pontique et thrace..............................................

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CHAPTER 18 Fig. 1. Julia Maesa from Tios ............................................................................ Fig. 2. Julia Maesa from Amastris...................................................................... Fig. 3. Julia Maesa from Creteia-Flaviopolis ...................................................... Fig. 4. Julia Paula from Tios ............................................................................. Fig. 5. Julia Paula from Tios ............................................................................. Fig. 6. Julia Paula from Tios ............................................................................. Fig. 7. Julia Paula from Tios ............................................................................. Fig. 8. Julia Paula from Bithynium ................................................................... Fig. 9. Julia Paula from Bithynium ................................................................... Fig. 10. Julia Paula from Bithynium ................................................................... Fig. 11. Julia Paula from Creteia-Flaviopolis ....................................................... Fig. 12. Teios (Pseudo-autonomous) from Tios .................................................. Fig. 13. Marcus Aurelius as Caesar from Tios ..................................................... Fig. 14. Antoninus Pius from Nicaea .................................................................. Fig. 15. Domitian from Tios ............................................................................... Fig. 16. Trajan from Tios .................................................................................... Fig. 17. Trajan from Tios .................................................................................... Fig. 18. Trajan from Tios .................................................................................... Fig. 19. Antoninus Pius from Tios ...................................................................... Fig. 20. Marcus Aurelius from Tios..................................................................... Fig. 21. Domitian from Tios ............................................................................... Fig. 22. Trajan from Tios ....................................................................................

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

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Aureus of Marcus Aurelius ..................................................................... Marcus Aurelius from Tios..................................................................... Lucius Verus from Tios.......................................................................... Lucius Verus from Tios.......................................................................... Antinous from Tios ................................................................................ Antinous from Tios ................................................................................ Antinous from Tios ................................................................................ Antinous from Tios ................................................................................ Antinous from Tios ................................................................................ Antinous from Tios ................................................................................

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CHAPTER 19 Fig. 1. Map of Burgas Bay................................................................................. Fig. 2. ‘Crown’ of settlements ........................................................................... Fig. 3. Map of Thracian tribes and some sites with Greek imports ................... Fig. 4. Locally produced amphorae at Apollonia Pontica ..................................

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CHAPTER 21 Fig. 1. Map of the archaeological sites of Mtskheta........................................... Fig. 2. The Svetitskhoveli site ........................................................................... Fig. 3. The composite orders ............................................................................. Fig. 4. Late Antique houses ............................................................................... Fig. 5. Bebristsikhe ............................................................................................ Fig. 6. Map of Mtskheta, Armazi and Tsitsamuri ............................................. Fig. 7. Distribution of archaeological features within historical Mtskheta. ........

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CHAPTER 22 Fig. 1. Oluz Höyük and the fertile Geldingen plain. General view ................... Fig. 2. Oluz Höyük, architectural layer 2B (450–300 BC), Persian road, Zoroastrian sanctuary, Atashkadeh, colonnaded hall ......................................... Fig. 3. Oluz Höyük. Lead sling bullets (5th–4th centuries BC) ........................ Fig. 4. Harşena Fortress and Yeşilırmak (Iris) .................................................... Fig. 5a–c. Oluz Höyük. Serpentine vessel, architectural layer 2B (450–300 BC) Fig. 6a–b. Oluz Höyük. Fragment of serpentine vessel, architectural layer 2B (450– 300 BC) .............................................................................................. Fig. 7a–c. Harşena Fortress. Fragment of serpentine vessel (5th century BC) ..... CHAPTER 23 Fig. 1. Iron swords of Maeotian and Sarmatian types from the cultural and leisure centre of Rodnikovskaya......................................................................... Fig. 2. Details of iron akinakes-sword from Rodnikovskaya .............................. Fig. 3. Iron swords of Maeotian type, their details and fragments from the school museum of Voznesenskaya ..................................................................... CHAPTER 24 Fig. 1. Map of Roman Oltenia, with the location of the Roman fort at Răcari marked with an arrow in the central area of the Oltenia plain...............

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 2. The Roman auxiliary fort at Răcari ........................................................ Fig. 3a–d. Seal box lid, with a fascinum decoration, before and after restoration . CHAPTER 26 Fig. 1. Map of the Cimmerian Bosporus ........................................................... Fig. 2. Excavations of the Seven Brothers barrows. View from the south .......... Fig. 3. Plan of mud-brick tomb in the Seven Brothers barrow 2 ...................... Fig. 4. Plan of Labrys with data of geomagnetic survey 2006–09 ..................... Fig. 5. Silver coin with legend ΣΙΝΔΩΝ .......................................................... Fig. 6. Some finds from the Seven Brothers barrow 2: 1–2. Silver objects (phiale and gilded plate of a gorytos); 3–4. Golden objects (torque and necklace) Fig. 7. Some finds from the Seven Brothers barrow 4: 1. Silver rhyton; 2–4. Gold details of rhytons; 5. Gold anklet ........................................................... Fig. 8. Some finds from the Seven Brothers barrow 6: 1–2. Gold rings............ Fig. 9. Fragments of red-figure pelike from the Seven Brothers barrow 1 ......... CHAPTER 28 Fig. 1. Map of the earliest bronze metallurgical sites in Ajara ........................... Fig. 2. Stone pans from Chaisubani, Gantiadi, Ombolo and Maradidi............. Fig. 3. Stone pans from Maradidi...................................................................... Fig. 4. Stone pans from Maradidi...................................................................... Fig. 5. Chirukhi, Kapnistavi, Sarpi, Tkhilnaris Agara, Simoneti and Kveda Chkhutuneti waterfalls ...................................................................................... Fig. 6. Kveda Chkhutuneti, Simoneti, Maradidi and Kapnistavi waterfalls ....... Fig. 7. Gogadzeebi and Kinkisha waterfalls ....................................................... Fig. 8. Tkhilnari, Sagoreti, Tetrobi and Simoneti waterfalls .............................. Fig. 9. Tkhilnari waterfall .................................................................................. Fig. 10. Artefacts found at Sarpi waterfall ........................................................... Fig. 11. Bronze Age artefacts found during the archaeological excavations in Ajara Fig. 12. Model of mechanism to maximise the effect of the use of water energy ... Fig. 13. Dagva waterfall ....................................................................................... Fig. 14. Dagva waterfall ....................................................................................... Fig. 15. Artefacts found at Dagva waterfall ......................................................... Fig. 16. Artefacts found at Dagva waterfall ......................................................... Fig. 17. Dagva waterfall ....................................................................................... Fig. 18. Bronze Age artefacts found by chance in Ajara ...................................... CHAPTER 29 Fig. 1. Umbos provenant de tombes sarmates du Don inférieur. 1: Sadovyi; 2: Vysochino .......................................................................................... Fig. 2. Tanaïs, tumulus 2. 1964 ........................................................................ Fig. 3. Tombe de Shaumyanovka ...................................................................... Fig. 4. Umbo de la tombe d’Iulius Kallisthénès................................................. Fig. 5. Mobilier du tombeau d’Iulius Kallisthénès ............................................. Fig. 6. Umbos de tombes de chefs militaires de Mésie. 1: Dimitrievo; 2: Sadovo; 3: Karaagach...........................................................................................

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

7. 8. 9. 10.

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Umbos de la nécropole de Neizats. 1: tombe 152; 2: tombe 306.......... Umbo d’Hauran ..................................................................................... Tombe de Serdica .................................................................................. Mobilier de la tombe 11 d’Homs ...........................................................

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CHAPTER 31 Fig. 1. Bythinia. Calchedon. Valerian I (AD 253–268) .................................... Fig. 2. Paphlagonia. Amastris. Domitian (AD 81–96) ...................................... Fig. 3. Lydia. Blaundus. 2nd–1st centuries BC ................................................. Fig. 4. Phrygia. Cotiaeum. Philip I (AD 244–249) ........................................... Fig. 5. Phrygia. Sibidunda. Julia Domna (AD 193–217) .................................. Fig. 6. Cappadocia. Tyana. Nero (AD 54–68) .................................................. Fig. 7. Cilicia. Mopsuestia. Maximinus I (AD 235–238) .................................. Fig. 8. Arabia. Medaba. Septimius Severus (AD 193–211) ...............................

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CHAPTER 32 Fig. 1. Location of Phanagoria on the Taman Peninsula (satellite image) ......... Fig. 2. Aerial view of Phanagoria (Acropolis in the centre) ............................... Fig. 3. 3D landscape model and the boundaries of the Phanagoria city-site...... Fig. 4. Graffito with the name of Phanagoras.................................................... Fig. 5. ‘Upper City’ excavation site at the Acropolis ......................................... Fig. 6. Plan of the ‘Upper City’ excavation site (levels of Archaic times) .......... Fig. 7. Building no. 294 (altar?) ........................................................................ Fig. 8. Protome found inside building no. 294 near the altar(?) ....................... Fig. 9. Building no. 300, thymiaterion ............................................................... Fig. 10. Temples in antis over cellar no. 835....................................................... Fig. 11. Cellar no. 835 with traces of fire............................................................ Fig. 12. Reconstruction of cellar no. 835 (axonometric projection) .................... Fig. 13. Finds from cellar no. 835: 1. Terracotta figurine; 2. Rim of a louterion; 3. Lamp; 4. Marble louterion handle; 5. Ionian bowl; 6. Golden finger ring ......................................................................................................... Fig. 14. Cellar no. 783 ........................................................................................ Fig. 15. Basin standing at the edge of the altar (at the time of discovery) ........... Fig. 16. Plan of cellar no. 783 ............................................................................. Fig. 17. Cellar no. 783, axonometric projection .................................................. Fig. 18. Athenian black-figure cup ...................................................................... Fig. 19. Athenian black-figure krater ................................................................... Fig. 20. View of the city wall (from the south-east) ............................................ Fig. 21. View of the city wall (from the north-east) ............................................ Fig. 22. Altar and basin in room no. 4 of the city fortifications .......................... Fig. 23. Stones under of the wall of the earliest fortifications.............................. Fig. 24. Ionian oinochoe found beneath the city walls ........................................ Fig. 25. Ionian, Athenian and Clazomenian pottery............................................ Fig. 26. Furnace made of Chian amphora fragments .......................................... Fig. 27. Fragment of a clay mold for a hand of a bronze statue .......................... Fig. 28. Old Persian cuneiform inscription .........................................................

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER 33 Fig. 1. 1. General plan of the fort of Apsarus; 2. General view of the fort of Apsarus ................................................................................................... Fig. 2. 1. Plan of sectors 12 and 13; 2. South-west view of sectors 12 and 13.. Fig. 3. 1. North-west view of sectors 12 and 13; 2. North-east view of sectors 12 and 13 ........................................................................................ Fig. 4. 1. Fragments of pithos body; 2. Fragments of Colchian amphora foot; 3. Feet of Italic amphora; 4. Fragments of amphora handle; 5–6. Fragments of Romanised pot ........................................................................ Fig. 5. 1. Fragments of terra sigillata lamp; 2–3. Fragments of terra sigillata cup; 4–5. Fragments of louterion mouth and body; 6. Fragment of perfume vessel; 7. Fragment of glass cup; 8. Fragments of glass jug mouth and body; 9. Bronze ring .............................................................................. Fig. 6. 1. Fragment of foot of hornlike stand; 2. Fragments of pithos body; 3. Fragments of amphora mouth and handle; 4. Fragments of amphora foot; 5. Fragments of Italic amphora foot; 6. Fragments of amphora mouth and handle; 7. Fragments of amphora mouth and body; 8. Fragments of pot mouth and handle; 9. Cover; 10. Fragment of terra sigillata lamp; 11–12. Fragment of terra sigillata cup ......................................... Fig. 7. 1–3. Fragments of louterion mouth and body; 4–6. Fragments of folded tile; 7. Fragment of glass perfume vessel; 8. Foot of glass cup; 9. Fragments of glass jug mouth and handle; 10. Bronze items; 11. Bronze ring ......................................................................................................... Fig. 8. Avgia church. Plan and photograph ....................................................... Fig. 9. Artefacts found at Avgia church: 1. Large vessel (dergi) fragment; 2. Pot fragment; 3. Cross; 4. Amphora handle; 5. Glass lamp-handle; 6. Tile fragment; 7. Cross stone adornment ...................................................... CHAPTER 35 Fig. 1. Map of Asia Minor ................................................................................ Fig. 2. Map of Amorium ................................................................................... Fig. 3. Map of excavated sectors at Pessinus ...................................................... Fig. 4. Plan of Ankara ....................................................................................... Fig. 5. Pessinus. Plan of the Roman Temple Area............................................. CHAPTER 36 Fig. 1. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Topographical plan ............................................. Fig. 2. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Ortophotomap with the localisation of trenches. Fig. 3. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Digital Terrain Model ........................................ Fig. 4. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Topographical plan made in 2015 ...................... Fig. 5. Magnetic map of the site: A – map of the values of the pseudo-gradient of the horizontal component of total vector of magnetic field intensity within the range between -3 and +3 nT/m; B – map of the values of total vector of magnetic field intensity within the range between 49710–49810 nT; C – Interpretation of the result of magnetic measurements ............

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 6. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

Fig. 12. Fig. 13. Fig. 14. Fig. 15. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

Konsulovskoe hillfort. Ortophotomap with the result of electrical prospection ................................................................................................... Results of electrical prospection in the sector E1, E3 and E5 ................ Trench II with discovered remains of defensive wall .............................. Eastern façade of defensive wall discovered in Trench II ....................... Western façade of defensive wall discovered in Trench II ...................... Loess plaster recorded on the western façade of the defensive wall discovered in Trench II .............................................................................. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Trench II. Drainage ditch, pit 3/2017, earth-bank and defensive wall .................................................................................. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Orthophotomap of Trench III with discovered remains of fortifications and gateway ..................................................... Konsulovskoe hillfort. Orthophotomap of Trench V with discovered remains of fortifications – defensive wall and flanking tower ................. Ortophotography of western façade of defensive wall and flanking tower discovered in Trench V .......................................................................... Plan of semi-subterranean dwelling and pits discovered in Trench II .... Semi-subterranean dwelling. View from the south-east .......................... Fragment of handmade vessel discovered in Trench II........................... Loom-weight discovered in Trench II .................................................... Bone knife handle discovered in Trench III ........................................... Silver bracelet discovered in Trench III ..................................................

CHAPTER 37 Fig. 1. The Sinop promontory and its offshore areas, including the shipwrecks discovered by scientific expeditions in 2000 and 2011........................... Fig. 2. Left: Side-scan sonar record of the Sinop I shipwreck. Right: Partial acoustic multibeam map......................................................................... Fig. 3. A–C: Amphorae of Vnukov type Sin Ic (SI.001, SI.002, SI.003) from the Sinop I shipwreck. D: Amphora of Vnukov type Sin Ic found in Chersonesus....................................................................................................... Fig. 4. A: Imitation of a Late Hellenistic Rhodian amphora (SI.004) from the Sinop I shipwreck. B: Drawing of a Heraclean imitation of a Rhodian amphora, found at Chersonesus ............................................................. Fig. 5. A: Amphora (SI.005) of Vnukov Sin II type from the Sinop I shipwreck. B: Amphora found at necropolis Sovkhoz 10 near Chersonesus ............ Fig. 6. A: Amphora (SI.006) of Vnukov type Sin III from the Sinop I shipwreck. B–D: Urn 227 from necropolis Sovkhoz 10 near Chersonesus .............. CHAPTER 38 Fig. 1. Location of the graves with musical instruments in the necropolis of Apollonia in the Kalfa locality ................................................................ Fig. 2. Reconstructed double aulos from Apollonia Pontica .............................. Fig. 3. Grave-goods in grave no. 162, Zoned Property 5518 ............................ Fig. 4. Sections of the aulos from grave no. 162, Zoned Property 5518 ...........

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Fig. 5. Fig. 6. Fig. 7. Fig. 8. Fig. 9. Fig. 10. Fig. 11. Fig. 12. Fig. 13. Fig. 14. Fig. 15.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Oinochoe with Muses by the Eretria Painter. Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 226 ................................................................................... Red-figured oinochoe from the necropolis of Apollonia, 425–400 BC. Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 3625 ...................................... Grave N 14 in Zoned Property 4303=5040 .......................................... Part of tortoise shell (lyre) and iron tailpiece from grave N 14 in Zoned Property 4303=5040 .............................................................................. Grave N 14, Zoned Property 5084 ........................................................ Tortoise shell (lyre) from the grave N 14, Zoned Property 5084........... Grave-goods in the grave N 5, Zoned Property 5536 ............................ Tortoise shell (lyre) from the grave N 5, Zoned Property 5536............. Plectrum from the grave N 29, Zoned Property 5536 ........................... Seven-string cithara-stamp on an Apollonian tile, second half of the 4th century BC ...................................................................................... Red-figure oinochoe from the necropolis of Apollonia, 430–420 BC. Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 2531 ......................................

CHAPTER 39 Fig. 1. Grave stele of Sannion, son of Megakles; found re-used in the so-called tower of Zeno in Tauric Chersonesus. Chersonesus Museum, inv. 36847/5. About 300 BC........................................................................................ Fig. 2. Middle part of a man-and-dog stele from Marmaris, Archaeological Museum Bodrum, inv. 6004. Late 6th/early 5th century BC ................ Fig. 3. Lower half of a man-and-dog stele (amphiglyphon) from Kelenderis/ Cilicia(?); Sadberk Hanım Museum Istanbul, inv. no. unknown. Early 5th century BC ...................................................................................... Fig. 4. Grave stele with man and dog from Sinope; Kastamonu Museum, inv. 377. Mid-5th century BC(?)........................................................................... Fig. 5. Detail of a fragmented grave stele with man and dog; Izmir, Basmane Museum, inv. no. unknown. Early 5th century BC ............................... Fig. 6. Grave stele from Orchomenos, Boeotia; sculpted by Alxenor from Naxos. Athens, National Museum, inv. 39. Early 5th century BC .................... Fig. 7. Grave stele (amphiglyphon) of Deines, son of Anaxander. Sofia, National Museum, inv. 727. Early 5th century BC .............................................. Fig. 8. Grave stele with man and dog, said to have been found in Sardis. Naples, Mus. Naz., inv. 6556. Early 5th century BC ......................................... Fig. 9. Classical Attic gravestone of Ktesileos and Theano. Athens, National Museum, inv. 3472. Early 4th century BC ............................................ Fig. 10. Parthenon, detail of the east frieze with some of the so-called Eponymous Heroes; British Museum, London; plaster cast at the University of Göttingen ..................................................................................................... Fig. 11. Detail of a red-figure kylix attributed to the Foundry Painter; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin F 2294. Early 5th century BC ................................... Fig. 12. Detail of the grave stele from Orchomenos, Boeotia; sculpted by Alxenor from Naxos. Athens, National Museum, inv. 39 ...................................

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER 42 Fig. 1a–b. Fragmentary Athenian black-figure skyphos, from Berezan. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B84.139. Medusa and her sisters, ca. 500 BC Fig. 2. Athenian black-figure skyphos, from Morgantina. Aidone, Archaeological Museum 69-149. Medusa and her sisters, ca. 500 BC ........................... Fig. 3. Fragment of Athenian black-figure skyphos, from the Athenian Agora. Athens, Agora Museum P 3988. Gorgon, early 5th century BC ............ Fig. 4. Fragment of Athenian black-figure cup interior, from Berezan. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B73.210. Pegasus, late 6th century BC Fig. 5. Athenian black-figure disc, from Berezan. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B67.123. Overlapping dolphins, third quarter of the 6th century BC .................................................................................................. Fig. 6. Bronze dolphin-shaped coin from Berezan, found in layer of the 5th century BC .................................................................................................. CHAPTER 43 Fig. 1. Ravnogor. Layout and cross-section of Tomb 1 ..................................... Fig. 2. Frontal view of Tomb 1 ......................................................................... Fig. 3. The dromos of Tomb 1........................................................................... Fig. 4. Side view of Tomb 1 .............................................................................. Fig. 5. Back view of Tomb 1 ............................................................................. Fig. 6. The entrance in the tholos chamber of Tomb 1 ..................................... Fig. 7. The tholos chamber of Tomb 1 .............................................................. Fig. 8. A gold border strip of a disc pendant from Tomb 1 .............................. Fig. 9a–b. A provincial bronze coin of the emperor Tiberius from Tomb 1........ Fig. 10. A terracotta spindle-whorl from Tomb 1 ............................................... Fig. 11. Layout and cross-section of Tomb 2 ...................................................... Fig. 12. The tholos chamber and the dromos of Tomb 2 ..................................... Fig. 13. The dromos of Tomb 2........................................................................... Fig. 14. The sealing of the dromos of Tomb 2..................................................... Fig. 15. The tholos chamber of Tomb 2 .............................................................. Fig. 16. The tholos chamber of Tomb 2 .............................................................. Fig. 17. A piece of iron chain-mail from Tomb 2 ............................................... CHAPTER 44 Fig. 1. Schematic map of Greek sites on the Cimmerian Bosporus ................... Fig. 2. ‘Small’ Bosporan town Porthmion (view from the west, Kerch Strait in the background) ..................................................................................... Fig. 3. Socle of the eastern Archaic defensive wall. 1 – south-eastern area (view from the north-east); 2 – fragment of the masonry (view from the east) Fig. 4. 1 – remains of the Archaic drainage system (view from the north); 2 – bed of the drain; 3 – remains of the socle of the western Archaic defensive wall, incorporated in Hellenistic dwelling (view from the east) ....... Fig. 5. Remains of the southern line of Archaic defensive system (view from south-east) ..............................................................................................

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725 726 726 727 727 728 728 731 731 731 735 736 736 737 738 738 740

744 744 745

746 747

XXX

Fig. 6. Fig. 7. Fig. 8.

Fig. 9.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Faces of the Archaic walls. 1 – Myrmekion; 2 – Porthmion .................. Fragments of socles of the Archaic walls. 1 – Porthmion; 2 – Vroulia; 3 – Old Smyrna ..................................................................................... Finds from the area of the eastern Archaic wall of Porthmion. 1 – wall of Chian kantharos from the fill of the drainage; 2, 2a – fragmented nonGreek(?) vessel; 3 – fragment of ornamented brazier ............................. Fragments of painted pottery from the layer at the area of the eastern Archaic wall of Porthmion. 1–3 – Clazomenian; 4–6 – East Greek; 7–8 – Corinthian; 9–10 – Attic .............................................................

CHAPTER 46 Fig. 1. Vicinity of Kerch (ancient Panticapaeum). Part of the map of 1837 ..... Fig. 2. Excavations of Yuz-Oba necropolis in 1859 ........................................... Fig. 3. Crypt 48 of Tumulus 5 of Yuz-Oba ...................................................... Fig. 4. Crypt 21 of Tumulus 15 ........................................................................ Fig. 5. Crypt of the Mirza Kekuvatskii tumulus ................................................ Fig. 6. Crypt of Tumulus 6 ............................................................................... Fig. 7. Excavations of the Ostryi (Sharp) tumulus. The staircase of the eastern revetment ............................................................................................... Fig. 8. Section of the Ostryi tumulus ................................................................ Fig. 9. Excavations of the mine of the Ostryi tumulus ...................................... Fig. 10. Entrance to the catacomb of the Ostryi tumulus ...................................

748 749

752

753

770 770 771 772 773 774 775 775 776 777

CHAPTER 47 Fig. 1. Route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ between Chalcedon and Nicaea .............. Fig. 2. Route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ between Nicaea and Iuliopolis ................

784 786

CHAPTER 48 Fig. 1. Map of the Black Sea area ...................................................................... Fig. 2. Map of Colchis and environs .................................................................

796 824

CHAPTER 50 Fig. 1. View of the Acropolis and the Billaios river valley ................................. Fig. 2. Tios Acropolis ........................................................................................ Fig. 3. The pit-houses on the Acropolis ............................................................ Fig. 4. Pit-houses of circular plan ...................................................................... Fig. 5. Plan of pit-houses P2 and P3 and the iron workshop ............................ Fig. 6. Archaic iron workshop ........................................................................... Fig. 7. Slag fragments from iron workshop ....................................................... Fig. 8. The example of Middle Wild Goat 2 pottery from the first layer of structure P2 ................................................................................................... Fig. 9. Ionian bowl from the Archaic houses ..................................................... Fig. 10. Archaic eyed kylix from the second layer of structure P1 ....................... Fig. 11. Piece of Archaic Ionian bowl.................................................................. Fig. 12. Phrygian pottery pieces from the Acropolis ............................................ Fig. 13. Pottery sherd inscribed in Old Phrygian ................................................

856 858 859 860 860 862 862 864 864 864 865 866 867

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 14. Terracotta horse figurines from the first layer of structure P1 ................ Fig. 15. Phrygian fibula from the Gökçebey-Üçburgu emporion ......................... Fig. 16. Phrygian bronze bowl from Gökçebey ................................................... CHAPTER 51 Fig. 1. North Ionian plate from the barrow 1/1965 of the Skorobir burial ground Fig. 2. Plan of the Bilsk fortified settlement and burial mounds ....................... Fig. 3. Greek pottery of the second half of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC from excavations at the Bilsk fortified settlement ................................... Fig. 4. Greek pottery from a household pit 6 zolnik (ash-hill) 5, Western Fortification of Bilsk fortified settlement ..................................................... Fig. 5. Attic pottery found on the Bilsk fortified settlement.............................. CHAPTER 52 Fig. 1. Lighthouse Peninsula (aerial photograph, 2000). Stronghold on the isthmus: 1 – Western wall, 2 – Eastern wall, 3 – Excavation site ......................... Fig. 2. Plan of the Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula...... Fig. 3. Lighthouse Peninsula. Fragments of plans. 1 – Strulov’s map (1786); 2 – Map drawn by Pepelev and signed by Hablitz (1786); 3 – Map of 1786 published by Metropolitan Evgenii (Bolkhovitinov) in 1822 and 1828; 4 – Die Herakleotische Halbinsel. Nach Clarke und Dubois (Neuman 1855); 5 – Plan of land division of the Lighthouse Peninsula by N.M. Pechenkin (1910) .........................................................................

XXXI

869 871 871 878 880 884 886 887

894 899

900

* * * CHAPTER 53 Fig. 1. Composition on the phalera from tomb 20 at Noin Ula, northern Mongolia........................................................................................................ Fig. 2. Nymph and satyr. Detail of composition ............................................... Fig. 3. Head of ‘Bactrian Aphrodite’. Detail. Gold ........................................... Fig. 4. Nymph and satyr. Detail of composition ............................................... Fig. 5. Head of nymph. Detail of composition ................................................. Fig. 6. Figure of ‘Bactrian Aphrodite’. Winged female deity. 1st century AD. Gold. Tillya Tepe ............................................................................................. Fig. 7. Nymph and satyr. Cameo. Cornelian and onyx (inserted in gold ring). Berlin State Museum. Found in Petescia (Italy). Ca. 50 BC–AD 20 ..... Fig. 8. Sculptural group with hermaphrodite and satyr. Pompeii. National Archaeological Museum, Naples ............................................................ Fig. 9. Hermaphrodite and satyr. Wall painting from Pompeii. National Archaeological Museum of Naples (inv. 110878) ............................................. Fig. 10. Calenian ceramic bowl with relief depiction of nymph and satyr on the bottom ................................................................................................... Fig. 11. Gold model of Persian chariot from Oxus Treasure. 4th century BC .... Fig. 12. Painted clay sculpture from Khalchayan archaeological site in situ. Figure of a horse decorated with phalerae .........................................................

909 909 910 913 913 914 914 916 916 917 919 921

XXXII

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 13. Fragment of clay sculpture representing a horse with phalera. Khalchayan. Late 2nd–early 1st century BC ............................................................... Fig. 14. Plaster cast with depiction of Aphrodite’s toilet. Middle of 3rd century BC. Pelizaeus Museum of Hildesheim (inv. 1128) ........................................ Fig. 15. Aphrodite’s toilet. Composition on the cover of mirror from Tarentum Fig. 16. Composition with Aphrodite’s toilet. Ivory disc. Bactria ....................... Fig. 17. Composition with Dionysos and Ariadne. Getty Museum .................... CHAPTER 55 Fig. 1. Silver tetradachm of Attic standard of the Graeco-Bactrian king Plato (ca. 145–140 BC)................................................................................... Fig. 2. Silver tetradachm of Attic standard of Graeco-Bactrian king Plato (ca. 145–140 BC) ......................................................................................... Fig. 3. Bronze coin of Indo-Greek king Amyntas (ca. 95–90 BC) .................... Fig. 4. Bronze coin of Indo-Greek king Hermaios (ca. 90–70 BC)................... Fig. 5. Silver tetradrachm of Indian standard of Indo-Greek king Hermaios (ca. 90–70 BC) ............................................................................................. Fig. 6. Sūrya riding a chariot driven by four horses. Stone railing of the Mahābodhi temple in Bodhgayā Museum ...................................................... Fig. 7. Sūrya riding in a chariot between his two wives and Indra riding on an elephant. Relief at Bhājā Vihāra near Pune/Poona in the Western Ghats Fig. 8. Sūrya standing erect, holding a lotus blossom in each of his raised hands. Eastern porch ceiling of the Virūpākṣa temple in Paṭṭadakal ................. Fig. 9. Toilet tray depicting the Sun God standing frontally in a quadriga. Originally from Gandhāra now in a private collection, Japan ................ Fig. 10. Toilet tray depicting the Sun God in a quadriga standing frontally holding a sceptre with a makara dhvaja. Originally from Begram now in a private collection in Pakistan ............................................................................. Fig. 11. Silver tetradachm of Attic standard of Indo-Greek king Menander I (ca. 165–130 BC) ......................................................................................... Fig. 12. Toilet tray depicting the Sun God holding a sceptre and a thunderbolt in a biga. Originally from Gandhāra now in the Hirayama Ikuo Museum of Art...................................................................................................... CHAPTER 56 Fig. 1. The beginnings of more sophisticated phases of human and animal representations in the sense of the Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine .......... Fig. 2. The areas of Europe that participated in the Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine ....................................................................................................... Fig. 3. The stylisation of some mythical beings characteristic of the Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine: 1. Gorgoneion, antefix, North Ionia or Aeolis; 2. Sphinxes by the Polos Painter; 3. Early Corinthian pitcher by the Royal Library Painter: Sphinxes and Sirens; 4. Bronze peacock, ‘Flächenstil’. All Charles University, Prague ........................................... Fig. 4. Isolated heads with flowers in Thracian (Rogozen) and Celtic (Hořovičky) art ...........................................................................................................

921 926 926 928 930

949 949 949 950 950 951 952 953 954

954 954

954

960 960

961 962

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 5.

Decoration of Waldalgesheim torques and photograph of movement of gas inside a tube .....................................................................................

CHAPTER 57 Fig. 1. Lefkandi, ‘Heroon’. East Room.............................................................. Fig. 2. Naxos, cemetery of Grotta. Circular platforms....................................... Fig. 3. Mende, Cape Poseidi sanctuary. The sacrificial area south and east of the apsed building ΣT............................................................................ Fig. 4. Eretria, sanctuary of Apollo Daphnephoros. Structure St12, in front of the large apsed building Ed2 .................................................................. Fig. 5. Incoronata, terrace from the 8th century BC (US 70) around the deposition of pebbles (US 203) that surround the stone altar (WS). To the north, the new terrace from the late 8th–early 7th century BC (US 38), resting on the obliteration/substruction layers of stone (US 68) and earth (US 45) .................................................................................................. Fig. 6. Incoronata. Planimetry of the apsed building area (BT1), containing the ritual deposition surrounded with micro-pebbles. To the north, the complex of three bothroi dug one inside the other. In front of the entrance, the large bothros surrounded by a carpet of pebbles. North of the bothros, the area with the two small kilns ............................................................ Fig. 7. Incoronata. Aureole of micro-pebbles surrounding the ritual deposition in the middle of the apse of building BT1. On the background, the bothros, still filled in situ with part of the obliterative fill of red earth, and surrounded with an aureole of pebbles........................................................ Fig. 8. Incoronata. Bothros in front of the apsed building (BT1), surrounded with an aureole of pebbles. The inner walls are covered with micro-pebbles. On the north side, note the layer of small pebbles covering and obliterating the two small kilns of Fig. 6................................................................... Fig. 9. Incoronata. Ritual chthonic complex north of the apsed building, comprising the stone altar (C), a bothros (B, partially excavated), and the aureole of pebbles with the remains of ritual practices (A) ................................. Fig. 10. Incoronata. Ritual chthonic space from the second half of the 9th–8th century. Triangular enclosure with the ‘White Sandy Stone’ (WS) on the eastern corner; border of small pebbles (A) around the perimeter of the pit (B); ‘seal’ of large pebbles (C)........................................................... Fig. 11. Alicante, cemetery of Les Casetes. Tomb 9, surrounded with a carpet of pebbles ................................................................................................... Fig. 12. Timpone della Motta, Athenaion. Local painted vase of local production Fig. 13. Incoronata. Large obliterative layers of the terrace from the late 8th– early 7th century BC (US 38), comprising a first layer of large pebbles (US 23), sealed in turn with a layer of grey earth (US 8) ...................... Fig. 14. Tenos, Xobourgo. Pebble platform (a) above the large shaft grave (c), and the boulder (b) ................................................................................ Fig. 15. Oropos, cemetery. Tomb XXVI ............................................................. Fig. 16. Incoronata, cemetery. Tomb 147 ........................................................... Fig. 17. Incoronata, cemetery. Tomb 182 ...........................................................

XXXIII

962

968 971 973 974

976

980

981

982

982

984 986 987

989 991 992 993 994

XXXIV

Fig. 18. Fig. 19. Fig. 20. Fig. 21. Fig. 22. Fig. 23. Fig. 24.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

S. Maria d’Anglona, cemetery. Tomb 146.............................................. 995 Francavilla Marittima, cemetery of Macchiabate. Tomb Strada 12 ........ 995 Sala Consilina, cemetery. Tomb 63........................................................ 996 Roman Forum, cemetery. Tomb S......................................................... 997 Incoronata, deposition of large pebbles around the ‘White Sandy Stone’ 999 Donoussa, cemetery. One of the tombs ................................................. 1006 Incoronata. Part of the pebbles that formed the platform around bothros of Fig. 9 ................................................................................................. 1006

CHAPTER 58 Fig. 1. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 ................................................................................................ Fig. 2. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 ................................................................................................ Fig. 3. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 ................................................................................................ Fig. 4. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 ................................................................................................ CHAPTER 60 Fig. 1. Reconstruction sketch of the ‘Yannai Line’ from Antipatris to the Hill Country .................................................................................................. Fig. 2. ‘Abd el Nabi/Meẓad HaYarqon, site plan .............................................. Fig. 3. Arlozorov Street, drawing of the wall discovered .................................... Fig. 4. Central sites along the Yarqon river (Nahr el ‘Auja) .............................. CHAPTER 63 Fig. 1. Cult Place 2 at Elea-Velia, from the east (situation of 2002) ................. Fig. 2. Plan of Cult Place 2 ............................................................................... Fig. 3. Southern hall with the higher level of the rock in correspondence with the possible early wall in the east ........................................................... Fig. 4. Early Wall MK2-1 and the Trench MK2-2 (photograph from the west) Fig. 5. West section of Trench 9/06N with Wall MK2-5 of the early sanctuary and – on the higher level – the eastern wall of the northern hall of the sanctuary of the 2nd century BC ........................................................... Fig. 6. Circular Structure MK2-3 and Trench 9/06N from the west ................

1014 1015 1016 1017

1056 1059 1061 1065

1098 1099 1101 1102

1103 1104

CHAPTER 66 Fig. 1. Map of some trade routes and pirate geography of the Late Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean, with sites mentioned in the text ..................... 1149 CHAPTER 67 Fig. 1. Contour map of the site of Jebel Khalid ................................................ Fig. 2. Plan of the room Z1 in its excavated state ............................................. Fig. 3. Site of Z1 dump in T36, showing bedrock floor and blocked doorway in south-east ........................................................................................... Fig. 4. Pan/Silenus head from Z1 dump, front and side view ...........................

1161 1162 1164 1167

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

5. 6. 7. 8.

XXXV

Faience amulet (Pataikos) from base of Z1 dump .................................. JK Type 10 lamps .................................................................................. Bone flute fragment from Acropolis dump ............................................ Graffito on small bowl from Z1 dump ..................................................

1167 1168 1175 1175

CHAPTER 68 Timbres amphoriques Fig. 1. E1 – RHO 4: Timokleidas (éponyme) .................................................. Fig. 2. E2 – RHO 9: Kallikratidas (éponyme) .................................................. Fig. 3. E3 – RHO 13: Archilaïdas (éponyme)................................................... Fig. 4. E4 – RHO 3: Kallianax (éponyme) ....................................................... Fig. 5. E5 – RHO 11: Non identifié (éponyme)............................................... Fig. 6. F1 – RHO 1: Aristôn (fabricant) ........................................................... Fig. 7. F2 – RHO 10: Kalliô (fabricante) ......................................................... Fig. 8. F3 – RHO 8: Sarapiôn (fabricant) ......................................................... Fig. 9. F4 – RHO 6: Hérakleitos (fabricant)..................................................... Fig. 10. F5 – RHO 2: Pistos (fabricant) ............................................................. Fig. 11. F6 – RHO 12: Diodôros (fabricant) ...................................................... Fig. 12. F7 – RHO 7: Polémôn (fabricant) ........................................................ Fig. 13. F8 – RHO 5: Hiéroklès (fabricant) ....................................................... Fig. 14. Non identifié .......................................................................................... Fig. 15. Non identifié .......................................................................................... Fig. 16. Non identifié .......................................................................................... Fig. 17. Non identifié ..........................................................................................

1197 1197 1197 1197 1198 1198 1198 1198 1199 1199 1199 1199 1199 1200 1200 1200 1200

CHAPTER 69 Fig. 1. Nave mosaic of the church at Hazor-Ashdod, Israel, detail of a gazelle .. Fig. 2. Hall mosaic of a chapel at Beth Guvrin, Israel, detail of a stag .............. Fig. 3. Outer south aisle mosaic of the Synagogue at Gaza Maiumas, detail of a lioness .................................................................................................. Fig. 4. Nave mosaic of the church at Hazor-Ashdod, detail of a lion ................ Fig. 5. Detail of Erotes mosaic, Shatby, Egypt .................................................. Fig. 6. Nave mosaic east panel of the Church of SS Lot and Procopius, Khirbet al-Mukhayyat ......................................................................................... Fig. 7. Hall mosaic of the Upper Chapel of the Priest John, Khirbet alMukhayyat ............................................................................................. Fig. 8a–d. Nave mosaic east panel of the Church of SS Lot and Procopius, Khirbet al-Mukhayyat, detail of human heads .................................... Fig. 9a–d. Hall mosaic of the Upper Chapel of the Priest John, Khirbet alMukhayyat, (a–c) detail of heads; (d) detail of a hunter ..................... Fig. 10. Bema mosaic of the Church of the Lions, Umm ar-Rasas, detail of a gazelle ..................................................................................................... Fig. 11. Bema mosaic of the Theotokos Chapel, Basilica of Moses, Mt Nebo, detail of a gazelle .................................................................................... Fig. 12. Bema mosaic of the New Baptistery Chapel, Basilica of Moses, Mt Nebo, detail of a gazelle ....................................................................................

1206 1206 1207 1208 1210 1217 1218 1219 1220 1223 1223 1224

XXXVI

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 13. Presbytery mosaic of the New Baptistery Chapel, Basilica of Moses, Mt Nebo, detail of a tree ....................................................................... Fig. 14. Bema mosaic of the Church of the Lions, Umm ar-Rasas, detail of a tree Fig. 15. Apse mosaic of the Crypt of St Elianus, Madaba, detail of the tree ....... Fig. 16. Apse mosaic of the Crypt of St Elianus, Madaba ................................... Fig. 17. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot ..................................... Fig. 18. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of a lion ............ Fig. 19. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of an ox ............ Fig. 20. Nave mosaic of the church at the Monastery of Martyrius, detail of the donkey.................................................................................................... Fig. 21. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a medallion .................................................................... Fig. 22. Nave mosaic of the church at the Monastery of Martyrius, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a medallion ....................................................... Fig. 23. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a section of rainbow cable ............................................. Fig. 24. Nave mosaic of the church at the Monastery of Martyrius, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a section of rainbow cable................................. CHAPTER 73 Fig. 1. Archaeological Park of Naxos in Sicily. Survey data and reconstruction of the ancient city superimposed on an aerial orthomosaic of the site ... Fig. 2. Start of excavations of the pithos covering the Classical well in 2015 .... Fig. 3. Excavations at crossroads of Plateia A and Stenopos 11. 3D total station survey superimposed over photogrammetry orthomosaic ....................... Fig. 4. Section of the well with superimposed total station data ....................... Fig. 5. Astragals discovered in the well, most with dorsal side facing up ........... Fig. 6. Pottery from Layer 43 ............................................................................ Fig. 7. Late 5th-century bronze hemilitron from Piakos excavated in Layer 43 Fig. 8. Cup (425–400 BC) from Layer 43, punctured with a sharp blow ......... Fig. 9. Type B3 Silenus antefix from Layer 41 .................................................. Fig. 10. Astragals discovered in the well, most with plantar side facing up ......... Fig. 11. Astragals discovered in the well, with lateral and medial sides facing up Fig. 12. Lead weight F024 fitting the lateral depression of large astragal B008 ...

1224 1224 1226 1227 1229 1230 1230 1230 1231 1231 1232 1232

1281 1282 1283 1284 1285 1286 1286 1287 1287 1288 1289 1290

CHAPTER 79 Fig. 1. Map 1. Bronze hammered cauldrons of the 4th–1st centuries BC in Asian Sarmatia and Kuban area. Map 2. Bronze hammered cauldrons of the first centuries AD in Asian Sarmatia and Kuban area ...................... 1388 Fig. 2. Averino, chance find in burial mound, 1979. Small cauldron. General views. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/2, A-800......................................................................... 1390 Fig. 3. Averino, chance find in burial mound, 1979. Small cauldron. Details. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/2, A-800................................................................................. 1391

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 4.

Fig. 5.

Fig. 6.

Fig. 7. Fig. 8.

Fig. 9.

Fig. 10. Fig. 11. Fig. 12. Fig. 13. Fig. 14. Fig. 15. Fig. 16. Fig. 17.

Fig. 18. Fig. 19.

Fig. 20.

Averino, chance find in burial mound, 1979. Big cauldron. General views. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/1, A-801................................................................................. Averino, chance find in the burial mound, 1979. Big cauldron. Details. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/1, A-801................................................................................. Averino, chance find in the burial mound, 1979. Big cauldron. Separate fragments. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/1, A-801 ........................................................ Zhutovo, mound 27/1964, burial no. 4. Bronze cauldron. General view. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 1216 ............................. Valovyi-I, mound 6/1987, burial no. 3. Bronze cauldron. 1–3 – details, 4–7 – general views. Azov, Historical-Archaeological and Palaeontological Museum Reserve, inv. 25309/176............................................... Bronze cauldrons with inscriptions. 1 – Sosnovka, chance find, 1972. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 8081/4; 2 – Bazki, mound 1/2017. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 34064/1; 3 – Novoluganskoe, mound 1/1967, burial no. 5. Donetsk, State University, Archaeological Museum ...................................................................................... Bazki, mound 1/2017. Bronze cauldron. 1 – detail, 2–5 – general views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 34064/1........................ Levaya Rossosh Hoard. Bronze cauldron. 1–2 – details, 3–6 – general views. Voronezh, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 12108. A-253 ................ Novocherkassk, Sadovyi mound, 1961. Bronze cauldron. General views. Rostov-on-Don, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 2564..................... Novocherkassk, Sadovyi mound, 1961. Bronze cauldron. Details. Rostovon-Don, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 2564................................. Zhutovo, mound 75/1974. Bronze cauldron. General views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 14261/3 .......................................... Lebedevka, mound 1/1967. Bronze cauldron. Astana, National Museum of the Republic of Kazahkstan, ҒОМА no. 276. ҚРҰМ УҚ ТК2-766 .. Krep-II, mound 2/1993. Bronze cauldron. General views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 29159/1 .......................................... Valovyi-I, mound 4/1987, burial no. 2. Bronze cauldron. 1 – general view, 2–3 – details. Azov, Historical-Archaeological and Palaeontological Museum Reserve, inv. 25309/123 ......................................................................... Berezhnovskii-II, mound 67/1954, burial no. 1. Bronze cauldron. General views. Saratov, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 5899 ....................... Bronze cauldrons of the Debelt group. 1 – Solyanka-I, mound 3/2000, burial no. 2. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. HB-9313/1. 2 – Staritsa, mound 26/1961, burial no. 2. Astrakhan, State United Historical-Architectural Museum Reserve, inv. 11989/238 .................... Staritsa, mound 26/1961, burial no. 2. Bronze cauldron. General views. Astrakhan, State United Historical-Architectural Museum Reserve, inv. 11989/238.......................................................................................

XXXVII

1392

1393

1394 1395

1396

1397 1398 1399 1400 1401 1402 1403 1404

1405 1406

1407

1408

XXXVIII

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 21. Berdiya, mound 3/1991, burial no. 1. Bronze cauldron. General views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 28007/2........................ Fig. 22. Shcherbakovka. Chance find, 1899. Bronze cauldron. General views. St Petersburg, State Hermitage, inv. 2198/2 .......................................... Fig. 23. Krasnogor, mound 1/1936. Bronze cauldron. 1–2, 4–5 – general views, 3 – detail. Orenburg, Governor’s Historical and Local Lore Museum, inv. 307/1............................................................................................... Fig. 24. Bolshaya Dmitrievka, mound 13/1988, burial no. 2. Bronze cauldron. General views. Saratov, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 51963 ........ Fig. 25. Sosnovka. Chance find, 1972. Bronze cauldron. 1 – detail, 2–5 – general views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 8081/4 ............... Fig. 26. Sosnovka. Chance find, 1972. Bronze cauldron. Details. Inscription. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 8081/4..........................

1409 1410

1411 1412 1413 1414

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

ABV Add² AE AG AJA ANRW APR

ARV² AS BAPD BAR BASOR BCH BM(C) BnF BNJ BNP BMCRE CAH CID 4 CIG CIGLP II1 CII

CIL CIRB CIRB-Album Clara Rhodos

J.D. Beazley, Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters (Oxford 1956). T.F. Carpenter, Beazley Addenda: Additional References to ABV, ARV² and Paralipomena, 2nd ed. (Oxford 1989). L’Année épigraphique. H. Beckby (ed.), Anthologia Graeca, 2nd ed. (Munich 1965). American Journal of Archaeology. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt (Berlin/New York 1972– ). A. Coşkun (ed.), Amici Populi Romani. Prosopographie der auswärtigen Freunde Roms/Prosopography of the Foreign Friends of Rome (Trier/Waterloo, Ontario 2007– ) (Version 08: 2018: http://www.altaycoskun.com/apr). J.D. Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 2nd ed. (Oxford 1965). Anatolian Studies. Beazley Archive Pottery Database (http://www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/Pottery/). British Archaeological Reports. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research. Bulletin de correspondance hellénique. British Museum (Catalogue). Bibliothèque nationale de France. Brill’s New Jacoby (Leiden 2007– ). Brill’s New Pauly (Leiden 2002– ). H. Mattingly et al., Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum (London 1923– ). The Cambridge Ancient History. F. Lefévre, Corpus des inscriptions de Delphes 4: Documents amphictioniques (Paris 2002). A. Böckh, Corpus inscriptionum graecarum (Berlin 1828–77). C. Brélaz, Corpus des inscriptions grecques et latines de Philippes II: La colonie romaine. 1: La vie publique de la colonie (Athens 2014). R. Schmitt, Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum, Part I: Inscriptions of Ancient Iran, vol. I: The Old Persian Inscriptions, Texts I: The Bisitun Inscriptions of Darius the Great. Old Persian Text (London 1991). Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin 1862– ). V.V. Struve et al., Corpus Inscriptionum Regni Bosporani. Korpus bosporskih nadpisei (Moscow/Leningrad 1965). Corpus Inscriptionum Regni Bosporani. Album Imaginum (St Petersburg 2004). Clara Rhodos. Studi e materiali pubblicati a cura dell’Istituto storicoarcheologico di Rodi (Rhodes 1928–41).

XL

CRAI CVA DNP EAM

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum. Der Neue Pauly (Stuttgart 1996– ). T. Rizakes and G. Touratsoglou, Epigraphes ano Makedonias (Elimeia, Eordaia, Notia Lynkēstis, Orestis), Tomos A’: Katalogos epigraphōn (Athens 1985). EG D. Page, Epigrammata Graeca (Oxford 1975). EKM II L. Gounaropoulou, P. Paschidis and M.B. Hatzopoulos, Epigraphes Katō Makedonias (metaxy tou Vermious orous kai tou Axiou potamou), Teuchos B’ (Athens 2016). FD III E. Bourguet et al., Fouilles de Delphes III: Épigraphie, Fasc. 1–6 (Paris 1909–85). FGrHist F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Leiden 1923– ). FHG K. Müller, Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum (Paris 1878–85). Fontes I V. Iliescu, V.C. Popescu and G. Ștefan (eds.), Fontes ad historiam Dacoromaniae pertinentes, vol. 1 (Bucharest 1964). GDI H. Collitz (ed.), Sammlung der griechischen Dialekt-Inschriften (Göttingen 1884–1915; repr. Liechtenstein 1973–83). GGM K./C.F.W. Müller, Geographi Graeci Minores (Paris 1855–61). GRA J.S. Kloppenborg and R.S. Ascough, Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary. 1: Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche 181) (Berlin/New York 2011). I.Alex.Imp. F. Kayser, Recueil des inscriptions grecques et latines (non funéraires) d’Alexandrie impériale (Ier–IIIe s. apr. J.-C.) (Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, Bibliothèque d’étude 108) (Cairo 1994). I.Assos R. Merkelbach, Die Inschriften von Assos (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 4) (Bonn 1976). I.Byzantion A. Łajtar, Die Inschriften von Byzantion (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 58) (Bonn 2000). IC 4 M. Guarducci, Inscriptiones Creticae 4: Tituli Gortynii (Rome 1950). IDélos F. Durrbach et al., Inscriptions de Délos (Paris 1926–72). IDR Inscripțiile Daciei Romane/ Inscriptiones Daciae Romanae I: Introducere istorică și epigrafică. Diplomele militare. Tăblițele cerate (Bucharest 1975). II: Oltenia şi Muntenia (Bucharest 1977). III: Dacia Superior (Bucharest 1980–  ; III.5: Paris 2001). I.Ephesos H. Wankel, H. Engelmann and J. Nollé, Die Inschriften von Ephesos (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 12–17.4) (Bonn 1979–84). I.Erythrai H. Engelmann and R. Merkelbach, Die Inschriften von Erythrai I–II und Klazomenai (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 1–2) (Bonn 1972–73). I.Extremo Oriente F. Canali de Rossi, Iscrizioni dello estremo oriente Greco: un repertorio (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 65) (Bonn 2004). IG Inscriptiones Graecae (Berlin 1877– ).

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

IG I³ IG II² IGB IGDGG II IGDOP IGEP IGF IGLNovae IGR IGUR IIasos I.Italiae IKnidos I.Kyzikos ILB ILD ILJug ILS IMagnesia IMylasa INikaia IOlbia IOlympia IOSPE IPorto I.Sinope

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D. Lewis and L. Jeffery, Inscriptiones Graecae I: Inscriptiones Atticae Euclidis anno anteriores, 3rd ed. (Berlin 1981, 1994). Inscriptiones Graecae II et III: Inscriptiones Atticae Euclidis anno posteriors, 2nd ed. (Berlin 1913–40). G. Mihailov, Inscriptiones Graecae in Bulgaria repertae (Sofia 1956–97); I2 (Sofia 1970). L. Dubois, Inscriptions grecques dialectales de Grande Grèce II: Colonies achéennes (Hautes études du monde gréco-romain 30) (Geneva 2002). L. Dubois, Inscriptions grecques dialectales d’Olbia du Pont (Hautes études du monde gréco-romain 22) (Geneva 1996). M.-P. De Hoz, Inscripciones griegas de España y Portugal (Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 40) (Madrid 2014). J.-C. Decourt, Inscriptions grecques de la France (Travaux de la Maison de l’Orient 38) (Lyons 2004). J. Kolendo and V. Božilova, Inscriptions grecques et latines de Novae (Mésie Inférieure) (Mémoire 1) (Paris 1997). R. Cagnat, Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes (Paris 1911– 27). L. Moretti, Inscriptiones Graecae Urbis Romae (Studi pubblicati dall’Istituto italiano per la storia antica, Fasc. 17– ) (Rome 1968– ). W. Blümel and W. Weiser, Die Inschriften von Iasos, 2 vols. (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 28) (Bonn 1985). Inscriptiones Italiae (Rome 1931– ). W. Blümel, Die Inschriften von Knidos, vol. 1 (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 41) (Bonn 1992). E. Schwertheim, Die Inschriften von Kyzikos und Umgebung 1: Grabtexte (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 18) (Bonn 1980). B. Gerov, Inscriptiones latinae in Bulgaria repertae (Sofia 1989). C.C. Petolescu, Inscripții latine din Dacia (Bucharest 2005). A. Šaşel and J. Šaşel, Inscriptiones latinae quae in Jugoslavia repertae et editae sunt (Ljubljana 1963– ). H. Dessau, Inscriptiones Latinae selectae (Berlin 1892–1916). O. Kern, Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Maeander (Berlin 1900). W. Blümel, Die Inschriften von Mylasa 1: Inschriften der Stadt (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 34) (Bonn 1987). S. Sahin, Katalog der antiken Inschriften des Museums von Iznik (Nikaia) (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 9, 10.1–3) (Bonn 1979–87). T.N.Knipovich et al., Nadpisi Ol’vii (1917–1965) (Leningrad 1968). W. Dittenberger and K. Purgold, Die Inschriften von Olympia (Berlin 1896). V. Latyshev, Inscriptiones antiquae orae septentrionalis Ponti Euxini Graecae et Latinae, I–II, IV (St Petersburg 1885–1901); I² (Petrograd 1916). G. Sacco, Iscrizioni greche d’Italia: Porto (Rome 1984). D. French (ed.), The Inscriptions of Sinope 1: Inscriptions (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 64) (Bonn 2004).

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ISM

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

Inscriptiones Scythiae Minoris Graecae et Latinae. I: D.M. Pippidi, Histria și împrejurimile/Inscriptiones Histriae et viciniae (Bucharest 1983). II: I. Stoian, Tomis și teritoriul său (Bucharest 1987). III: A. Avram, Callatis et son territoire (Bucharest/Paris 1999). VI 2: A. Avram, M. Bărbulescu and L. Buzoianu, Tomis et son territoire (Bucharest/Paris 2018). I.Smyrna G. Petzl, Die Inschriften von Smyrna (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 23–24) (Bonn 1982–90). I.Thrace/Turkey Z. Taşlıklıoğlu, Trakya’da epigrafya araștırmaları/ Recherches épigraphiques en Thrace et en Chersonèse (Edebiyat Fakültesi. Yayınları 886, 1654; Klâsik Diller ve Edebiyatları Bolümü. Yayınları 16) (Istanbul 1961, 1971). JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies. JRS Journal of Roman Studies. LGPN A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names. I: P.M. Fraser and E. Matthews, The Aegean Islands, Cyprus, Cirenaica (Oxford 1987). IIIA: P.M. Fraser and E. Matthews, Peloponnese, Western Greece, Sicily, and Magna Graecia (Oxford 1997). IIIB: P.M. Fraser and E. Matthews, Central Greece: From the Megarid to Thessaly (Oxford 2000). IV: P.M. Fraser, E. Matthews and R.W.V. Catling, Macedonia, Thrace, Northern Regions of the Black Sea (Oxford 2005). VB: J.-S. Balzat, R.W.V. Catling, É. Chiricat and F. Marchand, Coastal Asia Minor: Caria to Cilicia (Oxford 2014). VC: J.-S. Balzat, R.W.V. Catling, É. Chiricat and T. Corsten, Inland Asia Minor (Oxford 2018). LIMC Lexicon iconographicum mythologiae classicae (Zurich 1981– ). LP B.E. Thomasson, Laterculi praesidum, vol. 1 (Gothenburg 1984). LSJ Liddell, Scott and Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford 1861– ). MAMA Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua. I: W.M. Calder, Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua (Manchester 1928). IV: W.H. Buckler, W.M. Calder and W.K.C. Guthrie, Monuments and Documents from Eastern Asia and Western Galatia (Manchester 1933). V : C.W.M. Cox, Monuments from Dorylaeon and Nacolea (Manchester 1937). VI: W.H. Buckler and W.M. Calder, Monuments and Documents from Phrygia and Caria (Manchester 1939). VII: W.M. Calder, Monuments from Eastern Phrygia (Manchester 1956). VIII: W.M. Calder, J.M.R. Cormack, M.H. Ballance and M.R.E. Gough, Monuments from Lycaonia, the Pisido-Phrygian Borderland, Aphrodisias (Manchester 1962). IX: B. Levick et al. (eds.), Monuments from the Aezanatis recorded by C.W.M. Cox, A. Cameron and J. Cullen (JRS Monograph 4) (London 1988).

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

B. Levick and S. Mitchell (eds.), Monuments from Appian and the Upper Tembris Valley, Cotiaeum, Cadi, Synaus, Ancyra, and Tiberiopolis recorded by C.W.M. Cox, A. Cameron and J. Cullen (JRS Monograph 7) (London 1993). Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Antiquité. R. Meiggs and D. Lewis, A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century BC (Oxford 1969– ). W. Dittenberger, Orientis Graeci inscriptiones selectae, vols. 1–2 (Leipzig 1903–05). D. Dana, Onomasticon Thracicum (OnomThrac). Répertoire des noms indigènes de Thrace, Macédoine Orientale, Mésies, Dacie et Bithynie (Μeletemata 70) (Athens 2014). J. Kirchner, Prosopographia Attica (Berlin 1901, 1903). Packard Humanities Institute. Greek Inscriptions (https://epigraphy.packhum.org/). P. Pilhofer, Philippi II: Katalog der Inschriften von Philippi (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 119) (Tübingen 2009). Prosopographia Imperii Romani, 2nd ed. (Berlin/Leipzig 1933–2015). A.H.M. Jones, J.R. Martindale and J. Morris, Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire (Cambridge 1971–92). Revue archéologique. Pauly’s Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (Stuttgart 1894–1980). Revue des études grecques. R.G. Collingwood, R.P. Wright and R. Tomlin, The Roman Inscriptions of Britain (Oxford 1965–2009; repr. Stroud). The Roman Imperial Coinage (London 1923– ). Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie (Berlin 1928– ). P.A. Holder, Roman Military Diplomas (Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Suppl. 88) (London 2006). A. Burnett, M. Amandry, et al., Roman Provincial Coinage (London 1992– ). F. Preisigke et al., Sammelbuch Griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten (Straßburg 1913–  ; Wiesbaden 1963– ). Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (Leiden/Amsterdam 1923– ). W.M. Ramsay, Studies in the History and Art of the Eastern Provinces of the Roman Empire… (Aberdeen 1906). F. Bechtel et al., Sammlung der griechischen Dialekt-Inschriften (Göttingen 1884–1915). R. Merkelbach and J. Stauber (eds.), Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten (Munich/Stuttgart/Leipzig 1998–2004). Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology. Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum. W. Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, 3rd ed. (Leipzig 1915– 24). X:

MEFRA ML OGIS OnomThrac

PA PHI Philippi II PIR PLRE RA RE REG RIB RIC RLA RMD 5 RPC SB SEG SERP SGDI SGO SIMA SNG Syll 3

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XLIV

TAM V TTKY VDI ZGG ZPE

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

P. Herrmann, Tituli Asiae Minoris V: Tituli Lydiae, Fasc. 1–2 (Vienna 1981). Türk Tarih Kurumu yayınlarından. Vestnik Drevnei Istorii. Im Zeichen des goldenen Greifen: Königsgräber der Skythen (Exhibition Catalogue) (Munich/Berlin/London/New York 2007). Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik.

LIFE, WORKS AND REFLEXIONS

GOCHA TSETSKHLADZE, WEST AND EAST: WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

Gocha Tsetskhladze is a phenomenon. He is, to a great extent, the begetter of Black Sea Studies in the ‘West’; he is someone who straddles West and East and has spent 30 years or more trying to bring them together. He is too modest to describe himself, though some American colleagues have done so, as the modern Minns or Rostovtzeff. In an unusual start to an unusual life, Gocha has two birthdays: he was born in what was then Makharadze in western Georgia, officially on the 18th January 1963, actually a month prior (an anomaly I relish as a sometime archivist). He grew up in Kobuleti on the Black Sea coast, the eldest of three sons of an accountant (who knew the price of everything but could never see the value of Gocha’s work) and a chemistry graduate who worked in public health. His mother was a pillar of probity, thus unamenable to the bribes offered to those in her line of work. Domestic circumstances were correspondingly modest. The searing event of his childhood was the death of his youngest brother, disabled from birth, whom Gocha often nursed. During secondary school his active interest in archaeology had been fostered by nearby Pichvnari, where he volunteered his services, thereby establishing early his credentials as a field archaeologist, and making friends in the academic community and beginning to attend conferences that were usually the preserve of adult scholars. (He had also begun to have some doubts about the whole Marxist-Leninist farrago of the Soviet Union; his scepticism has inoculated him against the worst post-everythingist theoretical idiocies of the West: he prefers evidence.) Lacking the means and willingness to deal with the endemic corruption, his path to the university in Tbilisi was barred (repeatedly) – it should be noted that he dissented early from the official line on Georgian archaeology. Instead, at the suggestion of the late V.A. Latysheva (one of many colleagues he had met during his participation in excavations and conferences), he applied to the long-established and highly regarded University of Kharkov (in the Ukraine), to pursue a five-year first degree, moving thence to the Institute of Archaeology, Soviet Academy of Sciences, Moscow, and research for a doctorate under the supervision of the late G.A. Koshelenko. Almost by chance, and persuaded by Alexander Podossinov, he applied at the last minute for a Soros Foundation scholarship in Oxford in 1990. Many of those successful were individuals with connexions; his success was on merit. In September 1990 he found himself at Linacre, a graduate college whose new Principal was Sir Bryan Cartledge, formerly HBM Ambassador at Moscow. Oxford was already known to him: earlier that year, Koshelenko and he had attended an Anglo-Soviet symposium, ‘Colchis and the Greek World’, organised by the British Academy in London and Oxford, spending some days at Brasenose College as guests of the late Fergus Millar. In Oxford he encountered Sir John Boardman, soon to be supervisor of his second doctorate (he became the first, so far only Eastern European to receive an Oxford DPhil. in Classical Archaeology, and the first and last Easterner supervised by Sir John), with

WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

4

whom a long and close relationship has evolved (and who influenced Gocha’s own style of supervision). ‘The combination of a great supervisor and a hardworking student equals a prominent scholar like you…’, as Gül Gürtekin Demir of Ege University in Izmir has appositely commented. And from Balliol College, whose Dervorguilla scholar he was, he obtained a research fellowship at Royal Holloway, part of the University of London, based at Egham in Surrey (in 1994). Before he could take it up, however, there was a six-month struggle between Royal Holloway and the Home Office to obtain a work permit, requiring proof that Gocha was better than any possible candidate from the United Kingdom or from elsewhere in the European Union. The permit was granted after the final refusal, typed up in the Home Office, failed to be sent to Royal Holloway – easier than admitting to endemic incompetence. Non-British readers should be aware that anything involving the Home Office is likely to be a disaster.1 In the late 1990s, on the point of being stateless after the Soviet implosion (he was in Moscow when the coup attempt of 1991 took place), Gocha sought, as his long permanent residence entitled him, British citizenship – by post, to Croydon. In line with most (British) government procurement programmes, certainly those involving technology, an ambitious attempt to computerise everything, linked to a move in building, leaving nowhere to store the supposedly now redundant paper files, had become an unacknowledged fiasco: malfunctioning machines, not even the sense to tell people to withhold posting valuable documents, and a lorry-load of bulging unopened mail sacks temporarily stored in an underground car park with a healthy rodent population (a later discovery once the overall disaster had become public) including Gocha’s applications and his still valid Russo-Soviet passport. Planned foreign visits were cancelled; silence from Croydon. Friends came to the rescue: what was lost one week was found the next, shortly after Fergus Millar had asked Conrad [5th Earl] Russell2 to table a question in the Lords about the general and particular situation (his local MP, one Cox, had been unhelpful). Too much of a coincidence, I feel. Gocha duly became British by swearing the necessary oath in front of an Indian-born solicitor at a small office on Balham High Road.3 Gocha’s original sponsor and supporter at Royal Holloway, Chris Carey, departed; a little later so did Cathie Morgan, with whom Gocha had collaborated. Meanwhile he had become British co-director of excavations at Phanagoria in South Russia (which received an article in the Times).4 Despite steady advancement to Reader, Gocha was always on fixed-term contracts. In late 2002, he received ‘news’ from the then head of 1

 As the late Dr Eric Clavering remarked 30 years ago: ‘They send the fools to the Home Office’ – a comment addressed not merely to the calibre of the civil servants but also that of ministers. Nothing has happened since to challenge the acuity of his judgment (least of all at the time of writing). In 2017, the Commonwealth of Australia created a Ministry of Home Affairs; I told the Minister in August 2018 that I thought this mad, based on experience of the Home Office, but he would have none of it. Within three weeks, with a change of leadership in Canberra, various parts of Home Affairs were split off! 2  An hereditary peer, son of the philosopher, descendant of a twice Prime Minister, and also a professor of Early Modern History at KCL, and formerly at Royal Holloway: just the sort shortly to be evicted from the House of Lords. 3  Since then we have added dubious exams about British life and values, and adopted and adapted tawdry citizenship ceremonies, completely un-British, from the United States and Australia. The previous practice, understated, had much to recommend it, except for the accompanying paperwork from the Home Office – replete with mistakes in spelling, punctuation and grammar, and printed on little better than toilet paper. Grenada was confused with Granada – probably the television channel, not an area of Spain. 4  Not his first appearance: that was as a ‘young Soviet scholar’ at the Classical Association’s conference in Warwick in 1991.

WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

5

department that his immediate colleagues had asserted that his teaching was not required (information that was completely false, as he learned later from those same colleagues). It became clear to him that escape from a fractious department was necessary. Escape from the polluted atmosphere of London was also welcome. Melbourne came up on the rebound from an interview for a chair in Sydney. The lily had been over-gilded in selling Melbourne to him as the supposed flower of Australia’s Ivy League. Gocha’s enthusiasm wilted after a fruitful beginning – the ‘league’ was not premier. The descent of a new Vice Chancellor, with a desire to upend completely undergraduate teaching and the degree structure in Arts, paved the way for more general misery and academic staff cuts as the central administration consolidated, multiplied and de-humanised: Gocha found that he had moved to a unitary institution whose practices made the federal University of London seem the acme of efficiency (a year spent later as head of discipline in Melbourne provided ample confirmation of the administration’s general contempt for academics and academic matters, masked by ever-multiplying meetings and faux consultations). The merger of the Centre for Classics and Archaeology (and several other units) with History in 2007, just one of many reorganisations, produced none of the vaunted benefits and introduced many new problems (it seemed to be ‘payback’ time from the new Dean of Arts in response to the perceived favouring of History by his historian predecessor). Latterly, the erstwhile Centre, which had been conducted by a duumvirate, both local and not given to power sharing, had endured its own tensions; History had no conception of federalism or devolution. The success of Gocha’s teaching – for which he regularly received awards recorded in certificates that regularly misspelt his name – is touched on by several of his former students in personal recollections below.5 This was matched by his supervision of research students (though earning him enemies because he would not compromise and supervise topics outwith his own competence: he wanted theses to be works of scholarship, not exercises in box-ticking to meet the targets of what was becoming an academic sausage factory incapable of understanding the benefits of face-to-face contact). He brought into play his contacts to help students in obtaining scholarships and placements abroad (not least since the duumvirate controlled such things within the Centre, looking after their own). But he also helped students and young scholars from other institutions in their research, publications, job applications, scholarships, etc. (see Maranzana below),6 deploying those same extensive links with scholars, East and West, built up over more than 30 years. And he continues to do so. Of course, the administrative gods policing the copybook headings (or the fictitious ‘work-load’ formulas) were uncomprehending of someone driven by academic concerns and standards and a desire to serve scholarship in the round. If it can’t be measured it doesn’t exist. Why on earth help people with whom one enjoys bare acquaintance when there are no ‘points’ to be gained? Why write book reviews or edit journals, for neither count?7

5  ‘Thank you for being my teacher and friend. You have given me far more than you can ever know’: Brent Davis. 6  ‘You are really important for Asia Minor Archaeology and especially for the young researchers like me’: Adem Yurtsever, Editor, Arkhe, Istanbul; ‘I must say that here our colleagues know the important role that you played making this agreement possible’: Yervand Grekyan, Erevan. 7  A former student wrote to him of the atmosphere in Melbourne soon after he left: ‘A mentioned the trauma staff suffered during reviews with B and how one staff member (unnamed) could not bear even to

6

WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

Gocha is, however, essentially a scholar, a shy, sensitive and private individual with little small talk. A rather old-fashioned figure for the modern ‘corporate’ university. Despite a network of contacts, he is about as far removed from being a ‘networker’ (an ugly modern term) as it is possible to be. He is inclined to tell it as it is, perhaps forging better relations with a junior office secretary than with some senior colleagues. He has little patience with the abundant academic egotists or rampant self-publicists – and even less with the tendency to live and teach ‘on line’. As the years passed the essential provincialism of the University of Melbourne did not: it was described long ago as a good medical school with a middling university attached. The former is absolutely so. Obtaining a grant from the Australian Research Council was, even in the 2000s, the target to which most Australian academics were driven by their institutions, whether the grant were needed or not (there is now a veritable grantapplication industry). The excavation of Pessinus, inherited from Ghent University in an unexpectedly rapid handover in 2008/09, certainly required a grant. Gocha made his first application and insisted on doing so on his own terms (telling it as it was), despite advice that the duration (five years, rather than three) and amount (over a million Australian dollars – unusually large for an Arts grant) were ‘ambitious’. The application itself was (refreshingly) free from the dull prose in which things were usually couched. Possibly no one was more surprised by its success than Gocha. Certainly, some in Melbourne seemed less than entirely happy about this. Alas, it was to be a burden, hung about with so many conditions from the government, then ‘gold plated’ by the levels of expansively- (and expensively)-titled administrators at the university, too many of whom impeded its successful realisation at every step with a zeal seldom exhibited in their other tasks. Indeed, the excavation succeeded almost despite the grant and the university. Excellent relationships were fostered with successive Australian ambassadors in Ankara, with the General Directorate in the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism, with the Director and staff of Eskişehir Archaeological Museum, and so forth. In the interests of Gocha’s physical well-being it was time to return to Europe, to renounce long-distance air travel (a nasty respiratory infection caught on a flight in 2014 was decisive in this), and to get down to work unimpeded by Leviathan. The very week he disentangled himself from Melbourne he was awarded a gold medal by Charles University, Prague, for his scholarship and academic achievements; an honorary professorship from Bucharest followed a few months later. * * * ‘Gocha’s work has been critical to the development of archaeology in the Caucasus over the last 30 years’: Adam T. Smith, Cornell University. Not just his work as a (considerable) scholar in his own right but the many ventures he has embarked upon to bring the East to the West, and secondarily the West to the East: publications, publication series, a journal, conferences and congresses, lectures, excavations, etc. – and so much of it started when at

hear B’s name because of how badly he had been treated… I certainly did not come away feeling enthusiastic about the academic work environment there (not that I was before).’ This student had noted the gradual decline over a decade or so.

WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

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a very early stage in his Western career (even more might have been done without the time wasted by current university practices). As the late John Hind wrote almost 20 years ago on Gocha’s first decade in the West: From 1991 at Balliol College, Oxford, and from 1994 at Royal Holloway University of London, a one-man Black Sea study centre has continued to flourish. Several volumes of collected original papers, mainly by eastern scholars, have been seen through to completion. Monographs on Colchis and the eastern side of the Black Sea, and a spate of new articles on the area generally have emanated from there in a brief period. Special mention should be made of Colloquia Pontica…, elder sister series of monographs alongside the new, infant periodical, Ancient West and East (Ancient West and East 1.1 [2002], 44). Colloquia Pontica has been described as presenting ‘the most important monographs on the new archaeology of the region’: C. King, The Black Sea: A History (Oxford 2004), 257; while ‘The journal Ancient West and East is steadily also becoming the single most important forum for discussions of ancient cultural-contact’: F. De Angelis, in G. Boys-Stones, B. Graziosi and P. Vasunia (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Hellenic Studies (Oxford 2009), 60. Opinions matter more than ‘impact factors’, misused citation indexes and the like (the forlorn hunt for data to quantify quality, a delusion beloved and believed [only?] by university bureaucrats). The first three volumes of Colloquia Pontica were published by Oxbow in 1996–97. Gocha was then courted by successive Classics Editors at Brill (Job Lisman and Michiel Klein Swormink), which published Colloquia Pontica from 1999 and encouraged Gocha in other projects. Ancient West and East first appeared in 2002, but it was not marketed as a journal, though two issues appeared each year; and there was some friction because Brill was already publishing Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia (not least because of the power wielded by a coterie surrounding Grigory Bongard-Levin in post-Soviet academic life in Russia, though the ripples carried as far as Princeton; various colleagues, some unwillingly, and some, fed partial information, unwittingly were forced to take sides). Meanwhile, Gocha had undertaken a rescue takeover of the stalled project to produce a Handbook of Greek Colonisation, to which he had been invited to contribute. Two volumes appeared in 2006 and 2008: ‘Gocha Tsetskhladze has inherited the mantle of Mr. Colonization from the late John Graham, as he oversees and contributes to a growing body of work on Greek expansion, especially in the Black Sea area’, wrote David Tandy of the University of Leeds (‘Traders in the Archaic and Classical Greek Koine’. In T. Howe [ed.], Traders in the Ancient Mediterranean [Chicago 2015], 56). That a third volume has yet to appear is a fault soon to be rectified. Meanwhile, to some Turkish colleagues, Gocha Bey was becoming the new ‘King of Pontus’. A change in Classics Editor and upper management at Brill, and immobility regarding Ancient West and East8 led to a change of publisher (to Peeters in 2007) and the firm establishment of what had always been intended to be a journal as a journal. Unfortunately, 8  ‘In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch is offering too little and asking too much; …’, as George Canning had penned; repeated by David Bivar at the time of these little local difficulties.

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WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

Brill insisted on keeping the rights to the early issues and to the series Colloquia Pontica (of which they had published ten); negotiation proved fruitless. Hence the birth of Colloquia Antiqua (now with over 30 volumes to its credit). Gocha is active with other publications and involved in the editorial and advisory boards of numerous journals in an arc from Spain to Turkey. He has also been a referee of publications and of grant applications made to national research councils from Canada to Georgia. Several review articles have appeared devoted exclusively to Gocha’s publications and contribution to scholarship. For example, J. Bouzek, ‘New Studies in Black Sea Archaeology’, Eirene 38 (2002), 203–07; A.V. Podossinov, ‘The Ancient Black Sea Littoral in Recent Western Publications (Bibliographical Essay)’, in Ancient States of Eastern Europe 2001 (Moscow 2003), 358–76 (in Russian). Comments on specific works are enlightening: John Boardman, reviewing G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area (Stuttgart 1998) and Gocha’s own chapter in it, in the American Journal of Archaeology 104 (2000), 390: ‘Tsetskhladze has done more than any scholar in recent years to open eastern European archaeological research to western eyes... The subject is colossal, and the editor’s opening essay, also the longest, gives a valuable and well-documented conspectus of the evidence for colonization, mainly down to the third century BC. This will long remain an unrivalled bibliographical resource, but it assesses as well as records...’ The late David Ridgway, reviewing G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden 1999) in The Times Higher Education Supplement April 21, 2000: ‘Most of the 23 papers in this impressive collection arise out of what is usually called “Greek colonisation”... Most of their subjects are new, all are approached in newly-informed ways, and the result is much more valuable, and interesting, than anything I have read in its field – in English – for a long time... What is new is their systematic acceptance that exchange is by definition a two-way process, and that accordingly Greeks outside Greece not only “gave” but also “took”... The great achievement of Tsetskhladze’s collection resides in the simultaneous death-blows it delivers on many widely-separated fronts to the well-worn but ill-fitting model of the “Hellenisation of the barbarians” – and to the reluctance to bother with non-Greek matters in the presence of even a handful of Greek sherds.’ Maya Vassileva, reviewing J. Bouzek and L. Domaradzka, The Culture of the Thracians and their Neighbours (Oxford 2005), in Ancient West and East 6 (2007), 368: ‘Tsetskhladze makes a very brief but significant re-evaluation of the present state of research on major topics related to Greek colonisation and the types of relations between Greeks and locals. He emphasises the problems that still provoke debate, or are being dealt with unsatisfactorily, such as the causes of colonisation, dates of foundation and, especially, the nature of the relations developed between the Greeks and the indigenous population. Tsetskhladze warns against overestimating the evidence of Greek pottery or metal objects for trade relations. His final paragraph is a frank statement of the still inadequate communication

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between Western and Eastern scholars in the field. These last remarks are justified by the next two papers on Scytho-Thracian and Scytho-Thraco-Greek relations along the northwestern Black Sea coast...’ Tamar Hodos, reviewing Gocha’s introductory chapter, ‘Revisiting Ancient Greek Colonisation’, in G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, vol. 1 (Leiden, 2006), Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2007.08.38: ‘It … provides a whistle-stop tour of many recent issues in the study of Greek colonisation. He begins with a criticism of approaches to ancient colonisation that are influenced by concerns with colonial parallels in the recent past and present, arguing that they are equally as biased as the imperial models they reject. He suggests that the problem is really one of terminology, rather than theoretical perspective, and that the term colonisation is what is in crisis. Terminology can never reflect the full reality, T. observes, and he suggests that Greek colonisation as a concept at least needs to be ring-fenced in connection with the Archaic period. T. then turns directly to the very important recent revisions to the absolute chronology for Greek ceramics for the 10th–7th centuries (Early Geometric to Corinthian) as espoused by Nijboer. T. explores the diversity of terminology surrounding Greek settlements themselves, especially types of poleis in contrast with apoikiai, emporia and ports of trade. T. then turns to questions of urbanisation in mainland Greece and Ionia, noting that many colonies were not created with a fully formed urban plan. A discussion of the role of the oikist follows. T. next contrasts Greek and Phoenician colonisation very briefly and generally, before examining the relationship between Greeks and locals, where T. wisely points out that there is no model for their relationship across the broad geographical scope of Greek colonisation. He highlights the diversity of interactions and interpretations of these relations as seen in the archaeological record through passing reference to such ideas as the Middle Ground and hybridity. This leads neatly into a discussion of Greek cultural identities, which T. titles ethnicity. The chapter ends with a summary of where and when the Greeks colonised. T.’s overall point is that there is no single, uniform process to what we call Greek colonisation. This is a major conclusion...’ Alan Greaves, reviewing the same volume in The Journal of Hellenic Studies 128 (2008), 249: ‘Gocha Tsetskhladze is a tireless editor and publisher of works about Greek colonisation and for that reason his works always deserve attention... There is undoubtedly a market for a “handbook” on Greek colonisation and he would certainly be the man to write it, given his extensive and privileged knowledge of the subject. His own lengthy introduction goes furthest towards providing the kind of information one would expect of a handbook and features a pithy account of the theoretical and evidential background to Greek colonisation, recent developments in the field, and a condense “conspectus” of the settlement process including a useful table of known colonies and foundation dates. ... All credit to him for bringing to fruition what has obviously been a difficult project...’ Robert Garland, responding privately to Gocha’s review in The Ancient History Bulletin Online Reviews 5 (2015) of his Wandering Greeks: The Ancient Greek Diaspora… (Princeton 2014): ‘You do an extremely careful job in drawing out the bundle of themes that I found at times impossible to control and contain. … I am most grateful to you for the

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time and effort you spent dissecting the book and responding to whatever it has to offer. Your new address evokes the image of a life that has already travelled far, not least in the mind, which I know to be the case’ [proof that book reviews do matter contra the ‘workload’ formula]. ‘[I am] overwhelmed by all that you are doing and publishing… I and so many others owe you so much’: John Boardman. ‘I got volume 15 of Ancient West and East. You are to be congratulated on it... It is established and excellent, thanks to you’: Stanley Burstein. ‘The only reason that any of this exists is due to your indefatigable efforts and enthusiastic passion’: Jeff Lerner. Of course, some reviews and reviewers reflect animosities of old. * * * Australia eventually curbed Gocha’s desire to travel: the long journeys and the jetlag were debilitating. His first overseas lecture had been in Rostock, in the (still, just) GDR, in November 1989; the Classical Association in Warwick (1990) soon followed. His first outing to the United States began at the Institute of Fine Arts in New York in April 1992. The 1990s were full of such engagements in Britain and France, North America, Spain and Romania, Germany and Switzerland, Greece and Turkey – all to be revisited in the subsequent decades, with Russia, Italy, Belgium, Switzerland, Poland, Serbia and Ireland added. Indeed, he has graced everywhere from Sorrento Golf Club, outside Melbourne, to St David’s Lampeter (close to his current home), via Ohio State University in Columbus and Moscow Lomonosov State University. His attendance at conferences has been equal in geographical scope, with Bulgaria, Greece and Turkey (long antedating his involvement at Pessinus) particularly prominent, many times as the opening lecturer or keynote speaker: ‘It was such a pleasure to meet you and to hear your wonderful paper. I wrote my senior thesis with Mabel Lang on the “mother city/colonial relationship” between Corinth and her western “colonies” and I had become pretty disenchanted with the “colony” model even back then. But your broader framing really made me think’: Ann Steiner, Franklin and Marshall College, Lancaster, PA. ‘Thank you once again for your exceptional talk on Greek colonisation – or perhaps on Greeks overseas and overland’: Anastasios Zisis, Democritus University, Thrace. His most extensive lecture tour was as the Onassis Foundation Visiting Professor at the Universities of British Columbia, Pennsylvania, Chicago and Texas at Austin. But his travels have varied from a Swan Hellenic cruise in the Mediterranean in 1992 to acting as the Archaeological Institute of America speaker/host on a Black Sea cruise (2007) and on several tours of Transcaucasia (in the 2010s) – showing a talent for communicating with the informed amateur as well as the student or the specialist.

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In between, he has been a visiting professor at Copenhagen, at Moscow State University for the Humanities and (repeatedly) at Ivane Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University. Alongside his own travels are those of numerous academic visitors from Eastern Europe, first of all to Britain, then to Australia, via schemes run by the British Academy and the Australian Academy of the Humanities. The International Pontic Congress/Congress on Black Sea Antiquities (renamed to spread balm on some national[ist] sensitivities) is another lasting creation. Conceived in Romania with the late Petre Alexandrescu, but not actually held there until 2017 – ironically, the first took place in Bulgaria (Varna, 1997). It is the word made flesh: a manifestation of Gocha’s desire that Eastern and Western scholars and scholarship comingle to Easternise the West as much as to Westernise the East. For, just as in antiquity, acculturation is not a unidirectional process in which the ‘superior’ culture penetrates the ‘inferior’. The Congress is very much his child: he remains its Secretary General. He is also still active as an organiser of other conferences, large and small, most recently in Turkey. Appropriately, it will be at the seventh congress in Salonica that this volume is presented, marking by then a little more than 30 years of Gocha Tsetskhladze in the West. Lector, si monumentum requiris…

Fig. 1. Medal awarded by Charles University, Prague, May 2015.

LAUDATIO DOMINI *

Professor Gocha Tsetskhladze is undoubtedly one of the most outstanding personalities in the field of Classical History and Archaeology today, and has had a fundamental role in promoting – after the fall of the Soviet Union – Black Sea Studies for the Classical period. A Georgian national, Prof. Tsetskhladze has pursued a highly distinguished international career during which he managed to bridge the gap between the schools of the former Soviet Bloc and Western schools, which he involved in the research of Black Sea antiquities. After graduating from the University of Kharkov, in the Ukraine (1988), Prof. Tsetskhladze obtained two PhDs, one in Ancient History, Archaeology and Art in Moscow (1993), and the second in Classical Archaeology at the University of Oxford (1998), under the study of Sir John Boardman, probably the most important name in the study of Greek colonisation. This was also an important relationship for the evolution of Prof. Tsetskhladze’s research effort towards the investigation of the archaeology of the Black Sea during Classical Antiquity. Prof. Tsetskhladze pursued a brilliant university career at the University of London (1994–2004), where he started as a research fellow, later to become a senior research fellow, lecturer and reader in Classical Archaeology in the Department of Classics, Royal Holloway and Bedford New College. He then moved to Australia, where he became senior lecturer, reader and associate professor at the University of Melbourne (2004–15). He also held many visiting positions at universities in Salonica, Tbilisi, Moscow, Vancouver, Philadelphia, Chicago, Austin and Copenhagen, as well as several honorary ones. He held undergraduate and graduate courses and supervised and co-supervised BA, MA and PhD candidates on themes ranging from Asia Minor to Greek Colonisation, from Roman History to Black Sea archaeology; he also approached Near Eastern archaeology, Egyptian Hellenistic history, and the history and archaeology of barbarian Europe during the Classical period. Prof. Tsetskhladze also held administrative positons on research and teaching committees and boards, which put him at the centre of his institution’s activity. But most likely his most enduring contribution is that made by his research. Prof. Tsetskhladze took part in or coordinated many archaeological field missions, at Pessinus in Turkey (with a Belgian and then an Australian project), on several sites in Georgia, in the Taman Peninsula and in the Crimea. He held very many research grants and organised a large number of conferences and congresses all over the world, among which the International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, held every four years, constitutes the most important research event for Black Sea antiquities. * This is the English-language version (slightly edited) of the text prepared in connexion with the induction of Gocha Tsetskhladze as a Professor Honoris Causa by the University of Bucharest, October 2015.

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It is however his publications that constitute his most impressive contribution: over 200 titles have his signature, whether they are authored or edited books, collective volumes, chapters or articles. He also founded and edited Colloquia Pontica, now Colloquia Antiqua, and the journal Ancient West and East, two of the most prestigious reviews in the field. His published research covers an impressive range of subjects, among which several which were not very popular in Western literature before the fall of Communism, such as Greek colonisation of the Black Sea (especially the northern part) and its archaeology, starting with the moment of foundation and up to the cities’ history during the Roman period. Another fundamental topic approached by Prof. Tsetskhladze is the relationship between the Greek cities in the Pontus and the barbarians in the surrounding lands, as an integral part of the life of a polis on the Black Sea shore. The dedication to his domain and tireless scientific effort have enabled Prof. Tsetskhladze to contribute in a decisive manner to the promotion of the study of Black Sea antiquities among the main present-day research directions in universities and research centres around Europe and all over the world.

Fig. 2. Gocha Tsetskhladze installed as a professor honoris causa, University of Bucharest, October 2015.

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS

GOCHA TSETSKHLADZE In 2002 Gocha wrote ‘I do not think that there is any need to demonstrate the importance of the peripheral area of the classical world or the role of local population in the creation of Graeco-Roman and Byzantine civilisation.’ That there was such a need is demonstrated by the spectacular success of his creation of the periodical, Ancient West and East (and its monograph supplements, first Colloquia Pontica, now Colloquia Antiqua). It would be fair to say that it has inspired a new generation of scholars and provided a much-needed forum for the work of others whose published research had appeared only in periodicals often with a relatively limited circulation, and often in non-Western languages. Gocha was brought up at the eastern frontier of the Classical World, in Georgia. He studied in the Ukraine and obtained a PhD in Moscow. Meanwhile he had come to Oxford where he wrote a second DPhil, on ‘A Cultural History of Colchis’, his home. By then, his long stay in Russia had rendered him officially stateless (Soviet, but neither Russian nor Georgian), but he acquired British citizenship. As a student of mine his attitude to life seemed to be nonchalant, despite the problems, but this concealed an ambition and determination unparalleled in my experience. My own interests and travel had acclimatised me to view the eastern world as equipollent to the West, indeed its mentor. Many scholars have been led by the AWE approach to open their eyes to the East and how it formed the West. It is probably not too much to say that his success in ensuring publication on the subject has contributed to a revolution in archaeological studies. Gocha worked as a research fellow, later lecturer and finally reader, in London University (Royal Holloway and Bedford New College, from 1994 to 2004). He mounted conferences on East and West there and in Black Sea cities, and started his own excavations, at Phanagoria in South Russia, as co-director of a Russo-British project. Very soon he created a new pattern of life for interested scholars: an array of publications and regular conferences in Eastern European countries and Turkey, where interested scholars could reveal their research and meet others with like interests. These have become almost like family parties, unmatched, in my experience, in any other areas of the scholarship of antiquity. What is yet more remarkable is that Gocha’s own research and publication have not flagged, well demonstrated by his skilful assessment of new research and publication which is offered annually in AWE. His move to Melbourne in 2004 could not have distanced him more from his areas of academic interest, but in fact the challenge did nothing to diminish his enthusiasm and productivity and led him to take up the direction of the Pessinus excavation in Turkey from 2009, although it eventually prompted his decision to return to Britain, where, we hope and expect, his energy and shrewd guidance will long continue to inspire studies, East and West. John BOARDMAN

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SALVE, O AMICE, VIR BONUS ES Youth, maturity and old age are those stages of life that we go through. These ages are different from each other: in our youth we had many friends, but many of them get lost over the years, or their friendship has been questioned, sometimes worse – instead of friends, we get enemies and envious, and it is very sad! But there are friends who have not left you since your youth. The gap in distance, intercultural and social restrictions do not affect this relationship they remain as spiritual, and strong associates in life. In this relationship, the transcendent border of banal friendship is receded and you can communicate with them as with another ‘me’. They are often intellectual providers and professional associates and even teachers who give, share and support us at any time, in other words, this is a state when Amicitia Vera Illuminat. Dear Gocha is all of the above, a worthy person, an outstanding scholar and a kind friend (since our student days)! My dearest friend, good man, prosperity, all blessings and many years of health to you! Eka AVALIANI

GOCHA THE COLLABORATOR Let me begin with a memory of about 2000, perhaps just before the Second ‘Pontic’ Congress in Ankara (2001), during a discussion with my professor Petre Alexandrescu. ‘Gocha’, he said, ‘is more than a scholar, he is an institution’. Two decades have passed and we can see that these premonitory words have been fully confirmed by facts. Editorin-Chief of Ancient West and East and of the remarkable series Colloquia Antiqua (each of them with more than 20 issues) and, last but not least, spiritus rector of the periodic Congresses on the History and Archaeology of the Black Sea area, which were in fact his own idea, with my modest complicity, if I may (Varna 1997, Ankara 2001, Prague 2005, Istanbul 2009, Belgrade 2013, Constanţa 2017 and, let us hope, Thessalonica 2022), Gocha (only in official context also called Tsetskhladze) is obviously a cornerstone in Pontic Studies. Until the 1990s archaeology of the Black Sea basin was rather an exotic, if not a Cinderella area: too many Russian publications, many in almost confidential periodicals or other kind of publications, few Western scholars working in this region, lack of contacts (due to political reasons) between local archaeologists and historians and their Western partners and so on. The new political conditions after 1990 offered an unexpected opportunity, and if somebody was efficiently aware of it, it was Gocha. He started to collect several contributions of Russian, Ukrainian, Romanian and Bulgarian colleagues to be presented in English (not, as was usual thitherto, in vernacular languages); he continued by organising conferences, workshops, congresses on the Black Sea; later he extended his network to Greece and Turkey (a country where he is said to be, as I heard, ‘King of Pontus’; se non è vero, è ben trovato). The progress of Pontic studies owes, of course, so much to our Gocha. But Gocha is not only a Black Sea man. Native of Georgia, having completed his education in the Ukraine (Kharkov), Russia (Moscow) and England (Oxford, with the

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great Sir John Boardman), having taught in London and in Melbourne (I do not count his activities as visiting professor from England to the United States and from Georgia to Spain), having conducted archaeological excavations in Georgia, Russia, Turkey (Pessinus), he is a citizen of the world in the best meaning of the word. A specialist in classical archaeology first of all, he is not less interested in all the sciences of antiquity, Greek history in particular, but also Roman history and Achaemenid civilisation. Having the vocation of large synthesis, he produced himself or carefully edited standard works on Greek colonisation or on other matters of greatest interest. Being an incredibly hardworking person himself and entirely devoted to his profession (I personally tried sometime to discuss with him about politics, sport or other things; without any chance), Gocha cannot understand why other people do not march to the same rhythm. ‘Why did he (she) not publish this discovery?’, ‘when will you be able to send me your paper?’, ‘I cannot wait for’ are standard formulas in his e-mails. And we, Gocha’s collaborators, are therefore obliged to try to meet his needs, for the greatest benefit of the scholarship, of course. Perhaps the most enlightening indicator of his popularity and appreciation in our academic world is the large number of valuable contributions that Sir John, James, Alexander and I are proud to have been able to collect in this volume, warmly dedicated to our friend Gocha, the scholar and the ‘institution’. Alexandru AVRAM (†)

GOCHA THE TEACHER (1) I was studying for a diploma in classics and archaeology at Melbourne when I first heard that an eminent scholar from London University was coming to our campus. There was a lot of excitement amongst the undergraduate and post-graduate students, as we understood that he had worked on, and written widely about, many of the archaeological sites that we were studying, in particular early Greek settlements along the Black Sea. This scholar was Gocha. Gocha was a delight from the beginning, bringing a new life into the subjects of ancient Greek colonies and trade, with a verve and clarity we had not experienced before. We were taught to question everything we found, not to make assumptions about archaeological finds based on our own current thoughts and knowledge; in short Gocha changed our experience and understanding of antiquity. We were very privileged to have him be our lecturer and later supervisor. Gocha also brought many of his colleagues as guest speakers from Europe to talk to us when they were visiting Australia. These were specialists in their fields. I remember particularly being fascinated by the lecture ‘Mappa Mundi’, discovering early explorers and map-makers and the evolution of map-making throughout history. These were often not just the syllabus topics but rather presented interesting and influential thoughts and ideas that transformed and broadened our understanding of life in antiquity. I also had the privilege of touring the Black Sea and visiting some of the archaeological sites first hand, with Gocha supervising an Archaeological Institute of America tour. His

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depth of knowledge gave a vivid sense of the life and structure within these settlements which few scholars would have been able to achieve. We owe a lot to Gocha and his thoughtful practice of imparting his vast knowledge to us, and doing so with such passion. Janet BUXTON

GOCHA THE TEACHER (2) I met Gocha as a first year undergraduate at Melbourne in 2004. I enrolled in his class From Villages to Poleis because the subject name lacked the theatricality commonly used to entice undergraduates (think: Sex and Death in Ancient [insert place name here]). When essay questions were given out in From Villages to Poleis I approached Gocha to ask if I could argue against a slim volume on classical studies published in 1951, which I had picked up in a second hand bookshop. Gocha mistakenly thought I wanted to use this book to support my arguments, and gently suggested that more recent publications might be helpful. This was the first of many occasions when I admired the way Gocha treated his students with dignity, no matter their level of knowledge or the absurdity of their ideas. Even during times when I e-mailed him daily, his courtesy and civility did not once give way to brusqueness or frustration. He has responded to my questions while at international conferences, on archaeological digs, during visits to his family, on holidays (actually, has Gocha ever taken a holiday?), and even from a hospital bed. From Villages to Poleis was popular and earnt Gocha a loyal following of students. Those of us who took his classes semester after semester were refreshed by his persistent use of the overhead projector, despite the presence of computers with power-point in every lecture theatre. Simon Young, another of Gocha’s former PhD students, similarly remembers that on Gocha’s desk was ‘an impossibly vintage Macintosh computer’. We students were grateful that Gocha didn’t try to dazzle us with archaeological discoveries worthy of a television series, or make us play ‘getting to know you’ games in seminars. We were less grateful that he provided hundreds of pages of reading material every week. I got by reading the introduction and conclusion of each article when short of time and thereby realised that Gocha aimed to provide different perspectives on each topic discussed rather than to direct students to a specific viewpoint. Gocha’s determination to allow students to form their own opinions had an enormous impact on my later postgraduate studies. When applying to do my Honours degree and later my PhD, I asked fellow students to describe Gocha as a supervisor. I was told that he was extraordinarily supportive but demanded hard work and attention to detail. Gocha himself agreed to supervise my PhD on the understanding that I was prepared to meet his high standards, to which I eagerly agreed, only to find myself pregnant precisely one week after my PhD began. When I finally confessed to this new state of affairs, presuming that I would be discouraged from continuing my studies, I was relieved when Gocha’s first response was to extend warm congratulations. He offered to help in any way he could and insisted that I see him as someone I could rely upon to provide a kindly ear whenever needed. This caring attitude

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still strikes me as exceptional and I regard myself as having been enormously fortunate to have known Gocha at that time. As a new PhD student I expected that meetings with Gocha would be like Hollywood portrayals of post-graduate experiences: lively discussion, scholarly argument and ever replenishing supplies of black coffee. Certainly, entering his office was like stepping into an academic wonderland. I cannot describe it better than Simon Young (see below). However, my meetings with Gocha were mostly lacking in the debate I had expected. I was given the broadest of boundaries with regard to the content of my thesis; I was to write on any aspect of Phrygian history. Furthermore, I found Gocha difficult to draw into discussion. At first, the absence of direction made me feel rudderless. Lacking a more specific framework, I produced a ‘thesis plan’ which covered every possible aspect of Phrygian history. Gocha dutifully read this and declared it to be fine if I wanted to write three thick volumes. It was after I had produced some original work that I realised Gocha’s supervisory style was his way of offering me the freedom to find my own scholarly voice, to experiment with ideas and to develop my own opinions unhampered by other influences. I believe he was aware that if he let me know his perspective, it would hover over my work and impede my own explorations. He mastered an expressionless look whenever I tentatively mentioned a new idea of mine and generally replied: ‘You can argue whatever you like so long as you support it with evidence.’ Rather than saying he agreed or disagreed when I produced a new argument he would comment on whether my reasoning was logical and my research precise. To this day I don’t know whether Gocha agrees or disagrees with many of my ideas and I don’t think it matters. By refusing to guide my thinking, Gocha gave me wings. I became braver about saying new things and exploring unconventional pathways. I knew I never had to worry about my proposals being dismissed or countered due to academic opinion; only due to poor argument. Simon Young recalls Gocha as a supervisor who gave the freedom to explore but had a strong eye for detail and wariness of weak arguments. For my part, I believe it was a result of Gocha’s refusal to put his own stamp on my research that my PhD took on a life of its own. And of course, being completely devoid of any tendency towards selfaggrandisement, Gocha always said that he did not help me, but that I did everything myself. The truth of the matter is that he did the most important thing: he supported me to courageously exercise my academic freedom and he bolstered me whenever my determination wavered. The strength of Gocha’s commitment to giving me freedom of thought was matched by his insistence on high scholarly standards. He was never slow to point out that my bibliography was not long enough! Likewise, Simon’s description of Gocha as having ‘an unflinching dedication to detail and accuracy’ certainly matches my own experience. On reflexion, I cannot think of a single time I disagreed with Gocha’s meticulous comments about my work. His consistent fairness and clarity inspired me to strive to achieve his high standards and allowed me to trust him entirely. Indeed, my trust in Gocha meant that I never hesitated to take his advice, even when that advice was to read entire books in languages with which I had little familiarity (all right, maybe I did hesitate occasionally) – he was always recommending us to take language classes and to learn more languages, ancient and modern.

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Over 15 years have passed since I first met Gocha. I know I am not alone among Gocha’s students in saying that I feel extremely privileged to have had him as a teacher. Before Gocha left Australia he came to visit me in the regional town where I live in central Victoria. I was surprised and delighted that he would take the time to come and say goodbye. This gets to the essence of what Gocha offered me as my teacher: commitment and dedication when I least expected it, generosity when I thought I’d asked too much, and kindness well beyond the call of duty. And that’s to say nothing of his extraordinary depth and breadth of knowledge. When I was about half way through my PhD I heard that a good doctoral student will outstrip their supervisor in knowledge as their thesis progresses. From that day on I set myself a goal of citing an article Gocha hadn’t read or using evidence he wasn’t aware of. At last, when I wrote my final chapter, Gocha e-mailed me to say he didn’t know about an article I used. I was jubilant! Alas, however, it turned out I was reading the English translation of an earlier article published in Russian and, of course, Gocha had read the Russian version. Gocha has a life-long sense of responsibility and concern for his students. Those of us whose theses sit contentedly in his extensive library are part of his academic family. We know that friendship and mentorship from Gocha is something we can rely on, no matter in what direction life takes us. Thank-you Gocha. I couldn’t have wanted a better teacher. Cecily GRACE

UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES I met Gocha in October 1990. I had recently moved to Oxford, which I found a strange and largely unwelcoming place (someone has called it ‘a wretched Disneyland in Bath stone’), to catalogue the papers of a former Prime Minister at Rhodes House. This was the venue of Oxford’s induction courses for overseas students (I reject the modish term ‘international’). One of these, slightly over-dressed and over age, was wandering the corridors with a purpose: he needed to find somewhere to smoke! I led him out through the garden door and made conversation. Unlike most other Westerners he had encountered, (1) I had heard of Georgia, (2) I could place Batumi on a map, (3) I had visited the then still (just) extant Soviet Union. I also had a casual interest in archaeology, an historical interest in the British EmpireCommonwealth (‘colonisation’), and a distant family connexion with David Lang. In practice, I (alongside the now late Ruth, Lady Cartledge – a larger than life character) became his induction course into some of the mysteries of Western life: the cheque book, the credit card, the peculiar nature of North Oxford. He became a regular visitor to my flat and I became by stages a mixture of language coach, amateur travel agent, taxi driver (I took him and Alexander Podossinov to Stonehenge and Avebury), etc. I also drifted into editing, having time on my hands after Oxford (no full-time job until my next Prime Minister in Nottingham) and witnessing the inept editing performed on my own work by idle hands at the Bodleian Library. In the same period I organised his move from Summertown to Balham (‘Gateway to the South’) when he took up his first post at Royal Holloway and Bedford New College.

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I have subsequently become and remain involved in most of his publication and conference projects. As my own contribution will reveal, my family helped to underwrite the first year of the Pessinus excavation, by which time, thanks to an unexpected large legacy, I was free to give up full-time employment and could take a visiting/adjunct position in Australia during part of Gocha’s time in Melbourne. I have visited Georgia and met his family; his mother and brother have stayed with me in the course of visits to Britain. We have jointly witnessed the decline of British (and Australian) universities and public life, plus massive change in Central and Eastern Europe. I have also witnessed the upheavals in his life (professional and geographic). He has taken me to places I would not otherwise have visited (Ozurgeti, in a transit van full of poultry; Kharkov) and I have returned the favour (Aberystwyth; Ghent, long-anterior to his involvement at Pessinus); and without him it would have been impossible to discuss Bogdan Filov with Mischa Lazarov (on Banbury railway station). What has dominated any travel, however, is his fine nose for discovering bookshops and emerging laden down with new purchases and a need to pay airlines handsomely for excess baggage. His house in Wales is close to the local library. Which displays more books? We can all guess. His singlemindedness can be off-putting. Events and some of the practicalities of life have passed him by. But it is a reward to know him, ‘warts and all’. James HARGRAVE

WAITING FOR GOCHA Every time I look back at one of the turning points of my fairly short professional career as an archaeologist, I have a precise image in mind; I walk to the Turkish Airline check-in desk at Atatürk Airport to meet Gocha Tsetskhladze. As most Western Europeans who are about to meet Gocha for the first time, I wondered how not to offend him immediately by grossly mispronouncing his surname. We stood by each other, awkwardly staring at one another, until we timidly made contact. From that moment on, I now realise, I have had a vocal supporter and, by now, a long-term friend. Gocha has been instrumental in the development of my professional career. He entrusted me with supervising most of the field operations at Pessinus, which became the centre of my PhD research. He encouraged me to complete my first major publications on the subject, and he gave me more than just a friendly ‘push’ when I needed it to meet deadlines. His immediate, unwavering and enduring trust in my abilities, even at times when I did not have it, is something that I will always remember and cherish. Especially in the long years of graduate school at the University of Michigan, his encouragements functioned as metaphorical warm cups of coffee in hard, snowy days. In spite of the all environmental and social issues that we encountered on the rural Anatolian plateau, I have the fondest memories of our nights at the dinner table in Ballıhisar. We often spent long nights talking, drinking, singing, planning for the next day, and wondering whether we would make it. I was very fortunate to be part of that group, and I owe that to Gocha Tsetskhladze. Paolo MARANZANA

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SOME WORDS ABOUT GOCHA I met Gocha and we became friends in 1982 at a conference on the problems of the ancient colonisation of the Black Sea in the Georgian city of Tskhaltubo. Gocha was then a high school graduate and was going to study ancient history and archaeology at university. Since then our friendship has continued. I was a witness to his student life in Ukrainian Kharkov (and visited him there), of his post-graduate study in Russian Moscow (he often visited our home, becoming almost a family member), preparing for the defence of a DPhil at Oxford (where I was several times his guest), teaching in the universities of London and Melbourne (I was his guest in both places), and even recently visited him in his cozy house in Wales. I am surprised to notice that Gocha, having passed a hugely difficult life path, does not change. Touchingly gentle with friends, tough and principled, when the question of scientific problems arises, he is quite tolerant of other opinions, energetic, constantly generating new ideas, giving all of himself to work, setting ambitious goals and achieving them. So I know Gocha from his young years and so he remains to this day. On the example of his life, I am convinced of the rightness of the ordinary, but for myself always dubious postulate ‘Who strongly wants something, achieves it’. Gocha achieved everything that a boy from a modest family in a provincial town of Georgia could wish for – he became one of the world’s leading experts in ancient history and archaeology, publishing one of the most authoritative magazines in the world, organising world congresses on the history of the Black Sea and on other regions the ancient world; he has been the supervisor or advisor of dozens of dissertations and theses by young scholars from around the world, the publisher of many outstanding works, and finally, honorary and acting professor at several European universities. For me, working in Russia, the figure of Gocha is very significant and important also from the point of view of the contribution that a Georgian, who studied in Ukraine and passed postgraduate studies in Russia, made to the development of co-operation, mutual understanding and friendship between historians of Western and Eastern Europe after the Iron Curtain fell, which had separated the scholarship of these regions for many decades. Numerous conferences of scholars from West and East, collections of articles with publications of both, the organisation of academic exchanges, joint archaeological excavations and much more, all conceived and carried out by Gocha, have removed for ever (I hope) the obstacles between the historians and archaeologists of the two parts of the continent. So in the many aspects the forced migration of Gocha from Moscow to England played a hugely positive role in the globalisation of historical science. I hope, Gocha’s energy and love of his subject will serve world scholarship for many years, and we all will enjoy friendship with this wonderful person. Alexander PODOSSINOV

RECOLLECTIONS OF GOCHA I was fortunate enough to cross paths with Gocha Tsetskhladze when I decided to resume my MA back in 2012. At that point, I had lost hope that I would ever find the time, energy

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS

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or focus to submit. Gocha very kindly offered to read through my draft, and then invited me to an appointment to discuss it. I clearly remember that day. I arrived exactly on time, and knocked on his door not a moment too early or too soon, and he invited me into his office, which was located on the upper floor of the Old Quadrangle at the University of Melbourne. Around me, I saw stacks of papers and drawings lazily bathing in the morning sunlight that was streaming through the sandstone Gothic windows that looked out on to the lawn, and on his desk sat an impossibly vintage Macintosh computer: one I could hardly believe could still work. He asked me to join him at the large project table in the room. The conversation started with polite small talk, and I would learn that this would become the norm; a technique he used to put me at ease, and then we got straight down to business. I must admit, that I had thought that he would have just skimmed through my rough draft, but instead he had read through the manuscript with a fine-toothed comb to such an incredible amount of detail it was staggering. There was ‘much to do’, he said, ‘much to do’. This, I would also come to learn, was one of his defining characteristics: his unflinching eye for detail and accuracy. This pre-eminently practical advice and approach was all I needed to get back on track: the MA was submitted only a few months later. My drafts were returned in lightning speed with the same gentle, but firm, guiding hand that gave me freedom enough to explore new territories of thought but that was governed by a disciplined eye for detail and wariness for weak argument. This, I feel, was an indispensable secret weapon for my completion. My MA was received favourably, and the gentle recommendation was that I might go on to do a PhD. With this small success, I had rediscovered a drive and urgency to continue with my academic career. When Gocha offered to supervise my PhD, I did not hesitate, and as soon as practical, I had enrolled in the programme at Melbourne. It was during my candidature that I was introduced to another side of Gocha. In 2013, I was invited to participate in the field season at Pessinus. The village of Ballıhisar, although quite near Ankara, seems impossibly remote. Surrounded by white dry dusty steep valleys and treeless hills, vicious looking Anatolian Kangal dogs roam the ridges. Along dry river beds in the village occasionally Roman column bases peek from the ground, or ancient paving flagstones reveal themselves: it was clear that the spiritual home of the Phrygian goddess Cybele still jealously holds on to many of her undiscovered mysteries. Here, I saw Gocha at home with the local authorities and villagers as he ran the field season. Yet, despite the complexity of the place and the day-to-day of running the excavation, Gocha found time for all his team members. For me, he carefully guided me on the excavation of some graves on a hilltop some way out of town, and ensured that I had ample exposure to all aspects of an excavation. For others on the team, whether they were undergraduate volunteers or senior members, somehow, he managed to be completely engaged in their work, motivate them and guide them to excellence. Later, Gocha arranged and invited me to two conferences that he had organised in 2015. At ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time’ at the Anadolu University in Eskişehir, and ‘Ionians in the East and West’ at Empurias in L’Escala, I saw how Gocha’s care, interest and desire to motivate others’ research extended to many countries and many individuals. I realised that he had a special gift to draw people together. It was Gocha’s personal touch, his honest appraisal of the research, but more importantly, his ability to gather

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individuals to focus on the issue at hand, rather than himself as an individual, that was extraordinary, and not immediately obvious. In my opinion, this is one of the greatest services he has given to our discipline. As I expressed it in an e-mail to him in 2016, just after he had left Melbourne: … A million ‘thank yous’ for taking a chance on me and my MA. It will never be forgotten. … I also count myself extremely lucky that I met you and that you agreed to supervise me, and I know that I was blessed to end up with the best supervisor in the department… I recognise how hard it must have been for you to survive this dreadful treadmill of a department, with only a few allies who rightly saw that what you meant was the best for the students, department and staff. Unfortunately these noble goals flew in the face of more selfish interests. Time and time again you have shown me and your other students how much you care about their future with your constant encouragement and timely feedback, while at the same time generously affording them every opportunity to see the wider world outside of Melbourne and the academic reality of the global scope of the discipline…. I just felt the need to share these thoughts with you and to once again extend my heartfelt gratitude for all the help you have given me and continue to give me. Simon YOUNG

WHY A FESTSCHRIFT?

Fig. 3. Gocha Tsetskhladze at Pessinus with the Australian Ambassador to Turkey, Mr Ian Biggs, and Dr Christine Biggs, summer 2011.

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THE WRITINGS OF GOCHA TSETSKHLADZE 1989–2022 (About 20 works published before 1989 are not included)

MONOGRAPHS 1998 Die Griechen in der Kolchis (historisch-archäologischer Abriß) (Schwarzmeer-Studien 3) (Amsterdam). 1999 Pichvnari and its Environs, 6th c. BC–4th c. AD (Annales Littéraires de l’Université de Franche-Comté 659) (Paris/Besançon). 2005 Karadeniz’in Tarih Ve Arkeolojisi Üzerine (Istanbul). 2007 The Eastern Edge of the Ancient Known World: A Brief Introduction to Black Sea Archaeology and History (Walpole, NH). 2020 Archaeological Sources about the Origin and Ethno-Political History of the Population of the North Caucaus (Problems of Study) (Armavir) (jointly with S.L. Dudarev, A.L. Pelikh and S.N. Savenko) (main text in Russian; extensive summary in English).

EDITED VOLUMES 1994 Greek and Roman Settlements on the Black Sea Coast (Proceedings of a Workshop Held at the 95th Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America, Washington DC, December 1993) (Colloquenda Pontica 1) (Bradford). The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation. Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman (Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Monograph 40) (Oxford; paperback edition 2004) (Co-editor: F. De Angelis). 1996 New Studies on the Black Sea Littoral (Colloquia Pontica 1) (Oxford). O. Bounegru and M. Zahariade, Les forces navales du Bas Danube et de la Mer Noire aux Ier–VIe siècles (Colloquia Pontica 2) (Oxford).

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1998 Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area. Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Historia Einzelschriften 121) (Stuttgart). 1999 Ancient Greeks West and East (Mnemosyne Suppl. 196) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). S.L. Solovyov, Ancient Berezan: The Architecture, History and Culture of the First Greek Colony in the Northern Black Sea (Colloquia Pontica 4) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne) (Co-editor: J. Boardman) C. Morgan, A Catalogue of Attic Pottery in the Collection of Taman Museum (= Taman Antiquity 2) (St Petersburg). 2000 Periplous. Papers on Classical Art and Archaeology Presented to Sir John Boardman (London) (Co-editors: J. Prag and A. Snodgrass). Greeks and Natives in the Cimmerian Bosporus (7th–1st centuries BC) (= Taman Antiquity 3) (St Petersburg) (Co-editor: S. Solovyov). 2001 North Pontic Archaeology. Recent Discoveries and Studies (Colloquia Pontica 6) (Leiden/ Boston/Cologne). Northern Pontic Antiquities in the State Hermitage Museum (Colloquia Pontica 7) (Leiden/ Boston/Cologne) (Co-editors: J. Boardman and S. Solovyov). A. Domínguez and C. Sánchez, Greek Pottery from the Iberian Peninsula. Archaic and Classical Periods (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). 2002 The Black Sea Area in the Greek, Roman and Byzantine Periods (= Talanta 32–33, 2000/01) (Amsterdam, 2002) (Co-editor: J. de Boer). Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (BAR International Series 1062) (Oxford, 2002) (Co-editor: A. Snodgrass). 2004 C. Morgan, Attic Fine Pottery of the Archaic to Hellenistic Periods in Phanagoria (Colloquia Pontica 10; Phanagoria Studies 1) (Leiden/Boston). 2006 Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and other Settlements Overseas, vol. 1 (Mnemosyne Suppl. 193/1) (Leiden/Boston). 2008 Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and other Settlements Overseas, vol. 2 (Mnemosyne Suppl. 193/2) (Leiden/Boston).

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2010 Gaudeamus Igitur: Studies to Honour the 60th Birthday of A.V. Podossinov (Moscow) (Co-editors: T.N. Jackson and I.G. Konovalova). 2011 The Black Sea, Greece, Anatolia and Europe in the First Millennium BC (Colloquia Antiqua 1) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA). 2012 From the Pillars of Hercules to the Footsteps of the Argonauts (Colloquia Antiqua 4) (Leuven/ Paris/Walpole, MA) (Co-editor: A. Hermary). The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford). 2013 The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Istanbul, 14th–18th September 2009) (BAR International Series 2517) (Oxford) (Co-editors: S. Atasoy, A. Avram, Ş. Dönmez and J. Hargrave). 2015 The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC– 10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford) (Co-editors: A. Avram and J. Hargrave). 2018 Essays on the Archaeology and Ancient History of the Black Sea (Colloquia Antiqua 18) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT) (Co-editors: M. Manoledakis and I. Xydopoulos). Pessinus and Its Regional Setting, vol. 1 (Colloquia Antiqua 21) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). 2019 Pessinus and Its Regional Setting, vol. 2: Work in 2009–2013 (Colloquia Antiqua 22) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Select Papers from the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford) (Co-editor: S. Atasoy). Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period (Proceedings of an International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistiry to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT).

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2021 The Greeks and Romans in the Black Sea and the Importance of the Pontic Region for the Graeco-Roman World (7th century BC–5th century AD): 20 Years On (1997–2017) (Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Constanţa, 18–22 September 2017) (Oxford) (Co-editors: A. Avram and J. Hargrave). Archaeology and History of Urartu (Biainili) (Colloquia Antiqua 28) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). 2022 Ionians in the West and East (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘Ionians in the East and West’, Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya-Empúries, Empúries/L’Escala, Spain, 26–29 October, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 27) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT).

ARTICLES, CHAPTERS, ETC. 1989 ‘Coins of the Dioscuriades from Tauric Chersonesus’. Vestnik Drevnei Istorii 4, 91–95 (in Russian). ‘On the name Kolkh in the Ancient World’. Bulletin of the Academy of Sciences of the Georgian SSR 136.2, 497–99 (jointly with D.C. Braund) (in Russian). ‘The Export of Slaves from Colchis’. Classical Quarterly 39.1, 114–25 (jointly with D.C. Braund). 1990 ‘The Northern and Eastern Black Sea Regions in the 7th–1st cc BC’. Arkheologia (Kiev) 2, 86–97 (in Ukrainian). ‘Zu den kolchischen Sklaven in der griechischen Welt’. Klio 72.1, 151–59. ‘The Organisation of Ceramic Production in Colchis’. Eirene 27, 93–102. 1991 ‘Colchian Amphorae from the North-western Crimea’. In I. Yatsenko (ed.), Monuments of the Iron Age from the Environs of Evpatoria (Moscow), 170–85 (jointly with S. Vnukov) (in Russian). ‘Stamps of Dioskurias from Nymphaeum’. Bulletin of the Institute of Archaeology, Academy of Sciences of the USSR 204, 95–98 (in Russian). ‘Colchian Amphorae of the Hellenistic Period from Chersonesus’. Vestnik Drevnei Istorii 2, 61–67 (jointly with V. Soznik) (in Russian). ‘New Materials on the Trade Relationships between Northern and Eastern Black Sea Regions’. Sites of South-Western Georgia 19, 49–57 (in Georgian). ‘Stamped Fragment of the Colchian Amphora from Choloki’. Sites of South-Western Georgia 19, 58–62 (jointly with I. Chavleishvili) (in Georgian). ‘Die kolchischen Stempel’. Klio 73.1, 361–81. ‘Colchis and Greek Culture: a Problem of Hellenization’. Mesopotamia 26, 119–39.

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‘On the Origin of One Group of the Brown-clay Amphorae from Chersonesus’. Arkheologia (Kiev) 1, 58–65 (in Ukrainian). 1992 ‘Production of Amphorae in Colchis’. In S. Monakhov (ed.), Greek Amphorae (Saratov), 90–110 (in Russian). ‘Kolchis im System des antiken Handels’. Münstersche Beiträge zur antiken Handelsgeschichte 11.1, 80–107. ‘The Cult of Mithras in Ancient Colchis’. Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 2, 115–24. ‘Colchian Amphorae: Typology, Chronology and Aspects of Production’. Annual of the British School of Archaeology at Athens 87, 357–86 (jointly with S.Y. Vnukov). ‘Greek Colonisation of the Eastern Black Sea Littoral (Colchis)’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 18.2, 223–58. 1993 ‘Griechen in der Kolchis: Ökonomische Aspekte’. Münstersche Beiträge zur antiken Handelsgeschichte 12.1, 56–74. ‘Les amphores colchidiennes’. Anatolia Antiqua 2, 81–105 (jointly with S.Y. Vnukov). ‘On the Numismatics of Colchis: the Classical Archaeologist’s Perspective’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 19.1, 233–56. 1994 ‘Greek Penetration of the Black Sea’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze and F. De Angelis (eds.), The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation (Oxford), 111–36. ‘Greek Cities and Settlements on the Colchian Black Sea Coast’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek and Roman Settlements on the Black Sea Coast (Proceedings of a Workshop Held at the 95th Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America, Washington DC, December 1993) (Colloquenda Pontica 1) (Bradford), 16–32. ‘The Interpretation of Pichvnari’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 20.1, 127–45. ‘Colchis and the Persian Empire: the problems of their relationship’. Silk Road Art and Archaeology 3 (1993/94), 11–49. ‘Archaeological Investigation in Georgia in the Last Ten Years and Some Problems of the Ancient History of the Eastern Black Sea Region’. Revue des études anciennes 96.3/4, 385–414 (revised version in Russian in Vestnik Drevnei Istorii 3, 188–209). ‘The Phiale Mesomphalos from the Kuban’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 13.2, 199–216. ‘Colchians, Greeks and Achaemenids in the 7th–5th cc BC: a Critical Look’. Klio 76, 78–102. ‘The Terracotta Figurines of Animals from Colchis’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 20.1, 109–25 (jointly with N. Vashakidze). 1995 ‘Nationalism, Politics and the Practice of Archaeology in the Caucasus’. In P. Kohl and C. Fawcett (eds.), Nationalism Politics and the Practice of Archaeology (Cambridge), 149–76 (jointly with P. Kohl).

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‘Did the Greeks Go to Colchis for Metals?’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 14.3, 307–32. ‘The Metallurgy and Production of Precious Metals in Colchis Before and After the Arrival of the Ionians’. Bulletin of the Metals Museum, Japan 24.2, 1–32 (jointly with M.Y. Treister). ‘British Pioneering: Myth and Archaeology of the Taman Peninsula’. Ad familiares 11, 10–12. 1996 ‘La colonizzazione greca nell’area del Ponto Eusino’. In C. Ampolo, D. Asheri et al. (eds.), I Greci: Storia culturaarte società, vol. 2.1 (Turin), 945–73. ‘New Publications on the Black Sea’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), New Studies on the Black Sea Littoral (Colloquia Pontica 1) (Oxford), 152–61. Twenty articles on animal figurines from Persia, Caucasus, Scythia and Central Asia. In A.S. Walker (ed.), Animals in Ancient Art from the Leo Mildenberg Collection Part III (Mainz). 1997 ‘On the Pontic Grain Trade in the Archaic and Classical Periods’. In V.F. Meshcheryakov (ed.), Ancient World. Byzantium: On the 70th Birthday of Prof. V.I. Kadeev (Kharkov), 243–52. ‘A Survey of the Major Urban Settlements in the Kimmerian Bosporos (with a Discussion of their Status as Poleis)’. In T.H. Nielsen (ed.), Yet More Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis (Historia Einzelschriften 117) (Stuttgart), 39–81. ‘Plutarch, Pericles and Pontus: Some Thoughts’. In C. Schrader, V. Ramón and J. Vela (eds.), Plutarco y la Historia (Saragossa), 461–67. ‘How Greek Colonists Adapted their Way of Life to the Conditions in Colchis’. In J. Fossey (ed.), Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Archaeology and History of the Black Sea (McGill University Monographs in Classical Archaeology and History 19; Antiquitates Proponticae, Circumponticae et Caucasicae 2) (Amsterdam), 121–36. ‘Greek Penetration into the Eastern Black Sea Littoral: Some Results of Study. Part 1: 6th–early 5th Century BC’. Vestnik Drevnei Istorii 2, 100–16 (in Russian). ‘The Artistic Taste in Phanagoria’. Apollo (July), 7–9. ‘Greek Colonies in the Taman Peninsula’. The Anglo-Hellenic Review 16 (Autumn), 14–15. ‘Phanagoria. 1800 years of history on the Black Sea’. Minerva 8.5 (Sept./Oct.), 21–27 (jointly with V.D. Kuznetsov). ‘Argonautica, Colchis and the Black Sea: Myth, Reality and Modern Scholarship’. Thracia Pontica 6.1, 337–47. ‘Greek Elements in the Material Culture of Colchis’. Eirene 33, 42–52. ‘West Meets East: Survey Article’. In J. Chapman and P. Dolukhanov (eds.), Landscapes in Flux. Central and Eastern Europe in Antiquity (Colloquia Pontica 3) (Oxford), 307–13.

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‘New Publications’. In J. Chapman and P. Dolukhanov (eds.), Landscapes in Flux. Central and Eastern Europe in Antiquity (Colloquia Pontica 3) (Oxford), 327–40. 1998 ‘Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Stages, Models, Native Populations’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Historia Einzelschriften 121) (Stuttgart), 9–68. ‘More on Bosporan Chamber Tombs’. In S.L. Solovyov (ed.), Taman Antiquity 1 (St Petersburg), 48–61. ‘Trade on the Black Sea in the Archaic and Classical Periods: Some Observations’. In H. Parkins and C. Smith (eds.), Trade, Traders and the Ancient City (London/New York), 52–75. ‘Greek Penetration of the Eastern Black Sea: Some Results of Past Investigations and Questions for the Future. Part 2: 4th–2nd cc BC’. Vestnik Drevnei Istorii 3, 98–110 (in Russian). ‘Who Built the Scythian and Thracian Royal and Elite Tombs?’ Oxford Journal of Archaeology 17.1, 55–92 (republished in Japanese in Oxus Study 1 [2012], 15–46). ‘Black Sea Archaeology: New Perspectives’. Middelelser fra Klassisk Arkaeologisk Forening (Copenhagen) 40 (April), 12–15. ‘Greeks in the Black Sea before Greek Colonisation?’. In Greeks and the Others in the Early First Millennium BC (Copenhagen University. Classical Archaeological Notes. Occasional Papers No. 1) (Copenhagen), 18–19. 1999 ‘Between West and East: Anatolian Roots of Local Cultures of the Pontus’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Mnemosyne Suppl. 196) (Leiden/Boston/ Cologne), 469–96. ‘Preliminary Report on the University of London Excavation in Phanagoria in 1996’. In C. Morgan, A Catalogue of Attic Pottery in the Collection of Taman Museum (= Taman Antiquity 2) (St Petersburg), 91–96 (in English and Russian). ‘On the Polis Status of the Settlements of Ancient Bosporus’. In A.V. Podossinov (ed.), Northern Black Sea Littoral in Antiquity (Moscow), 193–200 (in Russian). ‘Black Sea’ and ‘Caucasus’. In G. Bowersock, P. Brown and O. Grabar (eds.), Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World (Boston), 343–44, 365–66. ‘Greeks of the Black Sea (the Current Perspective)’. In R.F. Docter and E.M. Moormann (eds.), Classical Archaeology towards the Third Millennium: Reflections and Perspectives (Proceedings of the XVth International Congress of Classical Archaeology, Amsterdam, July 12–17, 1998) (Allard Pierson Series 12) (Amsterdam), 415–18. ‘On Greek Colonies in the Northern Black Sea Littoral in the Archaic Period’. In S.P. Boriskovskaya et al. (eds.), Bosporan City of Nymphaion: New Materials and Recent Studies in Problems of Ancient History of Greek Cities in the North Pontic Area (St Petersburg), 85–87 (in Russian).

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2000 ‘On the Cult of Aphrodite in Kepoi’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze, A.J.N.W. Prag and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Periplous: Papers on Classical Art and Archaeology presented to Sir John Boardman (London), 353–60 (jointly with V.D. Kuznetsov). ‘Note on Semi-Pithouses and Handmade Pottery from Gordion’. In A. Avram and M. Babes (eds.), Civilisation grecque et cultures antiques périphériques: Hommage à Petre Alexandrescu à son 70e anniversaire (Bucharest), 165–72. ‘Pistiros in the System of Pontic Emporia (Greek Trading and Craft Settlements in the Hinterland of the Northern and Eastern Black Sea and Elsewhere)’. In L. Domaradzka et al. (eds.), Pistiros et Thasos: Structures économiques dans la péninsule Balkanique, VIIe–IIe siècle avant J.-C. (Opole), 235–46. ‘Ionian Influence in the West and East’. In F. Krinzinger (ed.), Die Ägäis und das westliche Mittelmeer. Beziehungen und Wechselwirkungen 8. bis 5. Jh. v. Chr. (Akten des Symposions, Wien, 24. bis 27. März 1999) (Denkschriften, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische-Klasse 288; Archäologische Forschungen 4) (Vienna), 521–24. ‘Archaeology of the Cimmerian Bosporus: Past, Present, Future’. In S.L. Solovyov and G.R. Tsetskhladze (eds.), Greeks and Natives in the Cimmerian Bosporus (7th–1st centuries BC) (= Taman Antiquity 3) (St Petersburg), 14–15. ‘Anatolia’, ‘Caucasus’, ‘Hellenization’, ‘Naucratis’, ‘Piracy’, ‘Romania’, ‘Spain’ and ‘Thrace’. In G. Speake (ed.), Encyclopedia of Greece and the Hellenic Tradition, 2 vols. (London/ Chicago), 67–69, 301–02, 731–32, 1124–25, 1324–25, 1462–64, 1573–74, 1644–45. 2001 ‘The North Pontic Classical Archaeology: an Historical Essay’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology: Recent Studies and Discoveries (Colloquia Pontica 6) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), ix–xx. ‘Notes on the Rescue Excavation of the Tuzla Necropolis (1995–1997)’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology: Recent Studies and Discoveries (Colloquia Pontica 6) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 345–64 (jointly with A.V. Kondrashov). ‘Georgia III. Iranian Elements in Georgian Art and Archaeology’. In Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. X.5, 470–80. ‘Anatolia and the Caucasus’. In Second International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities. Local Population of the Black Sea Littoral and their Relations with the Greek, Roman and Byzantine World and Near Eastern Civilisations, Bilkent University, Ankara, Turkey – 2–9 September 2001 (Abstracts) (Ankara), 1. ‘Thoughts on New Books: a Review Article’. In G.R Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology. Recent Discoveries and Studies (Colloquia Pontica 6) (Leiden/Boston/ Cologne), 435–41. ‘New Publications’. In G.R Tsetskhladze (ed.), North Pontic Archaeology. Recent Discoveries and Studies (Colloquia Pontica 6) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 459–78. ‘More Books from East and West: a Review Article’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze et al. (eds.), Northern Pontic Antiquities in the State Hermitage Museum (Colloquia Pontica 7) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 283–88.

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New Publications. In G.R. Tsetskhladze et al. (eds.), Northern Pontic Antiquities in the State Hermitage Museum (Colloquia Pontica 7) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 305–34. 2002 ‘Phanagoria: Metropolis of Asiatic Bosporus’. In Archaeology Without Frontiers (‘Open Sciences’ Lecture Series 18) (Athens), 129–50. ‘Black Sea Piracy’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze and J.G. de Boer (eds.), The Black Sea Region in the Greek, Roman and Byzantine Periods (= Talanta 32–33, 2000/01) (Amsterdam), 11–15. ‘Ionians Abroad’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (BAR International Series 1062) (Oxford), 81–96. ‘Notes on the Survey of the Submerged Remains of Phanagoria in the Taman Peninsula, 1998’. Ancient West and East 1.1, 178–87 (jointly with C. Brandon). ‘West and East: a Review Article (1)’. Ancient West and East 1.1, 189–94. ‘New Publications’. Ancient West and East 1.1, 217–23. ‘West and East: a Review Article (2)’. Ancient West and East 1.2, 471–78. ‘New Publications’. Ancient West and East 1.2, 523–28. 2003 ‘The Culture of Ancient Georgia in the First Millennium BC and Greater Anatolia: Diffusion or Migration?’. In K. Rubinson and A. Smith (eds.), Archaeology in the Borderlands: Investigations in Caucasia and Beyond (Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Monograph 47) (Los Angeles), 224–40. ‘Greeks beyond the Bosporus’. In V. Karageorghis (ed.), The Greeks beyond the Aegean: from Marseilles to Bactria (Papers presented at an International Symposium held at the Onassis Cultural Center, New York, 12th October, 2002) (New York), 129–66. ‘West and East: a Review Article (3)’. Ancient West and East 2.1, 157–61. ‘New Publications’. Ancient West and East 2.1, 199–203. 2004 ‘On the Earliest Greek Colonial Architecture in the Pontus’. In C.J. Tuplin (ed.), Pontus and the Outside World. Studies in Black Sea History, Historiography and Archaeology (Colloquia Pontica 9) (Leiden/Boston), 225–81. ‘The Black Sea Area’. In M.H. Hansen and T.H. Nielsen (eds.), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis. An Investigation Conducted by The Copenhagen Polis Centre for the Danish National Research Foundation (Oxford), 924–73 (jointly with A. Avram and J. Hind). ‘The City in the Colonial World’. In A.P. Lagopoulos (ed.), The History of the Greek City (Athens), 183–204 (in Greek) (reprinted in English as ‘The City in the Greek Colonial World’. In A.P. Lagopoulos [ed.], A History of the Greek City [BAR International Series 2050] [Oxford, 2009], 143–67). ‘Greek Colonies in the East’ and ‘Iron Age Ukraine and European Russia’. In P. Bogucki and P.M. Crabtree (eds.), Ancient Europe 8000 BC–AD 1000. Encyclopedia of the Barbarian World, vol. 2 (Farmington Hills, MI), 208–11, 289–95.

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‘New Publications on the Black Sea Region’. Ancient West and East 3.2, 405–09. ‘New Publications’. Ancient West and East 3.2, 445–52. 2005 ‘Pontic Notes (without Notes)’. In J. Bouzek and L. Domaradzka (eds.), The Culture of Thracians and their Neighbours (Proceedings of the International Symposium in Memory of Prof. Mieczyslaw Domaradzki, with a Round Table ‘Archaeological Map of Bulgaria’) (BAR International Series 1350) (Oxford), 229–30. ‘Early Iron Age Societies of the Black Sea Region and Anatolia: Some Observations’. In A. Çilingiroglu and G. Darbyshire (ed.), Anatolian Iron Ages 5 (Proceedings of the Fifth Anatolian Iron Ages Colloquium held at Van, 6–10 August 2001) (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph 31) (London), 211–16. ‘Archaeology in Central Caucasus’. Archaeological Diggings 12.1 (Feb./Mar.), 34–36 (jointly with A.G. Sagona). ‘The Caucasus and the Iranian World in the Early Iron Age: Two Graves from Treli’. Iranica Antiqua 40, 438–46. ‘Gold-Rich Colchis: Myth and Reality’. Bulletin of The Archaeological and Anthropological Society of Victoria 3, August, 3–8. ‘Ancient West and East: Mtskheta, Capital of Caucasian Iberia’. In The Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens, 25th Anniversary Symposium (Athens, October 10–12, 2005) (Abstracts) (Athens), 13. ‘West and East: a Review Article (4)’. Ancient West and East 4.1, 171–75. ‘New Publications on the Near East’. Ancient West and East 4.2, 461–65. 2006 ‘Revisiting Ancient Greek Colonisation’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and other Settlements Overseas, vol. 1 (Mnemosyne Suppl. 193/1) (Leiden/Boston), xxiii–lxxxiii. ‘More Finds of Early Greek Pottery in the Pontic Hinterland’. In E. Herring, I. Lemos et al. (eds.), Across Frontiers: Etruscans, Greeks, Phoenicians and Cypriots (Studies in Honour of David Ridgway and Francesca Romana Serra Ridgway) (Accordia Specialist Studies on the Mediterranean 6) (London), 105–09. ‘Alani’, ‘Armenia and Armenians’, ‘Black Sea’, ‘Bosporan kingdom’, ‘Hellespont and Propontis’, ‘Nomads’, ‘Scythia and Scythians’, ‘Sinope’ and ‘Thrace and Thracians’. In G. Shipley, J. Vanderspoel et al. (eds.), The Cambridge Dictionary of Classical Civilization (Cambridge), 32, 79–80, 137–38, 143, 418, 614, 801, 826, 885–86. ‘West and East: a Review Article (5)’. Ancient West and East 5, 241–52. 2007 ‘Greeks and Locals in the Southern Black Sea Littoral: A Re-Examination’. In G. Herman and I. Shatzman (eds.), Greeks between East and West. Essays in Greek Literature and History in Memory of David Asheri (Jerusalem), 160–95.

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‘The Ionian Colonies and their Territories in the Taman Peninsula in the Archaic Period’. In J. Cobet, V. von Graeve et al. (eds.), Frühes Ionien. Eine Bestandsaufnahme (PanionionSymposion Güzelcamli, 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 551–65. ‘Thracians versus Phrygians: About the Origin of the Phrygians Once Again’. In A. Çilingiroglu and A.G. Sagona (eds.), Anatolian Iron Ages 6 (The Proceedings of the Sixth Anatolian Iron Ages Colloquium held at Eskişehir, 16–20 August 2004) (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Suppl. 20) (Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA), 283–310. ‘Pots and Pandemonium: the Earliest East Greek Pottery from North Pontic Native Settlements’. Pontica 40, 37–70. ‘West and East: a Review Article (6)’. Ancient West and East 6, 281–94. ‘Publications on the Black Sea’. Ancient West and East 6, 350–60. 2008 ‘Pontic Slaves in Athens: Orthodoxy and Reality’. In P. Mauritsch, W. Petermandl et al. (eds.), Antike Lebenswelten. Konstanz-Wandel-Wirkungsmacht. Festschrift für Ingomar Weiler zum 70. Geburtstag (Philippika 25) (Wiesbaden), 309–19. ‘“Grain for Athens”. The View from the Black Sea’. In R. Alston and O. van Nijf (eds.), Feeding the Ancient Greek City (Groningen-Royal Holloway Studies on the Greek City after the Classical Age 1) (Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA), 47–62. ‘Mediterranean: Greek Colonies’. In D.M. Pearsall (ed.), Encyclopedia of Archaeology, vol. 2 (New York), 1267–80. ‘Ancient West and East: Mtskheta, Capital of Caucasian Iberia’. Mediterranean Archaeology 19/20 (for 2006/07), 75–107. ‘West and East: a Review Article (7)’. Ancient West and East 7, 295–306. 2009 ‘The Black Sea Area’. In K. Raflaub and H. van Wees (eds.), A Companion to Archaic Greece (Oxford/Malden, MA), 330–46. ‘Notes on Phrygian Pessinus’. In H. Saglamtimur, E. Abay et al. (eds.), Altan Çilingiroglu’na Armagan. Yukari Denizin Kiyisinda Urartu Kralliği’na Adanmis Bir Hayat/ Studies in Honour of Altan Çilingiroglu: A Life Dedicated to Urartu on the Shores of the Upper Sea (Istanbul), 703–17. ‘The Pontic poleis and the Achaemenid empire: Some thoughts on their experiences’. In M. Lombardo with the collaboration of F. Frisone (eds.), Forme Sovrapoleiche e Interpoleiche di Organizzazione nel Mondo Greco Antico (Atti del Convegno internazionale Lecce, 17–20 Settembre 2008) (Galatina, 2008), 438–46. ‘Secondary Colonisers in the Black Sea: Sinope and Panticapaeum’. In M. Lombardo and F. Frisone (eds.), Colonie di colonie: le fondazioni sub-coloniali greche tra colonizzazione e colonialismo (Atti del Convegno Lecce, 22–24 Giugno 2006) (Lecce/Taranto), 229–54. ‘West and East: a Review Article (8)’. Ancient West and East 8, 243–62.

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2010 ‘Colonisation Ancient and Modern: Some Observations’. In T.N. Jackson, I.G. Konovalova and G.R. Tsetskhladze (eds.), Gaudeamus Igitur: Studies to Honour the 60th Birthday of A.V. Podossinov (Moscow), 381–98 (jointly with J. Hargrave). ‘“Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts”: Gifts, Tribute, Bribery and Cultural Contacts in the Greek Colonial World’. In R. Rollinger, B. Gufler et al. (eds.), Interkulturalität in der Alten Welt: Vorderasien, Hellas, Ägypten und die vielfältigen Ebenen des Kontakts (Philippika 34) (Wiesbaden), 41–61. ‘Büyük Ana Tanriça Kybele’nin Tapinak Kenti: Pessinus’. Eskiyeni 2.17, 86–89. ‘Hellen Kolonizasyonu Karadeniz’. Aktuel Arkeoloji Dergisi 18 (Kasim–Aralik), 76–83. ‘Black Sea Trade: Some Further General Observations’. Anadolu Arastirmalari/Jahrbuch für Kleinasiatische Forschung 19.1 (for 2006), 187–212. ‘Black Sea’ and ‘Bosporus, Kingdom of’. In M. Gagarin and E. Fantham (eds.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome, vol. 2 (Oxford), 11–12, 18–20. ‘Nomads’. In M. Gagarin and E. Fantham (eds.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome, vol. 5 (Oxford), 65–66. ‘Rostovtzeff, M.I.’, ‘Scythia’, ‘Scythian Art’. In M. Gagarin and E. Fantham (eds.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome, vol. 6 (Oxford), 189–91, 258–60, 260–62. ‘Fourth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities: “The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD)”’. Haberler (Türk Eskiçag Bilimleri Enstitüsü/Institutum Turcicum Scientiae Antiquitatis) 29, 16–18 (jointly with Gözde Dinarli). ‘West and East: a Review Article (9)’. Ancient West and East 9, 241–60. 2011 ‘The Scythians: Three Essays’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Black Sea, Greece, Anatolia and Europe in the First Millennium BC (Colloquia Antiqua 1) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 95–139. ‘Scythians in the Central Black Sea Region of Turkey?’. In A. Öztan and S. Dönmez (eds.), Karadeniz’den Fırat’a Bilgi Üretimleri: Önder Bilgi’ye Armağan Yazılar/ Knowledge Production from the Black Sea to the Euphrates: Studies Presented in Honour of Önder Bilgi (Ankara), 429–35. ‘Pessinus, 2009’. Kazi Sonuçlari Toplatisi 32.1, 341–66 (jointly with W. Anderson et al.). ‘Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea’. Actual Archaeology Magazine (Istanbul) (May), 76–83. ‘Pessinus: Temple City of the Great Mother Goddess Cybele’. Aristeas 3, 65–77 (in Russian). ‘Pistiros Revisited’. Eirene 47, 14–25. ‘Greek Colonisation of the Eastern Black Sea Littoral: Some New Observations’. Aristeas 4, 68–86 (in Russian). ‘Colonisation from Antiquity to Modern Times: Comparisons and Contrasts’. Ancient West and East 10, 161–82 (jointly with J. Hargrave).

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‘A City without Contrasts? Geophysical Challenges from Anatolian Soils’. In M.G. Drahor and M.A. Berge (eds.), Archaeological Prospection (9th International Conference on Archaeological Prospection, September 19–24, 2011, Izmir, Turkey: Extended Abstracts) (Istanbul), 78–80 (jointly with A. Schmidt and A. Parkyn). ‘West and East: a Review Article (10)’. Ancient West and East 10, 359–85. 2012 ‘The Southern Black Sea Coast and its Hinterland: an Ethno-Cultural Perspective’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford), 235–41. ‘Pessinus in Phrygia: Brief Preliminary Report of the 2010 Field Season’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford), 293–328 (jointly with W. Anderson et al.). ‘Pessinus in Phrygia: Brief Preliminary Report of the 2011 Field Season’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford), 329–56 (jointly with J. Adams et al.). ‘Pots versus People: Further Consideration of the Earliest Examples of East Greek Pottery in Native Settlements of the Northern Pontus’. In A. Hermary and G.R. Tsetskhladze (eds.), From the Pillars of Hercules to the Footsteps of the Argonauts (Colloquia Antiqua 4) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 315–74. ‘Phrygian Pessinus’. In T.T. Sivas and H. Sivas (eds.), Frigler: Midas’ın Ülkesinde, Anıtların Gölgesinde/ Phrygians: In the Land of Midas, In the Shadow of Monuments (Istanbul), 184–98. ‘Pessinus, 2010’. Kazi Sonuçlari Toplantisi, 33.1, 103–44 (jointly with W. Anderson et al.). ‘Colonization, Greek’ and ‘Oikistes’. In R.S. Bagnall, K. Brodersen et al. (eds.), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History (Oxford/Malden, MA), 1669–72, 4868–69. ‘Locals, Greeks and Achaemenids in the Pontic Space in the Archaic and Classical Periods’. In Pontica 2012 (National Museum of History and Archaeology, Constanţa, Romania, 10–12 October 2012) (Constanţa), 7. ‘They may all be dead but they still ain’t equal...’. In Recent Work in Archaeological Geophysics, Conference of the Geological Society of Great Britain, Burlington House, London, 4.12.12: Lecture Abstracts, 16–17 (http://www.archprospection.org/sites/archprospection. org/files/ArchGeo12_abstracts_pdf ) (jointly with A. Schmidt). ‘The Eighty-Fifth Birthday of Professor Sir John Boardman’. Aristeas 6, 278–82. ‘West and East: a Review Article (11)’. Ancient West and East 11, 277–89. 2013 ‘The Greek Bosporan Kingdom: Regionalism and Globalism in the Black Sea’. In F. De Angelis (ed.), Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity: Exploring their Limits (Colloquia Antiqua 7) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 202–28.

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‘Kibele’nin Tapinak Kenti: Melbourne Üniversitesi’nin Pessinus‘taki Yeni Arastirmalari’. In Ş. Dönmez (ed.), Gunes Karadeniz’den Dogar. Sumer Atasoy’a Armagan Yazilar/ Lux ex Ponto Euxino: Studies Presented in Honour of Sümer Atasoy (Ankara), 413–58. ‘Becoming Greek – Ostracised by Your Own?’. In P. Mauritsch and C. Ulf (eds.), Kultur(en) Formen des Alltäglichen in der Antike. Festschrift für Ingomar Weiler zum 75. Geburstag (Allgemeine wissenschaftliche Reihe 33; Nummi et litterae 7) (Graz), 639–48. ‘Raster was Yesterday: Using Vector Engines to Process Geophysical Data’. Archaeological Prospection 20, 59–65 (jointly with A. Schmidt). ‘Pessinus in Central Anatolia: New Investigations’. In H. Bru and G. Labarre (eds.), L’Anatolie des peuples, des cités et des cultures (IIe millénaire av. J.-C.–Ve siècle ap. J.-C.) 2: Approches locales et régionales (Colloque international de Besançon, 26–27 novembre 2010) (Besançon), 41–80. ‘Not all things Greek came through Greek trade or at the hands of Greeks’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze et al. (eds.), The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD). (Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Istanbul, 14th–18th September 2009) (BAR International Series 2517) (Oxford), 69–82. ‘Pessinus in Central Phrygia: Overview of Investigations, 2009–2011’. In I. Balik and C. Cihan (eds.), Uluslar Arasi Dinar ve Frigya Bolgesi Arastirmalari (Sempozyumu Bildirileri, 25–26 Mayis 2013, Dinar) (Afyon), 125–39. ‘Pessinus, 2011’. Kazi Sonuçlari Toplantisi 34.3, 253–76 (jointly with J. Adams et al.). ‘Greek migrations and colonies, ancient era’. In I. Ness (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Global Human Migration, vol. 2 (Oxford/Malden, MA), 33–38. ‘The Greeks in Colchis Revisited’. Il Mar Nero 8 (for 2010/11), 293–306. ‘West and East: a Review Article (12)’. Ancient West and East 12, 303–18. 2014 ‘The Bosporan Kingdom: Distinctiveness of its foundation and development’. In A.V. Podossinov and O.L. Gabelko (eds.), The Most Ancient States of Eastern Europe, 2012: Problems of Hellenism and of the Foundation of the Bosporan Kingdom (Moscow), 200– 35 (in Russian; abstract in English). ‘Black Sea Ethnicities’. In J. McInerney (ed.), A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean (Oxford/Malden, MA), 312–26. ‘From the Pillars of Hercules to the Scythian Lands: Identifying Ethno-Cultural Interactions’. In R. Rollinger and K. Schnegg (eds.), Kulturkontakte in antiken Welten: vom Denkmodell zum Fallbeispiel (Proceedings des internationalen Kolloquiums aus Anlass des 60. Geburtstages von Christoph Ulf, Innsbruck, 26. bis 30. Januar 2009) (Colloquia Antiqua 10) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 215–51. ‘Pessinus: Yeni Sirlar Aciga Cikiyor’. Aktüel Arkeoloji 38 (March–April), 12–14. ‘A New Attalid Letter from Pessinus’. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 191, 151–81 (jointly with A. Avram). ‘West and East: a Review Article (13)’. Ancient West and East 13, 221–53.

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2015 ‘Greek Pottery and Transport Amphorae in the Pontic Hinterland: How and Why’. In Y.A. Vonogradov, V.P. Nikonorov and A.A. Sinitsyn (eds.), Triptych: Studies in the History of Ancient Cultures and Classical Archaeology. Festschrift for K.K. Marchenko, M.Y. Vakhtina and V.A. Gorocharovskii (= Bosporskie Issledovaniya 31) (Kerch), 60–87 (in Russian). ‘Greeks, locals and others around the Black Sea and its hinterland: recent developments’. In G.R Tsetskhladze, A. Avram and J. Hargrave (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 11–42. ‘The Greek Colonisation of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea’. In P. Adam-Veleni and D. Tsangari (eds.), Greek Colonisations: New Data, Current Approaches (Proceedings of the Scientific Meeting held in Thessaloniki, 6 February 2015) (Salonica/Athens), 207–25. ‘Pessinus, 2013’. Kazi Sonuçlari Toplantisi 36.1, 73–122 (jointly with A. Avram et al.). ‘West and East: a Review Article (14)’. Ancient West and East 14, 323–54 2016 ‘Greeks in the Asiatic Bosporus: New Evidence and Some Thoughts’. In M. Manoledakis (ed.), The Black Sea in the Light of New Archaeological Data and Theoretical Approaches (Proceedings of the 2nd International Workshop on the Black Sea in Antiquity, held in Thessaloniki, 18–20 September 2015) (Oxford), 45–60. ‘Rock Cut Monuments and Megaliths in the Context of Thraco-Phrygian Migration’. In V. Markov (ed.), Megalithic Monuments and Cult Practices (Proceedings of the Second International Symposium, Blagoevgrad, 12–15 October 2016) (Blagoevgrad), 37–44. ‘Yunan Kolonizasyonu’. Aktüel Arkeoloji Dergisi 54 (Kasim–Aralik), 102–15. ‘On “Pre-Colonial” Links, Once Again’. Ancient West and East 15, 279–301. ‘West and East: a Review Article (15)’. Ancient West and East 15, 303–38. 2017 ‘New Discoveries of Early East Greek Pottery from the Native Sites of the Northern Black Sea Littoral’. In M. Matera and R. Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski (eds.), The Crimea and the Northern Black Sea Coast in Archaeological Research, 1956–2013 (Światowit Suppl. Series C: Pontica et Caucasica I) (Warsaw), 295–304. ‘Bridging East and West: Locals, Greeks and Achaemenids around the Black Sea’. In L. Gallo and B. Genito (eds.), ‘Grecità di frontiera’. Frontiere geografiche e culturali nell’evidenza storica e archeologica (Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Università degli Studi di Napoli ‘L’Orientale’, Napoli, 5–6 giugno 2014) (Studi di Storia greca e romana 14) (Alessandria), 27–44. ‘Karadeniz’de Kölelik’. Aktüel Arkeoloji Dergisi 55 (Ocak–Subat), 78–87. ‘Phrygia Pessinus’u ve Cevresi’. Arkhe 1 (Nisan–Haziran), 47–54. ‘West and East: a Review Article (16)’. Ancient West and East 16, 325–69.

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2018 ‘Introduction’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Pessinus and Its Regional Setting, vol. 1 (Colloquia Antiqua 21) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 1–24. ‘“Greek Penetration of the Black Sea”: Twenty Years On’. In M. Manoledakis, G.R. Tsetskhladze and I. Xydopoulos (eds.), Essays on the Archaeology and Ancient History of the Black Sea Littoral (Colloquia Antiqua 18) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 1–64. ‘The Colchian Black Sea Coast: Recent Discoveries and Studies’. In M. Manoledakis, G.R. Tsetskhladze and I. Xydopoulos (eds.), Essays on the Archaeology and Ancient History of the Black Sea Littoral (Colloquia Antiqua 18) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 425–545. ‘Pontic Notes’. In A. Avram, L. Buzoianu and V. Lungu (eds.), Koinè et mobilité artisanale entre la Méditerranée et la Mer Noire dans l’Antiquité (Pontica 51, Suppl. V) (Constanţa), 47–67. ‘Darius Crossing the Sea: The Achaemenid Factor in the Bosporan Kingdom’. In S.B. Sorochan (ed.), History of Antiquity and the Mediaeval Period in the Universities of the Ukraine (Dedicated to the 40th Anniversary of the Department of Antiquity and the Middle Ages of the V.N. Karazin Kharkov National University, Kharkov, 25–26 October, 2018) (Kharkov), 71–76. ‘“The Most Marvellous of All Seas”: The Great King and the Cimmerian Bosporus’. In P. Pavúk, V. Klontza-Jaklová and A. Harding (eds.), ΕΥΔΑΙΜΩΝ: Studies in Honour of Jan Bouzek (Opera Facultatis philosophicae Universitatis Carolinae Pragensis 18) (Prague), 467–90. ‘West and East: a Review Article (17)’. Ancient West and East 17, 273–302. 2019 ‘The Melbourne Project at Pessinus (2009–2013): An Overview’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Pessinus and Its Regional Setting, vol. 2 (Colloquia Antiqua 22) (Leuven/Paris/ Bristol, CT), 1–22. ‘On Pessinus in Pre-Hellenistic Times’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Pessinus and Its Regional Setting, vol. 2 (Colloquia Antiqua 22) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 23–62. ‘Pessinus: 2013 Field Season Report’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Pessinus and Its Regional Setting, vol. 2 (Colloquia Antiqua 22) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 411–686. ‘Excavating’ Looted Tombs at Pessinus (2011–2013)’. In P.S. Avetisyan, R. Dan and Y.H. Grekyan (eds.), Over the Mountains and Far Away: Studies in Near Eastern History and Archaeology presented to Mirjo Salvini on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday (Oxford), 511–24. ‘Ethnic Names for Slaves’. In Laurea III: Antichnyi mir i srednie veka. Chteniya pamyati professor Vladimira Ivanovicha Kadeev)/ Ancient World and the Middle Ages. Readings in Memory of Professor Vladimir Ivanovich Kadeeva (Kharkov), 98–102. ‘Greeks and Scythians: An Essay’. Anodos: Studies in the Ancient World 14/2014 (= Proceedings of the International Conference ‘Ancient Communities and their Elites from the Bronze Age to Late Antiquity, Central Europe – Mediterranean – Black Sea’, Trnava, 6th–8th October 2017) (Trnava), 227–34.

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‘Some Recent Developments in the Study of the Greeks Overseas’. In R. Morais, D. Leão et al. (eds.), Greek Art in Motion: Studies in Honour of Sir John Boardman on the Occasion of his 90th Birthday (Oxford), 59–65. ‘Once again about the Establishment Date of Some Greek Colonies around the Black Sea’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze and S. Atasoy (eds.), Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Select Papers from the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford), 1–21. ‘Introduction – Pre-Hellenistic Phrygia: Some Matters in Debate’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period (Proceedings of an International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 1–23. ‘Beneath Pessinus: Archaeological Insights from Non-Invasive Investigations’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period (Proceedings of an International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Leuven/ Paris/Bristol, CT), 649–64 (jointly with A. Schmidt). ‘Colchian Greek Colonies and Their Establishment Dates (Once Again)’. Il Mar Nero 9 (for 2012/18), 49–75. ‘An Achaemenid Inscription from Phanagoria: Extending the Boundaries of Empire’. Ancient West and East 18, 113–51. ‘Fergus Millar (1935–2019)’. Aristeas 20, 346–48 (in Russian). ‘West and East: a Review Article (18)’. Ancient West and East 18, 299–325. 2020 ‘Genel Değerlendirme/Final Remarks’. In A. Ozfirat, Ş. Donmez et al. (eds.), Orta ve Doğu Anadolu Gec Demir Cağı: Post-Urartu, Med ve Akhaimenid İmparatorlukları/ Central and Eastern Anatolia Late Iron Age: Post-Urartu, Median and Achaemenid Empires (Istanbul, 2019), 467–77. ‘Two Kingdoms and Art’. In M. Grawehr, C. Leypold et al. (eds.), Klassik – Kunst der Könige. Kings and Greek Art in the 4th Century BC (Tagung an der Universität Zürich vom 18.–20. Januar 2018) (Zürcher Archäologische Forschungen 7) (Rahden), 137–53. ‘On Pontic Slaves in the Mediterranean’. In A.V. Belousov and E.V. Ilyushechkina (eds.), Homo Omnivm Horarvm: Symbolae ad anniuersarium septuagesimum professoris Alexandri Podosinov dedicatae (Moscow), 611–26. ‘An Achaemenid Inscription from Phanagoria: Rewriting the History of Empire’. Aristeas 21, 89–138 (in Russian). ‘The coming of the Achaemenids to the Bosporan Kingdom: A brief conspectus’. Bosporskie Chteniya 21, 421–23. ‘“Gold-rich” Colchis in “Argonautica”: Myth, Reality and Modern Scholarship’. Arkheologicheskie Vesti 29, 207–14 (in Russian, abstract in English).

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‘West and East: a Review Article (19)’. Ancient West and East 19, 285–304. ‘New Publications on the Northern Black Sea and Related Territories’. Ancient West and East 19, 305–14. 2021 ‘Pontic studies twenty years on: terra incognita?’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze, A. Avram and J. Hargrave (eds.), The Greeks and Romans in the Black Sea and the Importance of the Pontic Region for the Graeco-Roman World (7th century BC–5th century AD): 20 Years On (1997–2017) (Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Constanţa, 18–22 September 2017) (Oxford), 2–9. ‘Early East Greek Pottery from Local Sites of the Pontic Hinterland: Introductory Remarks’. Ancient West and East 20, 161–68. ‘Pontic Greeks and Locals: Subterranean Dwellings Once Again’. In M. Manoledakis (ed.), Peoples in the Black Sea Region from the Archaic to the Roman Period (Proceedings of the 3rd International Workshop on the Black Sea in Antiquity held in Thessaloniki, 21–23 September 2018) (Oxford), 149–84. ‘Again, New Discoveries of Early East Greek Pottery from Native Sites of the Northern Black Sea Hinterland’. In M. Matera and R. Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski (eds.), Interdisciplinary Research on the Antiquity of the Black Sea (Światowit Suppl. Series C: Pontica et Caucasica II) (Warsaw), 349–60. ‘The Northern Black Sea’. In B. Jacobs and R. Rollinger (eds.), A Companion to the Achaemenid Persian Empire (Hoboken, NJ), 657–70. ‘Passing and Conquering: The Achaemenids in Colchis’. In S. Skory and S. Zadnikov (eds.), The Early Iron Age of Eastern Europe: Studies Presented to Irina Shramko (Kharkov/ Kotelva), 297–311. ‘Learning Scythian Archaeology’. In S. Posokhov (ed.), Boris Andriiovich Shramko: Pages of Biography, Achievements, Documents of Life (Kharkov/Kotelva), 228–29 (in Russian). ‘On Scythians in Ancient Georgia’. In A.R. Galustov, N.N. Veliyaya and S.N. Ktitorov (eds.), Problems of Archaeology and History of Caucasus and Europe (to the 70th Birthday of S.L. Dudarev) (Armavir), 161–68. ‘Colchian Amphorae and One Aspect of the Colchian Economy’. In L. Mihailescu-Bîrliba and I. Dumitrache (eds.), Persevera lucere. Studia in memoriam Octaviani Bounegru (Philippika 155) (Wiesbaden), 35–45. ‘West and East: a Review Article (20)’. Ancient West and East 20, 269–87. 2022 ‘Introduction: Ionians Overseas’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ionians in the West and East (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘Ionians in the East and West’, Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya-Empúries, Empúries/L’Escala, Spain, 26–29 October, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 27) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 1–71. ‘Ionians in the Eastern Black Sea Littoral’. In G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ionians in the West and East (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘Ionians in the East and West’, Museu d’Arqueologia de Catalunya-Empúries, Empúries/L’Escala, Spain, 26–29 October, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 27) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 915–975.

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BOOK REVIEWS 1990 Nokalakevi-Arkheopolis. Archaeological Excavation, 2 vols. (Tbilisi, 1981, 1987, in Georgian). Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 4 (jointly with A. Romanchuk) (in Russian). 1993 E. Alekseeva, Greek Colonisation of the North-Eastern Caucasus (Moscow, 1991). Journal of Hellenic Stduies CXIII (jointly with G.A. Koshelenko). 1995 D. Braund, Georgia in Antiquity. A History of Colchis and Transcaucasian Iberia, 550 BC– AD 562. Classical Review XLV.2 (expanded version in Colloquia Pontica 1 [1996]). 1996 Bosporan Collection, vols. 1–5. Colloquia Pontica 1 (jointly with G.A. Koshelenko). P. Georges, Barbarian Asia and the Greek Experience. Classical Review XLVI.2. R. Syme, Anatolica. Studies in Strabo. Classical Review XLVI.2. 1997 H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, M.C. Root and A. Kuhrt (eds.), Achaemenid History, vol. 8. Classical Review XLVII.1. Y.G. Vinogradov and S.D. Kryzickij, Olbia. Classical Review XLVII.1. I.K. Whitehead, Greek Transport Amphorae. Classical Review XLVII.1. A. Silberman (ed.), Arrien: Périple du Pont-Euxin. Classical Review XLVII.1. J.P. Stronk, The Ten Thousand in Thrace. Colloquia Pontica 3. 1998 P. Briant, Histoire de l’empire perse de Cyrus à Alexandre. Classical Review XLVIII.1. C. Calame, Mythe et histoire dans l’Antiquité grecque. Classical Review XLVIII.1. 1999 T. Miller, Die griechische Kolonisation im Spiegel literarischer Zeugnisse. Classical Review XLIX.2. 2001 R. Rolle, V.Ju. Murzin und A.Ju. Alekseev, Königskurgan Certomlyk. Talanta 32–33 (2000/01). 2002 A. Çilingiroglu and M. Salvini (eds.), Ayanis I. Ancient West & East 1.1. 2006 C. King, The Black Sea: A History. Nationalism and Ethnic Politics 12.2.

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G.R. Mack and J.C. Carter (eds.), Crimean Chersonesos: City, Chora, Museum, and Environs. Classical Review LVI.2. P.G. Bilde, J.M. Højte and V.F. Stolba (eds.), The Cauldron of Ariantas. Studies Presented to A.N. Sceglov on the Occasion of His 70th Birthday. Classical Review LVI.2. 2008 H. Hurst and S. Owen (eds.), Ancient Colonizations: Analogy, Similarity and Difference. American Journal of Archaeology 112.1. 2009 A.A. Trofimova (ed.), Greeks on the Black Sea. Ancient Art from the Hermitage. Classical Review LIX.1. D.V. Grammenos and E.K. Petropoulos (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea 2, 2 vols. Classical Review LIX.2. 2010 A. Bresson, A. Ivantchik and J.-L. Ferrary (eds.), Une koinè pontique. Classical Review LX.1. 2011 J.M. Madsen, Eager to be Roman. Classical Review LXI.1. E.K. Petropoulos and A.A. Maslennikov (eds.), Ancient Sacral Monuments in the Black Sea. Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2011.05.08. T. Corsten (ed.), A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, vol. V.A. Classical Review LXI.2. 2012 M. Dietler, Archaeologies of Colonialism: Consumption, Entanglement, and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France. American Journal of Archaeology 116.1 (on line). 2015 R. Garland, Wandering Greeks: the Ancient Greek Diaspora from the Age of Homer to the Death of Alexander the Great. The Ancient History Bulletin Online Reviews 5. 2017 C.B. Rose and G. Darbyshire (eds.), The Golden Age of King Midas: Exhibition Catalogue. The Ancient History Bulletin Online Reviews 7. 2018 L. Donnellan, V. Nizzo and G.-J. Bergers (eds.), Conceptualising Early Colonisation. Journal of Hellenic Studies 138. 2019 A.-M. Wittke (ed.), Frühgeschichte der Mittelmeerkulturen: Historisch-archäologisches Handbuch and The Early Mediterranean World, 1200–600 BC. Ancient West and East 18.

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PREFACES, INTRODUCTIONS, EDITORIALS Introductions and/or Prefaces: Colloquia Pontica 1 (1996), 2 (1996), 3 (1997), 4 (1999), 5 (2000), 6 (2001), 7 (2001), 8 (2001), 10 (2004), 11 (2005), 12 (2006), 13 (2006). Introductions and/or Prefaces: Colloquia Antiqua 1 (2011), 2 (2011), 3 (2011), 4 (2012), 5 (2012), 6 (2012), 7 (2013), 8 (2013), 9 (2013), 10 (2014), 11 (2014), 12 (2014), 13 (2014), 14 (2015), 15 (2015), 16 (2016), 17 (2016), 18 (2018), 19 (2017), 20 (2017), 21 (2018), 22 (2019), 23 (2019), 24 (2019), 25 (2019), 26 (2020), 27 (2022), 28 (2021), 29 (2020), 31 (2021), 32 (2021), 33 (2022), 34 (2021), 35 (2022), 36 (2022). Editorials: Ancient West and East 1.1 (2002), 4.1 (2005), 5 (2006), 6 (2007), 8 (2009), 9 (2010), 15 (2016), 16 (2017), 18 (2019), 19 (2020). 1994 Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze and F. De Angelis (eds.), The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation (Oxford), ix–x. Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek and Roman Settlements on the Black Sea Coast (Proceedings of a Workshop Held at the 95th Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America, Washington DC, December 1993) (Colloquenda Pontica 1) (Bradford), 1–3. 1998 Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Stuttgart), 7–8. 1999 Introduction. G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden/Boston/ Cologne), vii–xiii. Introduction. C. Morgan, A Catalogue of Attic Pottery in the Collection of Taman Museum (St Petersburg), 3–6. 2000 Preface and Introduction. G.R. Tsetskhladze, A.J.N.W. Prag and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Periplous. Papers on Classical Art and Archaeology presented to Sir John Boardman (London), 11, 15. 2001 Preface. A. Domínguez and C. Sánchez, Greek Pottery from the Iberian Peninsula. Archaic and Classical Periods (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), xiii–xiv. 2002 Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze and J.G. de Boer (eds.), The Black Sea Region in the Greek, Roman and Byzantine Periods (= Talanta 32–33, 2000/01) (Amsterdam), 7 (with J.G. de Boer). Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (Oxford), iii–iv (with A.M. Snodgrass).

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2006 ‘Opening Words of the General Secretary of the International Committee’ [at the Third International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Prague, September 2005]. Eirene XLII, 11–12. 2007 Diskussion. In J. Cobet, V. von Graeve, W.-D. Niemeier and K. Zimmermann (eds.), Frühes Ionien. Eine Bestandsaufnahme (Panionion-Symposion Güzelcamli, 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 579. 2008 Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), Greek Colonisation. An Account of Greek Colonies and other Settlements Overseas, vol. 2 (Leiden/Boston), ix–x. 2011 Preface. S. Gallotta, Il regno del Bosforo Cimmerio: vicende storiche, aspetti istituzionali, economici e cultuali (Pescara, 2011), 5. 2012 Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (Oxford), iv. 2013 Preface and Welcome. G.R. Tsetskhladze et al. (eds.), The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Istanbul, 14th–18th September 2009) (Oxford), v, vii. 2015 Preface and Welcome. G.R Tsetskhladze, A. Avram and J. Hargrave (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), vii, xi. 2019 Preface. G.R. Tsetskhladze and S. Atasoy (eds.), Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Select Papers from the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford), iii (with S. Atasoy), iii. 2021 Preface and Welcome. G.R. Tsetskhladze, A. Avram and J. Hargrave (eds.), The Greeks and Romans in the Black Sea and the Importance of the Pontic Region for the GraecoRoman World (7th century BC–5th century AD): 20 Years On (1997–2017) (Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Constanţa, 18–22 September 2017) (Oxford), vi, viii.

THE BLACK SEA, ANATOLIA AND THE PONTIC HINTERLAND

BURIAL GROUNDS AT TIOS Sümer ATASOY

ABSTRACT The purpose of this article is to present general information on the Late Roman and Byzantine graves at Tios. Today, information about the Tios cemeteries is scattered and does not give a complete picture of the distribution of Antique burials around the urban site. There are different burial grounds with varying numbers of graves from the Late Hellenistic to the Mediaeval periods. The cemeteries contain a number of different grave types such as simple pit graves, cist graves, tile graves and sarcophagi. Many of the graves have been opened and robbed in ancient and mediaeval times or more recently. The Tios cemeteries have not yet been excavated. Further excavations and research must be undertaken in order to understand the history of the community in Tios in the Mediaeval period. The type of burial practised in the cemeteries was inhumation. We have yet to identify a locale where cremations took place.

The ancient city of Tios is the only ancient site not heavily overbuilt by modern urban developments at the western end of the Turkish Black Sea coast (Fig. 1). The Acropolis of Tios was a major focus of field work in the period 2006–12. The excavations were carried out by the author between 2006 and 2012, and were the first archaeological intervention on the site. The main goal has been the study of the church and buildings around it. Since then, work continued under the direction of Dr Ş. Yıldırım with the co-operation of the Museum of the Karadeniz Ereğli.1 According to the results of the limited excavations to date, the first settlers of the Acropolis at Tios arrived in the 7th century BC, and it was fortified by a wall. Without the Tios excavation, it is impossible to understand southern Black Sea archaeology and the relationship of the south coast of the Black Sea with the Greeks and other Black Sea areas. On account of the archaeological remains, Tios was given protection by national law when it was made an archaeological preserve.

THE BURIAL GROUNDS

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TIOS

The cemeteries of Tios are located very close to the city. The reason for this may be the topographical features of the area and traditions related to the Afterlife. Five burial grounds have been identified (Fig. 2).

1  Atasoy and Yıldırım 2015. Preliminary annual reports appeared in Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, see most recently 2018.

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1. The Eastern Necropolis This occupies the hill where a radar base is located. Rescue excavation in 1972 in this area produced some tile-covered and sarcophagus burials (Figs. 3–4). Among the grave finds stored in Kastamonu Museum are three lekythoi dated to the 5th century BC (Figs. 5–6). Unfortunately, there is no report of the rescue excavation. It was occupied by a Turkish (formerly British) military radar base whose construction is believed to have destroyed many tombs and architectural remains. No evidence has come to light of burials dating to the Archaic and Classic periods at Tios. This area may be considered the oldest cemetery of the Tios site. Today this area is a closed military zone. Tile-covered graves and sarcophagi are still seen in the area. The sarcophagi were open, and their lids are on the ground next to them.

2. In and Around the Church on the Acropolis Excavations between 2009 and 2012 were focused on the church, the side chapel and the area around them that was used as a cemetery. The church was surrounded by graves to the east and south (Fig. 7). Some capitals in the Doric style were found on the southern side of the church during the 2015 and 2016 seasons. The capitals must belong to the old temple beneath the church. The graves on the Acropolis are chiefly simple pit graves, cist graves, tile graves and sarcophagi. Some graves contained re-used Roman sarcophagus slabs in the Acropolis church. Some stone sarcophagus lids, used in the form of a roof with simple antefixes which fell down from the slope of the Acropolis to the seaside, are seen (Fig. 8). The graves often contained more than one person. These were probably members of the same family. Some of the graves have been found in the narthex (Fig. 9) and naos of the church and to the south around the side chapel (parecclesion). Three graves were discovered inside the naos, perhaps those of martyrs (Fig. 10). Use of the church area on the Acropolis as a cemetery occurred in the Middle Ages. These graves were created during the 10th–12th centuries AD. This may be considered the first cemetery of the Byzantine settlement located on the hill of the Acropolis. During the 2009–12 seasons, 16 graves in the cemetery of the church were excavated, yielding 82 corpses included: 17 females, 20 males, 20 children, 19 babies and six of unknown sex. During the 2013–16 seasons, 20 additional graves and 39 skeletons were found in the same area.2 Analysis of the skulls and body bones revealed almost no traces of disease.3 The corpses were placed directly on the earth of the grave, lying on their back, legs parallel, arms close to the body. The hands were crossed and placed on the pelvic bone. Iron nails show that some graves must have contained a wooden coffin or box which has not been preserved. The bones of the individuals interred were disturbed and broken, so 2 3

 Yıldırım 2016, 15; 2018, 148–49.  Çırak et al. 2015, 226.

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the position of the body could not be determined. A significant proportion of the burials had a west to east orientation. According to dietary analysis, it can be said that the local diet probably contained wheat, barley, green vegetables, fruit, dairy products, meat and fish. A total of 492 permanent teeth were examined. Marine food or animal nutrition consumption showed the effectiveness of the diet of the people of Tios because there was tooth decay in only 3.86 %: there were very low values of tooth wear in ancient Tios compared with other Anatolian cities. It can readily be said that the people of Tios had no major problems with dental disease. Facial reconstruction was undertaken on the skull of a Caucasian male soldier, aged between 30 and 40 years from the Acropolis graves in Tios. The procedure followed the Manchester method and sought to depict the face of the soldier as near as possible to its appearance prior to death.4 The grave offerings are definitely simple and poor in quantity and quality: copper alloy pendants, bells, buttons, earrings, glass bracelets, bone objects, iron nails and a few unidentifiable coins. The pottery and glass finds were tiny fragments and objects of uncertain identification. The graves belong to the Late Roman and Byzantine periods. The dating of graves is based on a review of the grave offerings, not stratigraphy. It is hoped that more materials will be found as excavations expand to other parts of the city. Presumably, the more important and wealthier people were buried in another cemetery in the nearby hills. But the land is private property and archaeological excavations were carried out with difficulty.

3. The Sefercik and Harmantepe Districts These are located to the east and north of the ancient theatre. Today the cemetery of Filyos is next to the ancient cemetery. The looted graves and the numerous sarcophagus fragments in this area demonstrate that the area was a necropolis (Fig. 11).

4. On the Hill (Ören Tepesi / Hıdırlık) Located to the south of the ancient theatre. It probably covers a large area as indicated by graves looted and heavily destroyed in Antique and modern times. A number of graves made it possible to establish the basic types of burial structure as a simple rectangular pit in the ground, graves covered with tiles, and chamosoria burials. No datable objects were associated with the burials, but their structures may suggest the Roman and Byzantine periods (Figs. 12–13).

5. Graves in Different Parts of Filyos Numerous chamber tombs and rock-cut graves are recorded in the modern town (Filyos). One of them is located at a place called Öteyüz which was built of carved stones (Figs. 14–15). During the Roman period, cemeteries were normally kept outside the city 4

 Bulut and Çırak 2015, 248.

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walls. Parallel to the expansion of the city, cemeteries continued to grow in every direction. Inhumation graves in simple pits and tile-covered should be attributed to the Roman or Romanised population in Tios. In the burial grounds we detected no levels of archaeological deposits before the Roman period. * * * Study of the cemeteries and grave offerings of Tios is underway and will be the subject of future publication.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Atasoy, S. and Yıldırım, Ş. (eds.) 2015: Tios: Zonguldak’ta Bir Antik Kent. 2006–2012 Arkeolojik Çalışmaları ve Genel Değerlendirme/ Tios: An Ancient City in Zonguldak. General Assessment of Works Between 2006 and 2012 (Ankara). Bulut, Ö. and Çırak, M.T. 2015: ‘Facial Reconstruction of the Tios Soldier’. In Atasoy and Yıldırım 2015, 248–57. Çırak, M.T., Çırak, A. and Akyol, A.A. 2015: ‘The Determination of Terrestrial and Marinal Nutrition in the Antique Tios Population’. In Atasoy and Yıldırım 2015, 226–31. Yıldırım, Ş. 2016: ‘Tios-Tieon 2014 Yılı Çalışmaları’. In 37. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 2 (Ankara), 13–32. —. 2018: ‘Tios-Tieon 2016 Yılı Kazı, Restorasyon ve Konservasyon Çalışmaları’. In 39. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 3 (Ankara), 147–68.

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Fig. 1. The Black Sea Region settlements (after J.M. Højte, Mithridates VI and the Pontic Kingdom [Aarhus 2009], 9).

Fig. 2. The burial grounds at Tios.

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Fig. 3. Tile-covered grave.

Fig. 4. Sarcophagus burial.

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Fig. 5. Lekythos.

Fig. 6. Lekythos.

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Fig. 7. Acropolis of Tios, remains of the church and the temple.

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Fig. 8. Lid of sarcophagus at the seaside.

Fig. 9. The graves in the narthex of the church.

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Fig. 10. Three graves in the naos of the church.

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Fig. 11. The grave from the Sefercik district.

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Fig. 12. The grave in Hıdırlık/Ören Tepesi.

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Fig. 13. The grave in Hıdırlık/Ören Tepesi.

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Fig. 14. Grave with two chambers in Öteyüz, Filyos.

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BURIAL GROUNDS AT TIOS

Fig. 15. Grave with two chambers in Öteyüz, Filyos.

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THE ROMAN CULT OF EMPEROR WORSHIP: WAS THE ROMAN EMPEROR REVERED AS A GOD AMONGST CAUCASIAN IBERIANS?* Eka AVALIANI

ABSTRACT This paper offers an interpretation of certain fragments from the Latin text Historia Augusta: The Life of Aurelian.1 Counting on these fragments and filtering out those contextual configurations, it is argued that the consequences of interstate political relationships defined as imperial and clientstate interconnectedness and interdependence, display a pattern which clearly responds to one aspect of Roman imperialism – legitimising the worship of the Roman emperor (the Imperial cult) in the kingdom of Iberia during the reign of Aurelian (AD 270–275). The explicit accommodation of local context within the broad historical scenario of the eastern part of the empire permits a fine-grained analysis of the creation of the cult of the emperor in a peripheral subject state.

THEORETICAL INTRODUCTION: RESEARCH PROBLEM, APPROACHES AND CONCEPTS In contemporary theoretical studies of Late Antiquity, a particular subject of discussion is the phenomenon of Roman imperialism, and such correlated issues as globalisation2 and Roman imperialism,3 cultural change and ‘Romanisation’, geography and power, diversity and unity in Romanisation, imperial strategies and the development of Roman imperialism, war and Roman imperialism, etc. have attracted the attention of many researchers.4 I believe that the suggested novel concept of ‘imperial affiliation’ directly corresponds to * Special thanks to Liana Kuridze for editing the English version of this manuscript. With great respect, I dedicate this research to Gocha Tsetskhladze, a dearest friend. 1  The Historia Augusta is not regarded as a reliable source by some scholars (Kenny 1982, 725), yet it is the source with the most details for the post-Severan period as both Dio and Herodian are no longer writing about events by this time. For the source, see Historia Augusta, the Life of Aurelian, the Latin text and translation by S.H. Ballou and H. Peter. The English translation is by D. Magie in the Loeb Classical Library edition, 1932. No Georgian study or edition of The Life of Aurelian has yet appeared. 2  I do not intend to claim that theories of globalisation can be applied wholesale to the past – indeed, as a process, globalisation is itself intimately associated with the condition of modernity, i.e. imperialism, (post-/ neo-)colonialism, capitalism, industrialisation, rationalisation, telecommunications, etc. Rather, I wish simply to suggest that globalisation offers both a vocabulary and a series of models with which to explore identities in the Roman empire. The applicability of such models to the ancient world is discussed further below. 3  A wide range of contemporary theories have contributed to our understanding of the ancient world, for example, imperialism, post-colonialism, world-systems, etc. For a succinct overview and literature, see Witcher 2000. 4  For a succinct overview of Roman imperialism, see Champion 2003; Garnsey and Whittaker 1978; North 1981. On the issue of Romanisation, see Keay and Terrenato 2001; Mattingly 2004; Millett 1990; Revell 2009; Scott and Webster 2004; Woolf 1998. For cultural identity in the Roman empire, see Laurence and Berry 1998. For space, geography and politics in the early Roman empire, see Nicolet 1991; Adams and Laurence 2001.

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this discourse. The model of Iberian ‘imperial affiliation’5 was not cultural homogenisation or full political integration; it was the pattern of an interface between a dominant power and an affected state (i.e. the local elites, power-oriented community), where, in awareness of its position, the subordinate power was prepared to reconstitute itself as a new social model to respond to international challenges, to react to the predominant empire’s order. The notion of ‘imperial affiliation’ hints at the societal preparedness of the subject Iberian community (i.e. the elites, the power-oriented group of people) and alludes to the social-psychological and political susceptibility of the affected power: who is ‘to get on’ and to remain in a sphere of imperial influence. That is a condition when the power-oriented group of people (the elites), accelerating their own interdependence with the metropolis, are prepared to receive the suggested patterns – religious, political, social, etc. – from a particular dominant power. In hindsight, the interconnectedness between the Roman empire and the kingdom of Iberia does not reproduce a well-adjusted and steady line of political relations 6 across different periods. The nature of this relationship could shift intermittently in response to developments and changing international configurations in the region. Study of it should be based on such a concept as the sense of one’s connexion with the empire (i.e. the sense of imperial affiliation), which could have diverse markers: an obvious one was the proclamation of the Roman emperor as a god among the Iberian elites, revealed distinctly during the reign of Aurelian (AD 270–275). When analysing aspects of imperial policy relationships, the more distant the periphery from the politically advanced imperial metropolis, the more apparent the desire to be close to the influential centre. In the case of Iberia, this trend is explicable. The Persian empire, located in close proximity, had more opportunities for restricting freedom, political interference and also the exercise of other forms of economic exploitation or subordination. Persia, obviously, would ‘take’ more than it was willing to ‘give’. Preventing its greater incursion into the Iberian political landscape (in the 3rd century) was possible through the entry of a second strong political actor: Rome. As a consequence, any form of Roman imperial ‘affiliation’, including adoption of the Imperial cult7 – or rather the 5  For a general discussion of the Roman influence in the Caucasian kingdom of Iberia, see Furtwängler et al. 2008; Braund 1994; 2002; Syme 1981; Apakidze et al. 2004; Apakidze and Nikolaishvili 1994. On Iberian-Roman relations, see Tsetskhladze 2008; Dabrowa1989; Bosworth 1976. 6  Roman power was never particularly solid in Iberia. Eastern Georgia generally accepted imperial protection while Colchis was administered as a Roman province. Iberia was under the suzerainty of the Sasanian empire during the reign of Shapur I (AD 240/2–270/2). However, it is remarkable that the Romans regained Caucasia briefly under Aurelian (AD 270–275) and again in AD 283, when Carus defeated the Sasanid armed forces. The Sasanids lost a major war against Rome and Armenia in AD 298. As a result of that war, a 40-year peace was concluded in which Armenia and Iberia were recognised as Roman protectorates. Cf. Suny 1994, 15; Coene 2009, 104–06. 7  The phenomenon of Roman emperor worship and the contentious issue of whether Roman emperors were gods or not has long captivated the interests of scholars. For a general overview of modern literature and issues, see Price 1984. Price changed the way we conceived of the cults: no longer was emperor worship an act of superficial homage, slavish loyalty, or political flattery, but it was a genuine expression of worship and religious devotion that helped construct the reality of the empire for provincial subjects. For Gradel 2002 (based on his Oxford doctoral thesis), the divinity of Roman emperors was not based on their ontological uniqueness but rather on an enormous difference in relative social status between them and their subjects. He seems to be asserting that emperors actually became gods due to their relative power, not just that they were perceived to be divine. It is quite evident that the concept of ontological divinity

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establishment of a tradition of worshipping Roman emperors – was one of the most important and seemingly also most radical political decisions made by the kingdom of Iberia. But still it was much more profitable than complete absorption by Persia.

ROMAN EMPEROR WORSHIP OF AURELIAN

IN THE

LATE ROMAN EMPIRE,

THE

APOTHEOSIS

Aurelian, faced with political unrest and apparent danger in the Roman East, in AD 272 moved his main forces against the Palmyrene queen, Zenobia, and her son, Vaballathus, who had consolidated their power base in the East and exerted control over most of Egypt, Asia Minor, including Galatia, northern Syria and other Roman territories.8 Moreover, the notable changes in the titulature honouring Zenobia and her son showed that there was an ever-growing appetite for change in political leadership.9 She was mentioned as Eusebes (the equivalent of the Latin Pia, in an inscription from Palmyra, August AD 271), the title often applied to Roman empresses in that era,10 and soon afterwards as Sebaste (Augusta).11 In AD 272, the mint at Alexandria abruptly ceased to recognise the emperor Aurelian and began to issue tetradrachms in the name of Vaballathus alone,12 together with some in the name of Zenobia. The same decisive change is found at the Antiochene mint. In both cases, Vaballathus and Zenobia accorded themselves the unequivocal titles Augustus and Augusta respectively.13 All these actions meant that Palmyra dramatically shifted the fault lines of regional politics, and that Zenobia and Vaballathus totally usurped the power of the emperor in the Roman East. Afterwards, betrayal from a friendly state did not go unpunished, with punishment coming directly from the emperor. Romans recaptured Egypt. Aurelian then moved to Asia Minor and western Syria where he was again victorious in several battles. Having defeated Zenobia in AD 272, he eventually decided to eliminate her from the political scene in the East and reduce the power of Palmyra. He shamed her, injuring her dignity and self-respect, especially in public.14 Zenobia once again suffered the indignity of being paraded in Aurelian’s Triumph in Rome (Historia Augusta Aurelian 30. 1–2, 33. 2 and 34. 3). This alone was not enough to display his power and magnificence. He also took to wearing a diadem and his subjects were expected to pay obeisance.

played some role even in the Graeco-Roman world (for example, Jews and Christians refused to participate in emperor worship because they rejected the notion of emperors being gods), and some people or communities simply believed that emperors were real gods (see Clauss 1996). Clauss (1996, 20) claims that Roman emperors were – at least for many inhabitants of the Roman empire – gods, plain and simple. For the notion of emperors’ ‘relative divinity’, see also Nock 1928, 30–31. 8  Watson 1999, 60–62. 9  This assumption is based on the evidence of coins, inscriptions and papyri from Egypt, Judea, Arabia and Syria during the period December 270 to April 272. See Watson 2003, 67. 10  Cf. Potter 1990, 390–91. 11  Watson 2003, 69. 12  For last joint dating, see Milne 1933, 104. 13  For Zenobia’ titles, see RIC V.2, on line at: http://www.ric.mom.fr/en/search/quicksearch?q=RIC+V.2+ ++Zenobia&page=1&mod=result&x=26&y=15 (consulted 2017). See also Watson 2003, 69, n. 45. 14  Watson 2003, 79.

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Aurelian, as an ambitious man, desired to be a distinguished emperor. He was proud of his great victory, but political and military titles alone did not satisfy him. Victory titles were a means of promoting martial success since they incorporated the vanquished opponent’s name into that of the victorious emperor, whilst other charismatic virtues such as religious aura can be seen in the promotion of the cult of the distinguished emperor. Aurelian was a good example of a man who rose from an obscuriore familia (HA Aurelian 3. 1). He ascended through the ranks of the army and, by the time Claudius died, he had become one of the most important men in his entourage.15 He was popular among the soldiers, however he was the emperor who curried favour with the Roman people as well. He distributed money to them (HA Aurelian 48. 5), which showed the Senate that he was a populist as well as a military man. Undoubtedly, a man with such authority and power could proclaim himself a god. The emperor tended to favour one particular god over the others, in his case Sol (HA Aurelian 39. 6). Aurelian identified with Sol, and it is entirely reasonable to expect him to have built temples to show this identification (HA Aurelian 35). Aurelian placed Sol’s portrait on the reverse of his coins. These also included the legends Sol Invictus, Sol conservator, Sol Dominus Imperii Romani.16 The military success which he had within the fragmented empire was extremely important for him, and when he finally restored the East to the empire, he proclaimed himself a god.17 This fact was well reflected on his contemporary coinage. Aurelian, as an emperor, appeared for the first time in the Roman coinage with the epithet Deus et dominus.18 His achievements had secured his legitimacy and he was even able to go further and claim divinity from birth – Deus et dominus natus – which made all of his actions throughout his life divine.19 The latest find, a remarkable coin of the emperor from the mint at Serdic, carries on the obverse the legend DEO ET DOMINO NATO AVRELIANO INVICTO AVG (‘Aurelian, the unconquered Augustus, born as God and Lord’).20 There are many examples of phrasing that illustrate various Roman emperors as divine,21 and the case of Aurelian was not an exception. It is appropriate to note that the divine cult of the emperor’s wife, Ulpia Severina was significant alongside other male emperors, as she was revered as Nike in Perinthos, the administrative capital of the Roman

15

 Watson 1999, 47.  Cf. RIC V.1 Aurelian 390 has the legend SOL INVICTO on the reverse. RIC V.1 Aurelian 319 and 322 have AVRELIANVS AVG CONS on the reverse. Coin 319 has SOL DOMINUS IMPERI ROMANI on the obverse and 322 has SOL DOM IMP ROM. 17  Brauer does not believe that Aurelian would have claimed divine status from birth; but the evidence of one coin is insufficient to draw such a conclusion. He also dismisses the idea that Aurelian was building a temple to the Sun in order to identify himself with his god (Brauer 1975, 230). However, Aurelian identified with Sol and it is entirely reasonable to have expected him to have built temples to show this identification (HA Aurelian 35). 18  Cf. Vasiliev 1952, 61; RIC V.1 Aurelian 305 has the legend IMP DEO ET DOMINO AURELIANO AVG. 19  RIC V.1 Aurelian 305–306. Coin 305 has the legend IMP DEO ET DOMINO AURELIANO, AVG while Coin 306 has DEO ET DOMINO NATO AURELIANO AVG. 20  For detailed information and literature, see Wienand 2015. Both of these remarkable issues of Aurelian are very rare, the second one even more than the first, known from a single coin in Paris and this specimen of the same dies. 21  For emperors as gods, see de Jong 2016; Kajava 2016; Gordon 2001. 16

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province of Thrace.22 Not only the emperor but his wife became a divine potentate and we cannot exclude that the emperors whose names mentioned in these inscriptions may have taken part in ceremonies related to their own veneration.23

THE RATIONALISATION

OF

HISTORICAL FACTS

AND

SOURCE

Such a leader as Aurelian, ‘the unconquered Augustus, born as God and Lord’, (who might be raised to a status equal to the gods before death) was undoubtedly in a position to celebrate a remarkable Triumph in Rome. This ceremony demonstrated not only imperial power, a victory over political opponents, but, at the same time, it displayed a picture of expansion and recognition of the emperor’s political authority by the various kingdoms, peoples and communities inside the transregional system. During the Triumph, Aurelian was followed by ‘eight hundred pairs of gladiators in addition to the captives of the various barbarian peoples: Blemmyes, Axomitae, Arabs from Arabia Felix, Indians, Bactrians, Hiberians, Saracens and Persians, all bearing their gifts’, but there were also ‘Goths, Alans, Roxolani, Sarmatians, Franks, Suebians, Vandals and Germans’ – the latter were enemies of Rome. ‘That is why they were captured with their hands bound fast’ (HA Aurelian 33. 4). Mentioning the Caucasian (H)Iberians by name who were listed among those who presumably had accepted the principal position of Aurelian in the East and brought gifts to him, indicates either that the Iberians were directly involved in his Eastern Policy or that they simply expressed their loyalty as a subject country. Undoubtedly the second fragment of text is more intriguing and gives the reason for deeper consideration of political issues between the dominant power and affected state; the author of Historia Augusta emphasises that the emperor was revered as a god by several countries and peoples: ‘He [Aurelian] was revered as a god … by the Bactrians, the Seres, the Hiberians, the Albanians, the Armenians, and even by the peoples of India’ (HA Aurelian 41. 10). The Hibernians, Albanians and Armenians were neighbours, their territories were borderlands, part of some empire or the subject of various imperial interferences. They often faced and suffered the same or similar fate. It is even believed that some Iberian kings got Roman citizenship.24 Based on security demands and related objective factors, it can be presumed that the Roman emperor pursued an extremely effective policy towards these countries. Aurelian would have been glad to maintain a buffer state(s) or client-kingdom(s) in the form of Iberia (as well as Armenia and Albania/Azerbaijan) on the northern edge of the empire, especially when the political situation in the Roman East was changeable. The competing 22  See Raycheva 2015. Perinthos has been identified with the small modern community of Marmara Ereğlisi located some 90 km west of Istanbul on the coast of the Sea of Marmara. According to Raycheva, ‘Considering the insufficient investigation of the site, Perinthos still supplies a good amount of information about the way civic space was shaped in order to accommodate emperor worship, as well as the responsible institutions and the Imperial festivals that took place in the city’ (Raycheva 2015, 23). 23  City coinage and inscriptions reveal that Perinthos received the honorary title neokoros, or ‘templewarden’, twice in the first half of the 3rd century AD. By definition this means that it must have had two provincial Imperial sanctuaries. The title appears first in inscriptions from the time of Septimius Severus and Caracalla; and later on as the phrase ‘twice neokoros’ in honorary inscriptions for Decius and Ulpia Severina. See Raycheva 2015, 29. 24  Cf. Dundua 2011; Linderski 2007 (with further literature and discussion).

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Sasanian Iran was a strong empire in the region during the reign of Shapur I (AD 242– 272), and Iberia was considered part of his empire (as well as Armenia and Albania/ Azerbaijan/or the Allans).25 According to Shapur I’s Ka’ba-ye-Zartosht inscription (dated ca. AD 262), alongside the Armenian kings and princes, who were considered his close allies, (H)amazasp, the king of Iberia was mentioned as a ruler whose domain was a subject of ‘imperial affiliation’.26 As Aurelian’s star rose, Shapur I was nearing the end of his life (he died in the autumn of AD 272). His power had waned, inasmuch as Aurelian was able to cut off the reinforcements which the Persians had sent to Palmyra. Aurelian was able to gain the support of the Armenians (HA Aurelian 28. 2) and the Persians seemingly accepted Rome’s full triumph in the East as they had to present gifts to Aurelian (HA Aurelian 29. 2). Based on the foregoing, the power of the Roman emperor could not be challenged in the region. The Iberian king, showing eagerness and enthusiasm for affiliation with the Roman empire (i.e. the sense of imperial affiliation), presumably would be ready to enter without delay into such a commitment as the veneration of the divine cult of the emperor.27 For the Iberian elites, acceptance of the Imperial cult was a mere act of political loyalty, rather than an emotional religious act. There was no barrier, as Iberia was an amalgam of religious plurality, diversity and syncretism; polytheism and religious heterogeneity reigned supreme. I presume that it was one of many methods towards imperial affiliation (a particular form of procedure for accomplishing imperial affiliation), seemingly suggested by the Roman emperor himself and by means of which Iberians could express their gratitude towards him. Aurelian actually became a ‘god’ due to his relative political power, not because he was perceived to be divine.

CONCLUSION The Iberians’ real intentions and beliefs are, unfortunately, completely unknown to us. Archaeology provides no evidence with regard to an imperial sanctuary, an inscription or any cult statues dedicated to Aurelian’a Imperial cult.28 It can be speculated that such loyalty to the emperor was plausible, at least on the level of demonstrating political motivation and commitment to the Roman emperor. In AD 275, during Aurelian’s 25  For Shapur I’s trilingual inscription Ka’ba-ye-Zartosht / ŠKZ (in Middle Persian, Parthian and Greek), see Rapp 2014, 28. For Parthian sources on line, see http://parthiansources.com/texts/skz/ (consulted 2019). According to the Middle Persian inscription ŠKZ 2, Shapur I possessed ‘the lands of Persia, Parthia, Xuzestan, Mešan, Asurestan, Nodširagan [= Adiabene], Arbayestan, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Wirzan [= Iberia], Sigan, Albania, Balasagan, up to the Caucasus mountains and the gate of the Alani, and the entire range of the Elburz mountains…’, and all these numerous lands and rulers and regions were made tributary and were subjected to him. For an English translation of inscription by Nabel, see http://parthiansources.com/texts/ skz/skz-translation/ (consulted 2019). See also ŠKZ 2; Huyse 1999, 22–23; Frye 1984, 371–73. 26  Cf. ŠKZ, 44. The Iberian king is identified as Amazasp III (AD 260–265) (see Rapp 2014, 386). 27  HA Aurelian does not provide any information regarding the reigning Iberian king in charge of making this kind of decision. Next after Amazasp III was Asp’agur I (265–284) (Rapp 2014, 386). Little is known about him, archaeological evidence is absent, and the (relatively later) Georgian sources give ambiguous information about him. For more sources and additional literature regarding Asp’agur I, see Rapp 2014, 240–43, 247, 355, 370. 28  Loyalty to the ruler could also be demonstrated apart from the restricted space of an Imperial shrine.

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third consulship, he marched towards Asia Minor, preparing a campaign against the Sasanid empire. However, in mid-September, he was assassinated at Caenophrurium (near Perinthus/Perinthos, Thrace). Apparently, this date indicates the abolition of the cult of the emperor in the client-states and liberation from ‘religious dependency’.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Adams, C. and Laurence, R. 2001: Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire (New York/London). Apakidze, A. and Nikolaishvili, V. 1994: ‘An Aristocratic Tomb of the Roman Period from Mtskheta, Georgia’. The Antiquaries Journal 74, 16–54. Apakidze, A., Kipiani, G. and Nikolaishvili, V. 2004: ‘A Rich Burial from Mtskheta (Caucasian Iberia)’. Ancient West and East 3.1, 104–23. Bosworth, A.B. 1976: ‘Vespasian’s Reorganization of the North-East Frontier’. Antichthon 10, 63–78. Brauer, G.C. 1975: The Age of the Soldier Emperors: Imperial Rome, A.D. 244–284 (Park Ridge, NJ). Braund, D. 1994: Georgia in Antiquity: A History of Colchis and Transcaucasian Iberia 550 BC– AD 562 (Oxford). —. 2002: ‘Anagranes the ΤΡΟΦΕΥΣ: the Court of Caucasian Iberia in the Second–Third Centuries AD’. In Kacharav, D., Faudot, M. and Geny, É. (eds.), Autour de la mer Noire: Hommage de Otar Lordkipanidzé (Collection de l’Institut des Sciences et Techniques de l’Antiquité 862) (Besançon), 23–34. Champion, C.B. 2003: Roman Imperialism: Readings and Sources (Oxford). Clauss, M. 1996: Kaiser und Gott: Herrscherkult im römischen Reich (Stuttgart/Leipzig). Coene, F. 2009: The Caucasus: An Introduction (London/New York). Dabrowa, E. 1989: ‘Policy in Transcaucasia from Pompey to Domitian’. In French, D.H. and Lightfoot, C.S. (eds.), The Eastern Frontier of the Roman Empire (Proceedings of a Colloquium held at Ankara in September 1988) (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph 11; BAR International Series 553) (Oxford), 67–76. De Jong, J. 2016: ‘Emperor Meets Gods: Divine Discourse in Greek Papyri from Roman Egypt’. In Kahlos, M. (ed.), Emperors and the Divine – Rome and its Influence (Collegium 20) (Helsinki), 22–55. Dundua, T. 2011: ‘Publicius Agrippa, Flavius Dades and a Dual Citizenship – a Pattern for Europe in Future? Georgians and Roman Frontier Policy in the East’. In Ivane JavaxiSvilis saxelobis Tbilisis Saxelmwifo Universitetis saqartvelos Istoriis Institutis Sromebi 3 (Tbilisi), 385– 404. Frye R.N. (ed.) 1984: The History of Ancient Iran (Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 3.7) (Munich). Furtwängler, A., Gagoshidze, I., Löhr, H. and Ludwig. N. (eds.) 2008: Iberia and Rome: The Excavations of the Palace at Dedoplis Gora and the Roman influence in the Caucasian Kingdom of Iberia (Schriften des Zentrums für Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte des Schwarzmeerraumes 13) (Langenweißbach). Garnsey, P.D.A. and Whittaker, C.R. (eds.) 1978: Imperialism in the Ancient World (Cambridge). Gordon, R.L. 2001: ‘The Roman Imperial Cult and the Question of Power’. In North, J.A. and Price, S.R.F. (eds.), The Religious History of the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Oxford), 107–22. Gradel, I. 2002: Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford). Huyse, P. 1999: Die Dreisprachige Inschrift Šābuhrs I. an der Ka’ba-i Zardušt (ŠKZ) (Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum 3.1, Texts 1), 2 vols. (London). Kajava, M. 2016: ‘Gods and Emperors at Aigeai in Cilicia’. In Kahlos, M. (ed.), Emperors and the Divine – Rome and its Influence (Collegium 20) (Helsinki), 56–63. Keay, S. and Terrenato, N. (eds.) 2001: Italy and the West: Comparative Issues in Romanization (Oxford). Kenny, E.J. 1982: Latin Literature (Cambridge).

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Laurence, R. and Berry, J. (eds.) 1998: Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire (London/New York). Linderski, J. 2007: ‘How Did King Flavius Dades and Pitiaxes Publicius Agrippa Acquire Their Roman Names?’. Roman Questions 2, 262–76. Mattingly, D. 2004: ‘Being Roman: Expressing Identity in a Provincial Setting’. Journal of Roman Archaeology 17.1, 5–25. Millett, M. 1990: The Romanization of Britain: An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation (Cambridge). Milne, J.G. 1933: Catalogue of the Alexandrian Coins in the Ashmolean Museum (Oxford). Nicolet, C. 1991: Space, Geography and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Jerome Lectures 19) (Ann Arbor). Nock, A.D. 1928: ‘Notes on Ruler-Cult IIV’. JHS 48.1, 21–43. North, J. 1981: ‘The Development of Roman Imperialism’. JRS 71, 1–9. Potter, D.S. 1990: Prophecy and History in the Crisis of the Roman Empire: A Historical Commentary on the Thirteenth Book of the Sibylline Oracle (Oxford). Price, S.R.F. 1984: Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge). Rapp, S.H. 2014: The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes: Caucasia and the Iranian Commonwealth in Late Antique Georgian Literature (Farnham/Burlington, VT). Raycheva, M. 2015: ‘The Imperial Cult in Perinthos’. Archaeologia Bulgarica 19.2, 23–34. Revell, L. 2009: Roman Imperialism and Local Identities (Cambridge). Scott, S. and Webster, J. (eds.) 2004: Roman Imperialism and Provincial Art (Cambridge). Suny, R.G. 1994: The Making of the Georgian Nation, 2nd ed. (Bloomington). Syme, R. 1981: ‘Hadrian and the Vassal Princes’. Athenaeum 59, 273–83. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2008: ‘Ancient West and East: Mtskheta, Capital of Caucasian Iberia’. Mediterranean Archaeology 19–20 (for 2006–07), 75–107. Vasiliev, A. 1952: History of the Byzantine Empire 324–1453, vol. 1 (Madison). Watson, A. 1999: Aurelian and the Third Century (London/New York). Wienand, J. 2015: ‘Deo et domino: Aurelian, Serdica und die Restitutio orbis’. Jahrbuch für Numismatik und Geldgeschichte 65, 63–99. Witcher, R.E. 2000: ‘Globalisation and Roman Imperialism: Perspectives on Identities in Roman Italy’. In Herring, E. and Lomas, K. (eds.), The Emergence of State Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC (Accordia Specialist Studies on Italy 8) (London), 213–25. Woolf, G. 1998: Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul (Cambridge).

519 BC: PERSIANS OCCUPY THE NORTH PONTIC COAST* Alexandru AVRAM (†)

ABSTRACT The author produces his own edition of the newly discovered fragmentary Achaemenid inscription from Phanagoria and comments on it. Based on a new interpretation of a passage in the royal inscription from Bisitun (panel V, ll. 20–30), on a fragment of Ctesias’ Persika (FGrHist 688, F 13 [20]) and a chronological concordance furnished by the Tabula Capitolina (IG XIV 1297, col. I, ll. 22–25), he gives arguments for a Persian campaign in the region of Phanagoria and the Sea of Azov in 519 BC and suggests that it was on this occasion that Persians occupied the northern Black Sea area. Herodotus obviously compressed in his narrative events belonging to this campaign of Darius I with facts related to the well-known Thracian expedition from 514/3 BC of the same king. On the other hand, the author assumes a participation of the Greek cities of the Black Sea in the Ionian Revolt after 499 BC and suggests a new Persian expedition, possibly under Datis in 492 BC (see Ctesias, F 13 [22]), with the aim to re-establish Persian domination in this area. It was perhaps after this new victorious Persian intervention that the inscription found in Phanagoria was set up.

I. THE NEWLY DISCOVERED ACHAEMENID INSCRIPTION FROM PHANAGORIA AND ITS IMPORTANCE ‘The aim of the following paper is to recollect arguments for the hypotheses of a substantial Persian interference in the Greek colonies of the Cimmerian Bosporus and that they remained not untouched by Achaemenid policy in western Anatolia’, wrote Jens Nieling in 2010.1 More recently (2018), Gocha Tsetskhladze, the honorand of our Festschrift, cut the Gordian knot: ‘The main aim of this article has been to bring to light and bring together the main evidence of Achaemenid involvement in the northern Black Sea littoral, primarily the Cimmerian Bosporus and deeper into the Eurasian steppes.’ After having collected valuable literary, epigraphic and foremost archaeological evidence, he concluded that the Persians not only had strong links with the North Pontus but effectively dominated this region. He finished by asking and answering himself the question:

* Translations from Herodotus and Strabo follow the Loeb editions. I am heavily indebted to Iulian Bîrzescu, Liviu Iancu and Dragoş Hălmagi (all Bucharest) and Dan Dana (Lyons) for valuable comments on the draft of this contribution, as well to James Hargrave, who substantially improved my English. 1  Nieling 2010, 123.

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Fig. 1. The Achaemenid inscription from Phanagoria (after Kuznetsov and Nikitin 2017, 156).

Fig. 2. Drawing of the same inscription (after Kuznetsov and Nikitin 2017, 155).

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But from when does Achaemenid control date? There are good grounds for considering ca. 519 BC, when Ariaramnes crossed the Black Sea.[2] Although Darius’ Scythian campaign of ca. 513 BC was unsuccessful, his army passed through Scythia to the River Tanais and beyond, strengthening the Achaemenid presence in the region. Of the areas around the northern Black Sea colonised by (principally Ionian) Greeks, only the Cimmerian Bosporus, in due course the territory of the Bosporan Kingdom, demonstrates an Achaemenid presence.3 In fact, the debate is older. At least since an influential paper by the late Nikolai Fedoseev published more than two decades ago,4 scholars insisted on an Achaemenid impact in the Cimmerian Bosporus.5 Nevertheless, with some notable exceptions, the orthodoxy was that while the Persian empire, no doubt, had close connexions with the Greek colonies of the northern Pontus Euxinus, in particular with the Bosporan kingdom, it never dominated this region politically. Most of the archaeological artefacts (‘Achaemenid’ or ‘Achaemenid-inspired’)6 are dated to the 5th or 4th centuries BC. But what about the end of the 6th and the beginning of the 5th century, i.e. the apogee of the Persian empire and its involvement in Thrace and the Black Sea? Nothing except the isolated tale of Ctesias FGrHist 688 F 13 (20) – not the original one, let us remember, but as it has been resumed by Photius – and considered by more than one modern scholar as suspect. But the really revolutionary discovery came indeed five years ago. During the excavations in the summer 2016, Russian archaeologists under the direction of Vladimir Kuznetsov brought to light at Phanagoria a fragment of an inscription in Old Persian carved in cuneiforms. After an advertiser campaign supplied by several interviews, documentary films and interventions on Internet, this important document has been published with a remarkable promptitude the following year by Kuznetsov and A.B. Nikitin.7 Their paper is accompanied by good photographs (Fig. 1) and a very trustful drawing (Fig. 2). The marble fragment, broken on all its sides (height 0.412 m; width 0.359 m; thickness 0.118–0.148 m), represents obviously only a small part of a stele which, as we can infer principally from its thickness, might have been rather impressive. The text has carefully engraved cuneiforms (height 0.05–0.055 m) provided, as usually, by worddividers in the shape of a slanting wedge.8 The editors give the following transcription: 2  An assumption based on Ctesias FGrHist 688 F 13 (20), cited in translation and briefly commented in Tsetskhladze 2018, 470. The first to have suggested this date is, to my knowledge, Koshelenko 1999, followed with further valuable arguments by Yailenko 2004 and Tsetskhladze 2013, 212–16. About this source, see below, II.2. 3  Tsetskhladze 2018, 483. Some of the main ideas of this paper were already sign-posted in Tsetskhladze 2008 and 2013. 4  Fedoseev 1997. Contra: Molev 2001; see also Molev 2006; 2008; 2016; Balakhvantsev 2018. 5  Evidence and modern literature summarised in Tsetskhladze 2013. 6  I borrow here the terms used in the title of Treister 2010, who is the first to have compiled a very important catalogue of these artefacts with commentary. 7  Kuznetsov and Nikitin 2017; a study followed by an historical essay focused on the idea of a supposed expedition of king Xerxes in the Bosporan area before the second Graeco-Persian war (Kuznetsov 2017). The two papers were reproduced more recently also in English: Kuznetsov 2019 and Kuznetsov and Nikitin 2019 (with an edition of the text slightly modified compared with the paper of 2017). I will cite henceforth these latter contributions. 8  For the shape of the word-divider at Bisitun (Behistun) and in further Achaemenid inscriptions, see Lecoq 1974, 85–86.

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1 2 3 4 5 6

-------------- - ]vaha(?)[ - - - ]ša ⁝ xaša[ - - - ]a(?)vama ⁝ a[ - - - ]yama ⁝ a[ - - - ](?)ma ⁝ a(?)[ - - - ] ⁝ marata(?) [ - --------------

At l. 1 they think they recognise Darius I’s name in the genitive, Dārayavahauš; at l. 2, after the lacuna a form of the word dahyauš, ‘land, country’, thereafter a form of the word xašiyam, ‘truth’; at l. 3 the imperfect at the first person sg. of the verb ‘to be, to become’; at l. 4 an ending of the imperfect upariyāyam they translate through ‘I preceded’; and l. 6 a word meaning ‘men’. Unfortunately, with the only exception of l. 6, none of these attempts to explain the poor remains of the text is convincing. Closer to the evidence of the stone seem to be the transcription and the cautious restorations advanced by Gian Pietro Basello (‘Orientale’ University at Naples), consulted by the editors and cited in the same article: ----------------- -----------------------------------1 - - d-a-r-y]-v-h-[u-š ⁝ x-š-a-y-θ-i-y-h-y-a ⁝ p-u-ç-a ⁝ θ-a-t-i-y ⁝ x-š-y-a-r-š-a ⁝ x-š-a-y-θ-i-y 2 d-a-r-y-v-]u-š ⁝ x-š-[a-y-θ-i-y - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 3 - - p-ru-(?)]u-v-m ⁝ a-[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 4 - - - - - - - - ]r-y-m ⁝ a-[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 5 - - - - - - - a-]d-m ⁝ a-k[u?-u-n-v-m ⁝ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 6 - - - - - - - - - ] ⁝ m-r-t[-i-y- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ----------------- -----------------------------------According to this restoration, the king would be Darius’ son (puça, restored at l. 1) Xerxes (Xšayārša). Basello translates the first line ‘[Xerxes, the King, son] of Darius, [the King]’, nevertheless, in this case it would be hard to explain the nominative of Darius, which in my opinion clearly occurs at l. 2. King Xerxes is also admitted by Kuznetsov and Nikitin. A third transcription has been very recently submitted by Eduard Rung and Oleg Gabelko:9 1 2 3 4 5 6

----- va-ha-u(?)ša ⁝ xaša-a(?)-va-ma ⁝ a-ya-ma ⁝ a-da(?)ma ⁝ a⁝ ma-ra-ta-------

9  Rung and Gabelko 2018, 850. I am deeply indebted to Oleg Gabelko for kindly sending me the proofs of this contribution even before publication.

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Contrary to the first editors, they rightly attribute the inscription to Darius I. They follow Basello for da-a-ra-ya-va-]u-ša ⁝ xa-ša-[a-ya-θa-i-y a (l. 2), [a]dam ak[unavam] (l. 5; with the alternative solution [a]dam ag[arbāyam], ‘I took captives’, that, nevertheless, seems somewhat speculative), and mart[iya]/mart[iyā] (l. 6), and they also suggest some further interpretations: avam, ‘this’, [ab]avam, ‘I was become’, or [akun]avam, ‘I did, I made’, but also, using Basello’s reading of the first sign after the lacuna, [par]uvam, ‘previously’10 (l. 3), [t]yam, ‘who’ (l. 4).11 Some months later it was my turn to propose a preliminary edition briefly commented of the same text:12 1 2 3 4 5 6

--------------------------- - - - - - - - ]-v-h-[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - d-a-r-y-v]-ụ-š- ⁝ x-š-[a-y-a-θ-i-y-a - - - - - - - - - ]-ụ-v-m ⁝ a-[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ]-ṛ-y-m ⁝ a-[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ]-ḍ-m ⁝ a-ḳ[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ] ⁝ m-r-t-[ - - - - - - - - - - - ---------------------------

L. 2. After the lacuna, at left, only one vertical nail and above a rest from a horizontal nail are visible but in view of the context this seems to be enough for suspecting . Following the formulas of the extant royal inscriptions, we may perhaps expect - - θāti Dārayava]ụš xš[āyaθiya - -, ‘proclaims Darius the King’, possibly with a more complete titulature, xš[āyaθiya xšāyaθiyānām], ‘King of Kings’, or xš[āyaθiya dahyūnām], ‘King of lands’. At a first look we also could suppose - - akuna]ụ š xš[āyaθiyam - -, ‘(he) made me king’ (see, for example, DSi,13 l. 3: [Auramazdā] mām XŠam akunauš, ‘made me king’), but in contexts of this kind the verb akunauš always follows the accusative xšāyaθiyam, it never stands before. L. 3. After the lacuna, at left, only two vertical nails and above a horizontal one are visible, therefore, once again , as at the beginning of l. 2. I would search for the adverb [par]ụvam, ‘previously’ (DB I, l. 9; DSe, ll. 43 and 47). L. 4. After the lacuna, at left, only one big vertical nail belonging very probably to the sign . I tentatively suggest [adam niyaçā]ṛayam, ‘I restored’, an expression which occurs only once in Old Persian inscriptions, DB, panel I, l. 64.14 L. 5. After the lacuna, at left, the sign seems to be certain. At right, before the lacuna, the sign may be restored in view of the context, therefore [a]ḍam aḳ[unavam - -, ‘I did, I made’, as for Basello.

10

 I had independently thought of the same word before having sight of Rung and Gabelko’s paper.  Rung and Gabelko 2018, 850–52. 12  Avram 2019. For me, the only sure restoration, facilitated by the presence of the word-divider, is that of l. 2. 13  Old Persian inscriptions are designated after Kent 1950. 14  Cf. Brandenstein and Mayrhofer 1964, 113, s.v. çāray°: ‘mit ni-, nur in niy-a-çārayam “ich baute wieder auf, stellte wieder her”’. See also Schmitt 2014, 103 and 159, s.v. çay: ‘das nur DB I 64 bezeugte niyaçārayabezeichnet das Gegenteil von diyā “rauben, wegnehmen”, also etwas “zurückgeben”’. 11

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L. 6. Before the lacuna, at right, I admit with Basello and the editors the sign (only the right nail is lacking) and, like them, I also understand mart[iyā - - (nom. or acc. pl.), ‘men, people’, or mart[iyānām - -, ‘of the men’ (gen. pl.). Concurrently with my edition (more precisely, about two weeks later, in June 2019) appeared the edition of the young Iranian scholar Ehsan Shavarebi:15 (x+1) (x+2) (x+3) (x+4) (x+5) (x+6) (x+7)

[ …  : Dāraya]vaha[uš  : […  : Dārayava]˹u˺š  : x˹š˺[-āyaθiya  : …  : ]˹a˺vam  : a- / …  : t]˹u˺vam  : a- / …  : par]˹u˺vam  : a[ …  : draya  : viyata]˹r˺ayam  : a[-vadā  : …  : a]˹d˺am  : a˹ku˺[-navam  : … ]  : mar˹t˺[-iya?  : …]

The main contribution would be the restoration of l. 4, [ … : draya : viyata]˹r˺ayam.16 Shavarebi translates: ‘… of/to Darius … Darius the King … that/thou/previously? … (I) crossed [the sea. Then?] … (I) did/made/built? … man ….’. This, indeed, would help me greatly in my own understanding of things (below II.1 and 3) because I myself imagine Darius to have crossed at one moment a sea! Nevertheless, I prefer here [niyaçā]rayam. Whatever it would be, one thing is sure: the Persians set up a stele celebrating their king Darius, who cannot be any other than the first to have borne this name.17 We, thus, have decisive evidence for indisputable Achaemenid domination of Phanagoria18 and, as we will see, on the whole northern coast of the Black Sea.

15  Shavarebi 2019. About all the known editions until 1 October 2019, see https://milesiantales.wordpress. com/2019/08/15/news-the-darius-inscription-from-phanagoria/ (consulted 01.10.2019). 16  See DB V, ll. 24–25, ‘I crossed (the sea)’. In a first draft of the present paper submitted in March 2019, i.e. before Shavarebi’s paper , I had written: ‘It would be, of course, very seductive to restore [viyata]rayam, as in DB V, ll. 24–25, “I crossed (the sea)” (cf. Schmitt 2014, 71 and 250–51, s.v. tar, “überqueren”), – and to speculate on Darius’ exploit (see below II.1, this passage of DB cited in extenso and commented upon), nevertheless, I prefer here [niyaçā]rayam.’ 17  There is no need to take into account Darius II or III for obvious chronological reasons; see below. 18  An alternative explanation is, however, suggested by Rung and Gabelko 2018 (duly followed by Balakhvantsev 2018, 63–64). They prefer, through an erudite treatment of the literary evidence, to connect this stele with the monuments set up by Darius I in the region of Byzantium when the king crossed the Bosporus at the beginning of his campaign in Thrace in 514/3 BC (for Herodotus 4. 87 see just below) and, knowing that these monuments were later destroyed by Byzantines (but, I think, this much later, after Byzantium has been liberated from Persian domination in 478 BC, not just when some ‘rumours’ of Darius’ retreat from Scythia reached the shores of the Bosporus!), they suppose that our stele would have been transported to Phanagoria as a ‘trophy’ (v kachestve trofeev, p. 865), even if they do not rule out the alternative possibility that the stone simply came as ship’s ballast. I cannot agree with their interpretation. As far I am concerned, I think that there is little doubt that the stele has been set up in Phanagoria. In an e-mail sent to me on 24.02.2019 Oleg Gabelko wrote: ‘The main objections against the erection of this Persian inscription immediately in Phanagoria are: 1) the very styling of the stone and text; 2) the total absence of marble in early Phanagoria, for the exception of this piece.’ However, nothing stands in the way of assuming the possibility that the stele has been carved elsewhere in the Persian empire and brought to Phanagoria by ship in order to be set up there as symbol of a Persian victory (see my last section). Therefore, I see no serious reason to object to the conclusion that the stele was set up in Phanagoria. See also Kuznetsov 2019, 26.

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To set up stelae in an occupied territory was nothing surprising for Persians and in particular for Darius I. Apart from the epigraphic records, it is Herodotus who clearly testifies to it on three occasions,19 twice in connexion with Darius’ campaign in 514/3 BC:20 4. 87: … and when he [Darius] had viewed the Bosporus also [at the beginning of his campaign, when he crossed the straits], he set up by it two pillars of white stone, engraving on the one in Assyrian (Ἀσσύρια γράμματα) and on the other in Greek characters the names of all the nations that were in his army; in which were all the nations subject to him. … These pillars were afterwards carried by the Byzantines into their city and there used to build the altar of Orthosian Artemis, save for one column covered with Assyrian writing that was left beside the temple of Dionysos at Byzantium. 4. 91: Having then come to this river [Tearus, whose location is subject to debate] and there encamped, Darius was pleased with the sight of it, and set up yet another pillar there, graven with this inscription: ‘From the sources of the river Tearus flows the best and fairest of all river waters; hither came, leading his army against the Scythians, the best and fairest of all men, even Darius son of Hystaspes and king of Persia and all the mainland’. Such was the inscription. We can add to the Herodotean testimonies a small fragmentary clay inscription formerly reported at Gherla, in Transylvania, but of which no trace is nowadays available: it was, before the discovery from Phanagoria, the only Achaemenid inscription brought to light outside the Near East and Egypt. This piece was found, as we are told, by an inhabitant of this town while digging in his vegetable garden and has been published with rather speculative restorations by Janós Harmatta.21 Despite repeated attempts by several scholars to connect this inscription with Darius’ campaign from 514/3 BC,22 it  Apart from the two passages I cite here in extenso, see also 4. 88. 3. On Achaemenid inscriptions reported by Herodotus, see Unger 1915; West 1985; Schmitt 1988; 1992; Vasilescu 2007. The texts given by Herodotus are, of course, not concordant with the formulas of Persian royal inscriptions, as demonstrated in particular by Schmitt, but we are allowed to retain the fact per se. 20  The literature on Darius’ expedition in 514/3 BC is plethoric. I give here only a selection: Nenci 1958, 144–56; Hammond and Griffith 1979, 55–69; Chernenko 1984; Gardiner-Garden 1987a; Fol and Hammond 1988, 235–43; Georges 1995; Briant 1996, 154–56 and 931–32; Archibald 1998, 79–81; Tuplin 2010; Boteva 2011; Vasilev 2015, 40–123. 21  Harmatta 1953 (Mayrhofer 1978, 16). Harmatta is, of course, not wrong when he assumes that this poor piece was a draft for a royal inscription. Through his restorations, based on DPa, he suggests that Darius built a tacara-, a word he translates as ‘palace’ (for this meaning, see Brandenstein and Mayrhofer 1964, 144, s.v. tacara-, ‘Wohnpalast, Privatpalast’; Wüst 1966, 118–19; Schmitt 2014, 249–50, s.v. tacara-, ‘Palast’; contra: Lecoq 1997, 101: ‘il n’est pas impossible que tačara désigne un lieu de passage, soit le corridor qui donne accès à la salle principale du palais, soit le portique d’entrée’). Harmatta’s text is accepted, accompanied by a German translation, in Schmitt 2009, 97–98, under DGa. See also Schmitt 2007, 62–63. 22  See for example Georges 1995, 129–30, who speculates on an itinerary of Darius’ army through Transylvania(!): ‘In the OP inscriptions tačara- refers specifically to the administrative and living quarters of a palace; its use in this context suggests that the word could mean “headquarters” or the like. … [the] Persians planned to establish themselves permanently north of the Carpathians in Transylvania, not only at Gherla, but necessary at other places as well.’ See also Archibald 1998, 81: the Gherla clay tablet ‘records the foundation of a building by Dareios in the Dobrudja’ (but Gherla is in Transylvania, not in the Dobrudja!). See also a discussion in Rung and Gabelko 2018, 859–60. 19

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seems that the reality is frustratingly banal: Gherla being a cosmopolite town with, in particular, an Armenian community, it looks very likely that the object had been acquired elsewhere, possibly in Constantinople or on another market of Asian antiquities, and that it entered afterwards a private collection which had been dispersed under unknown circumstances.23 In my opinion, the place of its discovery says nothing.24 Its interest is elsewhere: this inscription carved on clay (and not on marble or another kind of stone) proves that the Persian army was accompanied during its campaigns by qualified stone-cutters supposed to engrave marble stelae glorifying the king wherever the latter passed, as explicitly testified by Herodotus. These craftsmen carried in their baggage, as it seems, clay models,25 which were, of course, easily transportable – like the piece found at Gherla. The inscription from Phanagoria invites us to answer more than one question. My aim is to submit to debate, I hope constructively, just two of them: what were the date and the circumstances of the establishing of Achaemenid power in this region?; and secondly, what was the context in which this monumental stele was set up?

II. WHEN AND HOW DID THE PERSIANS OCCUPY THE NORTH PONTIC REGION? First of all, I vigorously discard Darius’ expedition from 514/3 BC,26 for Herodotus limpidly narrates that the Persian army, after crossing the Thracian Bosporus, followed the littoral way only to the Danube mouths, while afterwards it penetrated deeply in the Scythian steppes. Starting from this point, Herodotus’ narrative is really nebulous (see below, II.4).27 In my opinion, the event concerned by the present paper took place some years prior to the expedition described by the ‘father of history’, more precisely in 519 BC,28 a view supported first of all by three sources that are independent from one another, although, unfortunately, each of them touched by inner contradictions, and finally, as a fourth complementary source, by Herodotus’ narrative itself.

23

 I owe this convincing explanation to my friend Prof. Radu Ardevan (Cluj-Napoca).  Same caution at Kuhrt 2007, 197, n. 4: ‘a clay tablet is, of course, not a stela, and could have been carried to its find spot from almost anywhere’. See also Tuplin 2010, 295: this piece ‘is mysterious rather than illuminating’. 25  To compare it with the monument of Bisitun, DB IV, ll. 88–92: ‘Proclaims Darius, the king: By favour of Auramazdā this (is) the form of writing, which I have made, besides, in Aryan. Both on clay tablets and on parchments it has been placed’ (translated by R. Schmitt, CII I.1, 73). Cf. Huyse 1999, 45–51, who translates the same passage by ‘this version, which I put opposite in Aryan, has been placed both on clay tablets and on parchment’ (p. 47). See also Lecoq 1974, 81–83; Huyse 1999, 45–51; Kuhrt 2014, 127. 26  I will discuss later (II.4) this expedition for which I use the traditional date, ‘514/3’ BC. On the exact date of this campaign, see Boteva 2011, 745, n. 54, who summarises the different opinions expressed in scholarship in this regard. In my opinion, the date of the expedition has been soundly established through an exhaustive treatment of the evidence in Shahbazi 1982, 232–35, to between 514 and 511. The first part of this interval is perhaps more likely to be retained. 27  There are only some (rather unclear) episodes around the Maeotis (Herodotus 4. 120–122): see below. On the doubtful quality of Herodotus’ narrative, see an evaluation in Briant 1996, 155: ‘dans l’ensemble du récit, les parties consacrées à l’expédition de Darius apparaissent plus comme un prétexte que comme le véritable sujet du développement général’. 28  In this hypothesis I join Gocha Tsetskhladze (see n. 3). 24

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1. Evidence from Bisitun The first piece of evidence is panel V (ll. 20–30) of the well-known Darius’ monument from Bisitun, DB,29 in which scholars agree to see a kind of postscript added in the last moment and devoted to the king’s successes during the first years of his reign:30 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

[θāti] Dārayavauš xšāyaθiya: pa[sāva had]ā k[ārā a]dam [aš]iyavam abi Sakām, pas[ā]va [Sakā, taya]i xau[dā]m tigrām baranti, i[mai patiš mām ā]iša, [ya]di abi draya avā[rsam, d]rax[t]ā [ava hadā kār]ā visā viyatarayam, [pasāva] avai Sak[ā adam] ajanam, aniyam agrbāya, [hau ba]sta [anayatā] abi mām, utāš[ām haya] maθišta [āha], S[k]unxa nāma, avam agrbā[ya, basta]m anaya [abi mām], avadā aniyam maθišta[m] akunavam, ya[θā] mām [k]āma āha, pasāva dahyā[uš ma]nā [a]bava.

Proclaims Darius, the king: Afterwards with an army I went against Scythia (Sakām); after that the Scythians who wear the pointed cap (Sakā tayai xaudām tigrām), these came against me, when I had come down to the sea (draya). By means of a tree-trunk with the whole army I crossed it. Afterwards I defeated those Scythians (Sakā); another (part of them) they captured; that was led to me in fetters. And (the man) who was their chief (maθišta), Skunkha (Skunxa) by name, him they captured (and) led to me in fetters. There I made another (their) chief (maθištam akunavam), as was my desire. After that the country became mine.31 The key restoration of this passage stands on l. 24: [d]-r-x-[t]-a, i.e. draxtā, ‘tree’.32 János Harmatta had once suggested [a]-r-x-[š]-a, i.e. Araxšā, and speculated on its identification 29  I used Rüdiger Schmitt’s edition, CII I.1. For the restorations and changes suggested here against previous editions see also Schmitt 1990, 66–74. 30  Huyse 1999, 56 and 58–59; Rollinger 2014, 197. For the chronology of the inscriptions and reliefs, see Borger 1982. 31  Translation after CII I.1, 76. To compare the German translation of the same scholar in Schmitt 2009, 90: ‘Darnach zog ich mit einem Heer gegen die Saken; dann (kamen) die Saken, die die spitze Mütze tragen, die kamen mir entgegen, als ich an das Meer hinunterkam. Auf Baumstämmen? (Holzflößen?) überquerte ich es mit dem ganzen Heer. Dann schlug ich diese Saken; einen anderen (Teil von ihnen) nahmen sie gefangen; der wurde gefesselt zu mir geführt; (und) auch (der Mann,) der ihr Anführer war – Skunxa mit Namen –, (auch) den nahmen sie gefangen (und) führten (ihn) gefesselt zu mir. Daraufhin habe ich einen anderen (zu ihrem) Anführer gemacht, wie es mein Wunsch war. Daraufhin wurde das Land mein’. The only difference between these translations is that ‘against Scythia’ (name of the country) has been then rendered in 2009 through ‘gegen die Saken’ (ethnic). Sakām would be ‘a sandhi-variant of the accusative plural */Sakān/ before the following labial’ (Schmitt in CII I.1, 76, note, following Szemerényi 1975, 346–49 = 1991, 1956–59). Nevertheless, Lecoq (1997, 214, n. 1), prefers to see here the name of the land (acc. sg.) and remarks that it is the ‘seule attestation du nom de la Scythie, au lieu de l’habituel “les Scythes”’. On the same passage, see also Rollinger 2014, 198, who also translates through ‘Scythia’. Schmitt 2014, 242–43, has two entries for Saka-: the land and the ethnic. 32  Hinz 1972, 246 and 251, a restoration accepted by Schmitt, although he questioned ‘whether this restoration really fits the space available’ (CII I.1, 76, note). To which Rollinger 2014, 198, adds: ‘nor does it fit the meaning of the text’ (for his interpretation, see just below). The word draxta- now occurs in the addenda to Kent’s ‘Lexicon’ in CII I.1, 81, and in Schmitt 2014, 55 and 171: ‘Baum(holz)’, ‘obwohl es

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with Herodotus’ river Araxes, that could be either Amu-Darya or Syr-Darya.33 The operations would, therefore, have taken place in Central Asia, in an area close to the Caspian and Aral Seas and the so-called ‘sea’ (drayah-) would rather have been a big river: strange enough, if not impossible, when we take into account the contexts in which this term is used elsewhere.34 Now, thanks to the new restoration preferred in this last edition of the inscription, the ‘sea’ is no longer a river that would have been able to better locate the events. Nevertheless, the mention of ‘Sakā who wear the pointed cap’ links to those Sakā who are known as living somewhere in Central Asia. But what about the ‘sea’? Contrary to most of my predecessors, I cannot imagine the crossing of the Caspian or the Aral Sea, a highly complicated, if not impossible operation, and a real nonsense from a strategic point of view. I observe, on the other hand, that the text, rather clumsily written,35 alternates the first person sg. (i.e. Darius) and the third person pl. (i.e. Darius’ generals) and that it is not compulsory to assimilate ‘Scythia’, i.e. the land against whom Darius prepared his campaign, with the ‘Sakā with pointed cap’ who attacked him, as we are told, in a second time. Thus, I would understand this passage as follows: 1. Darius launched a campaign against ‘Scythia’ (it remains to see what regions are basically compatible with such a designation). 2. At the moment he reached the border of the ‘sea’ he was attacked by the ‘Sakā with pointed cap’. 3. After ([pasāva] is in my opinion rightly restored) having crossed the ‘sea’, he defeated ‘those Sakā’. Which of them? Those against whom he had started his campaign or those who attacked him a second time? 4. The other Sakā were captured by his generals (it is here that the third person pl. is used,36 from what we can infer that the king was not physically present in the field). 5. The same generals captured also Skunkha and led him to Darius (Skunkha is figured on the relief of the monument accompanied by an explanatory inscription mentioning his name).37 6. All concluded by the annexation of a ‘land’ put under the control of one of Darius’ right-hand men. This ‘land’ concerns in my opinion both Skunkha’s domain and the enigmatic territory across the ‘sea’. Thus, I see two quite synchronic campaigns compressed in the same report, one against a land called ‘Scythia’ situated across a ‘sea’, and of course, another one against ‘Sakā mangels weiterer gesicherter Stützen sehr zweifelhaft erscheint’. Draxtā is the singular form, not a plural, which might be somewhat disturbing, ‘obwohl dieser Singular natürlich unschwer als ein generischer Singular oder als kollektivisch gerechtfertigt werden mag’ (Schmitt 1990, 70, n. 66). 33  Harmatta 1976, 22–23. 34  Full discussion and testimonies in Schmitt 1972, 526. Cf. Brandenstein and Mayrhofer 1964, 117; Schmitt 2014, 55 and 171, s.v. drayah-. 35  Cf. Rollinger 2014, 197: ‘yet, when compared with the previous columns, the story appears vague’. 36  A typical case of antithetic variatio (Schmitt 2016, 104–16): ‘I [i.e. Darius] defeated those Scythians; another (part of them) they [i.e. Darius’ generals] captured’. 37  The inscription (DBk) reads: iyam Skunxa, haya Saka, ‘this (is) Skunkha the Saka’ (Schmitt 2009, 96). For the relief see Luschey 1968, 79–80.

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with pointed cap’.38 Jack Martin Balcer had tried many years ago in an essay of wider importance39 to connect this information with Darius’ expedition against the Scythians narrated by Herodotus which he consequently dated to 519 BC. For reasons I will not discuss here in detail this is impossible: unfortunately, we must admit that there is no direct echo of this event in Persian royal inscriptions.40 But nothing stands in the way of identifying in the prescript of the inscription from Bisitun a campaign against the North Pontic Scythians contemporary with the war in Asia against the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’. The train of events would, thus, run as follows: 1. Darius had prepared a campaign against North Pontic ‘Scythia’; therefore, he moved to a ‘sea’. 2. Nevertheless, surprised by an attack coming from Asia (we will see later more precisely from where), he changed his plan and sent a part of his army against these Sakā ‘with pointed cap’. It is there that his generals captured Skunkha.41 3. But the initial plan does not seem to have been fully abandoned. Finally, the army led by Darius himself crossed the ‘sea’ and moved to ‘Scythia’. I therefore assume that the mention concerning the campaign against ‘Scythia’ is obscured by the general description emphasising the successful war against the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’ and their leader Skunkha. These events are safely dated between autumn 520 and spring 519 BC.42 The spring of 519 would then be the moment when Darius arrived at the ‘sea’.43 Moreover, the same war is also mentioned more suo in a confusing manner by Polyaenus 7. 11. 6 and 7. 12. In his chapter on Darius (7. 11) he mentions at the beginning two ‘stratagems’ pertaining to the ‘Herodotean’ campaign against Scythians, Σκύθαι (7. 11. 1 and 4), and intercalates between them an episode concerning the war against the Magi (7. 11. 2) and some considerations on the taxes imposed by the king (7. 11. 3), but later he mentions the war against Sacae, Σάκαι (7. 11. 6), while in the next chapter (7. 12) he speaks about the same war. The relative chronology is, of course, absolutely wrong. There is, however, a 38  Same interpretation in Lecoq 1997, 214, n. 2: ‘dans le premier cas, il s’agirait de Scythes habitant au-delà du Pont-Euxin; dans le second, de Scythes de Transoxiane’. 39  Balcer 1972a; enthusiastically approved of by Cameron 1975. See also Balcer 1972b. Despite Shahbazi’s protest (1982; see n. 26), Balcer has been followed in his chronology and interpretations of DB V, though with some nuances, by Petit 1984, who concludes: ‘il nous paraît donc que l’expédition de Darius en Europe est racontée à la fois par Hérodote et dans la cinquième colonne de l’inscription royale de Behistoun, et qu’elle peut être située avec certitude au cours de l’année 519’. New arguments in the same direction in Petit 1987 (see also Petit 1990, 108–09). Absolutely contra: Briant 1996, 931. 40  Against Balcer’s chronology, see Shahbazi 1982. Cf. Szemerényi 1980, 9–11 = 1991, 2055–57. 41  About the location of these military operations, see Schnitzler 1972; Harmatta 1976; Nagel 1983, 171; Dandamaev 1989, 136–40; Jacobs 1994, 257–58. I will discuss later the geographical area I am inclined to attribute to this war. 42  Shahbazi 1982, 230–32. 43  For the identification of the ‘sea’ see section II.3. Rollinger (2014, 198–200) has ingeniously suggested an ‘ideological’ interpretation instead of a purely geographical approach. He argues that ‘the main focus of the text is not a specific historical event in an exactly localised geographical setting but on larger ideological implications’ (p. 198) and taking into account several Akkadian parallels, he concludes: Darius ‘has not only inherited a huge empire but also launched campaigns to regions no king before him ever approached. Such a claim could only have been developed in the context of a dialogue with the past. The sea in question is not really specified but connected with the very eastern fringes of the empire.’ I ask, however, if this is the meaning, why does the text specify the technical means by which Darius crossed this sea?

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point of great interest. Polyaenus describes in detail the ‘stratagem’ used by Siraces,44 a Saca horse-keeper who mutilated himself and ‘deserted to Darius and said that he suffered these mutilations at the hand of the Sacian kings’ in order to seduce Persians into a trap (7. 12) and finishes by adding: ‘later Zopyrus imitated this horse-keeper: by mutilating his face he deceived and conquered the Babylonians’ (this trick of Darius’ general is incidentally detailed in the next chapter, 7. 13).45 Now, on the one hand, the episode involving Zopyrus corresponds to the detailed similar tale of Herodotus (3. 153–155) about the revolt of Babylon, on the other hand, we can infer from DB I, ll. 72–81, II, 1–5, and III, ll. 76–92, that there were two consecutive rebellions in Babylon between December 522 and November 521 BC. Therefore, whatever we might think about these anecdotal reports, anyway Zopyrus (before November 521) could not ‘imitate’ the Saca horse-keeper (before spring 519 BC), so Polyaenus’ tale is once again anachronistic. Nonetheless, we must admit that on this point he was aware of a Persian source (possibly via Ctesias) narrating both Zopyrus’ siege of Babylon and Darius’ campaign against the Sacae. I note, on the other hand, that Herodotus seems to have been utterly ignorant of Darius’ campaign against the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’; therefore, Polyaenus’ anecdotal tales are, despite their disturbed chronology, of some interest for our question, insofar as they confirm more or less the report furnished by DB.

2. Ctesias’ Testimony Ctesias, a physician at the court of king Artaxerxes II, who was apparently party to several Persian traditions,46 can be of great help for our question. A passage of his Persica F 13 (20),47 resumed by the Byzantine patriarch Photius, often adduced (for different reasons) by modern scholars,48 mentions an apparently strange episode before Darius’ expedition against Scythians from 514/3 BC: ὅτι ἐπιτάσσει Δαρεῖος Ἀριαράμνῃ τῷ σατράπῃ Καππαδοκίας ἐπὶ Σκύθας διαβῆναι, καὶ ἄνδρας καὶ γυναῖκας αἰχμαλωτίσαι· ὁ δὲ διαβὰς πεντηκοντόροις λʹ, ᾐχμαλώτισε, συνέλαβε δὲ καὶ τὸν ἀδελφὸν τοῦ βασιλέως τῶν Σκυθῶν Μαρσαγέτην, ἐπὶ κακώσει εὑρὼν παρὰ τοῦ οἰκείου ἀδελφοῦ δεδεμένον. Σκυθάρχης δὲ ὁ Σκυθῶν βασιλεύς ὀργισθείς, ἔγραψεν ὑβρίζων Δαρεῖον, καὶ ἀντεγράφη αὐτῷ ὁμοίως. 44  His name suggests without any doubt that he was one of the leaders of the Siraci, later known by ancient authors as having colonised the Kuban area since the end of the 5th century BC. For this episode, see Gardiner-Garden 1987b, 22–24, who suggests that Polyaenus’ source may have been Ctesias; Vogelsang 1992, 130–32. ‘We are thus led to believe that Polyaenus’ passage indeed refers to a campaign by Darius in eastern Irân, and it is feasible that this war was identical with Darius’ struggle with the Sakā Tigraxaudā mentioned in the DB text’ (Vogelsang 1992, 132). For the Siraci see also below, n. 86. 45  The passages from Polyaenus are translated after Krentz and Wheeler 1994, 647–49. 46  For his work and its transmission, see in particular the masterful editions of Lenfant 2004 and Stronk 2010. Add Jacoby 1922; Bigwood 1978; 1980; Glombiowski 1986; Gardiner-Garden 1987b; Schmitt 1993; Lenfant 1996; 2011; Bichler 2004; Stronk 2007; Nichols 2008; Llewellyn-Jones and Robson 2010; Wiesehöfer et al. 2011; Almagor 2012. 47  Ed. Lenfant 2004, 121–22; more recently ed. Stronk 2010, 328–29. Translation after the latter. 48  Rostovtzeff 1922, 84 (speaks about ‘a naval demonstration in the waters of the Greek colonies who were tributary to the Scythians, and along the northern and eastern shores of the Black Sea’); Hudson 1924, 161– 62; Shahbazi 1982, 200; Gardiner-Garden 1987a, 329–30; Dandamaev 1989, 148; Briant 1996, 155; Fedoseev 1997, 310; Koshelenko 1999; Jacobs 2000, 98; Kuhrt 2007, 194–95; Nieling 2010, 125; Yatsenko 2011, 111; Tsetskhladze 2013, 212; 2018, 470; Zavoikin 2015, 243; Molev 2016, 18–20; Kuznetsov 2019, 14–16.

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[Ctesias states that] Darius ordered Ariaramnes, satrap of Cappadocia, to cross over into Scythia, and carry off a number of prisoners, male and female. He went over in thirty penteconters, and made prisoners. He even took captive Marsagetes, the Scythian king’s brother, who had been put in chains by his own brother for certain offences. Because (the [?]) Scytharches, the king of the Scythians, was enraged, he wrote an abusive letter to Darius, who replied in the same tone. The naivety of this tale prompted many scholars to express doubts about its historicity.49 Of course, Cappadocia was not a satrapy at that time,50 but this is only a secondary point: let us understand that Ariaramnes (in fact, Ariyāramna, a common Persian name)51 was simply a general of Darius, possibly at that time – why not? – in charge of Cappadocia, which was opened to the Black Sea and thus able to be a base for the royal fleet. The main problem is: did he really cross the sea, and if so, which sea? From a chronological point of view, the event stands, no doubt, prior to Darius war from 514/3 BC because in Ctesias’ narrative the episode involving Ariaramnes not only predates the king’s expedition but is explicitly presented as a serious casus belli. Moreover, it is very likely to parallel it with the events presented in a so confusing manner by the Bisitun monument. The first to have done it was, as I see, Valerii Yailenko52 in a short contribution unfortunately rather ignored in international scholarship.53 He sees four parallels: 1. DB: Darius moves against Scythia. Ctesias: Darius orders Ariaramnes to go against Scythians. 2. DB: Darius crosses the sea. Ctesias: Ariaramnes crosses the sea by means of 30 penteconters. 3. DB: Darius captures a part of Sakā. Ctesias: Ariaramnes captures a part of Scythians. 4. DB: Darius takes captive the ‘Scythian leader’ (skifskogo vozhdya) Skunkha. Ctesias: Ariaramnes takes captive the king’s brother Marsagetes. There are, therefore, good reasons to connect DB with Ctesias’ tale. I only add to Yailenko’s demonstration that in my view (and, of course, not only mine) Skunkha is not the ‘Scythian leader’ but that of the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’. Moreover, it is obvious that the 49  Marquart 1905, 113: this Ariaramnes ‘ist indessen höchstwahrscheinlich nur aus der Zeit des Verfassers in die Vergangenheit projiziert, und wir werden sicherer gehen mit der Annahme, dass dieser Satrap erst etwa unter Dareios II. gelebt hat, und Kappadokien erst um diese Zeit zu einer besondern Satrapie erhoben wurde.’ Petit (1990, 205, n. 421), also rejects the value of this information by asking: ‘Pourquoi envoyer un satrape contre cette peuplade, alors que le Roi lui-même comptait s’y rendre? Pourquoi même envoyer le satrape de Cappadoce pour une mission en Europe, alors que le satrape de Sardes (si un satrape pouvait être mis en demeure de participer à telle entreprise) eût été géographiquement mieux habilité à le faire?’ (against Petit, see Briant 1996, 931). See, on the other hand, Jacobs 1994, 140–41, who dates the event mentioned by Ctesias to 513/2 BC and thinks that our physician made a confusion: Ariaramnes ‘ist gewiß mit dem bei Diodor (31. 19. 2) belegten Satrapen Ariamnes identisch’ (but he slightly changed his opinion some years later: Jacobs 2000, 98). Other with doubts about Ctesias’ tale: Shahbazi 1986; Melchert 1996, 129–37; and very recently, Balakhvantsev 2018, 62–63. 50  For the later satrapy of Cappadocia (4th century), see Jacobs 1994, 140–45. 51  For Persian names in Ctesias’ work, see Schmitt 1979, where this example is not adduced. 52  Yailenko 2004 = 2010, 7–11. Cf. Tsetskhladze 2013, 213; Shashlova 2017 (she insists, on the other hand, on some differences between DB and Ctesias and assumes a distortion of the report presented by the Achaemenid inscription). 53  Tuplin (2010, 303, n. 3) is one of the few Western scholars to have referred to it, but he comments emphatically: ‘I can see no merit in this view’. I can see no merit in Tuplin’s protest.

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two royal names occurring in Ctesias’ tale are conventionally invented: Scytharches means simply ‘leader of Scythians’, Marsagetes stands close to the ethnic Massagetae, a people in which more than one scholar saw inhabitants of a region situated near the Caspian Sea and more or less identical with the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’ mentioned in DB.54 I do not trust, of course, in the anecdotal report that ‘Marsagetes’ was the brother of ‘Scytharches’, much less in the fact that he was enchained by his own brother, nonetheless, I am inclined to suspect a connexion (an alliance?, a concerted action?) between the Scythians under ‘Scytharches’ and the Massagetae, who would then be none other than the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’ of DB. The next problem is to identify the ‘sea’ crossed by the supposed Ariaramnes. One possibility would be, as many other scholars already supposed, the Black Sea. If he started his periplus from Cappadocia, Darius’ general could navigate with his troops alongside the eastern coast of the Black Sea and even enter the Maeotis through the Kerch Strait. The alternative possibility would be the ‘short route’ later used in Classical and Hellenistic times, i.e. from Cape Carambis, near Sinope (which lies near Cappadocia!), to Criou Metopon in southern Crimea.55 But, if we admit the parallelism between DB and Ctesias, as I do in the steps of Yailenko, how to reconcile the sea crossed by Darius’ general and the sea (drayah-)56 crossed, as we are told by DB, ‘by means of a tree-trunk’ by the king himself? After all, the 30 penteconters, excluding the crew, would have lacked the capacity to contain the requisite quantity of warriors for such a dangerous expedition overseas. The answer to this question can be suggested by a third testimony.

3. Evidence from the Tabula Capitolina (IG XIV 1297, col. II, ll. 22–25) This famous document (AD 15/16) has been traditionally used in order to date Darius’ campaign against Scythians narrated by Herodotus. The Athenian ‘tyrant’ Hipparchus having been assassinated 24 years prior to the Battle of Marathon, 490 BC (Thucydides 6. 59. 4), therefore in 514 BC, Darius’ expedition would have taken place about the same time. ἀφ’ οὗ Ἁρμόδιος καὶ Ἀριστογείτων [Ἵπ]   παρχον τὸν τύραννον ἀνεῖλον [καὶ]    Δαρεῖος ἐπὶ Σκύθας διέβη ζεύ[ξ]α[ς τὸν]    Κιμμέριον [Β]ώσπορον, ἔτη φκηʹ.  Schnitzler 1972; Nagel 1982, 63 (who adds that they also could be identical to the Dahae; cf. Nagel 1983, 171); Lebedynsky 2006, 44. 55  On this ‘short crossing’, made possible by some peculiarities of the Pontic basin, see Maximowa 1959; Arnaud 1992, 64. This way is taken into account by Shashlova 2017, 54–55, who, however, finally prefers a totally different theatre of operations in Central Asia. But her reconstruction is in my opinion not convincing (cf. also Kuznetsov 2019, 15, n. 35). 56  R. Schmitt in CII I.1, 76, commentary on l. 23 of panel V of the Bisitun inscription: ‘OP /drayah-/ signifies the ‘sea’ (and especially the Sea of Marmara), perhaps lakes too, but certainly not rivers, so that the River Oxus or Iaxartes cannot be meant here’ (an allusion to the interpretation suggested in Harmatta 1976: see n. 33). He maintains here with some nuances a position already announced in Schmitt 1972, then rejected by Shahbazi 1982, 218–19 and 226–30, for whom that ‘sea’ would have been either the Aral or, more probably, the Caspian Sea: ‘it was the south-eastern corner of the Caspian Sea which Darius crossed in 520/19’. 54

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From which time, Harmodius and Aristogeiton killed the tyrant Hipparchus, and Darius crossed over against Scythians bridging the Cimmerian Bosporus, it has been 528 years. Balcer rightly remarked that ‘unfortunately, the Tabula Capitolina (TC) contains too many historical errors in col. II to be considered a sound document’.57 Therefore, he tried to collect several arguments against this synchronism and, based on DB, as we already have seen, to suggest for Darius’ Scythian campaign the year 519 BC. Nevertheless, he has not been followed by the dominant scholarship and seems incidentally to have renounced his previous opinions.58 I will discuss the chronological problem later but in the moment I will start with the event itself: is it really the expedition described by Herodotus? Curiously enough, less attention has been paid to the fact that Darius is said to have crossed the Cimmerian Bosporus (Κιμμέριον [Β]ώσπορον), not the Thracian Bosporus, as we are informed by Herodotus.59 When? Herodotus does not tell us anything about such an event. Perfectly aware of this difficulty Balcer argued:60 The ‘Cimmerian Bosporos’, however, should be emended to Θρηίκιον Βώσπορον (cf. Hdt. 4. 3; Ctesias FGrHist 688, F13.21; Ephorus FGrHist 70, F42; Polybius 4. 43. 2) which Darius did bridge. No other evidence exists that Darius reached the Cimmerian Bosporos, much less bridged that strait. Herodotus’ outline of Darius’ campaign north of the Ister is faulty at best, but traces Darius’ expedition to the north-west of the Crimea and its Bosporus, but not to the strait. At some point in antiquity, nevertheless, ‘Cimmerian’ replaced ‘Thracian’, and the compiler of the text for TC recorded ‘Cimmerian’. Whether the errors arose from misreading Hecataeus, Herodotus, Hellanicus, Ctesias, Ephorus, or whomever, it may never be determined. Someone, well aware that the Scythians against whom Darius campaigned lived in the ‘Cimmerian region’ of the Crimea, assumed that the Bosporus which Darius bridged on his Scythian expedition was the ‘Scythian Bosporos’. This transfer of adjectives then became recorded in early Roman imperial chronography. All this seems to me to be a lectio difficilior. I prefer to take the text as it is,61 so I am ready to accept that Darius bridged (ζεύ[ξ]α[ς]) the Cimmerian Bosporus.62 Nevertheless, not in 514/3 BC, which would be contrary to all our evidence, but still in 519, when, coming from the Taman Peninsula (see next point), he penetrated into the Crimea by crossing the Kerch Strait. Thus, I identify this ‘bridge’ with the tree-trunks of DB ([d]rax[t]ā). By the way, crossing a sea by means of tree-trunks is not very plausible, and much less with a lot of soldiers on ‘board’, while crossing a strait, i.e. bridging it by the 57

 Balcer 1972a, 103.  Cf. Dandamaev 1989, 138. 59  For example Shahbazi 1982, 202–03, who does not offer any comment on the Cimmerian Bosporus. 60  Balcer 1972a, 128. 61  Once again Yailenko (2010, 11) rightly remarked this disturbing ‘detail’. He connects the Tabula Capitolina with Ctesias and DB V 20–30 (see n. 52), but he considers that this conquest had already been achieved by Cyrus the Great, a thesis I cannot accept. Cf. Tsetskhladze 2013, 213; Zavoikin 2015, 243. 62  For an exhaustive treatment of sources see Dan and Gehrke 2016. A big Russo-German interdisciplinary project focused on a ‘second Bosporus’ in the same area is now in progress. 58

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same technical means would appear as a very common operation. The bridge built over the Thracian Bosporus by the Samian Mandrocles (Herodotus 4. 83 and 87–89) when Darius passed into Europe in 514/3 BC or the bridge over the Danube (Herodotus 4. 97) during the same expedition are only two examples related to the same king.63 If we are ready to accept this reconstruction, we become able to identify the ‘sea’ (drayah-) mentioned in DB: it is the Kerch Strait; therefore, one of the expeditions I am inclined to distinguish in the description given by this monument took place in the area between the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov.64 On the other hand, it is also possible that on the same occasion the supposed Ariaramnes (see Ctesias) crossed the Azov in order to attack the Scythians: it would be anyway more plausible than an expedition having as starting point Cappadocia or Sinope. Moreover, the Scythians were not in the Crimea at that time but further north, in the hinterland.65 Thus, the three sources I discussed until now (DB, Ctesias and the Tabula Capitolina) become harmoniously connected each another. Nonetheless, the Tabula Capitolina remains, in my opinion, a sound chronological mark for the ‘Herodotean’ expedition, 514/3 BC. We have only to assume a confusion between an older tradition about Darius’ exploits in the Maeotis and the ‘Herodotean’ expedition of the same king. The chronographer might have known something about the events in the area of Kerch Strait (Ephorus?, Ctesias?) but being convinced, thanks to Herodotus’ popularity, that they belonged to the famous ‘Herodotean’ expedition he was supposed to date by synchronism with Hipparchus’ murder, he sloppily referred to it. This bridge over the Kerch Strait might be, I suggest, the same in Strabo 7. 3. 9, where the geographer uses Ephorus: And he [Ephorus] cites Choerilus also, who, in his The Crossing of the Pontoon-Bridge which was constructed by Darius (εἰπόντα ἐν τῇ διαβάσει τῆς σχεδίας, ἣν ἔζευξε Δαρεῖος), says ‘the sheep-tending Sacae (Σάκαι), of Scythian stock; but they used to live in wheat-producing Asia; however, they were colonists from the Nomads, lawabiding people’. Now, Choerilus, a Samian poet from the end of the 5th century BC, was not a Persian for whom all Scythians were Sakā, and he demonstrates through the accurate explanation he offers that he was well informed on this matter. Therefore, we are invited to ask: what have Sacae to do with the bridge over the Thracian Bosporus?66 Is it not easier to admit that the poet cited by Ephorus, who wrote, we know, a poem devoted to the wars between Greeks and Persians, had the bridge over the Kerch Strait in mind? 63  For pontoon bridges built by Persians, see a discussion and references including the [d]rax[t]ā of DB V, l. 24, in Rung and Gabelko 2018, 858–59, n. 43. 64  If Ehsan Shavarebi is right in restoring at l. 4 of the inscription from Phanagoria [ …  : draya : viyata]˹r˺ayam, ‘I crossed the sea’ (see nn. 15–16), we would have an echo in this document itself. 65  See below, n. 119. 66  Shahbazi (1982, 201) cites this testimony but considers that the pontoon bridge was that across the Thracian Bosporus. Baladié (1989, 193) argues that the two stelae set up by Darius when he crossed the Thracian Bosporus (Herodotus 4. 87, quoted above) ‘énuméraient les peuples qu’il avait emmenés avec lui’ and that ‘c’est à cette liste que Choirilos … avait emprunté les noms des peuples scythes participant à l’expédition.’

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4. Once Again about Herodotus’ Narrative of Darius’ Expedition Scholars agree at least on one point: while describing in his Book 4 the Persian campaign against the Scythians, Herodotus is lamentably confusing and scandalously replete with contradictions. We can follow the itinerary of the Persian army only until the Danube and, more or less, some steps abroad (4. 97–98 and, during the retreat, 4. 140–141) and then – a big surprise – across the Tanais (4. 122) and in the land of the Budini (4. 122–123), unsafely located somewhere in the ‘far East’. First of all, it is really impossible that this army traversed this enormous distance.67 Secondly, such a campaign supposes the crossing of more major rivers, therefore, the building of several bridges. What about these bridges? Herodotus tells us in great detail elsewhere of those over the Thracian Bosporus and the Danube, but is silent on bridging the Dniester, the Dnieper, etc., significant and necessary if Darius really continued his campaign further eastwards. And thirdly, Herodotus writes (4. 124) that shortly before his decision to move back, Darius erected eight fortifications (τείχεα) on the River Oaros.68 What reason for building forts before an imminent retreat? All this has encouraged some scholars to seek alternative solutions. The first attempt was made many years ago by G.F. Hudson in a note on the Budini mentioned by Herodotus (especially in 4. 108–109 and 122–123)69 in the context of Darius’ campaign,70 and ingeniously exploited and developed many decades later by John Gardiner-Garden. In the words of the latter:71 It is virtually possible to cut Herodotus’ narrative in half. His narrative would seem to contain two stories. One centred on the Danube and one centred on the Boudinoi. It is possible that Herodotus, in his attempt to reconcile the stories he’d heard on his travels to the Black Sea and Persia and to produce a full and continuous narrative of Darius’ Scythian campaigns, had inadvertently linked together accounts of two separate Persian expeditions against Scythians. On the other hand, Bruno Jacobs suggested another reconstruction.72 He also cut the expedition in half, but he preferred to see a synchronic pincer movement (Zangenbewegung): an army attacking Thrace and later crossing the Danube and advancing until the Dnieper (Borysthenes) under the leadership of the Great King and another one crossing 67  Sulimirski 1985, 190–91; Georges 1995, 124; Jacobs 2000, 96; Tuplin 2010, 283. Kuznetsov (2019, 14) believes that Darius stopped on the River Tanais. 68  It is impossible to identify this river. It could perhaps be the Sal, a left tributary of the Don (Jacobs 2000, 96), anyway more probable than the Dnieper (Schramm 1973, 113–16; Harmatta 1990, 129; Corcella, in Corcella and Medaglia 1993, XXII [and also in Asheri et al. 2007, 661–62]; Archibald 1998, 81) but the Volga (preferred, for example, by Hudson 1924, 160; Schnitzler 1972, 66; Gallotta 1980, 69; Sulimirski 1985, 190) cannot be ruled out (see below). For other identifications, see Chernenko 1984, 92 (a river in the Maeotic area) and Gardiner-Garden 1987a, 333 (Kuban). 69  On their disputed location, see Corcella, in Asheri et al. 2007, 594–95, 657 and 661. 70  Hudson 1924; duly followed more recently by Kuklina 1985, 139–40. Hudson adduces the expeditions mentioned by Ctesias and DB V ‘of which Herodotus seems to have been entirely ignorant’ (pp. 161–62) and concludes: ‘but if Herodotus heard from a trader of Olbia about the attacks on the Budini, and from Ionian sources about the proceedings of Darius on the Danube, his ignorance of the situation of the Budini relative to the Asiatic frontiers of Persia may well have led him to connect together the two groups of events’ (Hudson 1924, 162). 71  Gardiner-Garden 1987a, 331. 72  Jacobs 2000; 2006.

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the Great Caucasus73 and reaching the River Sal (identified with Herodotus’ Oaros), where the eight forts have been built.74 Moreover, he connected Ariaramnes’ naval expedition (see Ctesias) with the advance to the Taman area of the eastern force of Persian troops.75 I am rather attracted by the idea of two distinct campaigns. Following the postscript in DB, I would see a campaign over the Great Caucasus in 519 BC, to which I am ready to attribute the exploits mentioned in the last part of Herodotus’ narrative, and in particular the attempt to fortify the northern point reached by the army (being unable to identify the Oaros, I cannot say exactly where). We can infer from the same Herodotus that it was a time when Persians dominated not only Colchis (south of the Great Caucasus) but also a territory situated to the north of these mountains. The crucial passage in Herodotus 3. 97. 4 has been translated as follows: Gifts were also required of the Colchians and their neighbours as far as the Caucasian mountains (which is as far as the Persian rule reaches, the country north of the Caucasus paying no regard to the Persians). This translation is somewhat broken. The Greek text has τὰ δὲ πρὸς βορέην ἄνεμον τοῦ Καυκάσιος Περσέων οὐδὲν ἔτι φροντίζει, therefore, as Nieling accurately remarked, ‘οὐδὲν ἔτι should be understood in a temporal sense and not from a geographical or gradual aspect. The people to the north of the mountains regard the Persians not any longer at Herodotus’ own time of writing sometime between 447 and ca. 425.’76 It means that at some occasion to be sought between Darius’ reign and the third quarter of the 5th century these territories had been lost by Persians.77 A supplementary argument can be inferred from the fact that, trusting Herodotus (4. 124), under the pressure of Scythians, ‘Darius then left those forts but half finished’ (ὁ Δαρεῖος τείχεα μὲν ἐκεῖνα ἡμίεργα μετῆκε) and that ‘the ruins of which were standing even in my lifetime’. Moreover, it is interesting to remember that Herodotus (4. 1. 1) introduces his story of Darius’ campaign against Scythians by the following assertion: ‘after the taking of Babylon, Darius himself marched against the Scythians’. Knowing, thanks to DB III, ll. 83-92, that Babylon has been recaptured by the Persians in November 521 BC, it looks very possible that one of Herodotus’ informants (a Persian?)78 told him that a 73

 Even if not cited by Jacobs 2000, Georges (1995, 133), went in the same direction: ‘possibly Darius sent other Persians along the Caucasian coast of the Black Sea at the time of his western campaign’. He refers in this context to Ariaramnes’ naval expedition (Ctesias). 74  Jacobs 2000, 97, where he adds: ‘Die westlichen Beobachter, namentlich Herodot, bekamen dabei vor allem Kunde von dem westlichen Heeresflügel, zumal dieser unter persönlicher Führung des Herrschers stand. Von dem Heeresarm, der sich über den Kaukasus bewegte, wußten sie dagegen nichts, so daß alles, insbesondere die Wehranlagen, die sichtbaren Zeugnisse jener Unternehmung, schließlich mit dem westlichen Truppenkontingent in Verbindung gebracht wurden.’ 75  Jacobs 2000, 98. 76  Nieling 2010, 132. Cf. Tsetskhladze 2013, 214. 77  Same opinion at Jacobs 2000, 100: ‘Wenn die Nordgrenze des Achaimenidenreiches zu Lebzeiten des Herodot also am Kaukasus lag, wäre der Verlust der zis-kaukasischen Gebiete zwischen 512 [the date he assumes for the Persian secondary expedition] und der Mitte des 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. einzuordnen.’ He tried to date more accurately the moment when Persians lost the Ciscaucasian territories, possibly about 480 BC. 78  Miller (1959, 33–34), suggested that one of the sources ‘belongs to the circle of Zopyrus’. Indeed, Herodotus mentions (4. 160) that Zopyrus, Darius’ general, had a homonymous grandson ‘who deserted from the Persians to Athens’. It is, in fact, surprising that Herodotus concentrates his narrative of the siege

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campaign against Sakā (an ambiguous ethnic, as we have already seen)79 took place shortly after the fall of Babylon and that, combining this information with what he heard from the North Pontic Ionians, he compressed this expedition (to which would correspond, as I suggest, the episodes involving the Budini, the other peoples of the ‘far East’ and the forts built on the Oaros) with that through Thrace and the area between the Danube and the Dnieper in one and the same campaign. Therefore, I think that thanks to this cluster of membra disiecta we can reconstruct the Persian campaign of 520/19 BC as follows (the dating is safely secured by DB): 1. An army under Darius passed the Great Caucasus moving to the north. 2. This terrestrial army seems to have been accompanied by sea by a fleet led by Ariaramnes (Ctesias).80 3. Arriving to the Kerch Strait (the ‘sea’, drayah- in DB), Darius was attacked by the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’ and must move against them. His generals won the battle and captured their leader Skuncha (DB), who very probably would then be the same as Ctesias’ ‘Marsagetes’. 4. Despite this unexpected event, Darius continued his plan, bridged the Cimmerian Bosporus (Tabula Capitolina) and crossed the strait (the ‘sea’) by means of tree-trunks (DB), therefore, he reached the Crimea. 5. On the same occasion Ariaramnes undertook a naval demonstration (Ctesias) in Scythian land (not in the Crimea, but perhaps to the northern or western shore of the Azov Sea, so far he used penteconters, and not tree-trunks). 6. On the other hand, in order to secure his conquests, Darius ordered to set up the eight forts on the (unfortunately not safely located) Oaros (Herodotus 4. 124). Nevertheless, this reconstruction needs answers to two questions: 1) How do we explain the unanimous silence concerning the fate of Greek cities (Phanagoria on the Taman Peninsula, Panticapaeum and others in the Crimea)?; and 2) Who exactly were the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’? Concerning the first point I only can answer by an analogy. When Darius penetrated into Thrace in 514/3 BC he surely occupied the West Pontic Greek cities,81 although this does not occur in Herodotus’ narrative. He only mentions (4. 93): But before he came to the Ister, he first subdued the Getae, who pretend to be immortal. The Thracians of Salmydessus and of the country above the towns of Apollonia and Mesambria, who are called Cyrmianae and Nipsaei, surrendered themselves unresisting of Babylon on Zopyrus’ exploits, while DB explicitly reports that Darius conducted the operations himself. This has indeed all the chances to look like a family story. Cf. Shahbazi 1982, 231–32. 79  Almost in the same direction is Rapin 2018, 34, n. 62: ‘Hérodote IV 83–143 a confondu les deux expéditions contre les Scythes en plaçant le récit de l’expédition en Europe dans le cadre chronologique des événements centre-asiatiques de 519/518.’ 80  On the one hand, it was typical for Persians to organise such double expeditions. The best examples are Darius’ campaign in Thrace (accompanied by the fleet until the Danube, see below) and especially Xerxes’ invasion in Greece in 480 BC. On the other hand, I agree on this point with Petit (1990, 205, n. 421) (above, n. 49), when he remarks that it is not likely that a ‘satrap’ had the competence to lead such a campaign without being supervised by the king himself. 81  Avram 2017, 8–11.

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to Darius; but the Getae, who are the bravest and most law-abiding of all Thracians, resisted with obstinacy, and were enslaved forthwith.82 No doubt the Greek cities did not offer resistance to the Persian army: it would have been logistically and strategically impossible. We can safely suppose the same for Phanagoria and the cities in the Crimea. On the other hand, the fact that these events are not mentioned in DB does not constitute a counter-argument: no fight, no glory, therefore, no immortalisation on royal monuments. The victories over the Scythians and Sakā ‘with pointed cap’ seem to have been considered more important by royal propaganda: it was enough to mention that ‘the country became mine’ (DB). On the other hand, attention should be paid to the fact that, after reaching the Danube at the term of his Thracian expedition, Darius abandoned the ‘Ionian’ fleet which had accompanied him along the western coast of the Black Sea.83 It is hard to believe that a campaign was supposed to be successful in the hinterland without logistical support coming from the shore.84 If Darius no longer needed his fleet, it means that he counted on Persian garrisons already installed in the Greek cities of the Crimea and perhaps also in Tyras and Olbia, which were situated between the Danube Delta and the Crimea. We do not know anything about Tyras and Olbia in this context, but the hypothesis that they too were under Persian domination since 519 BC or, alternatively, that they were occupied at this moment should not be ruled out. Anyway, in my view, the fact that Darius renounced his fleet at the Danube indirectly demonstrates that the Persians already dominated the North Pontic shore, and in particular the Greek cities of this area, and that they installed there, as usual, their garrisons. Therefore, this may have happened before 514/3 BC. As for the second point, the identification of the Sakā ‘with pointed cap’, the situation is rather hopeless. We know so little about the geography and ethnography of the Caucasus and Central Asia; moreover, Herodotus is so confusing in his descriptions, that it is hard to arrive at firm conclusions. Persian royal inscriptions mention at least three groups of Sacae: Sakā haumavargā, Sakā tigraxaudā (‘with pointed cap’) and Sakā (tayai) paradraya (‘beyond the sea’). Only the first, the so-called Amyrgian Sacae, can be more or less safely located in Central Asia somewhere between the Amu-Darya and Sir-Darya rivers. The Sakā tigraxaudā are very probably the same as the Massagetae and scholars seem to agree to locate them between 82  This was only the first step of a wider project. After returning to Asia Minor Darius ordered Megabazus to continue his work (Herodotus 4. 143–144). For the steps of Persian occupation of a part of Thrace from Darius (514/3 BC) to Mardonius (492 BC), see Castritius 1972; Hammond 1980; Balcer 1988; Loukopoulou 1989, 89–92; Briant 1996, 156–58 and 931–32; Archibald 1998, 81–87. 83  Herodotus 4. 89: ‘He had bidden the Ionians to sail into the Pontus as far as the river Ister, and when they should come thither to wait for him there, bridging the river meanwhile; for the fleet was led by lonians and Aeolians and men of the Hellespont. So the fleet passed between the Dark Rocks and made sail straight for the Ister, and, having gone a two days’ voyage up the river from the sea, set about bridging the narrow channel of the river where its divers mouths part asunder.’ 4. 97: ‘When Darius and the land army with him had come to the Ister, and all had crossed, he bade the Ionians break the bridge and follow him and the men of the fleet in their march across the mainland.’ 4. 136: ‘the Ionians, who were in their ships’ waited for Darius coming back to the Danube. 84  Cf. Briant 1996, 155: ‘Ce qui paraît surprenant, c’est que Darius a laissé la flotte grecque à l’embouchure du Danube. Une telle stratégie implique que les objectifs territoriaux du Grand Roi ne devaient pas être lointains: dans le cas contraire, il aurait adopté la tactique traditionnelle, qui consistait à faire progresser ensemble l’armée de terre et l’armée de mer, celle-ci pouvant ainsi ravitailler la première.’

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the Aral and the Caspian,85 but we ignore the northern limits of their dispersion. In my view no serious reason stands in the way of extending their domain of influence north of the Caspian Sea, possibly to the Volga Delta.86 It was perhaps from there that, under Skunkha’s command, they attacked Darius in 519 BC when the latter arrived at the (Azov) Sea (DB). As has been observed, contrary to other Sacae involved in the events marking the first years of Darius’ reign that are depicted in DB, Skunkha was not an insurgent, i.e. the leader of an already occupied territory under Cyrus the Great or Cambyses who rebelled against Persian rule, but an outsider, a new enemy of Persians, the maθišta of a territory that fell under Persian domination as recently as the campaign of 520/19.87 If I am not wrong in my idea of locating Skunkha’s domain somewhere in the northern part of the large area between the Aral and the Caspian, possibly even north of the Caspian up to the Volga Delta, the eights forts mentioned by Herodotus (4. 124; see above) could be successfully sought in this area: Oaros could then be the Volga, as several scholars inclined to move Darius’ operations to the ‘far East’ have already assumed.88 As for the Sakā (tayai) paradraya, the dominant (but not unanimous!) scholarship assimilates them with the ‘European’ Scythians (see next section).

III. FURTHER EVIDENCE

FOR THE

RESULTS

OF THE

CAMPAIGN

OF

519

Achaemenid royal inscriptions89 can help, I think, in identifying the above-mentioned Sakā (tayai) paradraya (beyond the sea), possibly also the Greeks (Yaunā) living in the Pontic area. DPe 12          … Lydia (Sparda), the Greeks 13 of the mainland (Yaunā tayai uškahyā) and (those) who 14 (dwell) in the sea (utā tayai drayahyā)90 and the lands which 15 (are) beyond the sea (utā dahyāva tayā para draya) … 85

 See the discussion summarised in Lebedynsky 2006, 39–49.  Schnitzler (1972, 62–63), who had localised the first part of the war against the Sakā tigraxaudā in the area of the Caspian, suggests that Darius crossed the Caspian Sea (drayah- in DB) in order to move to its western parts and to conquer the territory between it, the Black Sea and the Great Caucasus: a preparation for the expedition against North Pontic Scythians from 514/3 BC. Nagel (1982, 63), prefers (gewiß) the Aral Sea (also Nagel 1983, 171). Jacobs (1994, 258) is also sure (offensichtlich) that the sea Darius crossed (from east to west) was the Aral and assumes that the king conquered on this occasion a new territory between the Caspian and the Aral. This would have been, in his opinion, Skunkha’s domain. The same region is admitted by Gardiner-Garden 1987b, 28–29, but with the addition that the personal name ‘Siraces’ used by Polyaenus for one of the ‘Sacae’ (above, n. 44) may encourage the view that ‘as the references to Sirakoi in the Kuban-North Caucasus region in the late fourth century BC can be interpreted as alluding to their recent arrival from the north, and as archaeological investigations suggest the bearers of the “Sarmatian” presence in the Kuban and north Caucasus in the late fourth century BC had come from the region of the lower Volga, then it is clear that the “Sirakoi” might only have had a homeland on the north Caspian coast for the whole of the 6th and 5th century.’ See also Gardiner-Garden 1986, 220–21. 87  Schnitzler 1972, 56–57; Nagel 1983, 172; Dandamaev 1989, 139–40. 88  See above, n. 68. 89  Numbering after Kent 1950; edition following Schmitt 2009. My own translations partially influenced by: Kent 1950; Lecoq 1997; Kuhrt 2007; and Schmitt 2009. For extremely detailed recent treatments of the problems put by these lists, see Dan 2013; Rapin 2018. 90  Rhyme in ll. 13–14, uškahyā / drayahyā: cf. Schmitt 2016, 98 and 110. 86

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This inscription has, in my opinion, every chance of being the oldest of the series which concerns us here. Neither Thrace (Skudra) nor Libya (see below) are mentioned, a fact that seems to point to a date before 513 (end of Darius’ campaign in Thrace). The Greeks ‘of the mainland’ are beyond doubt those from the Aegean coast of Asia Minor and those ‘who (dwell) in the sea’ are those dwelling in Aegean islands.91 ‘Beyond the sea’ may basically signify, in geographical order, ‘beyond the Sea of Marmara’ but there is no other example of such a formula in other inscriptions: the lands beyond the Marmara Sea, i.e. in Europe, are designated as Skudra (and having none Skudra here, these territories can be ruled out). Therefore, ‘beyond the sea’ can only mean ‘beyond the Black Sea’.92 The plural ‘the lands’ may have referred to both those who will be later called Sakā tayai paradraya, ‘Sakā beyond the sea’, i.e. the Scythians of the northern Black Sea, and the Greek cities on the shore. I am, thus, inclined to date DPe during the interval 519–513. DSe (all the lines are restored after Stève 1987, 59a) 27             … Lydia (Sparda), the Greeks 28 (who are) in/on the sea (Yaunā tayai drayahyā), the Sakā 29 beyond the sea (Sakā tayai paradraya), Thrace (Skudra), the Greeks 30 beyond the sea (Yaunā tayai paradraya), the Carians … This list has as advantage that it can be soundly dated to 513/2 BC. As Jacobs accurately observed, the mention of Thrace offers indeed a sound terminus post quem, 513 BC. But, on the one hand, Libya is not mentioned among the subject countries; on the other, we can date the beginning of the campaign in Libya thanks to Herodotus, who informs us (4. 145. 1) that this happened ‘about the same time’ (τὸν αὐτὸν δὲ τοῦτον χρόνον) as Megabazus was left by Darius as strategos in Europe after the campaign from 514/3 (4. 143), i.e. in 513 BC. The terminus ante quem would then be 512 BC.93 Another argument for this early dating is, in my opinion, the absence of Yaunā takabarā, very probably Greeks from Macedonia and/or Thessaly (see just below). The distinction between Greeks ‘in/on the sea’ and those ‘beyond the sea’ is here more than clear. Nevertheless, the designation ‘beyond the sea’ is too general: either Greeks beyond the Sea of Marmara94 or Pontic Greeks, i.e. beyond the Black Sea (western and/or northern shores).95 The Sakā ‘beyond the sea’ are, however, ‘European’ Scythians (see next document). DNa 28 … Lydia (Sparda), Ionia (Yauna), the Sakā 29 beyond the sea (Sakā tayai [pa]radraya), Thrace (Skudra), shield-wearing Greeks (Yaunā takabarā) … 91  Thus Schmitt 1999, 33–34, who compares Yaunā tayai drayahyā with Herodotus 1. 169. 2 (οἱ τὰς νήσους ἔχοντες Ἴωνες). 92  See, for example, Cameron 1975, 88: ‘“the lands which are beyond the Sea” obviously refers to Skudra or Thrace (which is otherwise not listed) and the European Scythians’. Not Greek cities from North Pontus for Tuplin 2010, 296–97; but see Tsetskhladze 2018, 483. 93  Jacobs 1994, 260. 94  Schmitt 1972; Dandamaev and Lukonin 1989, 183; Rehm 2010, 150. 95  I cannot agree with Sancisi-Weerdenburg (2001b, 3–4 and 11), who is inclined to identify the Greeks ‘beyond the sea’ with those from Cyprus, while changing therefore her previous opinion expressed in SancisiWeerdenburg 2001a. For Yaunā in royal inscriptions, see also Rollinger 2006b, 205 and 213 (table with the occurrences).

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This list is some years younger than DSe.96 It is interesting to see that the Sakā beyond the sea97 are registered between Ionia and Thrace, which was (partially) subjected only after 514/3 BC,98 itself followed by the enigmatic ‘shield-wearing Greeks’, who must be continental Greeks.99 A3Pb (Persepolis, tomb of king Artaxerxes III, formerly attributed to Artaxerxes II)100 22 This is the Lydian (i Spardi[ya]). 23 This is the Greek (iyam Yauna). 24 This is the Sakā beyond the sea (iyam Sakā paradraya). 25 This is the Thracian (iyam Skudra). 26 This is the shield-wearing Greek (iyam Yauna takabarā). The position of the Sakā paradraya between the Greeks (Ionians from Asia Minor) and the Thracians101 makes in my opinion clear that they are North Pontic Scythians.102 Royal lists observe a more or less geographical arrangement and the other Sakā are always mentioned next to other peoples from Central Asia.103 XPh 23 … the Greeks who dwell in the sea (Yaunā tayai drayahyā dārayanti) 24 and those who dwell beyond the sea (utā tayai paradraya dārayanti) … The ‘sea’ mentioned at l. 23 seems to indicate the Marmara (most common sense of the word drayah- in Achaemenid records), i.e. cities situated on both shores of this basin. 96  I suggest as terminus ante quem the year 496 BC, the date of the Scythian raid up to Thracian Chersonesus (see below, n. 116), because it is unlikely to suppose that the Scythians continued to be claimed by royal propaganda to be under Persian rule after this notorious event. 97  Cf. Schnitzler 1972, 52–53; Szemerényi 1980, 13 = 1991, 2059. 98  This does not seem to disturb Jacobs 1994, 260, in his assumption (in Nagel’s steps: see below, n. 106) that the Sakā paradraya were Sakā from Central Asia, not North Pontic Scythians. 99  For the meaning of ‘shield-wearing Greeks’ (and not petasos-wearing Greeks, as previously assumed by several scholars), see Rollinger 2006a, who concludes: ‘erscheint eine Übersetzung „schildtragend“ beziehungsweise „die die Schilde zu/bei ihren Köpfen hochheben“ am wahrscheinlichsten.’ Cf. Schmitt 2014, 67 and 250, s.v. takabara-, “schildtragend”. 100  See the discussion in Schmitt 1999, 1–25 (‘nun ist A3Pb zwar unzweifelhaft eine Replik von DNe, aber es bestehen zwischen beiden Sets in größerer Zahl auch Divergenzen’, p. 13). But ll. 24–26, that are of interest for us, are missing in DNe. 101  For a supposed satrapy called Skudra in Thrace, see, for example, Castritius 1972, 6–7 (a satrapy founded after Mardonius’ campaign from 492 BC); Hammond, in Hammond and Griffith 1979, 59–60; Hammond 1988; Pajakowski 1981; 1983. Contra: Petit 1990, 183–85; Archibald 1998, 79–90; Stronk 1998– 99; Brosius 2010, 32; Bacheva 2012. For a florilegium disputationum, see more recently Rehm 2010, 147–52; Sarakinski 2012. For the Persepolis tablets mentioning skudra- and iškudrap, see Henkelman and Stolper 2009, 298: ‘The name, as we find it used in Persian sources, is an outside denominator referring to what actually was an ethnically and culturally diverse complex including Thracian and Phrygian elements.’ I do not believe that Thrace was a satrapy, even when partially dominated by Persians since 514/3 BC, but I am convinced that the ethnic Skudra in royal inscriptions means ‘Thracian’. 102  Cf. Szemerényi 1980, 13–14 = 1991, 2059–60. 103  Cf. Tuplin 2010, 296. I discarded the Egyptian hieroglyphic inscription set up under Darius I and mentioning the ‘Sacae of marsh’ and ‘Sacae of plain’ (Posener 1936, 8 and 184–85; cf. Edakov 1976; 1980; 1986) because it seems to me impossible to locate them accurately. For the possibility that ‘Sacae of marsh’ would be ‘European’ Scythians, see Tsetskhladze 2018, 481. Nor do I touch on the rich but extremely complicated iconographic dossier of reliefs from Persepolis, Apadana, etc. depicting ‘Scythian’ delegations. I find that these representations do not allow a fine distinction between Sacae from Asia and ‘European’ Scythians.

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Consequently, ‘beyond the sea’ has all probability of being taken to designate the Greeks beyond the Black Sea. I also note in this last list (in chronological order) the absence of the ‘Sakā beyond the sea’, possibly explained by ‘an effective abandonment of Persian claims to suzerainty no later than some date in Xerxes’ reign’.104 To sum up, if we have no trustful evidence for the Greek cities of the Black Sea area (it seems very likely but it is not entirely sure that they can be recognised in ‘the lands which (are) beyond the sea’ [DPe], in ‘the Greeks beyond the sea’ [DSe], or in ‘those who dwell beyond the sea’ [XPh]), we must at least assume that the ‘Sakā beyond the sea’ (DSe [restored], DNa and A3Pb) are doubtless the North Pontic (‘European’) Scythians.105 And if so, their presence can be explained through the (successful) expedition of the year 519 BC, anyway not through the campaign of 514/3 BC, whose failure in this respect was well known.106 To the evidence furnished by Achaemenid records we can add two other testimonies suggesting a Persian domination of the Crimea, this time with direct reference to the Greek cities of this area. First of all, at least 17 Persian seals have been discovered in the Crimea, to which we could add at least four other pieces of unknown provenance but very probably found in the same area. They all date from the 5th to 4th centuries.107 Moreover, so I am informed, there is in the collection of the Hermitage Museum an unedited seal with an inscription mentioning Xerxes, which would then be the earliest piece among all of them.108 Secondly, Panticapaeum replaced its Aeginetic coin standard with the Persian one ca. 490 BC.109 Now, seals and coin standards involve bureaucratic activities: it is methodologically unsatisfactory to explain such phenomena simply through ‘influence’ or ‘commercial links’.110 Under these circumstances even the archaeological evidence suggesting a Persian presence,

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 Tuplin 2010, 296.  Cf. Rapin 2018, 34–35. 106  There exists, however, the opinion that these Sakā ‘beyond the sea’ were none other than the future Dahae mentioned under Xerxes (XPh, l. 26) and localised somewhere in West Kazakhstan: Nagel 1982, 63; 1983, 170–71; Jacobs 1994, 257–60; Jacobs 2007, 160 (‘zum anderen ist nicht nachvollziehbar, warum in Listen, die, wie Dareios in einem Falle ausdrücklich betont, den Reichsbestand dokumentieren, mit dem Schwarzmeergebiet eine Region aufgezählt worden sein soll, die niemals zum Perserreich gehört hat’, an assumption that appears now, after the discovery of the inscription from Phanagoria, as obviously untenable). See, nevertheless, Schnitzler 1972, 52–53; and in particular Calmeyer 1983, 164–66, who rightly understands through ‘sea’ in these inscriptions, drayah-, ‘Marmara-Meer, Bosporus, Schwarzes Meer und vielleicht die Ägäis’ (cf. also Calmeyer 1982, 115); Dandamaev 1989, 138 and 150–51. Even less plausible, in my opinion, is the identification of the Sakā ‘beyond the sea’ with the Getae, as by Fol and Hammond 1988, 247; duly followed by Kuhrt 2007, 491. 107  Listed and commented on in Treister 2010, 251–56. Cf. Tsetskhladze 2018, 478–79; Kuznetsov 2019, 20–21. Special attention is required by a cornelian scaraboid found in 1842 in Panticapaeum (‘Pavlovskaja battery’) representing two ‘royal sphinxes’ with winged-lion bodies and feather crowns, accompanied above by a Lydian inscription with the owner’s name (Manelim, ‘I (am the seal) of Manes’): Milchhoefer 1879, 52; Reinach 1892, 59, no. 10, with pl. XVI.10; Furtwängler 1900, 117; Lippold 1922, pl. 79.2; Boardman 1970a, 39, with pl. I.5; 1970b, 351, with fig. 834; 2000, 166–67, with pl. 5.27; Nikulina 1994, fig. 447; Treister 2010, 253, no. 5. 108  I owe this information to Gocha Tsetskhladze (e-mail 28.01.2019). It would, of course, be very important to know more about this piece. 109  Anokhin 1986, 23–24. Cf. Fedoseev 1997, 311; Nieling 2010, 131; Tsetskhladze 2018, 475. 110  As, for example, Molev 2001, 31. 105

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or at least Persian influence (a question I do not discuss here),111 needs to be re-interpreted in other terms.112 These being the data, we are allowed, I think, to speak henceforth about a ‘First Scythian War’ in 519 BC (Darius’ expedition to the Crimea, subjection of the Greek cities and of a part of Scythian lands, Ariaramnes’ naval demonstration, fortification works somewhere on the Taman Peninsula or even further to the Volga) and about a ‘Second Scythian War’ in 514/3 BC (first part of Herodotus’ narrative), continued by several Persian generals until the most successful, Mardonius’ campaign in 492 BC. Darius’ ‘Second Scythian War’ was surely much more limited than Herodotus describes it: Persians seem to have stopped their advance on the Dnieper (see above, II.4). Strabo (7. 3. 14) states: In the intervening space, facing that part of the Pontic Sea which extends from the Ister to the Tyras, lies the Desert of the Getae, wholly flat and waterless, in which Darius the son of Hystaspes was caught on the occasion when he crossed the Ister to attack the Scythians and ran the risk of perishing from thirst, army and all; however, he belatedly realised this error and turned back. To take this passage mot à mot, we could understand that Darius stopped his offensive at the Dniester (Tyras).113 Even if this could be a minimising exaggeration, I hardly see the Persian army crossing the Dnieper (Borysthenes) and advancing further east. Therefore, the main aim of the campaign would rather have been to occupy the Pontic Thrace and possibly also the maritime shore between the Danube Delta and the Crimea, i.e. just what was lacking after the conquests of the successful ‘First Scythian War’ for transforming the whole Black Sea area into a mare Persicum. From this point of view, even this second action was partially a Persian success.

IV. WHEN WAS

THE

ACHAEMENID INSCRIPTION

FROM

PHANAGORIA SET UP?

Despite the scepticism expressed by some scholars,114 we can assume that many of the Greek cities of the Pontic area – mostly founded by Miletus – participated in the Ionian Revolt in 499–494 BC. I had recently the opportunity to revisit the evidence concerning 111

 This evidence has recently been summarised in Tsetskhladze 2018, 475–79.  For recent attempts to deal with all these questions, see, but not always convincingly, Zavoikin 2015; Kuznetsov 2017 = Kuznetsov 2019. Another argument in the same direction, advanced in Koshelenko 1999 (cf. also Tsetskhladze 2013, 212; Zavoikin 2015, 242; Tsetskhladze 2018, 474; Kuznetsov 2019, 18–23), is that at Diodorus, who states that the Archaeanactids of the Cimmerian Bosporus ruled during 42 years ‘in Asia’, κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν (12. 31. 1), Ἀσία only can mean Persia, and if so, we would be invited to assume that the Archaeanactids stood since ca. 480 BC under Persian domination. Kuznetsov (2019, 23), goes even further: ‘the Archaianaktidai may have come to power in the Bosporus either themselves, aided by the Persians, or as a result of direct intervention from the latter.’ This interpretation is, of course, seductive but in my opinion not fully convincing. See also the doubts expressed on this point in Balakhvantsev 2018, 62. 113  Cf. Georges 1995, 124–26, who concludes: ‘So Strabo’s account, though further from the events, rests on Greek sources preferable on good grounds to Herodotus’ Scythian-derived war-narrative, and it conforms seamlessly with Herodotus’ Ionian-based narrative as far as the Danube bridge.’ 114  For example, Hammond, in Hammond and Griffith 1979, 60; Hammond 1988, 495–96. Contra, with valuable arguments: Zahrnt 1992, 250–54; de Boer 2004–05. 112

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Thrace and the western Black Sea cities.115 Attention should be paid in particular to the fact that in 496 BC Herodotus mentions a Scythian raid which reached Thracian Chersonesus;116 thus, it is not likely to suppose that the western Pontic cities failed to make use of this opportunity in order to eliminate the Persian garrisons installed since 514/3 BC. Moreover, in 493 BC, when the Phoenician fleet threatened Byzantium (Herodotus 6. 33. 2), more Byzantines fled to Mesambria: it is, in other words, obvious that this city was no longer under Persian rule. Finally, concerning Istros/Histria, we also have archaeological evidence for both its participation in the Ionian Revolt and its destruction in the context of Mardonius’ campaign in Thrace.117 What about the North Pontic cities? Nothing in the literary sources and little archaeological evidence. There seems to be a horizon of destruction dated to the first quarter, sometimes even more precisely to the first decade of the 5th century BC.118 Recently, Nieling and in particular Gocha Tsetskhladze have ingeniously interpreted it as reflecting Persian violent intervention after the Ionian Revolt.119 Even if we continue to expect (and to need) sometimes finer data for these destruction levels,120 this idea seems to me seductive. If the West Pontic cities, obviously more exposed to Persian 115

 Avram 2017, 11–16.  Herodotus 6. 40 (three years before Miltiades the Younger left his Thracian Chersonesus in order to escape to Athens). Cf. Vasilev 2015, 68–71. 117  Avram 2017, 3–7 and 16–19. 118  Tolstikov 1984, 26–30; Maslennikov 2001, 247 and 249; Tolstikov et al. 2003, 328; Zavoikin 2006, 103–04 and 108–09; Tolstikov 2007, 250 (he dates the beginning of the third building period, phase 1, ca. 490-480, after a destruction of the architectural complex on the Western Plateau); 2010, 351: ‘Somewhere between 490 and 480 BC the development of the urban part of the central area of Panticapaeum was temporally interrupted, probably as a result of military action. Archaeological evidence of this is provided by a layer reflecting fires and destruction in most of the centres of population on both sides of the straits – both in Panticapaeum itself and also in Porthmion, Myrmekion, Tyritake, Nymphaeum, Kepoi, Phanagoria and a number of other places.’ 119  Nieling 2010, 129–30 (Perserschutt); Tsetskhladze 2013, 215. Anyway, the Scythians can easily be ruled out, as Tsetskhladze (2018, 472–73) humorously remarks: ‘There is a fundamental problem with this: there were no Scythians in the Cimmerian Bosporus (the Taman and Kerch peninsulae) at that time. Scythians did not appear hereabouts until the middle/second half of the 5th century BC.’ It is interesting to see that Georges (1995, 134) also paid attention to ‘the archaeological evidence for destruction in some of the Greek sites of the Azov area in the later sixth and early fifth centuries’ but he connected the data he was able to collect (‘I most regret not having a first-hand acquaintance with the Soviet archaeological literature’) with Darius’ campaign from 514/3 BC. 120  It is crucial to date more exactly the moment of the destruction of Phanagoria because this can contribute decisively to the better understanding of the circumstances of the setting up of the Achaemenid stele which concerns us here. Kuznetsov (who, let us remember, dates the inscription to Xerxes’ reign) argues: ‘Phanagoria’s defensive works were destroyed at the end of the first or at the beginning of the second quarter of the 5th century BC. It therefore becomes increasingly likely that the stele was set up after the fortifications had already been demolished – otherwise its fragment would have been found in the destruction layer, not above it. Thus the archaeological context of the find enables to date the inscription under study to the reign of the Persian king Xerxes, the son of Darius I’ (Kuznetsov 2019, 18). And further: ‘As is known, several sites of the Cimmerian Bosporus bear traces of fires and devastation that occurred in the last first – early second quarter of the 5th century BC. … The discovery of the cuneiform inscription gives us fairly good reason to believe that the hostile action was carried out by the Persians’ (Kuznetsov 2019, 23). However, as I understand, the destruction of Panticapaeum is dated at least a decade earlier (cf. n. 118). Therefore, if we change the terms of the statement by assuming, on the one hand (pace Kuznetsov 2017 = Kuznetsov 2019), that the inscription belongs to Darius’ reign (before 486 BC), and on the other, that (following this time the same Kuznetsov) its stratigraphic position indicates that the monument was set up after the destruction of the city, this event must necessarily have taken place before 486 BC: this would strongly support Vladimir Tolstikov’s stratigraphic observations at Panticapaeum. 116

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reprisals, joined the insurrection, it is hard to believe that the northern Greeks did not do the same. Two pieces of evidence can be added to this thorny dossier. One is some information from Herodotus: on the one hand he writes (5. 103) that ‘the Ionians … made Byzantium subject to them and all the other cities in that region’ (about 498/7 BC), on the other hand, he mentions (6. 5) that after the city fell under Histiaeus’ control (end of summer 496 BC?), this previous leader of the revolt tried to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of Persians by capturing ‘all the ships that were sailing out of the Pontus, save when the crews consented to serve Histiaeus’ (cf. 6. 26: ‘but Histiaeus the Milesian was at Byzantium, seizing the Ionian merchant ships as they sailed out of the Pontus’). We can, therefore, suppose that among ‘all the other cities’ there were also Pontic ones that tried to supply the insurgents by crossing the Bosporus. The second piece of evidence is another passage by the same author, who seems sometimes to be underestimated, Ctesias (F 13 [22], ed. Lenfant 2004, 122 = Stronk 2010, 330–31): Δᾶτις δὲ ἐπανιὼν ἐκ Πόντου καὶ τοῦ Μηδικοῦ στόλου ἡγούμενος, ἐπόρθει νήσους καὶ τὴν Ἑλλάδα, ‘on his return from Pontus, Datis, the commander of the Persian fleet, ravaged the islands and Greece’. Since the text continues by mentioning the Battle of Marathon (490 BC) – and, this time surely wrongly, Datis’ death on this occasion – this episode can be dated shortly prior to that famous battle.121 What had Datis to do in the Pontus? Knowing on the other hand what happened in 492 BC in Thrace – and very probably also on the West Pontic coast – under Mardonius,122 we can suppose that in 492 BC a new Persian campaign in the Black Sea took place: in accordance with the usual mos Persicus, one army on the mainland (Herodotus tells only of Mardonius’ exploits in Thrace but nothing prevents us from seeing an extension at least to the Danube),123 and a fleet sailing alongside the western and northern coasts under Datis’ command. We would then have the date for Persian reprisals in the Black Sea area after the tragic end of the Ionian Revolt. I thus suppose that 492 BC would be the proper moment for the restoration of Achaemenid domination, first on the western coast, afterwards in the northern Pontus.124 I do not rule out the possibility that on the same occasion Persians celebrated their victory in Phanagoria by setting up the monumental inscription that represented the starting point for the present essay.125 Furthermore, if there was a restoration of Persian power, the solution I suggest for l. 3 of the inscription, [adam niyaçā]rayam, ‘I restored’, might find supplementary support.

121  For a general overlview of Graeco-Persian relations during the decade predating the first Persian war, see Stronk 2016–17. 122  See in particular Zahrnt 1992. 123  Avram 2017, 16–20. 124  And, consequently, where this restoration was accompanied by violence, i.e. in the majority of cases, for the destruction of the cities of this region (see, for a discussion, above, nn. 118 and 120). 125  It is not without interest to mention that shortly after the discovery of the Achaemenid stele Vladimir Kuznetsov expressed in an interview the same opinion: ‘The inscription on the stele made in the name of King Darius I is evidently devoted to the crushing of the Ionian Revolt.’ See http://volnoe-delo.ru/en/events/ news/darius-i-stele-found-in-ancient-town-of-phanagoria-in-russia/ (9.08.2016, consulted 25.02.2019). Later, following Basello’s readings and restorations, he changed his opinion, therefore, in the editio princeps he dated the inscription to Xerxes’ reign (see n. 7).

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ADDENDUM A French version of this paper (‘Les Perses en mer Noire à l’époque de Darius Ier: nouveaux documents et nouvelles interprétations’) has already appeared in Dacia n.s. 62–63 (2018–19), 169–98, and a Russian one (‘Persy v Prichernomor’e: novye dokumenty i novye interpretatsii’) in Aristeas 21 (2020), 40–88. After the manuscript of the present contribution had been submitted to the editors (October 2019) some other papers related to this question appeared, which could not be integrated into my considerations: E. Rung and O. Gabelko, ‘From Bosporus … to Bosporus. A New Interpretation and Historical Context of the Old Persian Inscription from Phanagoreia’. Iranica Antiqua 54 (2019), 83–125 (a developed version of Rung and Gabelko 2018). I.E. Surikov, ‘Neskol’ko slov k voprosu o proiskhozhdenii fragmenta drevnepersidskoi nadpisi, naidennogo v Fanagorii’. Drevnosti Bospora 25 (2020), 376–83 (admits the interpretation of Rung and Gabelko 2018 but estimates that the stele, set up in Byzantium, might have been destroyed not just after Darius went back to Asia Minor but during the Ionian Revolt, possibly on the initiative of Histiaeus). G.R. Tsetskhladze, ‘An Achaemenid Inscription from Phanagoria: Extending the Boundaries of Empire’. Ancient West and East 18 (2019), 113–51 (new valuable arguments for Persian domination on the northern shore of the Black Sea). For seals and other Achaemenid and ‘Achaemenid-inspired’ objects in Eurasia, see also M.Y. Treister, ‘Akhemenidskie “importy” na territoriyakh k severu ot granits Akhemenidskoi derzhavy’. In Iranica. Iranskie imperii i greko-rimskii mir v VI v. do n.e.–VI v. n.e. (Kazan 2017), 103–26.

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‘TIMEO DANAOS ET DONA FERENTES’: BIOGRAPHY OF A COLLECTION OF PONTIC POTTERY IN THE NATIONAL MUSEUM, BELGRADE* Staša BABIĆ

ABSTRACT The paper investigates the history of the collection of pottery originating from the areas of Olbia and Berezan on the Pontic shores, donated to the National Museum in Belgrade in 1907, from the point of view of the policy of acquisition that prompted it, the specific goals and particular research priorities it reflects, and the narrative of the past it was supposed to offer to the public in Serbia at the beginning of the 20th century. The material was collected by Col. Konstantin Milošević Milosavljević, then stationed at Novaya Praga Hersonski, at the direct request of Miloje Vasić, Curator of the Museum and university lecturer in archaeology. It was enthusiastically welcomed as a valuable asset both for public display and for comparative academic study, as the example of the high values of the ancient Greek culture. However, it was not displayed in the Museum, and the first publication (stylistic-chronological attribution of the vessels) came about almost 30 years after the acquisition. The reasons behind this turn of events are discussed in the light of particular research agenda of Prof. Vasić: he initiated the formation of the collection in order to establish verification for his erroneous hypothesis about the presence of an Archaic Greek colony deep in the Balkan hinterland, but since the material obtained did not meet his expectations, it was laid aside. Deprived of contextual evidence, the Pontic collection in the Belgrade Museum now speaks of the policy of collecting archaeological material, displaying and interpreting it, rather than about a certain segment of the archaeological past.

In September 1907, the National Museum in Belgrade received a valuable gift: a collection of pottery vessels originating from the regions of the ancient Greek settlements of Olbia and Berezan on the Pontic shores. The donation was offered by Col. Konstantin Milošević Milosavljević, an officer of the Russian army, stationed at the time at Novaya Praga Hersonski.1 Very little is known about this generous gentleman, apart from the fact that he was born in Serbia, attended training at a Russian military academy, later joined the Russian army, and finally reached the rank of a general.2 His father, Miloš Milosavljević, was a biographer of the leaders of the First Serbian Uprising (1804) against * Many thanks to Aleksandar Bandović, Curator in the Archive of the National Museum, for his inspired search through the documentation, Tatjana Cvjetićanin for her expertise in collecting and exhibiting archaeological material, Monika Milosavljević and Aleksandar Palavestra for their supreme knowledge on the strange ways of Miloje Vasić, and to Vera Krstić – the current Curator of the collection of the Greek and Hellenistic antiquities in the National Museum – for access to photographic documentation. 1  Archive of the National Museum, Belgrade (ANM), Old Inventory Book, no. 2505/2; Vasić 1908a, 298–300. 2  Perović 1954, 6–7.

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Ottoman rule and in 1869 he published the first collection of folk poems from eastern Serbia.3 It may be assumed that Col. Milosavljević inherited some of his father’s affinities for collecting traces of the past, but he left no written record of his intentions. The only preserved information about the reasons behind the gift he offered to the National Museum in his homeland comes from the person who received the Pontic pottery – Miloje Vasić, who at the time served both as the director of the museum and university lecturer in archaeology. In his report to the Serbian Royal Academy he expressed his particular gratitude to the benefactor, since ‘Mr Milosavljević responded to our previous plea’, and described the importance of the acquisition: The gift enriches the collection of classical – especially ancient Greek – antiquities. ... These objects may serve primarily for the more accurate and in-depth study of certain finds from Serbia, and on the other hand they are very precious material for the lectures in archaeology, since the students of our University will be able to get acquainted with the original products of the Ancient Greek culture.4 The creation and enlargement of an institutional collection is not a simple affair, guided by chance. On the contrary, it is the result of deliberate selection informed by certain goals that may vary throughout the life of a collection and the institution that houses it.5 The choices made in this process accurately reflect the most important tasks of the disciplinary agenda in general, the research priorities at a given time and, last but not least, the aspects of the past and topics considered the most appropriate for communication to the public.6 The fact that Vasić deliberately asked for a collection of Greek pottery from the Pontic shores indicates that he considered these particular objects as an essential addition to the collection he curated. Bearing this in mind, the aim here is to investigate the arrival of the Pontic collection to the Belgrade Museum from the point of view of the policy of acquisition that prompted it, the specific goals and particular research priorities it reflects, and the narrative of the past it was supposed to offer to the public in Serbia at the beginning of the 20th century. Indeed, Vasić emphasised both the research value of the collection (‘for the more accurate and in-depth study of certain finds from Serbia’) and its benefits for the educational tasks (‘very precious material for the lectures in archaeology’). The biography of this collection7 includes admiration for ancient Greece, movements of objects, people and ideas both in the past and in the modern times, connecting the Pontic shores and the interior of the Balkans. It therefore echoes some of the central leitmotifs of the professional biography of Gocha Tsetskhladze and the points where we have crossed paths.8

3

 Stamatović 2016.  Vasić 1908a, 299–300. 5  Weil 2002, 141–42. 6  For example, Macdonald 2006; Pearce 1990; Weil 2002. 7  Sensu Gosden and Marshall 1999. 8  The collection donated by Col. Milosavljević was exhibited in the National Museum on the occasion of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, held in Belgrade in September 2013 and organised by the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Belgrade and the National Museum and Institute of Archaeology from Belgrade. 4

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Let us start by setting the stage for the new arrivals. The National Museum in Belgrade was the first institution of its kind in Serbia, founded in 1844, shortly after the establishment of the independent state. This was the period of rapid establishment of the network of modern institutions, following the European examples in the political, economic and cultural domains.9 It has long been convincingly argued that it is hard to over-estimate the role of the past in the construction of modern identities,10 and that archaeological narratives have contributed massively to the ways in which the world is perceived over the last centuries.11 Accordingly, all over Early Modern Europe national museums provided the focal points for establishing the sense of modern national identities, essential for the functioning of nation-states.12 From the very inception, the National Museum in Belgrade was geared towards the same purpose.13 Just like its European role models, it tended to combine the specific Serbian and Balkan topoi, aimed at building the sense of national unity and pride, with European themes, linking the region with the ‘civilised world’.14 More often than not, the foundation of European identity is sought in Classical Greek culture,15 including many locally specific reflexions of this narrative.16 The National Museum in Belgrade followed this path throughout its early decades, especially under the guidance of Mihailo Valtrović (the Museum custodian from 1881 to 1905), when the first public displays emphasised the pivotal importance of Classical Antiquity.17 He put the same emphasis on ancient Greek and Roman history, art and culture in his parallel role of university professor of archaeology. Vasić was his immediate successor in both posts, taking over the leading role in the Museum upon his return from doctoral studies in Munich, in the spirit of Altertumswissenschaft ideals and under the thorough guidance of Adolf Furtwängler.18 His enthusiastic reception of the collection of pottery associated with the Pontic Greek colonies may therefore be interpreted as a logical continuation of his education, as well as the already established policy of the Museum’s acquisitions, its educational role in the public and research priorities of the nascent Serbian archaeology. However, in spite of the warm welcome, the systematic publication of the collection came about almost 30 years later, when 49 vessels were described, and stylistically and chronologically attributed on the grounds of analogies with other similar finds.19 Four of the pieces were determined as belonging to the Geometric style, and their origin was determined as Cypriot, Attic and Boeotian respectively.20 Two skyphoi, one perfume jar,  Dimić et al. 2004.  For example Bond and Gilliam 1994. 11  Diaz-Andreu 2007; Thomas 2004. 12  For example Boswell and Evans 1999. 13  Cvjetićanin 2014, 580. 14  Cvjetićanin 2014, 581–82. 15  Settis 2006; Shanks 1996. 16  Stephens and Vasunia 2010; Babić 2008. 17  Cvjetićanin 2014, 583. 18  Palavestra 2012; Palavestra and Babić 2016; Palavestra and Milosavljević 2015. 19  Harisijadis 1936. 20  Harisijadis 1936, 95–96. 9

10

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and one aryballos with painted decoration were linked to the Corinthian Orientalising style on the grounds of the analogies identified in other museum collections, from Athens to Compiègne, as well as the vessels published in the seminal work Griechische Vasenmalerei by Ernst Buschor,21 again with various geographical identifications.22 The largest number of vessels from the collection – 16 in all – were identified as belonging to the black-figure style, with a dozen of them described as Attic, one lekythos-aryballos as Attic-Corinthian, and three as Boeotian.23 Once more, the skyphoi, aryballoi, lekythoi and cups from the Belgrade collection were compared and stylistically linked to a number of vases bearing black-figure decoration from the collections of the museums in Athens, Compiègne and the Louvre, and the ones published by Buschor and Paul Jacobsthal.24 The same procedure was applied in the case of the seven red-figure pieces, three white lekythoi25 and five vessels described as South Italian,26 and for ten ‘non-ornamented’ skyphoi, kantharoi and cups.27 Rather than challenge any of these attributions, or to offer new ones, it may be productive to discuss the method according to which the contents of the collection donated by Col. Milosavljević were classified and chronologically determined.

PUBLISHING

A

COLLECTION

As is frequently the case with archaeological material donated to museums by private collectors, the group of pottery vessels entering the Belgrade Museum in 1907 was not accompanied by a detailed description of the context they came from, or at least it has not been recorded in the documentation of their arrival,28 nor in the detailed report on the new acquisitions, submitted a year later by Vasić to the Serbian Royal Academy.29 In these documents, the only definite information on the contents of the donation is that the benefactor donated ‘various objects that were collected by himself or due to his initiative, on the island of Berezan and in the region of ancient Olbia’, and that ‘the dispatch consisted of whole pots and fragments of all cultural epochs that left traces in these sites’.30 When, 30 years later, Mara Harisijadis embarked on the study of the collection, apart from the vague geographical provenance, the only quality of the pottery she could address was the style of decoration. Consequently, she concludes the analysis by stating that it is ‘une collection belle et choisie’, offering ‘un tableau approximatif du développement de la céramique grecque’.31 Since Harisijadis was an art historian, specialising particularly in mediaeval illuminated manuscripts,32 the emphasis 21

 Buschor 1913.  Harisijadis 1936, 96–97. 23  Harisijadis 1936, 98–103. 24  Buschor 1913; Jacobsthal 1927. 25  Harisijadis 1936, 103–09. 26  Harisijadis 1936, 109–10. 27  Harisijadis 1936, 110–13. 28  ANM, Old Inventory Book, no. 2505/2. 29  Vasić 1908a. 30  Vasić 1908a, 298. 31  Harisijadis 1936, 113. 32  http://www.arhivnis.co.rs/cirilica/idelatnost/br%203/charisijadis.htm. 22

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on the ‘beauty’ of the collection of Greek painted pots need not come as a surprise. The study of ancient Greek culture has a long history of venerating its artistic achievements, regardless of the disciplinary affiliation of a particular researcher.33 Consequently, Harisijadis followed the tradition and the mainstream scholarship of the time when she paid special attention to the painted decoration of the vessels, underlining the main criterion of her study by separating the group of ten ‘non-ornamented’ pots.34 She discussed the style of the objects, and ascertained that they represented ‘an approximate view of the development of the Greek ceramics’.35 Furthermore, by identifying the whole collection as ‘Greek’, Harisijadis conflated the manner of decoration with the cultural and ultimately ethnic affiliation of the producers and users of the pots.36 Finally, she was only echoing the first judgment passed by Vasić upon the arrival of the collection 30 years before, when he stated that ‘all cultural epochs that left traces in these sites’ were represented in it.37 The problem of systematic academic scrutiny of collections generated from private amateur efforts surpasses the instances of ancient Greek or any other archaeological material, and equally applies to any assortment of ‘collectables’ that may at the same time be of academic interest, including works of art or ethnographic material. Faced with the task to present to the scholarly public a newly acquired set of artefacts, authors of such catalogues do their best to offer all the information at their disposal: description of the pieces and their identification with reference to known comparanda in other collections and museums, just like Harisijadis did in the case of the Pontic collection, abundantly referring to the standard handbooks on Greek pottery such as those by Buschor or Jacobsthal. However, since apart from objects themselves, parts of amateur collections often lack other data on their provenance, such catalogue entries merely describe pieces in light of what is already known and rarely add anything new to our understanding of the culture that produced them. These entries have the appearance but not, unfortunately, the substance of true scholarship.38 In a circular line of inference, fragments of the past, depleted of contextual information, are linked to the formally similar ones and fitted into the already-established pattern. Harisijadis described the traits of the pots before her by locating them on the authoritative chronological/stylistic chart, but no additional knowledge was gained on the pots, nor on the chart itself. The long established sequence of the Greek pottery styles was once more confirmed, precisely because it was not questioned. Taken as the definite fact, the succession of modes of decoration is thus considered to be an interpretation of the past, since it offers analogies to the already known. Consequently, the potential unknown remains permanently out of the scope of such exercises.39 33

 Konstan 2014; Nevett 2017; Shanks 1996; Babić 2008; 2013.  Harisijadis 1936, 110–13. 35  Harisijadis 1936, 113. 36  Cf. Babić 2013. 37  Vasić 1908a, 298. 38  Brodie and Luke 2006, 309. 39  Cf. Babić 2018, 16, passim. 34

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Fig. 1. Black-figure cup, Col. Milosavljević Collection (photograph: National Museum, Belgrade).

The absence of contextual evidence becomes particularly acute when we bear in mind that the archaeological record does not consist solely of a physical object retrieved from the earth, but includes a network of mutually dependent phenomena and complex observations generated from the practice of controlled field work.40 Ian Hodder famously described this profound intertwining of the tangible object of archaeological research, the method of its collection and subsequent study, and the inferences about the past we produce, by stating that ‘interpretation begins at the trowel’s edge’.41 The ways in which archaeologists have conceived their study have enormously changed throughout the history of the discipline. Gavin Lucas42 identifies three distinct ways of approaching the archaeological record: as an archive of historical sources, similar to textual evidence; as a consequence of physical processes, close to formation of geological layers; and as a communication channel, where material culture conveys symbolic meanings whose ‘decoding’ is temporally, spatially and culturally contingent. Although these three modes of understanding the material we work with loosely correspond to the well-established sequence of approaches – culture-historical, processual and post-processual – they in fact transcend it and are combined in various ways. What is common to all of them, though, is the fact that, one way or another, an individual object needs to be situated in some larger pattern of other objects, natural traits, depositional conditions and so on, in order meaningfully to reconstruct the segment of the past when it was produced, used and/or discarded.43 The archaeological material collected without knowledge or concern for its wider context, on the other hand, may at best enlarge the amount of samples illustrating already known facts, or can even induce misleading conclusions,44 since instead of introducing new parameters into the research, it merely recombines a restricted number of the old ones, quite possibly perpetuating old erroneous inferences. Harisijadis scrupulously established analogies for the pots from the 40

 Lucas 1999; 2012.  Hodder 1999, 92–93. 42  Lucas 2012. 43  See also Chapman and Wylie 2016; Thomas 2004; Babić 2018. 44  Brodie and Luke 2006, 309–11. 41

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National Museum in other collections with equally depleted context,45 not adding much to our understanding of the Greek pottery. Finally, the most significant impact of the arrival of the Pontic collection, and the stylistic analysis it was subjected to, was the certified presence of Hellenic products in the Belgrade National Museum. However, they were not prominently displayed to the public,46 and their publication in an academic journal was delayed for almost three decades. After the enthusiastic reception upon the arrival, it may seem that the Pontic collection was mislaid and forgotten. Still, there is compelling indication that this was not the case and that indeed the donation of Col. Milosavljević did play an important role in the research of the person who is primarily responsible for its acquisition – Miloje Vasić.

INTERPRETING

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COLLECTION

Judging by his own report on the circumstances leading to the donation, Vasić specifically demanded Milosavljević collect the pottery in the regions of Olbia and Berezan, reasonably close to his military post at Novaya Praga Hersonski. Upon the completion of the commission, he stated very explicitly that the purpose of the obtained material is to serve ‘primarily for the more accurate and in-depth study of certain finds from Serbia’.47 Bearing in mind that Greek settlements chronologically or stylistically close to the ones on the Pontic shores have not been recognised in the Central Balkans, either by ancient written sources or by modern scholarship, one may wonder: what kind of ‘in-depth study’ did Vasić have in mind? The answer may be sought for in the fourth and final volume of his magnum opus, Praehistoric Vinča,48 published the same year as the article by Harisijadis. In this chapter, concluding his most ambitious project, Vasić was meticulously working at establishing the context for the presence of Greek pots deep in the Serbian lands. It is a detailed account of the definite similarities between the site he himself excavated – Vinča on the banks of the Danube near Belgrade – and Berezan, where Milosavljević collected the samples.49 The major part of this chapter deals with the analogies Vasić identified between the architectural (dugout houses) and funerary record at these two sites. Somewhat surprisingly, the ceramic material is not so prominent in this study and the collection in the Museum is not mentioned at all. Vasić even states that he is ‘not sufficiently familiar’ with the pottery from Berezan,50 in spite of the fact that the Pontic collection he ordered had already been at hand for almost three decades. Furthermore, this is not the only surprise offered by this chapter. The site of Vinča near Belgrade is well-known to European archaeologists, but in a context utterly different from the discussion on Greek pottery. This impressive settlement has been recognised as a reference 45

 Cf. Shanks 1999, 22–23; Snodgrass 2006, 84–87.  With the one exception mentioned in a previous footnote, the collection was never displayed as a whole. Some chosen pieces have been included in the permanent exhibition of the National Musem, as an illustration of the Classical art and style, in accordance with the prevailing approach to museum displays (Cvjetićanin 2014). 47  Vasić 1908a, 298. 48  Vasić 1932–36 IV. 49  Vasić 1932–36 IV, 145–55. 50  Vasić 1932–36 IV, 151–52. 46

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point in the study of European Neolithic and over the recent years its chronology has been firmly established by radio-carbon dates.51 On the other hand, the first field researcher of Vinča, Vasić, in his four-volume study published from 1932 to 1936,52 argued fervently that the archaeological material retrieved from Vinča was analogous in all imaginable ways to that from the Hellenic realm, and that the settlement was in fact a colony of the Ionian Greeks. The reasons behind this interpretation, bizarre from the point of view of subsequent archaeological knowledge, have been scrupulously discussed on several previous occasions.53 His idiosyncratic methodology has been scrutinised, shedding more light on the reasoning leading to his resolute conclusion that deep in the Balkan hinterland there existed a Greek outpost.54 Part of the explanation certainly lies in the deep reverence for Classical Antiquity, imbued in Vasić during his training under Furtwängler, primarily oriented towards the art of Altertumswissenschaft. His interpretation of Vinča as an Ionian colony was challenged almost immediately after the publication by many scholars both within Serbia55 and beyond,56 but Vasić held his grounds till the end of his life, working hard to establish beyond doubt that his homeland was a part of the supreme Greek civilisation. This ‘error of a philhellene’,57 leaving a deep impression on the subsequent development of archaeology in Serbia, has often been explained as a divergence of an isolated scholar, confined to his late research years.58 However, a detailed reading of his early writings59 reveals that he consistently built the case for the Ionian presence in the Middle Danube even before he started excavating at Vinča. Aleksandar Palavestra60 recognises the prototypes for the later works of Vasić, explicitly developing the model of the ‘Aegean continuity’ and arguing for the long-lasting presence of the ancient Greek culture in the Middle Danube precisely in his texts published at the time when the Pontic collection arrived to Belgrade.61 The fact that Vasić reached out to Col. Milosavljević with the request to obtain the pottery from the Pontic shores exactly at the moment of this interpretive shift may serve as an additional indication that he sought material proof of the links between the Milesian colonies on the Pontic shores and the interior of the Balkans along the Danube, long prior to his publicly announced interpretation of Vinča as a Ionian settlement. However, he did not proceed to publish the ‘in-depth study’ of the collection, and does not even mention it in any of his subsequent published writings, not even in the chapter devoted exclusively to the similarities between Vinča and Berezan.62 It may therefore be presumed that the pottery from Berezan did not meet his expectations. In the subsequent years, Vasić devoted considerable efforts to obtain first-hand knowledge of the archaeology of the Pontic shores. In 1911 he took an active part in the

 Tasić et al. 2016.  Vasić 1932–36. 53  Palavestra 2012; 2013; Palavestra and Babić 2016. 54  Milosavljević and Palavestra 2016. 55  Milosavljević and Palavestra 2016; Palavestra and Babić 2016. 56  Borić 2016. 57  Babić 2008, 128–33. 58  Palavestra 2013. 59  Palavestra 2012. 60  Palavestra 2012, 664, 667, 669. 61  Vasić 1906a; 1906b; 1908a; 1908b. 62  Vasić 1932–36 IV. 51 52

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congress organised by the Russian Archaeological Institute in Constantinople63 and was soon appointed as secretary of its newly established division devoted to the study of prehistory.64 The Institute was founded in 1895 with the purpose of strengthening the cultural development of lands newly liberated from the Ottoman rule. Its founder, Fyodor Uspensky, a leading Byzantinist, strongly argued that the archaeologists in Serbia and Bulgaria should focus on research of the periods preceding Classical Antiquity, since the Greeks and Roumanians already claimed their ancestry from these founts.65 In 1911, after the Constantinople congress, he visited Vinča and started planning joint projects with Vasić, above all the excavations at Ainos on the mouth of the Maritsa river in Thrace, facing Troy.66 The next year the Institute financed the study journey Vasić undertook to Mainland Greece, Crete and Egypt. Also in 1912, a delegation of the Institute, including Vasić and Uspensky himself, visited Ainos. Soon, war broke out and the planned excavations never took place. It is apparent, though, that the research agenda of the president of the Institute and the secretary of its prehistoric division were not in full accord: while Uspensky advocated the utmost importance of the study of prehistory in the Central and Eastern Balkans, probably arousing his interest in Vinča, Vasić was already drifting away, abandoning the Neolithic chronology of this site.67 Judging by the subsequent development of his interpretation of the Balkan past, his journeys to Greece and Egypt, as well as his intention to engage in the field research at Ainos, were primarily geared towards obtaining definite proofs that the Greek colonists did indeed travel along the Danube from the Pontic shores and that the material culture he excavated in Vinča is the result of the profound links with the Hellenic world.

COLLECTORS

AND

CUSTODIANS

On the other hand, the collection Vasić sought from Col. Milosavljević did not fulfil the purpose it was commissioned for, and was relegated to partial oblivion. Thirty years later Harisijadis related its content to the pattern of the stylistic/chronological sequence of the development of Greek ornamented pottery, not mentioning Ionian colonies on the banks of the Danube. Her account obeys the rules of the genre, limiting as they are, and restricts the analysis to the known elements of the objects: the stylistic characteristics of the decoration. Their approximate geographical provenance is mentioned in the introduction, but no inference is drawn from the fact that the pots were collected on the Pontic shores. The vessels are incorporated into the universal pattern of development of Greek art by drawing analogies from other collections, again almost without mention of the original context of the finds. It is tempting to conclude that Vasić, from his part, abstained from any further inference on the grounds of the Pontic pottery from the National Museum precisely because of the constraints of the incomplete evidence. Unfortunately, there are strong indications that he was quite relaxed concerning the context of the finds, even

63

 Vasić 1911; ANM no. 359.  Palavestra and Milosavljević 2015, 323–24. 65  Kirin 2010, 152–53. 66  Palavestra and Milosavljević 2015, 324. 67  Palavestra 2012; 2013, Palavestra and Babić 2016; Milosavljević and Palavestra 2016. 64

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Fig. 2. Lekythos, Col. Milosavljević Collection (photograph: National Museum, Belgrade).

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when dealing with his own excavations. In his paper on prehistoric cult objects, published a year after the Pontic donation and at the moment when the first field campaign at Vinča was already under way, he deliberately worked solely on the grounds of the already collected chance finds from the site, excluding the results of his own excavations.68 His explanation for this methodological choice, later rightly described as ‘ominous’,69 runs thus: It is our wish that the method applied in observing the chance finds obtains subsequent confirmation from the results of systematic excavations, so that the method itself becomes even more reliable and justified.70 Vasić was working backwards, postulating the unknown context of chance finds, and only then justifying the results of conjectures by the subsequently obtained data from excavations. This methodological statement, coupled with the interpretation it produced, once more underlines that the observations during field work are heavily influenced by preconceptions and expectations of researchers.71 Furthermore, this makes it highly improbable that Vasić laid aside the collection he himself commissioned from the Pontic region because he felt constrained by the deficiency of contextual evidence. Finally, he did not use even the ones he collected during his own excavations. The complete lack of interest in the pottery from Olbia and Berezan, in spite of the fact that it was collected and donated on his explicit request and warmly welcomed, may better be explained by the assumption that Vasić did not establish the similarities with ‘certain finds from Serbia’ he had expected. Whereas the motivation behind the abandonment of the collection may only be speculated upon, the primary intention to procure objects associated with the ancient Greeks is much simpler to explain. Over the last decades, a vast array of scholarship has been produced, thoroughly investigating the roots of the modern European narrative defining Hellenic culture as the bedrock of utmost modern values.72 The institutional academic study of Classical Antiquity gave rise to equally enthusiastic attitude of private collectors of Greek artefacts, often using archaeological heritage as symbolic capital to gain social status and prestige.73 One step further in establishing social capital74 through collecting works of art or archaeological material is to donate a collection to the public. Such collections may serve as a nucleus of a public institution’s collection, but the criteria of a private collector usually considerably differ from those applied by subsequent curators. The systematisation of the material, the emphasis on certain elements, interpretation of its importance, and even the very scope of the collection may be changed by professionals taking over the curatorship from the original owner/collector.75

68

 Vasić 1908b.  Palavestra 2012, 670–71. 70  Vasić 1908b, 119. 71  Hodder 1999; Lucas 1999; Babić 2018. 72  For example, Morley 2009; Settis 2006; Shanks 1996; Stephens and Vasunia 2010; Babić 2008. 73  Brodie and Luke 2006, 303; Nørskov 2001. 74  Sensu Bourdieu 1984. 75  Weil 2002, 148–50. 69

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On the other hand, the collection of the Pontic pottery in the National Museum in Belgrade is a strange hybrid of approaches of an individual collector and a professional curator. Prior to its arrival to Belgrade, very few finds associated with the Greek culture were kept here, mainly acquired by donations of notable individuals, including the Prince Milan Obrenović IV (later King Milan) (1854–1901, reigned 1868–99) himself. The vessels were indeed a huge and valuable increase in the Museum funds, necessary to any respectable national museum. However, the composition of the collection was not determined by the curiosity and knowledge of the person who donated it, but by the research interests of the leading figure in the institution, and indeed over the whole discipline of archaeology in the country at the time. Col. Milosavljević acted as a kind of a proxy for Vasić, his social esteem was not increased by the collection and, apart from the short note in the Museum Inventory Book, he is almost forgotten. The instructions that may have been given to Milosavljević are unknown, but on the grounds of our present insight into the methodology of Vasić, it is safe to assume that he was not particularly interested in the contextual information to accompany the finds. The result is a group of vessels that can only be analysed in the way Harisijadis did, perhaps amending some of the analogies she identified, but not getting any closer to the main current disciplinary concerns,76 nor to substantial advancement in our knowledge of the Greek settlement of the Pontic region. However, the study of the collection’s biography may offer additional insight into the history of the discipline, the conditions of knowledge we produce, its limitations and challenges.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Babić, S. 2008: Grci i drugi. Antička percepcija i percepcija antike (Belgrade). —. 2013: ‘Attributing things Greek: ancient perceptions and perceptions of antiquity’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Atasoy, S., Avram, A., Dönmez, Ş. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.) 2013: The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD) (Proceedings of the 4th International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Istanbul, 14th– 18th September 2009) (BAR International Series 2517) (Oxford), 23–27. —. 2016: ‘Arheologija na univerzitetu u Srbiji – Između zahteva struke i društva’. Arhaika 3, 1–14. —. 2018: Metaarheologija: Ogled o uslovima znanja o prošlosti (Belgrade). Bond, G.C. and Gilliam, A. (eds.) 1994: Social Construction of the Past: Representation as Power (One World Archaeology 24) (London/New York). Borić, D. 2016: ‘A View of Vinča from Cambridge: Minns’ Reviews of the 1930s Publications by Vasić’. Straživanja: Journal of Historical Researches 27, 7–32. Boswell, D. and Evans, J. (eds.) 1999: Representing the Nation, A Reader: Histories, Heritage and Museums (London/New York). Bourdieu, P. 1984: Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Cambridge, MA). Brodie, N. and Luke, C. 2006: ‘Conclusion. The Social and Cultural Contexts of Collecting’. In Brodie, N., Kersel, M., Luke, C. and Tubb, K.W. (eds.), Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and the Antiquities Trade (Gainesville, FL), 303–19. Buschor, E. 1913: Griechische Vasenmalerei (Klassische Illustratoren 5) (Munich). Chapman, R. and Wylie, A. 2016: Evidential Reasoning in Archaeology (London). Cvjetićanin, T. 2014: ‘Predmeti ili narativi. Arheološke postavke u Srbiji: utemeljenje muzejske arheologije’. Etnoantropološki problemi 9.3, 575–96. 76

 Cf. Nevett 2017.

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Diaz-Andreu, M. 2007: A World History of Nineteenth-Century Archaeology: Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Past (Oxford). Dimić, L., Jovanović, M., Trgovčević, L., Ristović, M., Stojanović, D., Marković, P., Prpa, B. and Perišić, M. 2004: Moderna srpska država 1804–2004: Hronologija. Istorijski arhiv Beograda. Gosden, C. and Marshall, Y. 1999: ‘The Cultural Biography of Objects’. World Archaeology 31.2, 169–78. Harisijadis, M. 1936: ‘Grčke vaze u negdašnjem Istorijsko-umetničkom muzeju u Beogradu (Les vases grecs)’. Starinar 10–11 (for 1935–36), 95–113. Hodder, I. 1999: Archaeological Process: An Introduction (Oxford). Jacobsthal, P. 1927: Ornamente Griechischer Vasen: Aufnahmen, Beschreibungen und Untersuchungen, 2 vols. (Berlin). Kirin, A. 2010: ‘Eastern European Nations, Western Culture, and the Classical Tradition’. In Stephens and Vasunia 2010, 141–62. Konstan, D. 2014: Beauty: The Fortunes of an Ancient Greek Idea (New York/Oxford). Lucas, G. 1999: Critical Approaches to Fieldwork: Contemporary and Historical Archaeological Practice (London/New York). —. 2012: Understanding the Archaeological Record (Cambridge). Macdonald, S. (ed.) 2006: A Companion to Museum Studies (Malden, MA/Oxford). Milosavljević, M. and Palavestra, A. 2016: ‘Vasićev zakon periferije’. Etnoantropološki problemi 11.3, 775–808. Morley, N. 2009: Antiquity and Modernity (Malden, MA/Oxford). Nevett, L.C. (ed.) 2017: Theoretical Approaches to the Archaeology of Ancient Greece: Manipulating Material Culture (Ann Arbor). Nørskov, V. 2001: Greek Vases in New Contexts: The Collecting and Trading of Greek Vases. An Aspect of the Modern Reception of Antiquity (Aarhus). Palavestra, A. 2012: ‘Vasić pre Vinče (1900–1908)’. Etnoantropološki problemi 7.3, 649–79. —. 2013: ‘Čitanja Miloja M. Vasića u srpskoj arheologiji’. Etnoantropološki problemi 8.3, 681– 715. Palavestra, A. and Babić, S. 2016: ‘False Analogy: Transfer of Theories and Methods in Archaeology (The Case of Serbia)’. European Journal of Archaeology 19.2, 316–34. Palavestra, A. and Milosavljević, M. 2015: ‘Miloje M. Vasić’. In Ković, M. (ed.), Srbi 1903–1914: Istorija ideja (Belgrade), 319–27. Pearce, S.M. 1990: Archaeological Curatorship (London). Perović, R. 1954: Prilozi za istoriju I srpskog ustanka. Neobjavljena građa (Belgrade). Settis, S. 2006: The Future of the ‘Classical’ (Cambridge). Shanks, M. 1996: Classical Archaeology of Greece: Experiences of the Discipline (London/New York). Snodgrass, A.M. 2006: Archaeology and the Emergence of Greece: Collected papers on Early Greece and Related Topics (1965–2002) (Edinburgh). Stamatović, D. 2016: Povratak u zavičaj: Miloš Milisavljević (1818–1905) (Svilajnac). Stephens, S.A. and Vasunia, P. (eds.) 2010: Classics and National Cultures (Oxford). Tasić, N., Marić, M., Bronk, R.C., Kromer, B., Barclay, A., Bayliss, A., Beavan, N., Gaydarska, B. and Whittle, A. 2016: ‘Vinča-Belo Brdo, Serbia: The times of a tell’. Germania 93, 1–75. Thomas, J. 2004: Archaeology and Modernity (London/New York). Vasić, M.M. 1906a: ‘Nekoliki praistorijski nalasci iz Vinče’. Starinar 1, 89–127. —. 1906b: ‘Prilozi ka rešavanju trojanskih problema’. Glas Srpske kraljevske akademije 70; Drugi razred 43, 163–289. —. 1908a: ‘Izveštaj o stanju i radu u Narodnom muzeju u god. 1907’. Godišnjak srpske kraljevske akademije 21, 250–324. —. 1908b: ‘Preistorijski obredni predmeti. Prilozi ka poznavanju preistorijske religije u Srbiji’. Starinar 3, 71–120. —. 1911: Izveštaj Srpskoj kraljevskoj akademiji o konferenciji Ruskog arheološkog instituta u Carigradu. Arhiv Narodnog muzeja, kbr. 359, 14 March 1911. —. 1932–36: Preistoriska Vinča, 4 vols. (Belgrade). Weil, S.E. 2002: Making Museums Matter (Washington, DC).

THE LAND OF THE SUN AND THE MOON: AN INTERPRETATION OF THE EMBLEM ON PONTIC ROYAL COINS* Luis BALLESTEROS PASTOR

ABSTRACT The star and the crescent moon represented on Pontic royal coins were a reference to the southern part of the Black Sea, which the Mithridatids claimed as their realm. The star was the sun, related to Mithra and also with the Black Sea. The crescent represented the meridional shore of this sea, whose complete coast was conceived as a circumference or an ellipse. Mithridates Eupator’s conquests in the northern Black Sea explain the coins with two opposed crescents issued in Athens in the period of Pontic domination.

One of the most significant features of the royal coins of Pontus issued between the reign of Mithridates III and that of Mithridates Eupator is the emblem that appears on their reverse. Since the 19th century, this symbol was regarded as a star and a crescent moon, and this idea has been repeated by numerous scholars (Fig. 1).1 Nevertheless, there has been no unanimity in explaining the meaning that the Pontic rulers would have given to these celestial objects. Likewise, no concrete justification has been proposed for the two confronted crescents around a star represented on the Athenian coins minted in 87/6 BC, when the city was under Mithridates’ influence and the king himself appeared as a magistrate on these issues (Fig. 2).2 Varied interpretations have been given for this hallmark on Pontic coins. It has been rightly considered as the dynastic badge of the Mithridatids, an allusion to the Anatolian territory that was called the kingdom of Pontus, or a combination of both meanings, i.e. a reference to the country and the family that ruled it.3 But, in particular, this emblem has been associated with the goddess Ma, worshipped in the temple-state of * This paper was drawn up within the Research Project FFI2015-63956-P: ‘Helenización en el Oriente grecorromano: procesos de asimilación y percepción en las culturas locales’, sponsored by the Spanish Ministry of Economy. I am grateful to Oleg Gabelko for having sent me a copy of Saprykin’s book about religion in Pontus. 1  In general on this emblem, see among others Reinach 1888a, 246; 1890, 262, 473–75; Kleiner 1953, 82; 1955, 3, 12–13; McGing 1986, 97; Olshausen 1990, 1888; Summerer 1995; Ballesteros Pastor 1996, 384; de Callataÿ 1997, 4 and passim; 2009; Erciyas 2006, 120, 126, 134; Michels 2009, 186–90. 2  On these Athenian coins of bronze, silver and gold, see among others Babelon 1889; Reinach 1888b, 113–14; Head 1911, 385; Thompson 1961, nos. 1143–46, cf. 351, n. 2 (where the originality of the two crescents is highlighted); McGing 1986, 126 (with further bibliography); Kroll 1993, 66–74, no. 97. 3  About the land of Pontus, see Kleiner (1953, 82; 1955, 12), who stresses on the fact that the coins of Pharnaces II did not bear this symbol. Representing the dynasty: Reinach 1890, 262; Bernard 1993, 15–16; Summerer 1995, 305; Erciyas 2006, 125; Michels 2009, 189–90 (with further bibliography). Rep-

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Pontic Comana, or with Ahura-Mazda, in view of the Persian origins of the dynasty.4 Likewise, a relationship has been established with *Khvarenah, the Iranian concept of glory and splendour, in this case attributed to the Pontic kings.5 In recent decades, however, the most prevalent hypothesis is that this symbol was an allusion to Men, a lunar god who had a star on his head.6 This would relate to the oath to Men that the Pontic kings, from Pharnaces I onwards, swore in the sanctuary of Ameria when they were crowned (Strabo 12. 3. 31). At the same time, it has been thought that the star and the crescent expressed a syncretism between the Persian roots of the dynasty and the autochthonous Anatolian substrate, since Men has been linked to Mao, an Iranian god of the moon.7 Letting his imagination fly, Reinach came to relate this emblem with a passage of Herodotus (7. 37. 4), where it is said that the sun is a prophetic symbol for the Greeks while the moon is proper to the Persians in a similar way, so we may be witnessing the happy conjunction of the Iranian and Hellenic traditions of the Mithridatid line.8 In this paper, my aim is to argue that the star on the coins represented the sun, related to Mithra and also to the Black Sea, regarded by the Greeks as the land of the rising sun. The crescent moon was a reference to the southern coast of this sea, whose shape was contemplated by ancient navigators (and probably by the Persians) as a crescent moon with its horns pointing up.

Fig. 1. Stater of Mithridates Eupator (after Head 1911, 501).

resenting both the dynasty and the land: Olshausen 1990, 1888; Ustinova 1999, 273; cf. McGing 1986, 97; Højte 2009b, 149. 4  Brett 1955, 180; cf. Reinach 1888a, 246; Oikonomides 1975, 71. In particular, on Ma, see Price 1968, 3; Erciyas 2006, 126. Reinach (1888a, 246) proposed a conjunction between two gods worshipped in Cappadocia: Apollo Cataonios (Mithra/the sun) and Ma (the moon): cf. Labarre 2009, 396–97. Likewise, Olshausen (1990, 1889) suggested a confluence between Men (the moon) and Ahura-Mazda (the star). In fact, the sun and the moon were considered as divine beings by the Zoroastrians: Panaino 2015, 246–47. On the meaning of the stars among the Eastern rulers of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, see further Gariboldi 2004; Comparetti 2007; Bechtold 2011, 115–27 and passim. 5  Melikian-Chirvani 1993, 29, n. 26. The moon was related to *Khvarenah: Panaino 2015, 246. On this concept, see in general Gnoli 1999. This Iranian dimension has been also emphasised by Michels 2009, 189. 6  Kleiner 1953, 81; 1955, 12–13; Bernard 1993, 16; Summerer 1995; Højte 2009b, 155; Michels 2009, 189 (with further bibliography). This relationship was already suggested by Reinach 1888a, 246–47. Saprykin (2009a, 142–60; 2009b, 262–63) points to the assimilation between Ahura-Mazda, Men and Mithra. Fulinska (2012, 395–96), highlights the resemblances between the iconographies of Men and Mithra. On the representations of Men, see de Hoz 2002; Labarre 2009, 396–99. For the possible association of the symbol with other deities, see Erciyas 2006, 120. 7  Mitchell 2007, 161 with n. 23. 8  Reinach 1888a, 246–47.

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Fig. 2. Athenian stater issued in 87/6 BC (after Head 1911, 385).

THE SUN Already in the 19th century, Meyer and Reinach proposed that the star engraved on Pontic coins was actually the sun. Some later scholars followed this point of view, although most of them opted for a neutral position, simply telling of ‘a star’.9 Thereafter, the interpretation of this celestial object as the sun has been linked to the cult of Mithra, spread through the Black Sea coast by Achaemenid influence. In this sense, it has been observed that the star on Pontic coins has eight rays, as occurs with the heavenly body associated to Mithra, solar god of the Persian pantheon.10 In addition to this, a passage of Florus (1. 40. 1), probably taken from Pompeius Trogus, described Aeetes as the mythic founder of the lineage of the kings of Pontus.11 As we know, in the minds of the Greeks the land of Colchis was placed on the eastern edge of the world, where the sun arose, and hence its king Aeetes, the owner of the Golden Fleece, was the son of Helios.12 Thus, the Mithridatids, self-proclaimed heirs of this legendary ruler, would have chosen the symbol of the sun as a way to extol the founder of their realm. By doing so, the Pontics reflected their sovereignty over the Black Sea: in fact, Aeetes became recognised as the king of the whole Euxine, and his son was the ruler of the Cimmerian Bosporus and founder of Panticapaeum, the capital of the Bosporan dynasts.13 In general terms, the Archaic Greek conception had placed this sea as a part of Scythia with vague boundaries, hence it could be thought that Aeetes ruled this entire region.14 9  Meyer 1879, 54; Reinach 1888a, 246; cf. Reinach 1890, 262, 473–75, where this symbol is just described as a star. See further, among others, Kleiner 1953, 82; McGing 1986, 24, 33, 97; Summerer 1995; de Callataÿ 1997, 4 and passim; Erciyas 2006, 125–34; Ustinova 1999, 270–74; Michels 2009, 187–90. Olshausen (1990, 1888) and Michels (2009, 188) point to both possibilities. 10  Tsetskhladze 1992, 120; 1999, 21–22. 11  Ponticae gentes a septentrione in sinistrum iacent, a Pontico cognominatae mari. Harum gentium atque regionum rex antiquissimus Aeetas, post Artabazes, inde Mithridates omnium longe maximus. On the possible Trogan origin of this passage, see Ballesteros Pastor 2013, 96. 12  On Aeetes, see in general Gantz 1993, 340–41; Dräger 1996. On Colchis as the eastern limit of the world and land of the rising sun, see for instance Odyssey 12. 3–4; Apollonius of Rhodes 1. 84–85; Braund 1994, 15; 1998, 290; Endsjø 1997; Thalman 2011, 121. 13  Stephanus of Byzantium s.v. Pantikapaion; Minns 1913, 569, n. 10. 14  Ballabriga 1986, 239; Ballesteros Pastor and Álvarez-Ossorio 2001, 11; cf. Braund 2004, 18, n. 57. On the confusion between Colchis and Scythia in the classical authors, see further Kleywegt 2005, 43–44; cf. Endsjø 1997.

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Furthermore, it is worth noting that Mithra, a solar god, was worshipped in Anatolian Pontus, although we barely have evidence of this. It seemed logical that the gods of the Persian pantheon should receive a cult in this territory, governed for centuries by the Achaemenids, and later under the power of an Iranian dynasty. To begin with, we have traces of the activities of Zoroastrian magi in the court of Sinope.15 In Pontus, there was also a sanctuary to Anahita, the Persian Artemis.16 In regard to Mithra, there are traces of his cult in this kingdom.17 Pliny mentions a statue of Apollo that, together with the images of other ‘gods of the fatherland’, formed part of the booty gathered by Pompey in his war against Mithridates Eupator. As we know, Mithra was associated with this Graeco-Roman god.18 In Cappadocia, which shared common roots with Pontus, Strabo mentions an Apollo Cataonios, a solar god who could be identified with Mithra.19 Last but not least, we should keep in mind that the reference to Mithra on the coins highlighted the god protector of the dynasty whose kings bore a related name.20 It is also interesting to observe that the sun was the patron of the zodiacal sign of Gemini, related to Castor and Pollux, who sailed to the Black Sea in the expedition of the Argonauts. Therefore Apollo, solar god, was linked to the sign of the Dioscuri.21 Furthermore, Gemini was associated by Persian astrology to the ‘Country of the Sea’, that is, the old satrapy of Daskyleion, which embraced the two sides of the western coast of the Black Sea and had been administered by the ancestors of the Pontic kings.22 The relationship of Mithridates Eupator with the Dioscuri, attested above all in the heroon built by him in Delos, would have reinforced this connexion of his realm with the zodiacal sign presided by the sun.23

THE MOON The representation of the crescent moon on Pontic coins is indisputable. Nonetheless, its interpretation is a matter of controversy, apart from the above-mentioned enigma of the two crescents on the coins issued in Athens under Pontic domination. Moreover, it is 15

 Ballesteros Pastor 2020, 4–8.  Ballesteros Pastor 2020, 3. 17  Olshausen 1990, 1890; Ustinova 1999, 274; Saprykin 2009a, 153–57; 2009b, 261–68. On Mithra in Pontus, see in general Merkelbach 1984, 43–44; Olshausen 1990, 1889–90; Campos Méndez 2006, 226–30; Ballesteros Pastor 2016a, 62. 18  Reinach 1888a, 246; Ballesteros Pastor 2016a, 62 with n. 68. 19  Reinach 1888a, 246. 20  Boyce and Grenet 1991, 301; Ustinova 1999, 274; Saprykin 2009a, 148. Mithridates meant ‘given by Mithra’. 21  Manil. 4. 755–757: Euxinus Scythicos pontus sinuatus in arcus sub Geminis te, Phoebe, colit; vos Thracia, fratres, ultimus et sola vos tranans colit Indica Ganges; Barton 1994, 181. On this passage, see further Dan 2013, 50. The worship to the Dioscuri was particularly spread in Colchis (Tsetskhladze 1999, 22 with n. 15), where there existed the Greek settlement of Dioscurias: Avram et al. 2004, 952–53, no. 709. On the myth of the Dioscuri in the Black Sea, see Braund 1996, 14–16. 22  Ballesteros Pastor 2014, 185; cf. Barton 1994, 182. This relationship, as we suppose, could be justified by the location of the satrapy, which shared lands in both Asia and Europe. Nonetheless, we should recall that some ancient sources described the Black Sea as a twofold sea: Dan 2013, 42. On the so-called ‘Satrapy of the Sea’ and its relationship with the Mithridatids, see Ballesteros Pastor 2012. 23  Among the wide bibliography on Mithridates’ heroon in Delos, devoted to himself and the DioscuriCabeiroi, see Erciyas 2006, 105–46; Ballesteros Pastor 2006; 2014; Michels 2009, 107–11; Queyrel 2018. On the cult to the Dioscuri in Pontus, see in general Olshausen 1990, 1879; Saprykin 2009a, 115–22. 16

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noteworthy that this representation of two moons surrounding a star had appeared on coins from Amisos in the 4th century BC: thus, we are dealing with a symbol that existed prior to the arrival of the Mithridatids in Pontic Cappadocia.24 For my part, I think that the moon represented the southern coast of the Black Sea. This shape of a crescent would fit with the idea of Herodotus and other ancient sources that conceived the coast of this sea as a circumference or, in any case, an ellipse.25 It would be an example of mental image characteristic of ancient geography, comparable to the perception that envisaged the Black Sea coast in the shape of a Scythian bow.26 This interpretation of the southern coast of the Black Sea as a crescent moon pointing upwards could have been assumed by Persian tradition, because it appears reflected in a strange passage of Quintus Curtius (6. 4. 16–17) about the encounter between Alexander and the queen of the Amazons. Implicitly, Curtius describes the mouth of the Thermodon, on the southern coast of the Black Sea, but he places this river in Hyrcania: A continuous open valley extends as far as the Caspian Sea where two spits of land jut out from it like arms and, bending slightly in the middle, form a curved shape which more than anything resembles the moon while it is still a crescent, before it has reached its full orb. To the left lie the Cercetae, Mossyni and Chalybes; on the opposite are the Leucosyri and the plains of the Amazons (the former to the north of the valley, the latter where it turns to the west).27 Indeed, this description is inconsistent because it describes a river of the Black Sea flowing into the Caspian, but further below, Curtius (6. 5. 24) himself stresses that the Thermodon, the river of the Amazons, and Themiscyra, their city, were located in Hyrcania.28 Evidently, he confounds the scenario of this episode: aiming to tell about a place close to Alexander’s position at that time, what is actually being described is the Black Sea, which the Macedonians had left far behind. This can be explained because, as Curtius himself records, the mythic tradition considered that the Amazons lived on the shore of this sea, in Themiscyra, where Heracles had arrived to obtain Hyppolite’s girdle.29 24

 Michels 2009, 199, n. 961 (with further bibliography).  For a description and commentary of the extant evidence, see Dan 2013, 39–42. 26  Dan 2013. 27  Translation by Yardley 1984. Namque perpetua vallis iacet usque ad mare Caspium patens. Duo terrae eius velut brachia excurrunt: media flexu modico sinum faciunt lunae maxime similem, cum eminent ornua nondum totum orbem sidere inplente. Cercetae et Mossyni et Chalybes a laeva sunt, et ab altera parte Leucosyri et Amazonum campi; et illos, qua vergit ad septentrionem, hos ad occasum conversa prospectat. 28  Curtius 6. 5. 24. On Alexander and the Amazon queen, see further Diodorus Siculus 17. 77. 1–3; Justin 2. 4. 33, 12. 3, 42. 3. 7; Plutarch Alex. 46. 1; Arrian Anabasis 7. 13. 2–3; Strabo 11. 5. 4. For specific studies, see Daumas 1992; Atkinson 1994, 197–200; Yardley and Heckel 1997, 200–03; Baynham 2001; Albaladejo Vivero 2005; Munding 2011. 29  Argoud, des Courtils and Rémy 1988, 69–72; Ballesteros Pastor 2009; Dan 2015. According to Diodorus (17. 77. 1), Thalestris ruled over the territory between the Phasis and the Thermodon. Justin (42. 3. 7) places her realm next to Albania. The location of the encounter in Hyrcania appears in Justin (12. 3. 5, cf. 2. 4. 33), although he (2. 4. 33) affirms that she travelled there from her homeland. This location may have derived from Cleitarchus, as it is deduced from Strabo 11. 5. 4. Plutarch (Alex. 46. 1) seems to place the episode beyond the Iaxartes, despite his mentioning Cleitarchus as well: Atkinson 1994, 197; Baynham 2001, 119; Munding 2011, 130. See further Ps.-Callisthenes B 3. 25–26 Kroll. Arrian (Anabasis 7. 3. 2–3) sceptically evokes a meeting between Alexander and the queen of the Amazons, but does not specify a concrete location. 25

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From Themiscyra came Thalestris, the queen of the Amazons who met Alexander in Hyrcania (Curtius 6. 5. 25–32).30  As we can see, this is a contradiction that places the Amazons a long distance from their homeland, as was noted by Strabo (11. 5. 4), who was sceptical about the historicity of this episode in Alexander’s life. Similarly, Strabo had pointed out that Cleitarchus, one of the main sources about Thalestris and Alexander, described a very narrow distance between the Caspian and the Maeotis, maybe to make credible that the Amazons of Themiscyra reached to the king in Hyrcania.31 We could say, therefore, that this odd event in the life of Alexander, whose reliability was called into question by ancient authors, took place in a utopic environment which had no concrete physical space, as appears in the Alexander Romance as well.32 All the peoples mentioned by Curtius were actually located on the southern coast of the Black Sea, as we know from the accounts of such authors as Xenophon and Strabo. Besides, the perspective seems to be wrong because the Leucosyrians lived west of the Thermodon, whereas the Chalybes, Mossyni and Cercetae were settled to the east. But probably Curtius reflects the point of view proper to a sailor who looked at the mouth of this river from the sea: Assyria (or Pontic Cappadocia) would be seen on the right side, and the homeland of the other peoples on the left.33 It is very interesting that precisely Themiscyra was described by Herodotus (4. 86. 3) as the southernmost site of the Black Sea. According to this view, the distance between this town and Sindic region, on the northern shore, represented the greatest width of this sea.34 Therefore, this place would effectively have been the inferior point of the crescent moon described by Curtius. The coincidence that Themiscyra was precisely the town of the Amazons permits Curtius to describe the half-moon that the coast forms from this place to the west as well as to the east (or north, as the account says). In short, as in the Persian spatial conception the southern littoral of the Black Sea was perceived as a crescent moon pointing up, the kings of Pontus would have tried to highlight their rule over these lands by engraving this symbol on their coins. Perhaps the apparition of such an emblem in the issues of Mithridates III was related to the expansion of Pontic rule east of the Halys. We should bear in mind that the kingdom of Pontus had its origin in the mountains of Paphlagonia, and from there the Mithridatids expanded towards the east, coming later to dominate Pontic Cappadocia, on the other side of the 30  See above n. 27. The mistaken identification between the Thermodon and the Araxes (river of Hyrcania) proposed by Metrodorus of Escepsis (Schol. Apoll. Rhod. ad 4. 131 BNJ 184 F1) may have been the result of this same confusion. This philos of Eupator wrote on the Amazons (Strabo 11. 5. 1), although this tradition on the Araxes was probably older: Traina 2016, 116–17; 2018, 238–39. 31  Strabo 11. 1. 5; Baynham 2001, 117; Munding 2011, 128. 32  Remarkably, the account of Ps.-Callisthenes describes the land of the Amazons as a sort of island which could only be reached passing a course of water which had neither beginning nor end. Curiously, arriving to Themiscyra by land required the crossing of either the River Lycus or the Acampsis, except for a narrow corridor between them. 33  Argoud, des Courtils and Rémy 1988; Roller 2018, 702–09. On these peoples, see further, among others, Summerer 2005; Dan 2011; Ballesteros Pastor 2016, 49 with n. 7. About the ethnic complexity of the southern Black Sea and its hinterland, see Tsetskhladze 2007; 2012; 2014. 34  Asheri et al. 2007, 642–43 (with further bibliography); Dan 2013, 42. Actually, there is a greater width between the Thracian Bosporus and the mouth of the Hypanis.

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Halys.35 In this way, these sovereigns became rulers of territories of two old satrapies: on the one hand, the satrapy of Daskyleion, which ran from the Thracian Black Sea coast up to the Halys, and on the other Western Armenia, which probably covered from this river to the headwaters of the Euphrates. Pharnaces I appointed his brother Mithridates as satrap of Armenia as a means to highlight Pontic sovereignty over this eastern region.36 For his part, Strabo (12. 3. 1–2) makes it clear that Mithridates Eupator seized the whole coast of the Black Sea as far as Colchis. In this way, the Romans had assumed that the Phasis was the north-eastern limit of his dominions. This can be inferred from the Lex Manilia, which established Pompey’s authority over Upper Colchis, because the lower part was already under the jurisdiction of Lucullus from his war against the Pontic king (Plutarch Pomp. 30. 2).37 The mouth of the Phasis, the main river of Colchis, was regarded as the end of the axis that crossed the Black Sea starting from the Thracian Bosporus, erroneously considered as the longest distance in this sea from west to east (Herodotus 4. 86. 2).38 Therefore, Pontic expansion would have led the Mithridatids to claim themselves as masters of all the southern shore of the Black Sea. This explains, among other things, Mithridates Eupator’s eagerness to conquer Bithynia, the only meridional territory of the Black Sea that was outwith the hands of the Pontic dynasty.39 This interpretation also explains the meaning of the coins with two crescents. As we have seen, certain geographical conceptions imagined the Black Sea as a circle or an ellipse: accordingly, the two crescents were no more than a manifestation of this same image. The upper moon above the traditional crescent would have symbolised the northern shore of the Black Sea.40 As we know, Mithridates Eupator not only ruled over the coast from Paphlagonia to Colchis (not to mention his later conquest of Bithynia), but also acquired the old kingdom of Bosporus (around the Kerch Strait) and extended his influence over the Greek cities of the western Black Sea. So, since the end of the 2nd century BC, and above all after his achievements in 89/8 BC, he aimed to appear as the master of the entire Black Sea. Precisely Poseidonius, an author contemporary with Mithridates, describes this aspect of the king’s propaganda spread in Athens at that time.41 This explains why 35  Mithridates I, called Ctistes (‘The Founder’), fled from Antigonus the One-Eyed and settled in Paphlagonia, on the slopes of Mt Olgassys (Strabo 12. 3. 41). Polybius (5. 43. 1), when narrating the marriage between the daughter of Mithridates II and Antiochus III (220 BC), was the first author to inform us, although implicitly, about Mithridatid rule over Pontic Cappadocia, that is, the coastal region east of the Halys. On the other hand, we cannot confirm that the first Pontic ruler buried in the royal necropolis of Amasya was Mithridates I: Højte 2009c; Ballesteros Pastor 2021, 191–92. 36  Ballesteros Pastor 2016b, 276–77. The identification of this satrap with Pharnaces’ brother has been called into question by Coşkun 2016, 851–53. 37  Strabo (6. 4. 2) suggests that the Roman dominion in the Black Sea ended at the Phasis. 38  Asheri et al. 2007, 643–44; cf. the criticism of Strabo 11. 2. 16, who was aware that the easternmost point in the Black Sea was placed north of the Phasis: Dan 2016, 250, 263. 39  The two great wars of Mithridates against Rome began with the Pontic invasion of Bithynia: Reinach 1890, 115–25, 318–24; McGing 1986, 86–88, 108–09, 143–46; Ballesteros Pastor 1996, 81–95, 217–24. We could even bear to mind the possible aid of Pharnaces I to Eumenes II against Bithynia: Ballesteros Pastor 2002. 40  Above n. 27. 41  Poseidonius apud Athen 5. 213a: Μιθριδάτης κρατεῖμὲν Βιθυνίας καὶ τῆς ἄνω Καππαδοκίας, κρατεῖ δὲ τῆς συνεχοῦς Ἀσίας ἁπάσης ἄχρι Παμφυλίας καὶ Κιλικίας, καὶ βασιλεῖς μὲν αὐτὸν Ἀρμενίων καὶ Περσῶν, δυνάσται δὲ τῶν περὶ τὴν Μαιῶτιν καὶ τὸν ὅλον Πόντον κατῳκισμένων ἐθνῶν ἐν περιμέτρῳ τρισμυρίων σταδίων. See likewise Eutropius 5. 5: Mithridates enim, qui Ponti rex erat atque Armeniam minorem et totum Ponticum mare in circuito cum Bosphoro tenebat. In general, on Mithridates’ rule over territories in the Black

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the aforementioned Attic coins issued between 87 and 86, which even include the name of the Pontic ruler, had two opposing crescents with the sun in the middle, symbolising the two halves of the Black Sea.42 Indeed, Mithridates was proclaimed ‘King of Kings’ at that time.43

FURTHER REMARKS

ON A

CELEBRATED ASTRAL SYMBOL

The star and the crescent were also reproduced on coins from some places of Pontus in Mithridates’ time.44 Besides, this emblem is represented on the coins issued in the territories controlled by him in the Black Sea as well as in Cappadocia, which came into Pontic control under Ariarathes IX, son of Mithridates, who occupied the throne of this kingdom under his father’s supervision. Later on, the star and the crescent were also present on the coins of Ariobarzanes III, who was Mithridates’ grandson.45 In Bosporus, this symbol probably introduced by Mithridates would survive for more than a century, and it represented, in some way, an evocation of the times when the Pontic empire became an important power that rivalled with Rome for hegemony in the East.46 It is inevitable to mention Mark Antony and Cleopatra, who named two of their children with the names of the Sun and the Moon: Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene.47 In fact, Juba II of Mauretania, the husband of this princess, used the symbol of the crescent and the star on his coins.48 I doubt, however, that these surnames had anything to do with the Pontic tradition, even though it was well known in the court of Alexandria.49 In the same way, Parthian and Sasanid rulers regarded themselves as ‘sons of the sun and the moon’, and issued coins with the star and the crescent, but obviously this is not a reference to the Black Sea either.50 Leaving aside certain Iranian connotations, we should take into consideration that the sun and the moon are the celestial objects which regulate the time of men. Thus, it is not improbable that the monarchs of Pontus aimed to exalt themselves not only as rulers of the Black Sea but also as masters of the time, so reflecting a conception of royalty which had great relevance during the Hellenistic period.51

Sea beyond his ancestral domains, see Ballesteros Pastor 1996, 43–55, 349–64; 2013, 294–96. On Bosporus under Mithridates VI, see in general Molev 2009; Müller 2010, 95–103; Avram 2016. On the Greek cities of the western Black Sea, see further Avram 2005; 2012; Avram and Bounegru 2006; Ballesteros Pastor 2018b, 283–85. 42  Ustinova 1999, 270–71; Michels 2009, 187–89. 43  Ballesteros Pastor 1995; 2018; cf. Molev 2009, 322. 44  Imhoof-Blumer 1912, 176–80. 45  Meyer 1879, 101; de Callataÿ 1997, 200; Erciyas 2006, 134; Simonetta 2007, 102–04. 46  Ustinova 1999, 270–71 (with further bibliography). 47  On the meaning of these names, see Volkmann 1958, 117; Fletcher 2008, 265; Strootman 2010, 147. 48  Michels 2009, 190. 49  Two Pontic princesses were betrothed to Lagid princes: Appian Mithr. 111. 50  Pingree and Brunner 1987; Michels 2009, 188–89; Bechtold 2011, 122, n. 545; Shayegan 2011, 34 with n. 10. 51  Savalli-Lestrade 2010. For further meanings of the star and the crescent, see Strootman 2010; Molnar 2015, 17–21.

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CONCLUSION The star and the crescent moon on the coins of Pontus was an allusion to the southern coast of the Black Sea, because some traditions conceived this sea as two opposing semicircumferences. With this emblem, the Mithridatids tried to vindicate their rule over this part of the Black Sea: they had possessions in the two satrapies that had existed in this coastal region and their rule extended on both sides of the Thermodon, whose mouth was credited to mark the southernmost point in this sea. In 87 BC, the Athenians having adhered to Mithridates’ cause would have modified the traditional hallmark of Pontic coins in order to represent, by two opposing crescents, the sovereignty of the king over the entire Black Sea. But this other emblem did not appear on Pontic royal coinage, because Mithridates may have considered it more opportune to legitimise himself through the symbols spread by his ancestors.

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ONE FORGOTTEN GREEK INSCRIPTION FROM THE ROSTOV REGION* Alexey BELOUSOV

ABSTRACT This paper republishes the Greek inscription on a bronze dipper discovered in a Sarmatian burial in the Rostov region in 1927: ΓΛ / Διαδουμενὸς / χρυσωταῖς / νεωτέροις / ἀνέθηκε οἰκονομοῦντος / Θεοφίλου (ΓΛ (?) Diadoumenos dedicated to the junior gilders under the oikonomos Theophilos). The author suggests that ΓΛ could be a date (year 33) rather than the abbreviation of a personal name.

On 28th September 1927, a short article written by one ‘Iv. Per-ov’ and entitled ‘A New Kurgan Burial’ was published on the third page of the daily workers’ newspaper Molot (‘The Hammer’) (Fig. 1): The authorised representative of the regional museum, L.A. Abaza, who recently finished the excavations of a mammoth cemetery in the vicinity of Kamensk, discovered a kurgan burial containing ancient Greek artefacts near the village of Melekhovskaya (sic!) of the Shakhtinskiy district. The grave was accidentally found by spadesmen working on the Shakhtinsk water pipes at a depth of 2 m, 4 versts [= ca 4.3 km] from the Don’s right bank. The grave contained a tomb and some bronze vessels and a dipper next to

Fig. 1. Newspaper article on the finds from Melikhovskaya village (Molot, 28th September 1927, Rostov-on-Don).

* I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Mikhail Treister for bringing this object to my attention and for valuable consultations. I would also like to thank Yuriy Guguev and Sarkis Kazarov for providing me with publications necessary for completing this work and Eugenia Andreeva for some valuable ideas and her help with the English version of this paper.

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it. A well-preserved ancient Greek inscription is engraved on the dipper’s handle. Some golden objects, a copper coin and three polished yellowish-red stones were also found in the grave. This accidental discovery gives way to the suggestion, that all four nearby kurgans are in fact burial mounds. Excavations in this area must be continued, as they will probably uncover an ancient settlement of the same epoch as the Kobyakovo site…1 Four photographs accompanying the article show: 1. The excavation site; 2. The vessel and the dipper found in the kurgan burial near Melekhovskaya (sic!); 3. The mammoth bones stored in a railway lodge; 4. The ancient Greek inscription on the handle of the dipper. Already in 19292 A.F. Semenov published a brief note ‘On the Greek inscription on the handle of a dipper (?), found during the excavations of the Melikhov Kurgan’, where he informs readers that along with other objects (including an artificially deformed skull) a bronze vessel with a long handle, generally identified as a dipper, but very similar to an ordinary casserole was found in the kurgan near the Melikhovskaya village. The vessel is all covered in aerugo. All artifacts from the grave were transported first to the Novocherkassk Museum, and then to the Museum in Rostov-on-Don.3 1  Another note on the discovery in Melikhovskaya was published in Sovetskiy Yug (The Soviet South) newspaper (no. 217, 1927), but without a photograph. 2  B.V. Lunin wrote about the finds a year earlier (Lunin 1928, 82–83): ‘During the trenching of the Shakhtin water pipeline near the Melikhovskaya village of the Shakhtin district an ancient burial was discovered by the workers 4.2 versts from the right bank of the Don at the depth of 2 m. The burial contained a skeleton and grave-goods; the bones were scattered, while the goods were taken by the workers, so the exact composition of the assemblage remains unclear. The place of find was visited by a museum worker from Novocherkassk, L.A. Abaza, and later by an assistant from the Rostov-on-Don Museum, V.I. Kutilin. They managed to collect (from the burial and from the workers) brass vessels (one vessel and one “dipper”), several small golden beads, fragments of a clay vessel and human bones (among latter were fragments of tubular bones, vertebrae, atlas and a specifically deformed skull), while interviews with the workers and the locals revealed that in the grave there were also “yellow-red” stones, three in total. The burial was found in the side of the smallest (southern) of four mounds of different sizes, located near the pipe-line route. Therefore it is possible that the remaining three mounds, yet awaiting scientific excavations, contain burials similar to the one recently discovered. And then again the fourth mound, which was partially excavated, still needs further investigations, as its central part remained untouched. All four mounds stand 2–3 m from one another in line, starting with the excavated one, the smallest, and ending with the largest. The brass (silver plated?) casseroleshaped dipper from the burial demands close attention. Its handle bares and engraved inscription in ancient Greek. It has not yet been fully read and interpreted by specialists, but, according to preliminary analysis conducted with the help of N.P. Balagurov, who briefly examined the estampage of the inscription made by us, the text reads as follows: “[Name] Diadoumenos sacrificed (or dedicated) gold to young (maidens or goddesses) in the reign of Theophilos” (just recently L.A. Abaza, who has taken upon himself the full description and study of the find, has offered to us a different, even though equally preliminary, interpretation of the text, made after a copy take by Prof. N.I. Novossadsky: “G(aius) L(ucius) Diadoumenos son of Chrysos dedicated to junior goddesses under the oikonomos Theophilos”). For a range of reasons it seems possible to plausibly date the dipper, and the whole burial with it, to the first centuries AD, to the era of Roman rule. We tend to believe that the burial is connected to the above-mentioned Gnilovsk and Kizirtinks burial grounds. It is also interesting to note that multiple finds of similar “dippers” or “casseroles” took place in the North Caucasus. Sometimes the “dippers” were furnished with holes on sides and bottom, thus being in fact, as it seems, strainers. Here we would like to direct special attention to a “strainer” discovered by late Prof. N.I. Veselovskii in one of the kurgans (no. 41) in Ust’-Labinskaya village in the Kuban region (Otchoyoty imperatorskoy Arkheologicheskoy Komissii 1894, 83); this “strainer” is identical to the Melikhovskaya “dipper” in shape and design.’ 3  Semenov 1929, 47.

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Unfortunately the dipper in question, usually classified as type Eggers 160,4 which was very widespread both within the Roman empire and the Barbaricum5 in the period between AD 35/40 and 140/160 AD,6 went missing during the Great Patriotic War (1941–45). The inscription was published by A.F. Semenov7 in 1930 in Philologische Wochenschrift, and discussed on the pages of the same journal thrice more: A.S. Kocevalov published two papers in 1931 and 1932 and E. Kalinka in 1932. Nevertheless, this inscription has never been mentioned by the SEG or the Bulletin épigraphique, which means that this interesting document is now almost completely forgotten. Taking this into account I re-publish the inscription as a whole. Object: bronze dipper of Eggers 160 type with ramiform handle. Seven line Greek inscription engraved on the handle. Place of Find: Melikhovskaya village, Ust’-Dontesk district, Rostov region. Chetyre brata (The Four Brothers) kurgan burial ground 4 km south-west of the village. Accidental find in a mound destroyed by water pipe-line construction in 1927. Storage: Rostov-on-Don, Rostov Regional Local History Museum (before 1941); now lost. Date: 2nd–3rd centuries AD(?). Editions: Semenov 1929; 1930; Kocevalov 1932; Yelnitskii 1964, 116–17; Kropotkin 1970, no. 789. Bibliography: Lunin 1928, 82–83; Kocevalov 1931; Kalinka 1932; Kropotkin 1970, 92, no. 789; Raev 1986, 31–32, 38, 55.

5

5

4

ΓΛ ΔΙΑΔΟΥΜΕΝΟΣ ΧΡΥΣΩΤΑΙΣ ΝΕΩΤΕΡΟΙΣ ΑΝΗΘΗΚΕ ΟΙΚΟΝΟΜΟΥΝΤΟΣ ΘΕΟΦΙΛΟΥ

ΓΛ Διαδουμενὸς χρυσωταῖς νεωτέροις ἀνέθηκε οἰκονομοῦντος Θεοφίλου

 For example Kropotkin 1970, 92.  More that 200 objects of this type had been discovered by archaeologists in the Barbaricum by 1985 (see Wielowiejski 1985, 217; Mustață 2017, 98). 6  See Petrovszky 1993, 98–101. 7  Sadly the name of Anatolii Fedorovich Semenov/Semyonov (1863–? [not earlier than 1931]), distinguished classical philologist and epigraphist, student of W. Christ, E. Wölfflin and K. Krumbacher, fell into oblivion among Russian classicists just like this inscription, once published by him. On him, see Kazarova et al. 2014, 131–202; Tunkina 2017, 533–34. 5

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Γ(άϊος) Λ(ούκιος) Novossadsky; Γλ(αῦκος) uel Γλ(αύκων) Semenov; Γά(ιος) uel Γν(αῖος) Kocevalov; Φλ. LGPN IV, 95; ΓΛ´ (ἔτους uel ἔτει) Belousov; Διαδουμενὸς Χρυσῶ (gen. doricus) Novossadsky, Semenov; χρυσωταῖς Rehm (apud Semenov 1930, 1007). Translation: ΓΛ (?) Diadoumenos dedicated to the junior gilders under the oikonomos Theophilos. Since the artefact is now lost, it is impossible to consider the palaeographic features. Unfortunately, the document’s first publisher, A.F. Semenov, who presented the text maiusculis (without photographs and tracing), said nothing about the features of the ductus of the inscription, mentioning only the number of lines. The tracing made, it seems, by the excavators on site and published in the Molot newspaper obviously is not of much use, as, first of all, its author did not know ancient Greek or epigraphy; secondly, it distorts the order of the lines of text on the object; and thirdly, it is unlikely to convey the actual shapes of letters. We can get only the most general picture of the inscription’s palaeography – lunar sigma, V-shaped upsilon, cursive omega – but we cannot be fully sure even of this. The reading proposed by Semenov (Γλ(αῦκος) uel Γλ(αύκων) Διαδουμενὸς Χρυσῶ ταῖς νεωτέροις ἀνέθηκε οἰκονομοῦντος Θεοφίλου), in which Χρυσῶ is interpreted as Doric genitive,8 and the dative plural of the article in feminine form before νεωτέροις is explained by linguistic negligence.9 This interpretation was, apparently, properly corrected by Albert Rehm10 by a more adequate division of words: χρυσωταῖς νεωτέροις, when the paper was submitted to the Philologische Wochenschrift. The correction was sent in a letter to the original publisher. The main difficulty, however, according to the apt observation of the first publisher, is how to understand this dative case χρυσωταῖς νεωτέροις with the verb ἀνέθηκε. According to A.F. Smirnov, the dative case for ἀνέθηκε can only mean a deity to whom a gift is dedicated. It is based on this belief that Smirnov developed the interpretation of our document as a parody dedication, which a retiring cook Diadoumenos made for the young workers who came to replace him, adding, as the publisher thought, the eponymic formula οἰκονομοῦντος Θεοφίλου ‘under the manager Theophilos’. The latter, according to Smirnov, was simply a householder. L.A. Yelnitskii stumbled upon the same difficulty when, accepting the reading of A. Rhem, he translated the inscription, even though without explaining anything, as follows: ‘Ch. Diadoumenos (of) junior goldsmiths dedicated under the oikonomos [steward] Theophilos’. How the dative case can convey the meaning ‘of’ Yelnitskii does not explain.11 8  Semenov’s theory (1930) of the Doric genitive is rightly criticised by Kocevalov (1931; 1932), who sees here the contamination of ου and ω, common for koine, but unlikely in this case. 9  Kocevalov agreed with Semenov on this point, as the latter sites an example of αι/οι contamination from CIRB 9917-18: συνοδείτοις instead of συνοδείταις. However, this is better explained not by confusion of sounds, but by existence of parallel declension forms for masculine nouns with stems ending in -α in koine, i.e. transition of masculine nouns from First to Second Declension by analogy: see Dovatur 1965, 811–12. 10  Semenov 1930, 1007, anm. 2: ‘Eine angenehme Pflicht ist es mir, die mir brieflich mitgeteilte sehr probable Konjektur des Herrn Geheimrats Professor Rehm in München zu erwähnen. Er schlägt vor zu lesen: Χρυσοταῖς νεωτέροις, d.h. „den jüngeren Vergoldern“. – Allerdings fällt m.E. das Fehlen des Artikels auf.’ 11  V.V. Kropotkin (1970, 92, no. 789) gives a more consistent translation: ‘Gl. Diadoumenos dedicated to the junior gilders during the reign of Theophilos’.

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It should be noted that in Greek epigraphy there are many examples where the dative case, depending on the verb ἀνατίθημι, denotes not a deity, but a human being. First, there is a number of tomb inscriptions from Asia Minor and Egypt, composed according to the formula ‘so-and-so erected/dedicated (ἀνέθηκε) [a tombstone or a monument] for so-and-so’. For example: Νέων Ἀττάλο[υ] / Πονασάτους / ζῶν ἑαυτῷ καὶ / τοῖς τέκνοις / ἀνέθηκεν (SEG 18 821, Pisidia); Κοίρανος τρὶς γονεῖσιν / ἰδίοις ἀνέθηκε μνήμης / uacat χάριν❦ (SEG 44 1105, Pisidia); Οὐάρις Πα[․]ίμιος ἱερονίκης γυν/αικὶ καὶ τέκνοις ἀνέθηκεν ἐπ’ ἀγαθῷ (SB 1 3493, Thebes, Egypt). However, if we apply such an explanation to our monument, we will have to assume that this ladle was a funeral gift, and thus either the junior gilders were buried in this burial near village of Melikhovskaya,12 or the object was put into this burial at a later date. Much more logical, I think, would be another explanation. The dative in this case can have the function of dativus commodi and denotes the persons in favour of whom the donation was made. That is, χρυσωταῖς νεωτέροις is identical here to a more typical expression ὑπὲρ τῶν χρυσωτῶν νεωτέρων ‘for the sake of the junior gilders’. The closest analogy, and not only in this respect, is the inscription from Thrace (on the northern bank of the Propontis, between Perinthos and Selimbria), published by Ernst Kalinka as far back as 1896 and supplemented after our text by him in 1932: Διὶ Λοφείτῃ Ε[ὐ]/δίων Φιλλῦδ[ος] / ἱερεὺς νέοις ὐ/[ρα]ρίοις (?) δῶρον – ‘To Zeus Lophitos, priest Eudion son of Phillides for the junior aurarians gift (dedicated)’.13 Finally, the verb ἀνατίθημι in koine is used not exclusively in dedications to deities, but also in donative inscriptions such as the inscription on an architrave of a portico in Iasos: Σώπατρο[ς Ἐπικ]ράτου γ[υμνασια[ρχήσας] τῶν τε νέ[ων καὶ τῶν π]ρεσβυτέρων τὴν στοὰν τῶι δήμωι καὶ τοῖ[ς νέοις καὶ τοῖς πρεσβυτέροις ἀνέθηκεν] (IIasos 250). Thus, we can offer two alternative understandings of the first part of the text: 1) ‘GL(?) Diadoumenos dedicated for the sake of the junior gilders’ and 2) ‘GL(?) Diadoumenos donated to the junior gilders’. However, for the lack of more numerous analogies, we should refrain from a categorical decision. In any case, it is clear that the dative case, which denotes not a deity, but a human being, with the verb ἀνατίθημι does not represent in itself anything out of the ordinary. It was Kalinka who first (1932) remarked that νεώτεροι χρυσωταί in our inscription, apparently, points to the existence of two associations (or colleges, guilds) of gilders: the junior (νεώτεροι) and the senior (πρεσβύτεροι).14 Colleges specialising in gold work are known on Delos, in Smyrna and in Palmyra,15 and also in Thrace (see above: νέοις ὐ/[ρα] ρίοις).16 12  An artificially deformed skull was found in the same burial (Lunin 1928, 82; Semenov 1930, 1006), which gives grounds to identify it as Sarmatian. In this case it would be rather bizarre if the Sarmatians bore Greek names. On the other hand, L.A. Yelnitskii (1964, 117) points out: ‘The fact that the votive dipper with the gilders’ union inscription was discovered near Melikhovskaya village, in a burial, Sarmatian nature of which is demonstrated by the presence of the deformed skull, is not in itself a definitive proof of the artifact being culturally alien to the rest of the assemblage it was preserved in.’ 13  Kalinka 1896, 67–68; IGR I 782; Kalinka 1932, 1464; Sayar 1998, 49b. 14  See also Yelnitskii 1964, 116–17. 15  See Poland 1909, 172; Kalinka 1932, 1464. 16  It is worth pointing out that aurarii can be found in Greek inscriptions quite often. C. Roueché (1995) conducted an investigation into the meaning of this word, and, in her opinion, it could be used to denote a person dealing with finances, a banker whose responsibilities included fiscal dealings with Rome

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The second part of the text – οἰκονομοῦντος Θεοφίλου – does not cause any difficulties in interpretation, but it should be noted that in the North Pontic region,17 on the Bosporus, such a position (οἰκονόμος) occurs only in the inscriptions of the thiasotai (CIRB 1129, 1130, 1134) in which this official was responsible for the sacred treasury of the college (CIRB 1134: ἱερῶν οἰκονόμος). If we take into account that our text is a dedication from a certain Didoumenos for a collegium of junior gilders, an indication of the manager (of the sacred treasury) seems quite in place. Probably, Theophilos provided from the sacred treasury of the collegium the funds necessary for the production of the dedicated object and controlled the process. Then, perhaps, this GL(?) Diadoumenos was the head of this thiasos? Novossadsky suggested to interpret the first name (if it is in fact a name!) of Didoumenos as Γ(άϊος) Λ(ούκιος), while Semenov interpreted it as Γλ(αῦκος) or Γλ(αύκων). Kocevalov preferred to see here an abbreviation of the Roman praenomen Γά(ϊος) or Γν(αῖος), the editors of LGPN IV (dedicated to North Pontic onomastics) that of Flavius (on unclear grounds, see apparatus). As for the personal name Διαδουμενός, it can be found everywhere in the Greek oikumene (see, for example, LGPN IIIA, 124; IIIB, 113; IV, 95; VB, 106; VC, 113). The name Θεόφιλος was even more popular (for the northern Black Sea region, see LGPN IV, 167). It needs to be noted, however, that the letters ΓΛ before Didoumenos name could designate not a praenomen, but a date: year 33. The question is, which era is implied? It would be AD 27 by the eras of Paphlagonian Neoclaudiopolis, Gangra and Pompeiopolis, AD 38 by the era of Paphlagonia, AD 67 by that of Comana and AD 97 by those of Trapezus, Neocaesarea and Zela. We should probably set aside a date prior to AD 35, as the Eggers 160 type dippers were spread in the period AD 35–160. If ΓΛ in our text is in fact a date by any era of Paphlagonia, Comana, Trapezus, Neocaesarea or Zela, and also taking into account the fact that the personal name Διαδουμενός was very widespread particularly in Asia Minor, one can suggest that the bronze dipper, which could have been made in the west of the empire, could find its way to a Sarmatian burial through Asia Minor, where the dedication could have been inscribed on its handle.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Dovatur, A.I. 1965: ‘Kratkiy ocherk grammatiki bosporskikh nadpisei’. In CIRB, 797–831. Kalinka, E. 1896: ‘Antike Inschriften in Constantinopel und Umgebung’. Archäologisch-epigraphische Mitteilungen aus Österreich-Ungarn 19, 58–68. —. 1932: ‘Goldarbeiter im Altertum’. Philologische Wochenschrift 46–47, 1463–64. Kazarova, N.A., Kazarov, S.S. and Lobova, V.V. 2014: Istoriki Varshavskogo Universiteta: Vremya i sud’by (Rostov-on-Don). Kloppenborg, J.S. and Ascough, R.S. 2011: Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary. 1: Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace (Berlin/New York). Kocevalov, A. 1931: ‘Der Genetiv auf ω in Bosporos’. Philologische Wochenschrift 34, 1038–39. —. 1932: ‘Zur Deutung der neulich herausgegebenen Inschrift aus dem Dongebiet’. Philologische Wochenschrift 34.3, 93–94. (‘the chief function of a banker was to provide the money in which Roman taxes must be paid, which, from the fourth century, was increasingly in gold’: Roueché 1995, 41). 17  Olbia: IOSPE I2 182; IOlbia 36.

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Kropotkin, V.V. 1970: Rimskiye importnyye izdeliya v Vostochnoy Yevrope (II v. do n.e.–V v. n.e.) (Moscow). Lunin, B.V. 1928: ‘Arkheologicheskiye raskopki i razvedki na Severnom Kavkaze v 1927 godu’. Krayevedeniye na Severnom Kavkaze 1–2, 58–84. Mustață, S. 2017: The Roman Metal Vessels from Dacia Porolissensis (Cluj-Napoca). Petrovszky, R. 1993: Studien zu römischen Bronzegefäßen mit Meisterstempeln (Kölner Studien zur Archäologie der Römischer Provinzen 1) (Buch am Erlbach). Poland, F. 1909: Geschichte des griechischen Vereinswesens (Fürstlich Jablonowski’sche Gesellschaft zu Leipzig. Preisschriften 38) (Leipzig). Roueché, C. 1995: ‘Aurarii in the auditoria’. ZPE 105, 37–50. Sayar, M.H. 1998: Perinthos-Herakleia (Marmara Ereğlisi) und Umgebung. Geschichte, Testimonien, griechische und lateinische Inschriften (Veröffentlichungen der Kleinasiatischen Kommission 9; Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Denkschriften 269) (Vienna). Semenov/Semyonov, A.F. 1929: ‘Po povodu grecheskoy nadpisi na ruchke kovsha (?), naydennogo pri raskopkakh Melikhovskogo kurgana’. Zapiski Severo-Kavkazskogo obshchestva arkheologii, istorii i etnografii 3, 47–48. —. 1930: ‘Eine parodistische (?) altgriechische Inschrift aus Südrußland’. Philologische Wochenschrift 32–33, 1006–17. Tunkina, I.V. (ed.) 2017: Zhebelyov C. A. Russkoye arkheologicheskoye obshchestvo za tret’yu chetvert’ veka svoyego sushchestvovaniya. 1897–1921: Istoricheskiy ocherk. Prilozheniye: Biobibliograficheskiy slovar’ chlenov RAO (1846–1924) (Moscow). Wielowiejski, J. 1985: ‘Die spätkeltischen und römischen Bronzegefässe in Polen’. Bericht der Römisch-Germanischen Kommission 66, 123–320. Yelnitskii, L.A. 1964: ‘O maloizuchennykh ili utrachennykh grecheskikh nadpisyakh Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. VDI 1, 110–20.

SALT ADMINISTRATION IN ROMAN DACIA: AN OVERVIEW* Lucrețiu MIHAILESCU-BÎRLIBA

ABSTRACT Dacia alone of the Latin-speaking provinces of the Roman empire had conductores salinarum. Some of the them took under lease the exploitation of salt and pastures (conductores pascui et salinarum); one is entitled conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum. The extraction of salt was in connexion with cattle food; thus, the administration of both salt mines and pastures was the responsibility of one person. I shall explain later the meaning of commerciorum. Epigraphic texts mention also few employees in salt administration. The paper will investigate these inscriptions in order to establish their juridical and social status, the eventual personal relationships with the leaseholders and their administrative responsibilities.

INTRODUCTION Dacia is the only province in the Latin-speaking areas of the Roman empire where conductores salinarum are mentioned. It is true that some of the them took under lease not only the exploitation of salt but also of pastures (conductores pascui et salinarum). In one case, the title is conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum. The pastures are so named because the extraction of salt was in connexion with cattle food; thus, the administration of both salt mines and pastures was the responsibility of one person. I shall explain later the meaning of the commerciorum in the only case where the title of the leaseholder contains this word. In addition, the epigraphic texts attest also a few employees in salt administration. I shall investigate these inscriptions in order to establish their juridical and social status, the eventual personal relationships with the leaseholders and their administrative responsibilities.

CONDUCTORES The texts mention four conductores salinarum in Roman Dacia. Only one is called conductor pascui et salinarum, two are listed only as conductor salinarum, while the fourth is mentioned as a conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum. The most frequently attested name is that of P. Aelius Marius. Moreover, he is mentioned in inscriptions from three * This work was supported by two grants of Ministry of Research and Innovation, CNCS – UEFISCDI, project number 151/2017, PN-III-P4-ID-PCE-2016-0759, and project number 63/2017, PN-III-P4-IDPCE-2016-0271, within PNCDI III.

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different settlements. At Micia, his libertus, P. Aelius Euphorus, raises an altar to Silvanus Domesticus (IDR III.3, 119).1 At Domnești, Atticus, actor of the same conductor pascui et salinarum, consecrates an altar to Jupiter Optimus Maximus and to Terra Mater (ILD 804).2 At Tibiscum, Hermadio, actor of a certain Turranius Dius, dedicates an altar to Mithras, adding the formula pro salute P. Aeli Mari(i) (IDR III.1, 145). At Porolissum, an employee whose name is irrelevant for this discussion raises an altar in which he employs the same formula.3 Finally, at Apulum, an arkarius of the salt exploitation consecrated an altar to Mithra for the health of P. Aelius Marius.4 We notice that all the inscriptions attesting P. Aelius Marius are votive and left by slaves or freedmen involved either in the administration of the salt-works, or having business relations with him. The leaseholder is also mentioned as a flamen coloniae (ILD 804). That the name of the city is absent suggests that the inscription was raised when the province had only one colonia, namely Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa. The text thus dates from after Hadrian, perhaps from the second half of the 2nd century AD, but in any case before Commodus. Another conductor salinarum is [---]tilius Rufinus, to whom Ursio, actor, dedicates the formula pro salute.5 The inscription comes from Micia, where P. Aelius Euphorus had raised an altar to Silvanus (IDR III.3, 119). Ursio is an actor, agent of his master in private affairs. In this case, the affairs concern activities connected with the exploitation of salt. C. Iulius Valentinus, conductor salinarum, is named in a dedication to Sol Invictus made by his freedman, Iulius Omucio, likewise an actor of his former master (IDR III.4, 248). The inscription was discovered at Sânpaul, where, like in nearby Mărtiniș, salt deposits have been identified.6 Finally, a fourth conductor is P. Aelius Strenuus. His slave Rufinus honours him in the capital of the province, at Apulum (IDR III.5, 443). Strenuus is from the equestrian order (equo publico), sacerdos arae Augusti, augur, former duumvir at Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa, decurion at Drobeta, and patron of several professional collegia (fabrum, centonariorum and nautarum). The inscription also mentions his capacity as conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum. As to his responsibilities, most scholars agree that his last attribution concerns foremost the salt trade, first of all within and secondly outside the province.7 His presence at Apulum is also conferred by his capacity as augur of colonia Apulensis. Four conductores are attested in Roman Dacia starting in the second half of the 2nd century and continuing until the Severan era. The pastures and salt-works were leased by the Roman state to these great lessees, who in their turn levied vectigal on the small lessees (coloni).8 In chronological order, the first conductor mentioned is P. Aelius Marius; nevertheless, the organisation of this lease system appeared earlier, if not under Trajan, 1

 See also Benea 2007, 43; 2010.  See a better transcription in Dana and Zăgreanu 2013, 31. 3  Dana and Zăgreanu 2013. 4  Egri et al. 2018, 268. 5  Piso 2004–05, 179–82. 6  Wollmann 1996, 255; Harding and Kavruk 2013, 143. 7  Benea 2007, 45; IDR III.5, 443, sub numero. 8  See Rostovtzeff 1902, 413–14; 1957, 341; Ørsted 1985, 347; Brunt 1990, 394–96; Balla 2000, 137; Piso 2004–05, 181; Dana and Zăgreanu 2013, 30. 2

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then definitely from Hadrian on. The absence of inscriptions before the period in which P. Aelius Marius was active is a situation often found across Dacia: most inscriptions date from Marcus Aurelius onwards. The lessees are not mentioned directly. They are honoured (even if in votive inscriptions) by members of their personnel, with the inscriptions being discovered in the settlements in which they actually worked. Even if the command post was presumably in the capital of the province (first at Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa, then Apulum), their presence in the settlements in which offices of the salt-works administration were found is likely, or else they would not have been commended. P. Aelius Strenuus is the only one to be found in a centre apparently unrelated to mining, but, as mentioned, he performed official duties in several of the province’s cities, and his status as an eques and patron of several professional collegia forced him to reside for quite a while in Apulum. Besides the link between his capacity as leaseholder of the salt-works and the aforementioned salt trade, it is not by chance that Strenuus is also patron of the boatmen’s (nautae) association: many boatmen were also traders. In this way, the transport of the main goods (among them salt) along the River Mureș was better controlled and simultaneously financially supported by this eques. M. CébeillacGervasoni considers that Strenuus is a lessee involved especially in the salt trade, not only on account of his title (conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum), but also because he is an eques Romanus, a notable conducting financial activities and residing in Apulum.9 Furthermore, P. Aelius Strenuus is attested in another inscription discovered at Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa as an augur and IIviralis of this city.10 I think that his connexions with the centonarii and the nautae are essential for understanding his title of conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum and the relationship between salt exploitation and these professional collegia. The nautae are not only the sailors, but also the ship-owners (Ulpian Digest 4. 9. 1–2). So, trade activities were common among the nautae. In the case of a collegium, N. Tran convincingly argued that these associations were basically composed of the owners and not the employees.11 At Apulum, situated on the bank of the Mureș, C. Munteanu supposed the existence of a river harbour, based on observations of aerial photographs and on small archaeological investigations.12 With what merchandise were the nautae dealing? Surely textiles were one: the transport of textiles is attested not only inscriptions13 but also in iconography.14 Centonarii were artisans and tradesmen in low-to-medium-quality woollens. I agree with J. Liu, who pointed out that members of collegia centonariorum were recruited first of all as tradesmen.15 In Roman Dacia, the collegium centonariorum is mentioned not just in the inscription erected in honour of Strenuus but in three other texts at Apulum: IDR III.5, 425, 440, 483. This confirms that Apulum was the centre of his association; besides, all other patroni come from the same gens (P. Aelius P. f. Papiria Silvanus: IDR III.5, 483; and P. Aelius P. f. Papiria 9

 Cébeillac-Gervasoni and Morelli 2014.  Piso 2006, 267–68. 11  Tran 2006, 102. 12  Munteanu 2015, 148–49, with bibliography. 13  For luxury textiles: CIL V 785; CIL VI 33, 88, 9891, 9892; CIL XIII 1945. For common textiles: AE 1982, 802; CIL VI 9493; CIL XI 862, 6367; CIL XIII 1898, 2016, etc. An overview by Ruffing 2007. 14  See especially Jacobsen 1995, 129; Drinkwater 2001. 15  Liu 2009, 295. See more recently Dumitrache 2018, 33. 10

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Genialis: IDR III.5, 440). The texts date from the same time and I wonder if the three P. Aelii (Strenuus, Silvanus and Genialis) are, if not brothers, at least related. I am therefore sure that the business led by P. Aelius Strenuus concerned the textile trade as well and this trade was conducted on the Mureș. Can we connect salt to these trading activities, too? This is harder to estimate. However, his title can suggest such a connexion. Another professional collegium, collegium utric(u)lariorum, is attested twice in Dacia: once at Pons Augusti (Marga) (IDR III.1, 272) and once in Călugăreni (Mureș county) (IDR III.4, 215). Utricularii were bladder-men, whose badge was an inflated goatskin and they were supposed to transport merchandise on rafts.16 The evidence of utricularii, except for Dacia, is mostly in the two Gauls:17 their status as sailors was put into doubt, because the rivers in that region were not navigable. A. Deman called them simple muleteers.18 Returning to the Dacian case, Călugăreni is situated nor far from the Mureș, which was partly navigable.19 At Călugăreni an auxiliary fort was built, and it is more likely that the cohors I Augusta Ituraeorum was stationed there,20 alongside subunits of the legio XIII Gemina (IDR III.4, 210). Călugăreni was not far from Sovata, a place with salt resources. I think that the utricularii could transport their merchandise both on land and water and, in the case of Dacia, salt cannot be excluded from such merchandise. This is why the three elements in the title of. P. Aelius Strenuus are expressing these connexions. Could P. Aelius Strenuus have had private business affairs? I believe so, but as a conductor, he took care on salt exploitation, trade and pastures. The other texts were found outside the offices of the salt administration, located, as unanimously agreed, in the capital of the province. Two of the aforementioned inscriptions are found at Micia (those mentioning [---]lius Rufinus21 and P. Aelius Marius: IDR III.3, 119). Added to these is an inscription attesting the a solo erection of a temple by P. Aelius Euphorus, the freedman of P. Aelius Marius (IDR III.3, 49). Micia was not a centre of salt exploitation. However, D. Benea22 and I.A. Oltean23 argue that it may have been concerned with the salt deposits found in major military centres; foremost in supplying the military was salt extracted from Salinae (nowadays Ocna Mureș). In fact, Micia did house auxiliary troops,24 and the existence of such deposits is more probable than that of salt exploitation. Furthermore, Micia also had a customs office (IDR III.3, 102) (where taxes were levied for crossing the Mureș), and the transport of salt was subjected to customs control and certain transactions. Another text featuring P. Aelius Marius was found at Tibiscum (IDR III.1, 145). This city is in the same situation as Micia. It is not located near salt exploitation, but it probably had warehouses for provisioning the army,

16

 Greene 1990, 19.  CIL XII 187, 700, 729, 731, 733; AE 1965, 144. 165, etc. 18  Deman 2002. See also Kneissl 1981; Liu 2009, 136–38. Woolf (2016, 458) considered they could transport merchandise both on rivers and land. 19  See Munteanu 2015, 148–49. 20  See Țentea 2011a, 55; Piso and Marcu 2006–07; Matei-Popescu and Țentea 2016, 10. 21  Piso 2004–05. 22  Benea 2007, 44. 23  Oltean 2007, 39. 24  Ala I Hispanorum Campagonum (IDR III.3, 56–57, 59–60, 172, 183, 196), numerus Maurorum Miciensium (IDR III.3, 47, 166, 176), cohors II Flavia Commagenorum (IDR III.3, 45–46, 51–53, 58, 60, 63, etc.). See especially Țentea 2011a, 45–48, with bibliography. See also Matei-Popescu 2015, 414. 17

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which here comprised several auxiliary units.25 Porolissum is likewise not a centre of salt exploitation, but it operated an important customs statio (at the border with the Barbaricum)26 and housed a garrison.27 Also not excluded is the presence of a customs office at Tibiscum. Even though texts do not mention such a statio, its strategic location (close to the frontier with Moesia Inferior) would warrant the presence of such an office. Conversely, Sânpaul, where the inscription raised by Iulius Omucio, the libertus of C. Iulius Valentinus (IDR III.4, 248), was found, is located in the saliferous HomorodMărtiniș area. Sânpaul has revealed the vestiges of a rectangular fort with round towers and two occupation phases, though not datable with precision.28 The site yielded the stamp of numerus Maurorum S(---) (IDR III.4, 254), a unit probably stationed here. Discovered near Sânpaul was the epitaph of Aurelius Severus, a decurion of a unit (not necessarily the numerus Maurorum) stationed in the aforementioned fort (IDR III.4, 259). What is certain is that the military presence in the area confirms the importance placed by the state on the exploitation of salt in the region. Even if C. Iulius Valentinus is attested indirectly, through his freedman, the existence of exploitation makes it probable that Valentinus was there, even more so given that it was in the interest of the freedman that the patron saw himself mentioned in the inscription. C. Iulius Valentinus is, just like P. Aelius Strenuus, an important character in the province. A homonymous individual, probably the same person, is mentioned at Apulum as IIIIvir primus annualis municipii Septimii Apulensis and as patronus fabrum.29 A Iulius Valentinus is also attested at Tibiscum (IDR III.1, 139) as a flamen municipii: they are apparently the same person, even if the gentilicium Iulius and the cognomen Valentinus are both frequent. The last settlement in which a conductor salinarum is mentioned is Domnești, specifically the altar to Jupiter and Terra Mater, for the health of P. Aelius Marius, raised by his slave Atticus (ILD 804). I will discuss later the significance of the dedication to Terra Mater. At Domnești there definitely existed salt exploitation. Indeed the very name of the place of discovery means ‘the salt spring’. Recently attested at Domnești is a regio Neridonis (…?) under the supervision of a centurio regionarius.30 I. Piso and G. Cupcea argue that the presence of this centurion with police duties concerning the security of a domain of the Imperial fiscus was foremost due to the supervising of herds at pasture.31 I will return to this topic when discussing the military presence near the salt exploitations. In this case too, the presence of P. Aelius Marius on the spot is likely. Accordingly, the conductores salinarum attested in Roman Dacia leased the salt-works immediately or shortly after the creation of the province. The earliest is P. Aelius Marius (when Sarmizegetusa was the capital of the province); besides [---]lius Rufinus, mentioned in a difficult to date inscription, the other two carried out their activities after the 25  Cohors I Vindelicorum (IDR III.1, 137, 253–255), cohors I Sagittaria (IDR III.1, 136, 251–252), numerus Maurorum Tibiscensium (IDR III.1, 147, 156, etc.), numerus Palmyrenorum Tibiscensium (IDR III.1, 134, 147, 164, 256, etc.). See especially Țentea 2011a, 60–63, 71–73, with bibliography. See also Țentea and Matei-Popescu 2004, 291–92; Țentea 2011b; Matei-Popescu 2015, 414. 26  Gudea 1996. 27  Gudea 1997a; 2003. 28  Gudea 1997b, 61. Seealso Matei-Popescu and Țentea 2016, 13. 29  IDR III.5, 204; AE 2007, 1205. 30  Piso and Cupcea 2014. 31  Piso and Cupcea 2014, 122.

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rule of Marcus Aurelius, C. Iulius Valentinus and P. Aelius Strenuus definitely during the Severan dynasty. Some of them also leased pastures (the administration of which was linked with the exploitation of salt), while P. Aelius Strenuus was also a conductor commerciorum: the commercial activities he coordinated were likewise connected with salt exploitation and pastures. It is noteworthy that a number of the locations where the conductores carried out their activities also had customs offices, by means of which goods passing through such points were more closely controlled. In any case, conductores are attested either in places where salt was exploited, or in the areas in which it was stored for the use of the army or for commercialising it. Even if their presence is not mentioned expressis verbis, it can be inferred, since votive altars for their health are surely raised in the settlements where they sojourned.

THE LOWER-RANK PERSONNEL

OF THE

SALT-WORKS ADMINISTRATION

I have cursorily mentioned the lower-ranking functionaries when discussing the inscriptions concerning the conductores, since the inscriptions were made at the order of these civil servants. Though not stating his juridical status, P. Aelius Euphorus is definitely the freedman of P. Aelius Marius, judging from the identical praenomen and nomen gentile and the typically slave cognomen.32 Euphorus does not reveal his function in the administration, but it is not excluded that he was an agent (actor) of his patron. P. Aelius Euphorus is mentioned in a second inscription, this time in his capacity as euergetist, likewise at Micia, erecting from the ground up (a solo) a temple for Deus Invictus (Mithras) (IDR III.3, 49). Two issues stand out: first, that the freedman performs this munificent act in Micia too and, accordingly, he resides or has resided for a long time in this settlement; second, that the erection of a temple requires a certain financial clout, and Euphorus does have the necessary funds. Actually, private freedmen working in various sectors of an administration (particularly when their former masters are conductores) had a more than satisfactory material situation. Also at Micia is attested Ursio, actor of his master [---]lius Rufinus, conductor salinarum.33 As we shall see, Ursio was not the only actor of such a conductor. I discussed almost a decade ago the occurrences of actores in Dacia.34 Here I shall not revisit the meanings of the term actor. Most scholars distinguish between actores and vilici, concluding that the former generally designated administrators of their master’s private business.35 In the rural milieu, vilicus could sometimes have been synonymous with actor, as argued by J. Carlsen: ‘in the second and the third centuries AD actor and vilicus became two different categories of trusted slaves, with separate duties and each with his own position in the hierarchy of the household.’36 Thus, the actores from the administration of the salt-works were private agents of the conductores, but acted in their name particularly on issues of a financial nature. These financial assignments of the

32

 Mihailescu-Bîrliba 2006, 294. See also Solin 1983, 1279.  Piso 2004–05. 34  Mihailescu-Bîrliba 2009. 35  See especially Marquardt 1886, 139; Habel 1894; Sirago 1958, 180–86; Aubert 1993; 1994; Carlsen 1995, 122–23. 36  Carlsen 1995, 123. 33

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actores can be drawn from a text from Alburnus Maior (IDR I, 44).37 P. Aelius Marius is again mentioned in an inscription raised by Hermadio, actor of a certain Turranius Dius. In this instance, the slave is listed as an agent of another individual, Turranius Dius (IDR III.1, 145). This Turranius Dius is also mentioned in an altar consecrated to Liber Pater by one of his freedmen, Turranius Patroclus (IDR III.1, 141).38 D. Benea considered that the Turrani landed in Dacia from Augusta Treverorum, where they are more frequently attested.39 It is nevertheless hard to verify this claim, even more so given that there are Turrani mentioned outside Augusta Trevenorum that do not originate from this city.40 Benea’s hypothesis, according to which the Turrani were brought in Dacia for various commercial reasons, is based mainly on a stamped brick found at Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa with the inscription M TVR, previously misread by I.I. Russu as INTVRVS (IDR III.2, 556). This would however not accredit the Augusta Treverorum origin of all the Turrani of Dacia. Other Turrani are mentioned in Dacia at Apulum (IDR III.5, 285) and Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa (IDR III.2, 445). What is the link between Hermadio, actor of Turranius Dius, and P. Aelius Marius? In the article on actores in Dacia, I overlooked the answer, though I provided it indirectly. The wax tablet from Alburnus Maior, already mentioned (IDR I, 44), bears testimony to the agreement between Cassius Frontinus and Iulius Alexander, a banker already known from the area (IDR I, 33, 35), to establish a societas for lucrative moneylending. What is the role of Secundus, an actor of a certain Cassius Palumbus, who deposits for the new enterprise the sum of 267 denarii, alongside the 500 deposited by Iulius Alexander? Judging from the gentilicium, Cassius Palumbus is related to the first associate, Cassius Frontinus; the former’s involvement in this endeavour would be harder to explain otherwise. What is also certain is that Secundus was delegated by his master to make the deposit in the name of his relative, Cassius Frontinus: I do not agree in this regard with Russu, for whom Secundus joined the association with his own money.41 Most definitely, slaves did own a peculium, but from the juridical point of view he could have not participated with his personal money in the enterprise. The inscription is elusive past the portion with Secundus’ share, but the group of letters PR (perhaps from pro, for, in the name of) and TIN (probably from Frontinus) can be distinguished, which leads us to assume that the money were deposited in the name of Cassius Frontinus. The role of Secundus seems relevant: he is commanded by his master to represent a relative in the enterprise, and the necessary sum is bestowed on him. This reveals that an actor could have acted in the name of his master, but he could also have acted in the name of a third person. This is why I find the text important, irrespective of the transaction itself.42 Its importance is thus also relevant for the manner in which we must understand the link between P. Aelius Marius and Hermadio. Hermadio is an actor of Turranius Dius, but 37

 See also Mihailescu-Bîrliba 2009, 312–13.  See also Mihailescu-Bîrliba 2003, 48. 39  Benea 2003, 183. 40  Some examples: AE 1958, 131 (Mauretania Caesariensis); AE 1972, 141 (Regio III); AE 1977, 265a (Regio VII); AE 1998, 1029 (Dalmatia); AE 2004, 1341 (Achaia). 41  IDR I, 44, sub numero. 42  Besides, it is beyond doubt that we can speak of a loan society, not of a bank, as Andreau (1987, 686) points out: nothing speaks about deposits or opening and operating accounts. 38

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he is delegated by the master to act in his name in his affairs with the lessee. It follows that a conductor also had commercial responsibilities. It is true that the text does not mention P. Aelius Marius’s capacity as conductor pascui et salinarum, and it is probable that he had private commercial relations with Turranius Dius. In any case, a conductor must also have had this competency in understanding and promoting the trade in the product or products yielded by a leased domain. The two inscriptions throw light on these trade competences that a lessee had to possess, even if it is not clear whether P. Aelius Marius only had private businesses with Turranius Dius or also acted in his capacity of conductor. Another text can offer us supplementary information. At Potaissa, Hermadio dedicated a shrine to Silvanus (ILD 492). The name is quite rare in Dacia. It appears thrice and it is very likely to belong to the same person. The first two times are those from Tibiscum and Potaissa, already mentioned, and the third time Hermadio consecrates a shrine to Mithra at Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa (IDR III.3, 283). Let us focus on the Potaissa inscription. Potaissa is next to the rock salt exploitation of Turda, the largest in Dacia. Silvanus was popular among miners, as other divinities of soil products (not only metals and stone, but also grains, wood, grass and wine).43 I think that Hermadio’s presence in Potaissa was related to salt exploitation, which confirms his relationship to P. Aelius Marius. Hermadio was an actor of Turranius Dius and he managed some commercial activities related to salt. That is why he knew P. Aelius Marius and that is why he was setting up an altar to Silvanus in Potaissa, close to the salt exploitation. Yet another actor of P. Aelius Marius is mentioned at Domnești (ILD 804). As stated, there was a salt exploitation at Domnești, with the very place of discovery being called ‘the salt spring’. The text constitutes proof that the functionaries of this administration were located at the site itself. The lessee entrusts part of this administration to his slaves, the actores. They probably had proven their efficiency on other occasions and enjoyed the trust of the master. Though it was a state exploitation, the lessee acted as a private person and consequently could use his most trusted underlings for administering it. The last text mentioning P. Aelius Marius is by an unnamed individual from Porolissum, but it is likely that he is yet another of the lessee’s slaves or freedmen, delegated to act in the name of the master or patron. Also an actor is Iulius Omucio, freedman of C. Iulius Valentinus (IDR III.4, 248). Even though manumitted, the freedman continued acting as the financial agent of the patron, either counting among the operae he owned his master, or by his own will.44 Finally, the inscription from Apulum dedicated to P. Aelius Strenuus: the one honouring the local dignitary is Rufinus, his own slave (IDR III.5, 443). Rufinus does not expound more. Since it concerned an important person, not only for Apulum but for the entire province, Rufinus aggrandises his master, without mentioning the role he played in his master’s private businesses. However, considering the active involvement of Strenuus in the economic life of the province (besides conductor pascui, salinarum et commerciorum, 43

 Dušanić 1999, 130–31.  See especially Waldstein 1986, 55–58; Masi Doria 1993; Gonzales 1997; Mihailescu-Bîrliba 2006, 20–21; 2009, 313. 44

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he is also patron of craftsmen, centonarii45 and boatmen collegia), as the one to manage the raising of the honorary inscription, Rufinus was one of the closest slaves and probably played an important role in the affairs of his master. If we look at where the texts of these employees were found, we can discover relevant detail. First of all, Sânpaul and Domnești. At Sânpaul, I have already mentioned the research of A. Harding and V. Kavruk, which led to the observation that a salt spring existed at Mărtiniș in Roman times.46 Geophysical surveys in the Sânpaul area allowed them to advance the hypothesis that there was the Roman salt-works on the road to Ocland, though no investigations have been made to confirm this.47 The timber samples date to the Iron Age, but they supposed that salt exploitation could have been achieved also in the Roman period.48 In the same village of Mărtiniș, other salt springs were identified at Aldea, Comănești and Petreni.49 Not far from Sânpaul and Mărtiniș, the same source of salt was observed at Merești and Lueta.50 The modern toponym Minele Lueta (Lueta Mines), belonging now to the town of Vlăhița (Harghita county, next to the village Lueta), could indicate ancient exploitation. Nevertheless, it is certain that at least a salt spring existed at Lueta. The presence of. C. Iulius Omucio was not accidental; as an actor, he was just next to the exploitation. The erection of an altar to Sol Invictus, for the health of his patronus, shows on the one hand that he was representing his ex-master there and, on the other, a longer presence in the area. At Domnești, the inscription was found in a place called Izvorul Sărat (‘The Salt Spring’). It is useless to speak of salt resources in the region. The evidence of exploitation is also confirmed by the dedication to Terra Mater, a very popular divinity among miners.51 North-east from Domnești, salt springs were identified at Livezile, Josenii Bârgăului, Bistrița Bârgăului and Susenii Bârgăului; north from it at Dumitra and Cepari; northwest at Domnești, Blăjenii de Sus, Șieu Sfântu, Tăru, Mintiu and Nimigea; and at Pinticul and Viile Tecii (both from Teaca village).52 New field surveys have identified these salt springs, but future investigations will bring more data about salt exploitation in Roman times. In any case, the area was rich in salt resources and the presence of the actor proves his involvement in field activity. Like Iulius Omucio, Atticus was representing his master, the leaseholder P. Aelius Marius, just next to the exploitation. He was acting in the field and surveying on site the salt-work activity. Note that at Micia, Tibiscum, Porolissum and Apulum, where the others employees are attested, there were military centres. The clerks were in direct connexion with the army, for which the salt supply was essential. Last but not least, P. Aelius Strenuus in honoured in Apulum, not in the military camp, but in the city, where he was an important person. 45  A simple translation of the word centonarii is difficult. See more recently the acceptable definition proposed by Liu (2009, 57–98), based on the investigation of various types of sources: an occupational title for craftsmen and tradesmen of woollen fabrics and clothing. 46  Harding and Kavruk 2013, 43. 47  Harding and Kavruk 2013, 43. 48  Harding and Kavruk 2013, 47. See also Harding 2015, 216; 2016, 377. 49  Information from Andrei Asăndulesei, to whom I am grateful for communicating to me the preliminary results of his field surveys. 50  Field survey by Andrei Asăndulesei, who kindly informed me about his investigations. 51  Mihailescu-Bîrliba 2016, 54–55. I shall talk later about the cult of Terra Mater. 52  Field survey by Andrei Asăndulesei, who kindly communicated his results.

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CONCLUSIONS The lower-ranking personnel in salt exploitations were slaves and freedmen of the conductores: this is neither by chance, nor is it remarkable. As I have shown, the lessees preferred to manage people they could trust, above all from their own familia. It is not surprising because slaves and freedmen of conductores were involved in the customs administration, holding foremost the position of vilicus. Thus, to take only the Illyricum customs district, there are countless such examples: Mercator, vilicus of an anonymous conductor (IDR III.1, 281), Maximianus, vilicus of T. Iulius Saturninus (IDR III.5, 702), or Faustus, vilicus of the same leaseholder (ILJug 920). Also from T. Iulius Saturninus’ family are the employees Bellinus (contrascriptor) (IDR III.1, 35), Quintillus (vilicus) (ILB 336) and Festinus (arkarius) (CIL V, 5079). Melichryssus is vilicus of P. Caragonius Philopalaestrus (IGLNovae 35). Fortunatianus is vilicus of C. Antonius Rufus (CIL III 13283). The three Iulii conductores of the Illyricum customs district have their own slaves as employees, such as Hermes (vilicus)53 and Eutyches (contrascriptor) (CIL III 5121). Q. Sabinus Veranus took on board the slaves Fructus54 and Apollinaris.55 We see thus that it was customary for the leaseholders (farmers) of customs to hire their own slaves and freedmen (foremost slaves), on the basis of proved competence and the trust bestowed upon them by masters or patrons. The same is valid for the conductores of the salt-works. Considering the importance of this economic sector, not only for the army but also for the economy of the province, they employed the people they trusted professionally the most, namely their own slaves and freedmen. In a single case (that from Tibiscum), a link in the salt-work administration between Hermadio, actor of Turranius Dius, and the leaseholder P. Aelius Marius cannot be proved, though it also cannot be excluded.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Andreau, J. 1987: La vie financière dans le monde romain: Les métiers des manieurs d’argent (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 265) (Rome). Aubert, J.-J. 1993: ‘Workshop managers’. In Harris, W.V. (ed.), The Inscribed Economy: Production and Distribution in the Roman Empire in the Light of instrumentum domesticum (The Proceedings of a Conference held at the American Academy in Rome on 10–11 January, 1992) (Journal of Roman Archaeology Suppl. 6) (Ann Arbor), 171–81. —. 1994: Business Managers in Ancient Rome: A Social and Economic Study of Institores 200 BC–AD 250 (Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition 21) (Leiden). Balla, L. 2000: Studia Dacica. Collected Papers (Hungarian Polis Studies 5) (Debrecen). Benea, D. 2003: Istoria așezărilor de tip vici militares în Dacia romană (Timișoara). —. 2007: ‘Cu privire la administrarea salinelor din Dacia romană’. Analele Banatului n.s. 15, 41–46. —. 2010: ‘Despre organizarea pășunilor în Dacia romană și importanța lor în economia provinciei’. Bibliotheca Historica et Archaeologica Universitatis Timisiensis 12, 45–74. Brunt, P.A. 1990: Roman Imperial Themes (Oxford).

 AE 1977, 767; CIL III 6124; ILB 441.  CIL III 5146; AE 2008, 1020. 55  AE 1986, 571. 53 54

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Carlsen, J. 1995: Vilici and Roman Estate Managers until AD 284 (Analecta Romana Instituti Danici Suppl. 24) (Rome). Cébeillac-Gervasoni, M. and Morelli, C. 2014: ‘Les conductores du Campus Salinarum Romanarum’. MEFRA 126.1, 23–33. Dana, D. and Zăgreanu, R. 2013: ‘Deux dédicaces latines inédites de Porolissum’. Tyche 28, 27–35. Deman, A. 2002: ‘Avec les utriculaires sur les sentiers muletiers de la Gaule romaine’. Cahiers du Centre Gustave Glotz 13, 233–46. Drinkwater, J.F. 2001: ‘The Gallo-Roman woollen industry and the great debate. The Igel column revisited’. In Mattingly, D.J. and Salmon, J. (eds.), Economies beyond Agriculture in the Classical World (Leicester-Nottingham Studies in Ancient Society 9) (London/New York), 297– 308. Dumitrache, I. 2018: ‘Latin occupational titles in Roman textile trade’. In Cupcea, G. and Varga, R. (eds.), Social Interactions and Status Markers in the Roman World (Archaeopress Roman Archaeology 37) (Oxford), 24–45. Dušanić, S. 1999: ‘The Miners’ Cults in Illyricum’. Pallas 50 (= Mélanges C. Domergue), 129–39. Egri, M., McCarty, M.M., Rustoiu, A. and Inel, C. 2018: ‘A New Mithraic Community at Apulum (Alba Iulia, Romania)’. ZPE 205, 268–75. Gonzales, A. 1997: ‘Les relations d’obsequium et de societas à la fin de la République’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 23, 155–87. Greene, K. 1990: The Archaeology of the Roman Economy (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London). Gudea, N. 1996: Porolissum: Un complex daco-roman la marginea de nord a Imperiului roman. II: Vama romană. Monografie arheologică (Cluj-Napoca). —. 1997a: Der Römergrenzkastell von Moigrad-Pomet: Porolissum I (Führer zu archäologischen Denkmälern in Dacia Porolissensis 5) (Zalău). —. 1997b: ‘Der dakische Limes. Materialien zu seiner Geschichte’. Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 44.2, 1–114. —. 2003: ‘Sanctuare și militari la Porolissum’. Ephemeris Napocensis 13, 217–42. Habel, H. 1894: ‘Actor’. RE I.1, 329–30. Harding, A. 2015: ‘Salt exploitation in the later prehistory of the Carpathian Basin’. Documenta Praehistorica 42, 211–17. —. 2016: ‘Balkan salt in Antiquity’. In Bacvarov, K. and Gleser, R. (eds.), Southeast Europe and Anatolia in Prehistory: Essays in Honor of Vassil Nikolov on his 65th anniversary (Universitätsforschungen zur prähistorischen Archäologie 293) (Bonn), 375–78. Harding, A. and Kavruk, V. 2013: ‘Transylvania’. In Harding, A. and Kavruk, V. (eds.), Exploration in Salt Archaeology in the Carpathian Zone (Budapest), 41–153. Jacobsen, G. 1995: Primitive Austausch oder freier Markt?: Untersuchungen zum Handel in den gallisch-germanischen Provinzen während der römischen Kaiserzeit (Pharos 5) (St Katharinen). Kneissl, P. 1981: ‘Die utricularii. Ihre Rolle im gallo-römischen Transportwesen und Weinhandel’. Bonner Jahrbücher 181, 169–204. Liu, J. 2009: Collegia Centonariorum: The Guilds of Textile Dealers in the Roman West (Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition 34) (Leiden/Boston). Marquardt, J. 1886: Das Privatleben der Römer (Handbuch der römischen Alterthümer 7), 2nd ed. (Leipzig). Masi Doria, C. 1993: Civitas Operae Obsequium: Tre studi sulla condizione giuridica dei liberti (Pubblicazioni del Dipartimento di diritto romano e storia della scienza romanistica dell’Università degli studi di Napoli “Federico II” 5) (Naples). Matei-Popescu, F. 2015: ‘The auxiliary units in Moesia Superior and Dacia. A review and update’. In Vagalinski, L. and Sharankov, N. (eds.), Limes XXII (Proceedings of the 22nd International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies, Ruse, Bulgaria, September 2012) (= Izvestia na Arheologicheskia Institut 42) (Sofia), 407–18. Matei-Popescu, F. and Țentea, O. 2016: ‘The Eastern Frontier of Dacia. A Gazetteer of the Forts and Units’. In Bârcă, V. (ed.), Orbis Romanus and barbaricum: The Barbarians around the Province of Dacia and Their Relations with the Roman Empire (Cluj-Napoca), 7–24.

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Mihailescu-Bîrliba, L. 2003: ‘Epigraphica. Addenda et corrigenda (I)’. Strabon 1.1, 46–48. —. 2006: Les affranchis dans les provinces romaines de l’Illyricum (Philippika 12) (Wiesbaden). —. 2009: ‘Actores Daciae romanae’. Classica et Christiana 4.1, 307–16. —. 2016: ‘Les salines en Dacie romaine: remarques sur le personnel administratif’. Studia Antiqua et Archaeologica 22.1, 51–58. Munteanu, C. 2015: Transportul de mărfuri pe căile navigabile interioare din provinciile romane renane și dunărene (secolele I–III p. Chr.) (Sibiu). Oltean, I.A. 2007: Roman Dacia: Landscape, Colonisation, and Romanisation (London/New York). Ørsted, P. 1985: Roman Imperial Economy and Romanization: A Study in Roman Imperial Administration and the Public Lease System in the Danubian Provinces from the First to the Third Century A.D. (Copenhagen). Piso, I. 2004–05: ‘Un nouveau conductor salinarum en Dacie’. Acta Musei Napocensis 41–42, 179–82. —. 2006: Le forum vetus de Sarmizegetusa, vol. 1 (Bucharest). Piso, I. and Cupcea, G. 2014: ‘Ein centurio regionarius aus der legio X Fretensis in Dakien’. Tyche 29, 115–23, Piso, I. and Marcu, F. 2006–07: ‘La cohors I Auguta Ituraeorum en Dacie’. Acta Musei Napocensis 43–44, 167–76. Rostovtzeff, M.I. 1902: Geschichte der Staatspacht in der römischen Kaiserzeit bis Diokletian (Leipzig). —. 1957: The Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire, 2nd ed. rev. P.M. Fraser (Oxford). Ruffing, K. 2007: ‘Textilien als Wirtschaftsgut in der römischen Kaiserzeit’. In Gunther, S., Ruffing, K. and Stoll, O. (eds.), Pragmata: Beiträge zur Wirtschaftsgeschichte der Antike im Gedenken an Harald Winkel (Philippika 17) (Wiesbaden), 41–53. Sirago, V.A. 1958: L’Italia agrara sotto Traiano (Recueil de travaux d’histoire et de philologie sér. 4, 16) (Louvain). Solin, H. 1982: Die griechischen Personennamen in Rom: Ein Namenbuch (CIL Auctarium n.s. 2) (Berlin/New York). Țentea, O. 2011a: Ex Oriente ad Danubium: The Syrian Auxiliary Units on the Danubian Frontier of the Roman Empire (Bucharest). —. 2011b: ‘Some remarks on the Palmyreni sagittarii’. In Piso, I., Rusu-Bolindeț, V., Varga, R., Musteață, S., Beu-Dachin, E. and Ruscu, L. (eds.), Scripta classica: Radu Ardevan sexagenario dedicata (Cluj-Napoca), 371–77. Țentea, O. and Matei-Popescu, F. 2004: ‘Alae et Cohortes Daciae et Moesiae. A review and update of J. Spaul’s ala and cohors’. Acta Musei Napocensis 39–40, 259–96. Tran, N. 2006: Les membres des associations romaines: Le rang social des collegiati en Italie et en Gaules, sous le Haut-Empire (Collection de l’École française de Rome 367) (Rome/Paris). Waldstein, W. 1986: Operae libertorum: Untersuchungen zur Dienstpflichten freigelassener Sklaven (Forschungen den antiken Sklaverei 19) (Stuttgart). Woolf, G. 2016. ‘Moovers and Stayers’. In de Ligt, L. and Tacoma, L.E. (eds.), Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire (Studies in Global Social History 23; Studies in Global Migration History 7) (Leiden/Boston), 438–61.

A NEW STAMPED ROMAN AMPHORA FROM CIOROIU NOU Dorel BONDOC

ABSTRACT This paper presents another stamped amphora from Cioroiu Nou, this time belonging to the producer Quartus. In fact, it is about an amphora handle, but because the stamp is entirely preserved, the completion is certain. Very interesting is the fact that his name was written in Greek letters. On this occasion, I returned to two similar discoveries from the older excavations of Sarmizegetusa and Histria. In all cases they relate to the same amphora producer, named Quartus. Now, it is easy to understand that they came from somewhere in the Greek world, through the Black Sea ports (Histria), after which they were distributed along the Danube and to its north.

Within the archaeological sites of the south of Roman Dacia, Cioroiu Nou1 holds an important role. The excavations carried out inside the Roman fortress here led to the identification of a bath-house built by soldiers of the legio VII Claudia.2 Moreover, recent discoveries have highlighted several buildings outside the fortification, on the perimeter of the civilian settlement (Fig. 1).3 But the most eloquent in this respect is the archaeological material,4 which through its richness and diversity offers a clear picture of the amplitude of everyday life in a marginal province of the Roman empire, as was Dacia. During the 2018 campaign, significant archaeological material was discovered within the Roman civilian settlement, obviously with pottery occupying a leading role.5 In this context, I bring to attention the discovery of an amphora handle, with a stamp applied on its surface. It was located in a control section dug in the north-eastern environs of the fortification (Section 7 / 2018, square 5, -0.60 m deep), in a location situated near the present road and modern cemetery. The amphora handle has been preserved fragmentarily (pieces 6 × 6 × 4 cm), but it can be seen that it was made of a rough brick-coloured paste, with sand, mica and red pigments in composition (Fig. 2). Due to the small preserved sizes, identifying the type of amphora is difficult at this time.  For the Roman fortress of Cioroiu Nou, see Tudor 1962; 1965; 1966; Tudor et al. 1967; Bondoc 2010, 12–13 and 126–27; 2015b, 9–13. 2  Bondoc 2000; 2001; 2015b, 17–241. 3  Bondoc 2018, 29–33. 4  For the inscriptions of Cioroiu Nou, see IDR II, pp. 81–86; for lamps, Bondoc 2008; for amphorae, Bondoc 2014. In general, see Tudor 1968b, 315–19; Bondoc 2010. 5  For the Roman pottery at Cioroiu Nou, see Bondoc 2005; Gămureac 2011–12. For Roman painted pottery: Bondoc 2006; 2015a. 1

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On the surface of the handle, a stamp with a rectangular shape (5 × 1 cm) with rounded corners was applied to the soft paste before firing in the kiln (Fig. 3). Although it was imprinted improperly, inside the stamp can be seen the name of a Roman amphora producer, but written in Greek letters. The embossed letters are arranged in one row and have a height of 0.5–0.8 cm: ΚΟΥΑΡΤΟΥ. As with other discoveries of this kind,6 we are dealing with an import. The amphora’s contents (wine, oil, fish) cannot be specified. The fact that the producer, although a Roman, had written his name in Greek, proves that the amphora’s production centre was in a Greek-speaking region. Until recently, the amphora producer Quartus was totally unknown in Dacia7 and surrounding areas.8 Obviously, this assertion is based on the current stage of research and publication. Following the discovery at Cioroiu Nou, I tried hard to find other stamped amphorae of Quartus, in order to have an image of the distribution of such products in our regions. On this occasion, two similar discoveries were identified. * * * One such discovery in Dacia comes from Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa (Fig. 4).9 It was found inside the temple of Malagbel. Although fragmentarily preserved (only the first four letters: KOYA...),10 it can be seen that the stamp from Sarmizegetusa is identical to that found in Cioroiu Nou. In both cases the impressing was improper, and the letters are arranged somewhat irregularly. Finally, another similar stamp comes from Histria (Fig. 5). It was discovered some time ago, later published,11 but the archaeological context of discovery is unknown. It has been fragmentarily preserved, and it too has just the first four letters: KOYA... It can easily be seen that the stamp from Histria is identical to those from Cioroiu Nou and Sarmizegetusa. At the time of the discovery of the stamp from Cioroiu Nou, the completion of the one from Sarmizegetusa was just guessed,12 and that from Histria had not attracted any attention. It is clear, however, that they have the same producer, Quartus, whose amphorae arrived in both in the Lower Danube area and north of the river. At present, we have three stamps applied on amphorae belonging to the producer Quartus (Fig. 6). If there is still insufficient data for a typological classification of Quartus amphorae (we lack an edifying profile), based on the discovery contexts of Cioroiu Nou and Sarmizegetusa, we can, however, estimate a dating. The handle from Cioroiu Nou was discovered in a largely dated archaeological context of the 3rd century AD. Nearby, in the same excavation (Section 7/2018, square 6, -0.50 m deep), a coin issued by the emperor Severus Alexander (AD 222–235) has been found. A more precise dating is not

6

 Tudor 1968a; Alicu 1975, 409–10, figs. 1–2; Popa 1981.  For the amphorae from Roman Dacia, see Ardeț 2006. 8  For the amphorae from Moesia Superior, see Bjelajac 1996. 9  Paki 1984, 477–79; Ruscu 2003, 70–71. 10  Paki 1984, 478, pl. I.2. 11  Canarache 1957, 310, no. 836. 12  Ruscu 2003, 70–71, no. 118; ILD 301. 7

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possible due to the numerous anthropological interventions that disturbed the archaeological landscape, as I pointed out at the beginning of this piece. The same cannot be said of the stamped handle from Sarmizegetusa, which was discovered inside the temple of Malagbel, thus in an archaeological context dated in the first half of the 3rd century AD. Last but not least, as has been noticed on another occasion,13 it is easy to see that the main transport route of Greek amphorae in the Lower Danube was by sea through the Black Sea ports (especially Histria), after which they were distributed along the Danube and to its north (Fig. 7) from the Hellenistic period onwards.14 Otherwise, the name Quartus is not entirely unusual in Roman ceramic production; a character with this name can be found engraved on terra sigillata type vessels15 and another Quartus was a tile producer;16 not least, on a stamped amphora (QVART) from Arva (Peña de la Sal),17 although completed Quartionis, it could be another Quartus. If we take into account a Celerinius Quartus mentioned on a funeral monument from Apulum,18 then we come to the conclusion that it is a name quite common in the Roman period.19

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alicu, D. 1975: ‘Un fragment de amforă cu ștampilă de la Ulpia Traiana (Un fragment d’amphore portant une estampille d’Ulpia Traiana)’. Studii și cercetări de istorie veche și arheologie 26.3, 409–10. Ardeș, A. 2006: Amforele din Dacia romană (Timișoara). Beltrán Lloris, M. 1970: Las anforas romanas en España (Anejo de Caesaraugusta 8; Monografías arqueológicas 8) (Saragossa). Bjelajac, L. 1996: Amfore Gornjo Mezijskog Podunavlja (Arheološki institut, Posebna izdanja 30) (Belgrade). Bondoc, D. 2000: ‘Un detaşament din legiunea VII Claudia la Cioroiul Nou, jud. Dolj’. Studii şi cercetări de istorie veche şi arheologi 51.1–2, 117–21. —. 2001: ‘A Detachment of Legio VII Claudia at Cioroiul Nou (Dolj County, Romania)’. In Die Archäologie und Geschichte der Region des Eisernen Tores zwischen 106–275 n. Chr. (Kolloquium in Drobeta-Turnu Severin, 1.–4. Oktober 2000) (Rumanisch-Jugoslawische Kommision fur die Erforschung der Region des Eisernen Tores – Archaologische Abteilung 4) (Bucharest), 177–82. —. 2005: ‘The officina of Ambiurus from Cioroiul Nou, Cioroiaşi Commune, Dolj County’. In Mușețeanu, C., Bărbulescu, M. and Benea, D. (eds.), Corona Laurea: Studii în onoarea Luciei Ţeposu Marinescu (Bucharest), 107–17. —. 2006: ‘Roman painted pottery discovered at Cioroiul Nou, Dolj County, Romania’. In Bondoc, D. (ed.), In Honorem Gheorghe Popilian (Craiova), 128–41. —. 2008: ‘Roman lamps from Cioroiu Nou, Cioroiaşi Commune, Dolj County, Romania’. In Roman, C.A. and Gudea, N. (eds.), Trade and Local Production of Lamps from the Prehistory

13

 Bondoc 2011.  Tudor 1954; 1967. 15  Fülle 2000, 105. 16  Peacock 1982, 143. 17  Beltrán Lloris 1970, 183, no. 410 and fig. 56/229. 18  IDR III.5 512. 19  Petolescu 2001, 26. 14

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until the Middle Age (Acts of 2nd International Congress on Ancient and Middle Age Lightning Devices, Zalău–Cluj-Napoca, 13th–18th of May 2006) (Cluj-Napoca), 53–57. —. 2010: Cioroiu Nou: 100 descoperiri arheologice/One Hundred Archaeological Discoveries (Craiova). —. 2011: ‘A stamped amphora of the producer Dionysogenes, discovered at Cioroiu Nou’. In Cosma, C. (ed.), Studies in Archaeology and History: An Anniversary Volume to Professor Nicolae Gudea on his 70th birthday (Cluj-Napoca), 145–50. —. 2014: ‘Roman amphorae from Cioroiu Nou (Romania)’. Rei cretariae romanae fautorum 43, 105–12. —. 2015a: ‘New data about Roman painted pottery discovered at Cioroiu Nou, Dolj County, Romania’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 475–80. —. 2015b: Edificiul termal (balneum) al legiunii VII Claudia de la Cioroiu Nou/The Bath House (balneum) of Legio VII Claudia from Cioroiu Nou (Craiova). —. 2018: Romanii la Cioroiu Nou/The Romans at Cioroiu Nou (Craiova). Canarache, V. 1957: Importul amforelor ștampilate la Istria (Biblioteca istorică 1) (Bucharest). Fülle, G. 2000: The Organization of Mass Production of Terra Sigillata in the Roman Empire: Problems of Evidence and Interpretation (Dissertation, Oxford). Gămureac, Ș.E. 2011–12: ‘Contributions to the study of pottery from Roman settlement at Cioroiu Nou, Dolj County’. Oltenia. Studii și comunicări. Arheologie-istorie 18–19, 91–113. Paki, A. 1984: ‘Două fragmente ceramice ștampilate de la Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa’. Acta Musei Napocensis 21, 477–79. Peacock, D.P.S. 1982: Pottery in the Roman World: An Ethnoarchaeological Approach (London/New York). Petolescu, C.C. 2001: Epigrafia latină (Bucharest). Popa, A. 1981: ‘Quelques estampilles d’amphores attestées dans la Dacie’. Apulum 19, 71–78 Ruscu, L. 2003: Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum Dacicarum (Hungarian Polis Studies 10) (Debrecen). Tudor, D. 1954: ‘Amfore elenistice descoperite în adâncul teritoriului R.P.R. (referat asupra legăturilor economice între cetățile sclavagiste grecești și triburile dace dintre Carpați și Dunăre)’. Studii și referate de istoria României 1, 81–88. —. 1962: ‘Săpăturile arheologice de la Cior/oiul Nou’. Materiale şi cercetări arheologice 8, 547– 53. —. 1965: ‘Templul şi statuetele romane de la Cioroiul Nou’. In Omagiu lui P. ConstantinescuIaşi cu prilejul împlinirii a 70 de ani (Bucharest), 109–15. —. 1966: ‘Aquae en Dacie inférieure’. Latomus 25, 847–54. —. 1967: ‘Răspândirea amforelor grecești ștampilate în Moldova, Muntenia și Oltenia’. Arheologia Moldovei 5, 44–47. —. 1968a: ‘Importul de vin și untdelemn în provincia Dacia’. Apulum 7.1, 391–400. —. 1968b: Oraşe, târguri şi sate în Dacia romană (Bucharest). Tudor, D., Diaconescu, I. and Popilian, G. 1967: ‘Şantierul arheologic Cioroiul Nou (1960–1961)’. Apulum 6, 593–605.

A NEW STAMPED ROMAN AMPHORA FROM CIOROIU NOU

Fig. 1. Roman fortress at Cioroiu Nou and the civilian settlement (drawing by author).

Fig. 2. The stamped amphora handle from Cioroiu Nou (photograph by author).

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Fig. 3. The stamped amphora handle from Cioroiu Nou (photograph by author; drawing by Gabriela Filip).

Fig. 4. The stamped amphora handle from Sarmizegetusa (adapted from Paki 1984).

A NEW STAMPED ROMAN AMPHORA FROM CIOROIU NOU

Fig. 5. The stamped amphora handle from Histria (adapted from Canarache 1957).

Fig. 6. The three stamps of the producer Quartus.

Fig. 7. The distribution of Quartus’ amphorae (indicated by red points).

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A GIFT FOR DEA SYRIA FROM MOUKAPORIS, SON OF DITOUKENTHOS Valentin BOTTEZ and Peter ROTHENHOEFER

ABSTRACT This paper presents two silver casseroles dedicated to Dea Syria, an Oriental goddess scarcely attested in the Roman empire. The person making the offering, Moukaporis, son of Ditoukenthos, can be identified with a magister of vicus Quintionis, a village of Roman veterans settled in the territory of Istros.

Our contribution concerns two Roman silver casseroles (Fig. 1), one of which bears a punched inscription. Unfortunately, we were not able to examine the artefacts directly, and therefore are forced to rely on the available information and photographs. The only information concerning the objects’ origin is that they were privately owned in Munich, taken over from the owner’s father’s collection in the 1980s. 1. Silver casserole (H 6.1 cm; L. 18.5 cm). Minimally concave bottom, slightly rounded body widening towards the mouth and straight rim slightly thickened at the edge. The flat handle contoured at the ends and the sides facing the mouth of the vessel. Centre hole in the bottom. Traces of the manufacturing process clearly visible in places.

Fig. 1. The two silver casseroles.

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Fig. 2. Detail with the inscription.

2. Silver casserole (H 6 cm; L 20.4 cm). Minimally concave bottom, slightly rounded body widening towards the mouth and straight rim thickened at the edge. The flat handle ends in a disk on which there are four concentric grooves with a hollow space at their centre. On the handle there is an inscription with letters formed by punchmarks. We approximate1 the height of the letters at 3–4 mm, and the distance between the lines at 2 mm. The five lines create an inscribed field of approximately 5 × 2.2 cm. Date: third quarter of the 2nd century AD. Text of the inscription (Fig. 2): 1 ΜΟΥΚΑΠΟΡΙC ΔΙΤΟΥΚΕΝ-

ΘΟΥ • ΔΟΡΟΝ ΑΝΕΘΗΚΑΝ Ο ΥΠΕΡ ΑΥΤΟΙC • ΤΟΙC ΑΔΕΛΦΟΙC • ΘΕΑ • CΥΡΙΑC ΕΥΧΑ5 ΡΙC•CΤΗΡΙΟΝ (hedera to the left) l. 2: lunate sigma is used throughout the text. Ligature of ε and θ. In the text of the inscription provided in an auction catalogue, the patronym was given as ΑΠΟΥΚΗΝΘΟΣ. This has to be rejected: first of all, because this name is not attested; but more serious is the fact that it does not correspond to the visual information. Indeed, the second letter of the patronymic could have been a pi, but strangely the upper bar does not surpass the left vertical bar, as it does in the other cases, so we consider that we are in fact dealing with two letters, namely an iota and a tau. Also, the first letter does not have a middle bar as an alpha should, but rather a lower bar, which led us to identify the first letter with a delta. We therefore read the patronym as Διτούκενθος. l. 3: ligature υ with τ and ο Translation: Moukaporis, son of Ditoukenthos, made a gift to Dea Syria, for his brothers, as a thanks gift. 1

 We scaled the photographs in AutoCad and took the measurements accordingly.

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Commentary The first interesting element that we encounter is the name of the person making the offering. Μουκάπορις is a typical Thracian name, with over 100 mentions in inscriptions, especially in the Thracian region.2 The patronym, Διτουκενθος, is also a Thracian name, as the particle κενθ is typical for Thracian names such as Αυλουκενθος, Κενθιαρος, Δραυκενθιη, Κενθος, Κενθιαρος, Απτεκενθος, Benicenthus, Biticentus, Κεληκενθος, Diascenthus, Dinicenthus, Diocenthus, Ditucenthus/Διτουκενθος, Dizacenthus, Eptacenthus, Mesticenthus, Mucacenthus, Rebucenthus, Sudicenthus, Traedicenthus, Tralicenthus, Zelicenthus, Ζηνεκενθος, Ζιμικενθος, or Zipacenthus.3 Therefore there is no doubt the donor is a peregrine of Thracian origin. The name Διτούκενθος is very rare. It appears in only three inscriptions apart from ours: as the father of Αυλούκενθος in Bizye (Thrace) (I.Thrace/Turkey II 43: ca. AD 153) as Aurelius Ditucenthus in Dacia Porolissensis (ILD no. 558: 2nd–3rd century AD), and as the father of a Λούκις in Abritus (Moesia Inferior).4 The fourth mention turns out to be very important for us, and it comes from the vicus Quintionis (present day village of Sinoe, formerly Casapchioi), a village inhabited by Roman veterans and Bessi in the territory of Istros/Histria in Moesia Inferior. It is a fragmentary altar (Fig. 3) with the dimensions 0.67 × 0.45 × 0.45 m. The height of the letters lies between 3.5 and 4.0 cm. It is published in ISM I 3275 and can be dated to the year AD 167. [I(ovi) O(ptimo) M(aximo)] [sacrum pro] [salute Imp(eratorum)] [Aug(ustorum) - - -?] 1 [- - - uet(erani)] [et c(iues) R(omani) et Bessi] [consistentes] [u]ico Quin[ti]onis, cur(antibus) mag(istris) 5 Aelio Bellico et Mucaporo Ditugenti et ques(tore) Cl(audio) Ianuario, Idibus Iuni(i)s 10 imp(eratore) Vero III [et] Quadr(ato) co(n)s(ulibus).

2

 Dana 2014, 230–33.  Dana 2014, 81. 4  Conrad 2004, no. 355 = AE 2004, no. 1260 = SEG 54 660. 5  See also AE 1956, 211; AE 1984, 862; AE 2012, +1276. 3

Fig. 3. ISM I 327.

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Translation: (Dedicated to Iupiter Optimus Maximus, for the welfare of the Emperors … the veterans and Roman citizens and the Bessi inhabiting) the village of Quintio, through the endeavour of the two magistri Aelius Bellicus and Moukaporis, son of Ditugentus and of the quaestor Claudius Ianuarius, on the 13th June of the year when consuls were Emperor Verus for the third time and Quadratus. Aelius Bellicus is mentioned again as one of the two yearly mayors of the vicus Quintionis in ISM I 330, dated to AD 175, and Claudius Ianuarius is mentioned as a magister in the fragmentary text ISM I 329, dated after AD 167.6 The available data shows that the name Διτούκενθος is a very rare name. The fact that both the name and the patronym coincide suggests a strong possibility that we are dealing with the same person, namely that the Moukaporis that offered the two casseroles has to be identified with the mentioned magister of the vicus Quintionis. If we take this identification for granted, Moukaporis is known as well through a private and from an ‘official’ offering. The latter he fulfilled surely pro salute imperatoris in a yearly act as magister, like many other of his colleagues before and after him.7 The private offer itself is quite significant. Silver cult objects are rarely attested in this area, but they did exist. Such are the silver cult statues of the Imperial family (Ovid Pont. 2. 8. 7–14), used by Ovid in his own private sanctuary (probably a lararium) (Pont. 4. 9. 106).8 Also, a recently-discovered inscription from Dionysopolis/Balchik (Dobrich, Bulgaria) reports on an order by the emperor Licinius (AD 308–324): Matri deum dominus noster Licinius Invict(us) Aug(ustus) quod ex donariis 5 in templo eius repertum est simulacrum argenteum numini eius in libris septem et unciis octo fieri 10 iussit et consecrari / per Aure(lium) Sperantium v(irum) p(erfectissimum) praes(idem) prov(inciae) Scyt(hicae).9 1

A silver simulacrum (= statuette or bust?) of the Mother of the Gods, weighing ca. 2.5 kg, should be made from the offerings found in her temple, and it should be consecrated by the provincial governor, Aurelius Sperantius.10 We don’t know how many precious objects were stored at the temple of the Mater Deum in Dionysopolis (and how many remained 6

 Possibly between AD 170 and 174 or after AD 177, as for the other years (except AD 168) the local magistri are known (cf. ISM I 328. 330–332). 7  Cf. ISM I 326–332. 8  For Ovid’s role in developing the local Imperial cult, see Bottez 2009, 35–38. 9  AE 2010, 1442; Lazarenko et al. 2013; Mircheva, Encheva and Sharankov 2010, 32 and 61. 10  Apparently it was not the first such incident: Deae Dianae / d(omini) n(ostri) Co[mmodi] / quod ex donari/ is in templo En[ni]/us Repertu[s] / simulac[rum ar]/gen[teum ex arg(enti) p(ondo)] / n(umero) [- - -]. AE 1969/70, 578.

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there after this order). But we can assume that, for instance, fingerings, jewellery, and also cult tableware were among the gifts and offerings dedicated to Mater Deum.11 Several silver trullae, dated to the end of the 1st–beginning of the 2nd century AD, were discovered in Golyama Brestnitsa, one of which was also inscribed on the handle.12 Although they are rare in Moesia Inferior, many such objects were discovered throughout the Empire, with outstanding examples such as the famous hoard in Berthouville.13 Moreover, the excavations of the Sacred Spring in Bath (England) in 1979 revealed a number of cult tableware such as trullae offered to the Dea Sulis Minerva. Depending on the wealth of its worshippers, bronze trullae such as RIB 2415. 60, or silver trullae like RIB 2414. 33, were offered, and 34 were dedicated to this local goddess. On the handle of the silver trulla RIB 2414. 33 the incised text d(eae) Suli can be read. Similar is the offering text on the pewter trullae RIB 2417. 5–8: D(eae) S(uli) M(inervae), Suli Minervae, or deae Suli Minervae. From these findings and from an inscription on a round statue base discovered at Peñaflor/Celti (Province of Seville, Spain), in which a phiala argentea together with a trulla argentea are mentioned (CIL II 2326), it can be concluded that trullae were standard cult tableware in ancient cults. Certainly as a magister, Moukaporis could afford to make such offerings to the goddess, as they would increase his social visibility – silver tableware was commonly used to attract the admiration of the guests and therefore constituted a symbol of the host’s status.14 Silver offerings in sanctuaries probably played the same role, especially when they were made by a public figure such as Moukaporis. According to the inscription, our two silver casseroles were probably to be used in the religious service for the goddess Syria. But why Dea Syria? This goddess15 from HierapolisBambykè, called Astarte in her homeland, was the goddess of water and fertility; when her cult developed in the Roman world, she was seen as the mistress of heaven and earth and was sometimes associated with the Mother of Gods and with Isis. But overall her cult was far less popular than that of her Anatolian and Egyptian sisters. In Moesia Inferior and Thracia only four monuments connected to Dea Syria were discovered: 1. Philippopolis. Limestone altar (0.32 × 0.18 × 0.18 m). Archaeological Institute and Museum in Sofia, inv. no. 2617. Discovered in the sanctuary of Apollo Cendrysenos. IGB III 1 918; Tacheva-Hitova 1983, no. 2. Roman period. 1 Ἀπόλλωνι

Κενδρισῳ Βειθυς Κοτυος ἱερεὺς Συρίας θεᾶς 5 δῶρον ἀνέθηκεν.  For this temple, see Lazarenko et al. 2013, 53–54, fig. 46.  Fol 2015, figs. 1, 3 and 4. 13  Lapatin 2014. 14  Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2013. 15  Turcan 2004, 132–42. 11 12

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VALENTIN BOTTEZ – PETER ROTHENHOEFER

Fig. 4. Istros and vicus Quintionis.

2. Bizone (Kavarna). Marble slab (0.08 × 0.28 × 0.18 m), chipped on all sides. Museum of Kavarna. IGB I2 8 bis; Tacheva-Hitova 1983, no. 1. Roman period. 1 [θεᾷ Σ]υρίᾳ Παπας καὶ Ἀπ[ολλ— — —]

[— — —] ὑπὲρ τῶν ἰδίων [— — — — —]

3. Oescus? ILB 41 Moesia Inferior – late 3rd/early 4th century AD. 1 G(aius) Tironius Al[exand]-

er mil(es) leg(ionis) V Ma[cedon(icae)] v(otum) s(olvit) Dia Suriae. 4. Tomis (Constanța). Cylindrical marble statue base (0.45 × 0.19/0.165 m) discovered in the large public building paved with mosaic (‘edificiul cu mozaic’ in Roumanian). ISM VI 488; SEG 46 910, 906, 911; Bărbulescu and Rădulescu 1994, 166, no. 5. 2nd/3rd century AD. 1 Σώσιππος

Καλλικράτους Σιδώνιος Θεᾷ Συρίᾳ 5 εὐχαριστήριον. As we can see, information concerning the cult of Dea Syria in Moesia Inferior is scarce. There is no indication of her cult being established in the vicus Quintionis (Fig. 4), but at the same time we cannot exclude the possibility of a small sanctuary. How could Moukaporis have come into contact with this cult? Could it have been brought to

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the region by some of the veterans settled in the village?16 Where was the sanctuary? Or could Moukaporis have dedicated the casseroles in her temple in a presumed temple in Tomis? Wherever these monuments were dedicated, the proximity of Tomis is important, as the latter was a very active international trade hub where citizens from Syria and Palestine (ISM II/VI.1 97, 98, 188, 348) are attested, some of them reaching the highest public office available, that of Pontarch of the Hexapolis/Pentapolis, the koinon of the Greek cities on the western Black Sea shore. Though the two silver casseroles bring up more questions than answers, they do raise interesting issues concerning the penetration of foreign cults in Moesia Inferior’s hinterland and the role of Tomis as a conduit for such religious influences.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bărbulescu, M. and Rădulescu, A. 1994: ʻInscripții inedite din Tomis și împrejurimiʼ. Pontica 27, 157–71. Bottez, V. 2009: Cultul imperial în provincia Moesia Inferior (sec. I–III p. Chr.) (Bucharest). Conrad, S. 2004: Die Grabstelen aus Moesia Inferior: Untersuchungen zu Chronologie, Typologie und Ikonographie (Leipzig). Dana, D. 2014: Onomasticon Thracicum: Répertoire des noms indigènes de Thrace, Macédoine orientale, Mésies, Dacie et Bithynie (Meletemata 70) (Athens). Fol, V. 2015: ʻThe Treasure from the Golyama Brestnitsa Village and the Relation Sacred Object – Rite – Faithʼ. Orpheus 22, 72–79. Franke, J. 1996: Dea Syria: Die Göttin des Alten Orient (Exhibition Catalogue) (Bonn). Hörig, M. 1979: Dea Syria: Studien zur religiösen Tradition der Fruchtbarkeitsgöttin in Vorderasien (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 208) (Neukirchen-Vluyn). Lapatin, K. (ed.) 2014: The Berthouville Silver Treasure and Roman Luxury (Exhibition Catalogue) (Los Angeles). Lazarenko, I., Mircheva, E., Encheva, R., Stoyanova, D. and Sharankov, N. 2013: The Temple of the Pontic Mother of Gods in Dionysopolis (Varna). Rosenthal-Heginbottom, R. 2013: ʻRoman and Late Antique Hoards of Silver Tableware as Status Symbolsʼ. In Hoards and Genizot as Chapters in History (Exhibition Catalogue 33) (Haifa), 41–48. Tacheva-Hitova, M. 1983: Eastern Cults in Moesia Inferior and Thracia (5th Century BC–4th Century AD (Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 95) (Leiden). Turcan, R. 2004: Les Cultes orientaux dans le monde romain (Paris).

16  As suggested by Tacheva-Hitova in the very short text dedicated to the few monuments related to the goddess discovered in Moesia Inferior and Thracia (Tacheva-Hitova 1983, 264–65).

OUEINIA, BUREAU DE DOUANE ROMAINE DE LA PROVINCE D’ASIE, ET LES ROUTES DU MARBRE DE DOKIMEION* Hadrien BRU

RÉSUMÉ Cette contribution traite de la fonction du bureau de douane de Oueinia, localisé en Phrygie Parorée entre Metropolis de Phrygie, Synnada et Antioche de Pisidie, sur la pente nord de la chaîne montagneuse du Karakuş Dağ, durant l’époque romaine impériale. C’est l’occasion d’évoquer les routes du commerce du marbre extrait des carrières de Dokimeion par des routes ou, éventuellement, par des cours d’eau menant vers la Pisidie, la Pamphylie, mais aussi la Phrygie et l’Ionie. ABSTRACT This contribution deals with the function of the Roman customs bureau of Oueinia, located in Phrygia Paroreios between the Phrygian metropolis, Synnada and Pisidian Antioch, on the northern slope of the mountainous range called Karakuş Dağ, during the Roman Imperial period. It is the occasion to evoke the marble trade routes concerning the stones extracted in the Dokimeion quarries toward roads and eventually rivers leading to Pisidia, Pamphylia, but also to Phrygia and Ionia.

Le village turc de Oyniğan, situé à 28 km au sud–sud-est de Synnada, au nord-ouest des contreforts du Karakuş Dağ, et au nord-est de Metropolis de Phrygie (Fig. 1), a livré depuis longtemps une dédicace religieuse grecque réalisée sur un autel par T. Flavius Asklepas, « procurateur du quarantième ».1 Cette dernière a récemment été mise en relation avec M. Antonius Baebianus, procurateur du quarantième des douanes de la province romaine d’Asie, grâce à Alain Bresson, qui nous a gratifié en 2016 de la publication d’une encore plus importante dédicace religieuse latine pour Asklépios et Hygie, découverte à Apamée de Phrygie (Dinar).2 Cependant, à propos de l’inscription de Oyniğan, A. Bresson admet que « The role of T. Flavius Asklepas as ἐπίτροπος τεσσαρακοστῆς in the region of *Oueinia may seem somewhat surprising ».3 C’est la raison pour laquelle je souhaiterais apporter sur les lieux et sur la fonction du poste de douane détecté quelques précisions, tout en formulant quelques remarques et hypothèses. * Mes remerciements renouvelés à Julien Demaille pour la création des cartes Fig. 2 et 3. 1  MAMA IV, 113: Τ. Φλάουιος Ἀσκλπᾶς ἐπίτροπος τεσσαρακοστς τὸν βωμὸν τ θεῷ. Le cognomen du personnage est un théonyme en vogue aux IIe–IIIe siècles ap. J.-C. dans l’hinterland anatolien (cf. LGPN VC, 67–68), qui d’une part pourrait être celui d’un affranchi, et qui doit d’autre part être rapproché des faveurs que connut le culte d’Asklépios à cette période. Sur l’affermage des taxes consenti par l’État romain à des notables civiques et riches propriétaires terriens régionaux, cf. notamment Migeotte 2014, 92–102. 2  Bresson 2016. 3  Bresson 2016, 315; sur Oueinia, cf. 312–15 et 324 dans ce même article.

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Fig. 1. La Phrygie, avec le toponyme Oinân et sa région (H. Kiepert, Berlin, 1890).

OUEINIA:

SA SITUATION GÉOGRAPHIQUE

Le site, dont le toponyme antique n’est pas attesté, fut identifié par W.M. Ramsay alors qu’il s’intéressait aux ethniques régionaux des xenoi tekmoreioi liés au sanctuaire de la Cybèle-Artémis de Sağır,4 en le rapprochant du toponyme turc moderne Oyniğan.5 On ne sait pour l’instant sur le territoire de quelle cité se trouvait Oueinia, Metropolis de Phrygie se trouvant non loin à l’ouest, alors que la cité de Lysias, dont le site n’est pas encore identifié, pourrait se trouver dans les environs un peu plus au nord-est, sans certitude.6 Il est en revanche certain, par rapport à Oueinia, qu’au nord se situait le territoire de Synnada, et qu’au sud-est de la crête du Karakuş Dağ se trouvait le territoire d’Antioche de Pisidie, alors qu’au sud-ouest de la crête était celui d’Apollonia de Pisidie.7 Sur ce point, on notera 4  Sur cela, voir notamment Sterrett 1888, 236, n° 366, l. 94 et 114; Ramsay 1906, spécialement 323–24, 326, 336, 338, 368 (les ethniques présentent quelques variations de graphie); Ruge 1937, col. 1997; Zgusta 1984, 439–40, § 937; Arena 2017, 186; Bru 2017, 152–57, 389, fig. 23b. 5  Belke et Mersich 1990, 354. 6  Cohen 1995, 311–13. 7  À propos des postes de douane installés dans des régions montagneuses à proximité des lignes de crête matérialisant des limites territoriales de partage entre cités ou provinces, voir Migeotte 2014, 255.

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que Synnada appartenait essentiellement depuis l’époque républicaine à la province d’Asie, alors qu’Antioche de Pisidie dépendait de celle de Galatie depuis sa création en 25 av. J.-C. Oueinia bénéficiait d’une belle situation sur le réseau routier mis en œuvre à l’époque impériale romaine, puisqu’elle se trouvait à proximité de l’axe descendant du nord de la chaîne montagneuse du Sultan Dağ (aux environs de Çay) vers Metropolis de Phrygie en direction d’Apamée de Phrygie, à savoir sur un tronçon de la grande route dite « royale ».8 Du nord arrivait la route romaine de Synnada,9 en étroite relation avec Dokimeion, ellemême sise plus au nord. De Dokimeion, ajoutons que l’existence de deux milliaires indique qu’une section de route descendait plein sud pour rejoindre la « route royale ».10 Les quelques éléments que nous connaissons du réseau routier local montrent que la région reste encore à explorer dans le détail, mais il me paraît essentiel de souligner ici que de Oueinia, on pouvait gagner assez facilement l’intérieur de la Phrygie Parorée en franchissant la chaîne du Karakuş Dağ vers le sud par deux passes: l’une mène par le village moderne d’Arızlı au littoral du lac d’Eğirdir près de Taşevi, directement sur le territoire d’Antioche de Pisidie;11 l’autre conduit par le village moderne de Karacaören près de Gençali, à l’Est de la plaine d’Apollonia de Pisidie.12 Il me semble que c’est précisément cet accès méridional qui donna au bureau de douane de Oueinia sa raison d’exister à l’époque impériale romaine.13 En effet, les deux passes évoquées permettaient à cet endroit la circulation physique des biens et des personnes d’une part entre la province sénatoriale d’Asie (au nord du Karakuş Dağ) et la province impériale de Galatie (sur le territoire d’Antioche de Pisidie, au sud du Karakuş Dağ), d’autre part entre plusieurs cités. Les produits concernés par la taxation étaient variés: on sait que le territoire d’Antioche de Pisidie produisait une assez grande quantité de blé14 grâce à sa belle plaine, qui se poursuivait au sud par la fertile plaine Killanienne; du pavot15 a également pu transiter par ces passes, tout comme l’huile d’olive produite par Synnada.16 Les esclaves17 et le bétail ont certainement transité également par ces deux passes:18 les bovidés de la région phrygienne au nord du Sultan Dağ 8  Pour cette section de la route, 3 milliaires au moins sont connus: French 1988, n° 48, 53–54, carte 8. Sur la « route royale », voir Syme 1995, 3–23. 9  French 1988, n° 39 et 47, carte 8. 10  French 1988, n° 42 et 49, carte 8. 11  Sur cela, Bru 2017, 144–63. 12  La documentation épigraphique et numismatique indique que l’ère d’Apollonia de Pisidie prenait son origine en 85–84 (ère syllanienne), et qu’elle appartenait en conséquence à la province sénatoriale d’Asie à partir de cette date: voir Foss 1977, 285–88; Robert 1980, 225; Leschhorn 1993, 249 et 276; Cohen 1995, 287. Sur le territoire d’Apollonia de Pisidie, cf. Bru 2017, 80–88. 13  Sachant que les plus hautes autorités romaines de la région surveillaient de près les limites entre la province sénatoriale d’Asie et la province impériale de Galatie: voir la borne territoriale entre Antioche de Pisidie et Philomelion posée sous Sempronius Senecio (PIR² S, 368) proconsul d’Asie, ayant envoyé sur place un questeur propréteur, Maxi[mius Atti]anus (PIR² M, 393), cela entre 198 et 209 (cf. Christol et Drew-Bear 1998; Byrne et Labarre 2006, 68–69, n° 148). 14  Comme le confirme le fameux édit du gouverneur de Galatie L. Antistius Rusticus en 92–93 (Ramsay 1924, 179–84, n° 6 = AE 1925, 126; Wiemer 1997). 15  Bru 2017, 159–62. 16  Voir Strabon 12. 8. 14; Mitchell 2009. 17  Strabon 12. 8. 14 indique par exemple que des esclaves sacrés se trouvaient sur le territoire d’Antioche et du sanctuaire de Men Askaénos en 25 av. J.-C. 18  Le bétail pouvait faire l’objet d’une taxation, notamment à l’occasion des transhumances, même si ce ne fut pas systématique, voir notamment ce point dans Nicolet 1991, 471; 1999, 191–92.

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sont massivement attestés, nous y reviendrons, et l’élevage ovin et caprin est notamment bien connu au sud du Sultan Dağ, par exemple en Pisidie.19

DOKIMEION

ET LES ROUTES DU MARBRE

De nombreuses personnes, des marchands, des esclaves et divers produits transitèrent par les routes précitées, mais il ne fait pas de doute que le tonnage de matière le plus élevé fût celui du marbre des carrières impériales de Dokimeion, dont l’extraction fut poussée par les Romains à une échelle quasi industrielle.20 Comme le rappelle Claude Nicolet, la taxe du Quadragesima (2.5%) était perçue comme portorium sur les produits à l’importation et à l’exportation dans la province d’Asie,21 sachant que les carrières constituaient des revenus spécifiques:22 même si elles appartenaient au patrimonium de l’empereur et se trouvaient contrôlées par un procurateur impérial, les publicains à qui elles étaient affermées réglaient néanmoins un portorium à l’exportation des pierres, lequel pouvait être limité,23 voire faire l’objet d’une exemption.24 Le procurateur impérial en charge des carrières de Dokimeion le plus connu sous le Haut-Empire est assurément Hesperus, lequel se trouvait en 125–126 en contact avec l’empereur Hadrien ainsi qu’avec le proconsul d’Asie Avidius Quietus,25 comme le montre une inscription d’Aizanoi. Plus au sud, un fragment de dédicace inédite d’Antioche de Pisidie donne sur deux lignes appartenant sans doute à une base de statue, en de grandes et belles lettres du IIe siècle, le nom d’Hesperus au nominatif associé au terme « Auguste », manifestement en raison de sa fonction de procurateur impérial, elle-même liée dans le texte à un perfectissime évoqué au datif.26 Le procurateur impérial Hesperus était donc influent au nord comme au sud du Karakuş Dağ (Fig. 2), d’abord parce qu’il était directement en contact avec l’empereur Hadrien, ensuite parce que les commanditaires des cités faisaient sans doute appel à ses services pour faire livrer du marbre de Dokimeion, si possible au meilleur prix. C’est alors que se pose la question du transport du marbre. Pour des raisons géographiques et pratiques, les blocs de marbre extraits des carrières de Dokimeion étaient manifestement déplacés sur des chars tirés par des bovidés massivement élevés en Phrygie, à proximité des carrières.27 A. Bresson a récemment souligné 19

 Bru 2017, 244–45.  Sur cela, voir Calder 1912, 245–47; Robert 1962, 43–55; 1980, 223–35; Christol et Drew-Bear 1988; 1991; Fant 1989; Drew-Bear 1994; Hirt 2010. 21  Nicolet 1990, 685. 22  Nicolet 1990, 680. 23  Nicolet 1999, 196. 24  Nicolet 1991, 470. 25  PIR² A, 1409. Sur Hesperus, cf. CIL III, 355; CIG 3835 (à propos des terres du temple de Zeus à Aizanoi); Bulletin épigraphique 520 (1971), n° 658 (Robert et Robert); Cramme 2001, 259–60; Dignas 2002, 178–80; Johnson, Coleman-Norton et Bourne 2003, 181–82, n° 241; Christol et Drew-Bear 2005; Cuomo 2007, 118; Russell 2014, 43. 26  Voir Bru 2017, 199. On connaît par ailleurs à Antioche de Pisidie sur une statue de Zeus-Jupiter la signature du sculpteur de Dokimeion Ménandros fils de Diogénès (Buckler, Calder et Cox 1924, 30–31, n° 9 = SEG VI 557). 27  Aux IIe et IIIe siècles, de nombreuses stèles de la région montrent des bovidés, qui faisaient la fierté de leurs éleveurs. Une épigramme emblématique découverte à Apollonia de Pisidie et datable de 162 ap. J.-C. nous fait connaître un troupeau de bœufs sauvé de la famine (CIG 3973 = MAMA IV, 140 = Merkelbach et Stauber 2001, 413–14, n° 16/62/01), texte célébrant justement l’offrande de deux bœufs en marbre de Dokimeion: voir Robert 1980, 224–25; SEG XXX 1473. Concernant l’importance des bovidés à proximité 20

OUEINIA, BUREAU DE DOUANE ROMAINE DE LA PROVINCE D’ASIE Dokimeion

177

GALATIE

Emir Dař

PHRYGIE

N

Lac d’Eber

Synnada

Lac d'Akşehir

Brouzos

nD

as am An

Tymbriada

Sagalassos

La

Lac de Kovada

Kremna

Lac de Beyşehir

LYCAONIE Mistea-Klaudiopolis

Adada Ouasada

Ly si

s

PISIDIE

Attaleia

edon

PAMPHYLIE Termessos

Lac de Suğla

Selgè Eurym

Kestros

Isinda

Lystra

Amlada

Comana Ariassos

Ikonion

ISAURIE Isaura Nova

Etenna

Sillyon

Pergè

Aspendos Sidè 25 km

GOLFE DE PAMPHYLIE

Julien Demaille ISTA

r

Pappa-Tiberiopolis

ğ Da

Seleukeia Sidera

Hadrianopolis Neapolis

Tioulos

cd

Lac d’Eğirdir

u rd

u eB

stè

Barla Dağ Parlais Conana

t

An

Laodicée Katakekaumene

Antiocheia s hio

a Séb Via

Lac s Hoyran

u rak ra Ka ippopho H Apollonia Tymandos

Séb Via

Tyriaion

ař

ğ

a şD

è ast

Philomelion

lta

Stektorion

Apameia

Su

PAROREE

> 500 m Cité antique Voie antique

500-1000 m 1000-1500 m 1500-2000 m < 2000 m

LA PHRYGIE PARORÉE ET LE TAURUS MÉRIDIONAL Fig. 2. La Phrygie Parorée et le Taurus méridional (J. Demaille, 2017).

l’importance de l’artisanat du cuir à Apamée de Phrygie,28 qu’il importe de mettre en rapport avec l’élevage nécessaire; j’ajoute que l’utilisation et la vente de bêtes de somme dut également constituer une importante source de revenus pour les agriculteurs de la région. de Dokimeion, mais aussi les carriers de la région, voir Mühlenbock, Bru et Laflı 2015, spécialement 25–26, n° 1 et 27–30, n° 3. 28  Bresson 2018.

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La question des routes utilisées pour convoyer les blocs de marbre reste à étudier en détail par des explorations régionales et locales. En attendant, nous livrons ici quelques hypothèses. La « route occidentale » de Dokimeion vers la haute vallée du Méandre est celle qui passe vers Oueinia, ensuite vers Metropolis de Phrygie, Apamée de Phrygie, avant d’obliquer plein ouest en descendant vers l’aval du Méandre qui arrose la Phrygie occidentale, enfin l’Ionie et ses grandes cités, remarquables marchés en vue d’écouler le marbre: en raison du marbre de Dokimeion retrouvé en Ionie, cette route est certaine; le marbre a bien sûr pu transiter par le réseau viaire longeant la vallée du Méandre, mais pour un produit aussi pondéreux que le marbre, on peut émettre l’hypothèse de l’utilisation des bateaux/radeaux visant à descendre le fleuve vers son aval sur les sections navigables, lorsque le régime hydrographique saisonnier s’y prêtait.29 La « route orientale » passait de Dokimeion vers le nord-est par l’Emirdağ, Pessinonte, Polatlı et Ancyre, alors que vers le sud-est, la « route royale » permettait de longer le Sultan Dağ vers les cités et sanctuaires de Lycaonie et d’Isaurie. Les itinéraires méridionaux offrent, de Dokimeion, plusieurs options intéressantes. L’une des passes de Oueinia déjà évoquée permettait au marbre de rejoindre directement la province de Galatie par Antioche de Pisidie et la plaine Killanienne, où l’on a découvert à Şarkikaraağaç des fragments de sarcophages à colonnettes typiques des ateliers de sculpture de Dokimeion;30 de Neapolis de Phrygie, la via Sebasta31 longeant l’est du lac de Beyşehir permettait d’accéder à la Lycaonie, à l’Isaurie, mais aussi de descendre ensuite plein sud vers la Pisidie méridionale (à Étenna par exemple) et vers Sidè, grand port de Pamphylie qui autorisait l’exportation par voie maritime. L’autre manière d’accéder à une trajectoire méridionale depuis Dokimeion consistait à emprunter la passe de Oueinia déjà évoquée vers Apollonia de Pisidie, en rejoignant ainsi la section Ouest de la via Sebasta, qui par l’ouest de la Pisidie atteignait la Pamphylie, ses cités et ses ports. Parmi ces derniers, Pergè attire l’attention pour plusieurs motifs: à l’époque impériale, la cité entretenait en effet des rapports étroits avec Synnada (proche de Dokimeion),32 mais aussi avec Apollonia de Pisidie, comme en attestent des monnayages d’Homonoia au IIIe siècle, sous Caracalla et Philippe l’Arabe;33 si l’acheminement terrestre du marbre fut manifestement privilégié de Dokimeion vers Pergè par le réseau viaire pavé (dont la via Sebasta qui désenclava la région depuis l’époque augustéenne), il importe à mon sens d’envisager également une option éventuelle de transport avec transbordement par le fleuve Kestros, dont l’estuaire se situe précisément à proximité de Pergè. De ce point de vue, deux solutions semblent envisageables: la première, en venant de Dokimeion, est de franchir la passe de Oueinia vers Apollonia, d’emprunter la via Sebasta vers l’ouest, de passer par Conana puis Seleukeia Sidera pour rejoindre plus au sud la haute vallée du Kestros, non loin de Sagalassos, située plus au 29  En prenant en compte d’une part la géomorphologie des vallées fluviales, d’autre part les aménagements hydrauliques contemporains tels que le barrage de Karacaören sur le Kestros, les conduites forcées ou les canaux modernes. 30  Voir Bru 2017, 396, fig. 26c et 397, fig. 26d. 31  Construite par le gouverneur de Galatie Cornutus Aquila (PIR² C, 1510) en 6 av. J.-C., peu avant la guerre contre les Homonadenses. 32  Bru, Demirer et Tüner Önen 2016, n° 1–2. 33  von Aulock 1979, 53, n° 14–20; Franke et Karola Nollé 1997, 14, n° 73–80 et Taf. 9, n° 73, 76, 79. Des frappes analogues eurent également lieu sous Philippe l’Arabe (Franke et Karola Nollé 1997, 14, et Taf. 9, n° 81).

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sud-ouest, en vue de descendre le fleuve jusqu’à Pergè (Fig. 3); la seconde option est de franchir la passe de Oueinia vers Antioche de Pisidie jusqu’au lac d’Eğirdir, de naviguer sur ce dernier plein sud jusqu’au Tioulos (non loin de Prostanna), de le descendre vers son aval jusqu’au lac de Kovada,34 puis d’effectuer un portage terrestre d’une douzaine de kilomètres dans la région d’Aşağıgökdere jusqu’au fleuve Kestros (sa section la plus praticable se situant au Sud du Davras Dağ), à descendre jusqu’à Pergè. La question de la navigabilité du Kestros35 se pose, car le fleuve fraye son cours parmi d’impressionnants canyons en milieu calcaire karstique, mais d’une part nous ne sommes pas très loin à l’est de la route régionale majeure de l’axe Sagalassos-Kremna-Ariassos vers la Pamphylie (ce qui autorise des variantes terrestres), d’autre part on peut envisager, pour le transport fluvial avalant des blocs de marbre équarris, des radeaux à fond plat équipés sur leur pourtour de peaux gonflées (outres), comme on en a utilisé pendant très longtemps sur l’Euphrate par exemple.36 Un peu plus à l’est du Kestros, la vallée de l’Eurymédon proposait un parcours avalant semblable: en venant de Dokimeion par la passe de Oueinia vers Antioche de Pisidie jusqu’au lac d’Eğirdir, on pourrait envisager sa traversée jusqu’à ses rives méridionales, avec ensuite portage terrestre par la plaine d’Aksu (territoire de Tymbriada) vers la haute vallée de l’Eurymédon, où des radeaux auraient pu être mouillés jusqu’à Kesme, où les difficultés topographiques auraient pu conduire à un éventuel portage terrestre jusqu’à Değirmenözü,37 avant de reprendre le cours du fleuve vers son aval jusqu’à Aspendos. La dernière route que nous évoquerons ici à titre hypothétique est celle du nord, de Dokimeion à Aizanoi (où l’influence d’Hesperus est manifeste): entre ces lieux, le réseau viaire romain est bien attesté,38 et l’on peut se poser la question de l’utilisation d’un éventuel transbordement du marbre de Dokimeion en aval sur le fleuve Rhyndakos39 vers le nord-ouest de l’Anatolie, où la concurrence commerciale et la présence régionale du marbre de Proconnèse (côte méridionale de la Propontide) doit cependant être soulignée, surtout pour les cités littorales grandes consommatrices telles que Cyzique. Vers la mer Noire, on pourrait par ailleurs également envisager un transbordement du marbre par le Tembris (via Dorylée) ou le Sangarios,40 mais il paraît évident que le marbre de Proconnèse directement extrait sur le littoral de Propontide occupa probablement de larges parts du marché pour les cités côtières commanditaires. Néanmoins, pour ce qui concerne les fleuves anatoliens évoqués, plus particulièrement le Kestros et l’Eurymédon, on peut retenir que leurs basses vallées étaient en général navigables avec un tirant d’eau suffisant (sauf sécheresse continentale excessive), alors que leurs hautes et moyennes vallées n’étaient navigables vers l’aval qu’avec des radeaux (ou embarcations à

34  Cette hypothèse contribuerait à expliquer la volonté d’Apollonia de Pisidie d’avoir au Ier siècle av. J.-C., et au détriment de Tymbriada, mis la main sur l’aulôn (vallée longiligne du Tioulos aux qualités édaphiques exceptionnelles), en vue de la perception de droits de transit. Cf. supra et Bru 2017, 95–98. 35  Sur cela, voir notamment Roelens-Flouneau 2018, 274–76; Labarre 2018. 36  Sur l’utilisation des radeaux en Anatolie (notamment sur le Tembris et le Sangarios), voir Robert 1987, 122–24 (= BCH 102, 1978, 426–28) et SEG XXVIII 1040; à propos des radeaux à outres de l’Euphrate, cf. Dillemann 1962; Seyrig 1963, 161–66. 37  On notera qu’en dépit de l’isolement relatif de ces deux sites, ils ont tous deux fourni des inscriptions (pourtant rares) en langue pisidienne: voir Brixhe et Özsait 2013. 38  French 1988, n° 52, 673–78, carte 8. 39  Voir notamment Robert 1980, 89–100; Prêteux 2018, 164–65, 175–76. 40  Cf. notamment Roelens-Flouneau 2018, 297–301.

180

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Seleukeia Sidera

ORONDEIS

Anamas Dağ

Bindaios

N

Prostanna

Lac de Beyşehir

Tynada MOULASSEIS

tè bas

Tioulos

Sé Via

Tymbriada

Mistea-Klaudiopolis

Sagalassos

Lac de Kovada

Adada Keraia

Amlada ed Eurym

Kolbasa

s

o Kestr

Kremna

HOMONADEIS

Via Sé

Sia

bas tè

Ariassos

Pednelissos

Selgè

Cité antique PERMINUNDEIS

Nom de peuple Route antique

5 km

Julien Demaille ISTA

on

PERMINUNDEIS

500-1000 m 1000-1500 m 1500-2000 m < 2000 m

Route antique supposée

LA PISIDIE CENTRALE Fig. 3. La Pisidie centrale (J. Demaille, 2017).

fond plat) plus ou moins équipés, selon le cours et le régime fluvial saisonnier. Sur ce dernier point, on peut penser que le flottage du bois du Taurus utilisé en masse par les cités côtières, notamment pour la construction navale, se faisait à partir de mars-avril, lorsque le fort courant généré par la fonte des glaces permettait d’acheminer avec plus de force et de vitesse les fûts coupés durant l’hiver ou l’année précédente. Par l’itinéraire routier terrestre comme par les vallées fluviales précitées, entre le printemps et l’automne, on peut estimer à environ une dizaine de jours le temps de transport antique entre le nord de la chaîne montagneuse du Sultan Dağ (en Phrygie Parorée) et le littoral pamphylien, soit 25–30 km par jour. La fonction du bureau de douane romain de Oueinia a été éclairée par la documentation épigraphique, archéologique, ainsi que par la topographie de la région concernée.

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De nombreux documents épigraphiques indiquent que c’est au IIe siècle ap. J.-C., plus particulièrement à partir du règne de l’empereur Hadrien, que les activités artisanales et commerciales liées au marbre de Dokimeion se sont manifestement développées,41 même si la via Sebasta put favoriser dès l’époque augustéenne les livraisons de marbre. Il est probable que de nouvelles routes d’acheminement terrestres et fluviales furent promues au IIe siècle,42 ce qui reste à étudier dans le détail par une approche conjuguée de l’archéologie, de l’épigraphie, de la topographie et de l’hydrographie. La concurrence des différents marbres sur le marché économique doit être prise en compte, nous l’avons évoqué; à Pergè par exemple, du marbre d’Afrique fut importé sous Domitien à la fin du Ier siècle ap. J-C., ainsi que du marbre de Proconnèse, mais il semble que la concurrence du marbre de Dokimeion fût ensuite forte au IIe siècle,43 nous y reviendrons ailleurs. Ce marbre à fine granulométrie était recherché, et un des plus chers listés dans l’édit du maximum des prix de Dioclétien en 301.44 Ce qui demeure certain est le remarquable enrichissement économique de la Phrygie Parorée au nord comme au sud du Sultan Dağ et du Karakuş Dağ au cours du IIIe siècle, au moins en partie grâce à l’extraction et au commerce du marbre de Dokimeion. Dans cette optique, il est nécessaire de souligner l’importance des droits de transit45 perçus par les cités de l’hinterland phrygien et pisidien lorsque les marchandises passaient par leur territoire en s’acheminant vers les ports maritimes de Pamphylie, avec les arrangements politico-financiers que cela pouvait occasionner:46 on comprend par exemple ainsi mieux pourquoi Pergè entretenait des relations étroites avec Synnada et Apollonia de Pisidie, et cela contribue en outre à mieux expliquer la prospérité d’une cité telle qu’Adada aux IIe–IIIe siècles, bien qu’enclavée entre les deux vallées sauvages du Kestros et de l’Eurymédon. Sur l’axe nord–sud, Sagalassos,47 Kremna et même Ariassos durent également accroître leurs revenus grâce aux droits de transit. Les vallées fluviales précitées permirent à coup sûr de débarder en quantité le bois du Taurus par flottage, mais aussi de commercialiser la poix, les radeaux pouvant transporter certains produits par les sections avalantes les plus navigables grâce à ce moyen efficace et bien attesté en Anatolie. Afin d’aller plus loin en vue de confirmer ou d’infirmer les hypothèses liées aux routes du marbre de Dokimeion, il serait utile de répertorier de la manière la plus détaillée possible les monuments civiques publics, funéraires ou religieux (sanctuaires) d’Anatolie

41  À ce propos, de récentes analyses archéométriques montrent que plusieurs sculptures de la Villa Hadriana de Tivoli (Italie) furent réalisées en marbre blanc de Dokimeion: voir Pensabene et al. 2012, 104, 107–08. 42  Un exemple frappant: les grands aménagements fluviaux du cours de l’Oronte entre Séleucie de Piérie et l’Euphrate sous Trajan à l’occasion de la préparation de la campagne parthique de 113–117: voir van Berchem 1985. 43  Cf. notamment Hermann et Tykot 2009, 64–65. 44  D’après le fragment découvert à Pettorano (Abruzzes, Italie), il apparaît avoir été limité à un prix de 200 deniers par pied carré (voir SEG XL 897, ligne 9; Bingen 1954, 351; Barresi 2003, 157–58). 45  Sur cela, voir Migeotte 2014, 248, 256–61. 46  Sachant par exemple que certains procurateurs, en rapport étroit avec les élites civiques et provinciales, étaient simultanément en activité dans plusieurs provinces riveraines et influèrent certainement sur l’organisation des routes commerciales dans un cadre supra-civique, régional, voire supra-régional, cela sous le contrôle des gouverneurs et en coordination avec d’éventuels publicains. 47  Sur le marbre de Dokimeion à Sagalassos et son approvisionnement, voir Corremans et al. 2012, 45–46, 48.

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sculptés dans cette belle pierre, à l’exemple de ce qui a déjà été réalisé pour les sarcophages.48 Par ailleurs, une reconnaissance complète des rives des fleuves évoqués d’amont en aval s’impose, et devrait être réalisée en équipe.

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Robert, L. 1962: ‘Les Kordakia de Nicée, le combustible de Synnada et les poissons-scies. Sur les lettres d’un métropolite de Phrygie au Xe siècle. Philologie et réalités’. Journal des Savants, 5–74. —. 1980: À travers l’Asie Mineure : Poètes et prosateurs, monnaies grecques, voyageurs et géographie (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 239) (Athènes/Paris). —. 1987: Documents d’Asie Mineure (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 239 bis) (Paris). Roelens-Flouneau, H. 2018: ‘Remarques sur la navigabilité des fleuves d’Asie Mineure dans l’Antiquité’. Dans Dan et Lebreton 2018 I, 251–317. Ruge, W. 1937: ‘Oeinia’. RE XVII.2, 1997. Russell, B. 2014: The Economics of the Roman Stone Trade (Oxford). Seyrig, H. 1963: ‘Les fils du roi Odeinat’. Annales Archéologiques Arabes Syriennes 13, 159–72. Sterrett, J.R.S. 1888: The Wolfe Expedition to Asia Minor during the Summer of 1885 (Boston). Strocka, V.M. 2017: Dokimenische Saülensarkophage. Datierung und Deutung (Asia Minor Studien 82) (Bonn). Syme, R. 1995: Anatolica. Studies in Strabo, éd. A. Birley (Oxford). van Berchem, D. 1985: ‘Le port de Séleucie de Piérie et l’infrastructure logistique des guerres parthiques’. Bonner Jahrbücher 185, 47–87. Wiemer, H.-U. 1997: ‘Das Edikt des L. Antistius Rusticus: eine Preisregulierung als Antwort auf eine überregionale Versorgungskrise?’. AS 47, 195–215. Zgusta, L. 1984: Kleinasiatische Ortsnamen (Beiträge zur Namenforschung n.F., Beiheft 21) (Heidelberg).

A VIEW FROM THE FRINGE: HERACLEA PONTICA IN THE AGE OF ALEXANDER* Stanley M. BURSTEIN

ABSTRACT The north Anatolian city of Heraclea Pontica occupies a unique place in the history of the reign of Alexander the Great for two reasons. First, despite its loyalty to Persia, its ruler, the tyrant Dionysius, not only survived a confrontation with Alexander over the return of the city’s exiles, but even succeeded in expanding the territory he ruled. Second, Dionysius’ conflict with Alexander was recorded by a contemporary Heracleote historian, Nymphis, the substance of whose account survives in the fragments of the History of Heraclea by the Roman Imperial historian, Memnon. The purpose of this paper is twofold. First, to analyse the devices employed by Dionysius including exploiting contacts with high level members of the court of Alexander to survive the efforts of the Heracleote exiles to enlist his aid in returning them to Heraclea; and, second, to consider the light thrown on these events by an important new source, I.Sinope 1.

It is a privilege to contribute to a Festschrift for Gocha Tsetskhladze. Gocha is one of the giants of contemporary Black Sea scholarship. His numerous publications have not only been instrumental in bringing together the work of Western and Eastern European scholars, but they also have transformed our understanding of the history of the ancient Black Sea. It is not easy to find an appropriate subject to honour such a distinguished scholar, but there is one topic that increasingly has interested him: Achaemenid influence in the Black Sea.1 I hope he finds interesting this contribution to unravelling a little known aspect of that story, namely, how Heraclea and Sinope reacted to the collapse of Achaemenid influence in the Black Sea during the reign of Alexander the Great. It is not an easy story to tell, since the Black Sea occupies little space in histories of the reign of Alexander, both ancient and modern. The reasons are twofold. First, although the Black Sea still belonged to the broader Persian sphere of influence in the 4th century BC, it was on the periphery of the Achaemenid empire. As a result, Alexander bypassed it during his march through Anatolia. While he may have planned to deal with it after his return from the East (Arrian Anabasis 4. 15. 4–6, 7. 1. 3),2 he did not get the chance. The region, therefore, is largely ignored in the extant sources for his reign. Second, sources for the history of the Black Sea in general are poor, being limited to scattered references in Greek and Latin literary texts, inscriptions and archaeological * An earlier version of this paper was delivered at the conference ‘The Courts of Philip II and Alexander the Great: Monarchy and Power in Ancient Macedonia’ held at the University of Alberta on 3 May 2018. 1  Tsetskhladze 2008; 2013; 2017; 2018. 2  Bosworth 1995, 107.

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evidence. Consequently, reconstructions of the overall history of most cities in the Black Sea throughout Antiquity are sketchy at best. There is, however, one exception, the city of Heraclea Pontica on the south-west coast of the Black Sea for which a substantial epitome of a local history by an otherwise unknown historian named Memnon exists thanks to the survival to the 9th century AD of a codex containing Books 9 to 16 of his work, when it was read and summarised by the Byzantine patriarch Photius (Bibl. 224).3 About the life of Memnon all that can be said for certain is that he wrote some time after Julius Caesar’s defeat of Pompey in 48 BC.4 It has long been recognised, however, that for his account of the rise and fall of the Heracleote tyranny he relied on the Peri Herakleias of the local historian Nymphis, whose life extended from the late 4th to some time after the mid-3rd century BC.5 As Nymphis played a leading role in diplomatic relations between Heraclea and Alexander’s successors, his history, even in the indirect form in which it has survived, provides us with the account of a near contemporary witness, albeit at third hand, of relations between Dionysius, the fourth tyrant of Heraclea, who ruled from 337/6 to 305/4 BC, and Alexander and his immediate successors, particularly Lysimachus and Seleucus I. This is not the first time I have examined Heraclea’s relations with Alexander and his successors. I worked through Memnon’s account of Heraclea during the reign of the tyrant Dionysius, over 40 years ago, first in my dissertation,6 A Political History of Heraclea Pontica to 281 B.C., and then again in my first book,7 Outpost of Hellenism: The Emergence of Heraclea on the Black Sea. Almost half a century is a long time in scholarship, however, and new evidence has appeared in the meantime that justifies reconsideration of my analysis of the impact of Alexander’s campaign on Heraclea and the other Greek cities and the native populations of the Black Sea. In the case of the Greek cities of the Black Sea, because of the limitations of the literary sources, the new evidence is overwhelmingly archaeological and epigraphical. However, since none of the cities of the south coast of the Black Sea has been excavated or is likely to be because of their being overlaid by modern construction, both civil and military, the bulk of the new evidence deals with the Greek cities of the west, north and east coasts of the Black Sea.8 Still, its implications extend to the Black Sea as a whole. Specifically, the overall effect of this new evidence has been to make clear that, as Gocha has convincingly argued,9 Achaemenid political and cultural influence throughout the Black Sea was pervasive during the 5th and 4th centuries BC, extending over the whole region and influencing the culture both of the Greek cities and their non-Greek

3

 The most recent edition with translation and commentary is by A. Keaveney and J.A. Madden (BNJ 434).  The latest datable reference in Photius’ epitome of Memnon is Caesar’s victory in the civil war in the early 40s BC (Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1.40.3; cf. Janke 1963, 128). 5  Nymphis: FGrHist 3B, no. 432 with FGrHist 3b, 259–65. Memnon’s sources: Desideri 1967; Jacoby FGrHist 3b, 269–70; Burstein 1976, 2–3. 6  Burstein 1972, 174–86. 7  Burstein 1976, 72–78. 8  Rehm 2010; Treister 2010. Rare examples of Persian influence on the south coast of the Black Sea are rock tombs in Paphlagonia (Summerer and von Kienlin 2010) and the head of a life size statue with diadem of a Persian king or official discovered at modern Ereğli, ancient Heraclea Pontica (Summerer 2005). 9  Cf. above note 1. 4

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neighbours. Most remarkable in their implications, however, are two recently discovered inscriptions. The first is a fragment of a monumental Old Persian inscription of Darius I that was found during the excavations of Phanagoria in the Taman Peninsula. Despite its poor state of preservation, the presence of such an inscription at Phanagoria suggests that possibly as late as the first decades of the 5th century BC the cities of at least part of the north coast of the Black Sea were subject to Persian rule just as was the case with those of the south coast until the reign of Alexander.10 Persian rule of the cities of northern Anatolia, of course, has long been recognised, but there has been little clarity on how it was exercised. The problem has been made more complicated by the indirect nature of the Persian presence in the region resulting from the absence of direct satrapal authority on the coast. Instead, the region was covered by a patchwork of alliances between the four principal Greek cities on the coast – Heraclea, Sinope, Amisos and Trapezus – and the neighbouring non-Greek tribes and the various Paphlagonian dynasts, all of whom recognised the over-lordship of the Persian Great King.11 That situation has changed, however, thanks to the discovery of a remarkable inscription during the construction of a building at modern Sinop, ancient Sinope, and published in 2004 by David French in The Inscriptions of Sinope,12 and has thrown a flood of new light on relations between the two most important of the south coast cities, Heraclea and Sinope, and Persia in the decades immediately before Alexander’s campaign. Although the inscription is broken at the top and bottom and badly abraded in places, internal evidence allows I.Sinope 1 to be dated to the period 352–346 BC. The inscription contains the Sinopean copy of a treaty of alliance that was concluded between Sinope and the tyrant Satyros and his nephews Timotheus and Dionysius, who ruled Heraclea jointly after the assassination of Satyros’ brother and their father Klearchos, the founder of the Heracleote tyranny, in 352 BC. The text is as follows: On these (terms) the Sinopeans and Satyros and the sons of Klearchos made an oath an alliance: That if anyone attacks Satyros or the son of Heraclea or its territory, except the King, the Sinopeans are to help with all their strength according to their ability and if anyone attacks Sinope or its territory, except the King, Satyros and the sons of Klearchos are to help with all their strength according to their ability; And if the one who is attacking Satyros or the sons of Klearchos or Heraclea or its territory or Sinope or its territory says that he is attacking with the King, (the parties to the treaty) are to send, jointly with the attacker, envoys to the King and to request him (the attacker) to leave the territory; And if the attacker does not choose to send envoys and to leave the territory, (the parties) are to help one another with all their strength according to their ability; that the 10  Kuznetsov and Nikitin 2017. For the association of the inscription with Darius I instead of Xerxes as suggested by its first editors, see Tsetskhladze 2018, 474. Cf. Nieling 2010; and Tsetskhladze 2017; and 2018. 11  The fullest picture of conditions in the Black Sea in the 4th century BC is in Xenophon Anabasis 5 passim. Cf. the discussions in Burstein 1976, 26–28, 39; and Briant 1996, 718–20. 12  French in I.Sinope, 1–4.

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pay of the soldiers is to be 2½ staters a month; and those who are giving help are to provide in advance one month’s pay; And repayment of the expenses is (to come) from the party requesting help within 6 months after peace has been made; That as many as have fled Sinope or Heraclea, to them it is permitted to remain in the cities if they do no wrong; And if they in any way seem to do wrong from the [time] when the treaty has come into being, the (parties) are to send envoys and to banish them, provided that it is decided by the Sinopeans and Satyros and the sons of Klearchos to banish them; That the people of Cromna and Sesamus are (included) in the treaty, if they wish; That each party is to [maintain] the alliance, if on the one hand [anyone attacks] within twenty days from the days when those in charge call for help; If on the other hand anyone of those [in the cities] works to overthrow the people of Sinope or [to divide them], or conspires against Satyros or the sons of Klearchos, (the parties) [are to help one another] With all their strength according to their ability within ten days of the day when those in charge call for help;….13 I.Sinope 1 is without doubt the most important addition to the sources for the history of the Greek cities of the southern Black Sea to have been discovered in decades. Not only does it illuminate diplomatic and military relations between Heraclea and Sinope and Persia in the mid-4th century BC, but it also provides new information concerning the cities’ politics, military organisation and, most important, the situation of exiles in these two cities, and the nature of their relationship with their Persian overlord. As a result, it also suggests, an explanation for a puzzling event that took place early in the reign of Alexander. While Alexander was campaigning in Hyrcania in the summer of 330 BC shortly after the assassination of Darius III, a group of ambassadors from Sinope, who had been trying to reach Darius’ court, were brought to him as part of the entourage of Artabazus (Arrian Anabasis 3. 24. 4; Curtius Rufus 6. 5. 6). According to Arrian’s account of the incident, instead of punishing them, Alexander ordered them released because ‘the Sinopeans did not belong to the Greek league and, being subject to the Persians, they did not seem to do anything inappropriate in sending ambassadors to their king’. The incident understandably has attracted little interest from historians of Alexander, since it had no further impact on his campaign. To my knowledge, only A.B. Bosworth14 has considered it in detail and recognised the unsatisfactory character of Arrian’s account of Alexander’s treatment of the Sinopean ambassadors and attempted to explain it, arguing that by 330 BC Sinope was a subject of Alexander, being under the authority of Calas, the son of Harpalus,15 the satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia to whom Alexander had 13  The final three lines (lines 31–33) seem to deal with the procedure for mobilising troops and amending the treaty, but they are too fragmentary for certain translation. French suggests: That [the call-up] is to be made by both parties from [the ages from] 20 to [39], And it is permitted (for it) to be amended in whatever way [is decided by the Sinopeans and Satyros and] the sons of Klearchos…. 14  Bosworth 1980, 353. 15  Berve 1926 II, 188, no. 397; Heckel 2006, 74–75.

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assigned responsibility for the administration of Paphlagonia. At the very least, therefore, Sinope’s decision to send ambassadors to Darius III was treasonous. While Bosworth stopped short of rejecting Arrian’s account outright, he rightly saw that Sinope’s decision to take such a dangerous course of action required a more consequential explanation than merely the desire to pay obeisance to Darius III. He reasonably suggested, therefore, that Sinope’s intent was to request assistance from Darius III, most likely, in his opinion, for support against the threat posed to the city by the Paphlagonian campaign conducted in the late 330s BC by Calas, to whom, as already mentioned, Alexander had assigned authority over the Paphlagonians and, presumably, the Greek cities of the Black Sea coast. While Bosworth was right to question Arrian’s account of the Sinopean embassy, his explanation fails to convince. The problems are twofold. First, his criticism of Arrian’s report of Alexander’s rationale for pardoning Sinope is too legalistic, ignoring Alexander’s need to attract the support of Persian subjects by acting the role of the ‘last Achaemenid’ in Pierre Briant’s celebrated characterisation of his position in the wake of Darius III’s assassination.16 Second and more important, it overestimates the extent of Macedonian authority in northern Anatolia and the Black Sea. Although it is true that between 333 and 330 BC Alexander appointed satraps in Hellespontine Phrygia, Cappadocia and Armenia, and accepted the submission of the Paphlagonians, whom he assigned to Hellespontine Phrygia, this organisation actually existed only on paper.17 Mithrines, his satrap of Armenia, and Sabictas, his satrap of Cappadocia Taurica, seem never to have even attempted to assume their posts, while a Persian noble named Ariarathes held Cappadocia Pontica and the adjacent coast of Paphlagonia throughout Alexander’s reign. Equally important, Calas’ campaign was directed toward suppressing Persian resistance in the Paphlagonian interior (Curtius Rufus 4. 5. 13). As Sinope is not easily accessible from the Anatolian interior,18 Calas’ campaign was, therefore, unlikely to have seriously threatened it. Moreover, attempts to expand Macedonian authority into the Black Sea proper in the late 330s BC, which would have exposed Sinope and the other cities of the northern Anatolian coast to a possible Macedonian military threat by sea, had failed. Zopyrion, Alexander’s satrap of Thrace, had been defeated and killed and his army lost trying to conquer Olbia,19 and most of Thrace itself subsequently was lost in a revolt led by the Odrysian ruler, Seuthes III.20 Meanwhile, at about the same time, Calas was defeated and possibly killed by Bas, the ruler of Bithynia.21 Clearly, another explanation for Sinope’s appeal to Darius III is required and I.Sinope 1 provides one. While Xenophon and the other sources leave no doubt that Persian authority over the Greek cities of northern Anatolia was loose, I.Sinope 1 makes clear that the Great King’s intervention could be invoked in the case of conflicts between his subjects. Sinope had, in fact, benefited from such an intervention earlier in the century, when it was besieged 16

 See most recently Briant 2010, 183.  Burstein 1976, 73; Briant 1996, 763. 18  Doonan 2004, 7–9. 19  Berve 1926 II, 164, no. 340. Heckel 2006, 273. 20  Berve 1926 II, 353, no. 702. Heckel 2006, 248. 21  Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1. 12. 4. Cf. Berve 1926 II, 104, no. 208. Heckel 206, 71. 17

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by Datames, the satrap of Cappadocia (Polyaenus Strat. 7. 21. 10), and it was probably just such a threat from another Persian subject power that provoked Sinope’s embassy to Darius. Because the focus of the extant sources on Alexander means that peripheral regions like northern Anatolia and the Black Sea tend to be left in the shadows, identification of the source of Sinope’s danger must be speculative, but Nymphis’ account, as preserved in Photius’ summary of Memnon, of the impact of Alexander’s victory at the Granicus on conditions in northern Anatolia strongly suggests that the most probable source of such a threat was Heraclea:22 Succeeding to the rule, Dionysius added to it. For the Battle of Granicus between Alexander and the Persians enabled those who wished to do so to increase their holdings, since the Persian strength, which always stood in the way, was removed. Despite its brevity, the implications of Memnon’s account are clear. I.Sinope 1 describes a situation in which Persian power imposed restraint on the ambitions of the Greek cities of northern Anatolia, restraint, however, that disappeared with the collapse of Persian authority in the region after the Battle of Granicus. Memnon’s account makes clear that, although the Heracleote tyrants had continued the city’s tradition of loyalty to Persia, Dionysius did not hesitate to take advantage of the new situation to expand Heracleote territory. Forty years ago I suggested in my book on Heraclea that Dionysius initially responded to the collapse of Persian authority in northern Anatolia by advancing westward toward Bithynia.23 The indication in I.Sinope 1, however, that the security of Cromna and Cytorus was already in question during the 340s BC combined with the Bithynian dynast Bas’ ability to focus on maintaining his independence from Calas during Alexander’s reign makes it more likely that Dionysius moved eastward toward Sinopean territory instead of westward to Bithynia, when Alexander’s victory at the Granicus gave him the opportunity to do so. How far east Dionysius’ initial advance extended, of course, is not clear. By the end of his reign, however, his mini-empire included the four towns of Tios, Cromna, Sesamus and Cytorus (Strabo 12. 3. 10, C 544), the last two of which were in territory claimed by Sinope. Sinope had, in fact earlier in the 4th century – probably in the 360s BC – tried unsuccessfully to seize control of Sesamus (Polyaenus Strat. 7. 21. 2), and Cytorus was a Sinopean foundation (Strabo 12. 3. 10, C 544). A Heracleote advance toward these cities could easily have provoked an appeal by Sinope to Darius III, their mutual overlord, such as is implied by Arrian’s account of Sinope’s unsuccessful embassy. Equally important, it would have ended the restraints on the Heracleote exiles resident at Sinope prescribed in I.Sinope 1 and freed them to appeal to Alexander for their restoration to Heraclea as Memnon indicates happened. Admittedly, identifying the Heracleote exile community at Sinope instead of, for example, other groups of Heracleote exiles in the Black Sea24 or the famous community  Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1. 4. 1 (translation Brown 1965, 219).  Burstein 1976, 74. 24  The existence of a group of exiles at Apollonia Pontica is suggested by the fact that Isocrates of Apollonia, the successor of the Athenian rhetorician Isocrates, who was claimed to be from Heraclea by the 22 23

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at Athens with its connexions to the schools of Plato and Isocrates25 as the primary source of the danger posed by the Heracleote exiles to Dionysius is speculative, but likely in view of I.Sinope 1’s conditioning their continued residence at Sinope on their not doing wrong and, more important, that none of them ‘conspires against Satyros or the sons of Klearchos’. Be that as it may, what is clear is that, according to Memnon:26 the exiles … sent envoys to Alexander when he was clearly winning control of all Asia and begged him to restore them, and also to restore the ancestral democratic constitution to their city. Because of this Dionysius came within an ace of losing his throne. And he would have lost it if he had not managed to elude the enemies who threatened him … aided both by his subjects’ good will and the help of Cleopatra. He succeeded in part by giving way to their rage and continuing to delay, and in part by taking counter measures. Despite the brevity and ambiguity of Photius’ summary of Memnon’s account of Dionysius’ reaction to the threat from the Heracleote exiles, three points are clear: first, the similarity of the exiles’ requests – restoration of them and the ancestral democratic (actually oligarchic) constitution to Heraclea, and, we should add, return of the property they had lost,27 when Klearchos established the tyranny at Heraclea in 364/362 BC – to Alexander’s use of exiles against pro-Persian governments that is documented in inscriptions from Chios, Eresos and Mitylene28 and the vague reference to him already having gained control of most of Asia probably dates these events early in Alexander’s reign, most likely before 330 BC; second, the nature of Dionysius’ response, particularly Memnon’s reference to his effective use of ‘delay’ implies that Alexander had responded positively to the exiles’ appeal, a conclusion that is reinforced by Memnon’s further allusion to Dionysius’ renewed danger from the exiles just before Alexander’s death;29 third, the unfortunately unspecified aid given Dionysius by Cleopatra30 and his later close relationship with the Macedonian court implied by his being party to the marriage negotiations between Antipater and Craterus31 indicate that, unlike Sinope, he abandoned Heraclea’s traditional loyalty to Persia in favour of seeking alliances with powerful Macedonians with ties to north-west Anatolia, a policy he continued to follow during the times of Perdiccas and Polyperchon and Olympias as indicated by his alliance with Antigonus the One-Eyed and the marriage of his daughter to Polemaeus, Antigonus’ nephew and commander in Hellespontine Phrygia.32 According to familiar cliché, all history is local history. The big story of Alexander’s campaign has obscured the many little stories of how cities, states, and peoples responded Heracleote historian Domitius Callistratus (Suda s.v. Isokrates), was, in fact, the son of the Heracleote Platonist Amyclas (Burstein 1976, 41 with 123 n. 28). 25  Burstein 1976, 41, 69; 1980, 69–76. Seibert 1979, 1, 128. 26  Memnon, BNJ 434 F1. 4. 1 (translation Brown 1965, 219). 27  Implied by Memnon’s (BNJ 434 F 1. 7. 3) claim that Nymphis persuaded the exiles to give up those claims in order to facilitate their return to Heraclea ca. 281 BC. 28  Heissserer 1980, 27–141. Cf. Seibert 1979 I, 151–58. 29  Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1. 4. 2. 30  Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1. 4. 1. 31  Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1. 4. 4. Cf. Seibert 1967, 24–26. 32  Memnon, BNJ 434 F 1. 4. 6.

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to the collapse of the political order in the Near and Middle East that Persia had maintained for over two centuries. Only the chance survival of a partial copy of Memnon’s history of Heraclea Pontica until the Middle Byzantine period has made it possible to reconstruct the outlines of one such little story, enabling us to trace Heraclea’s emergence as one of the principal powers of the Black Sea. A reference by Appian (Mithr. 12) to a decree of Alexander ordering the restoration of democracy at Amisos indicates, however, that Heraclea was not the only Greek city to benefit from the collapse of Persian authority in the Black Sea, although no information concerning the details of the process survives.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Berve, H. 1926: Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, 2 vols. (Munich). Bosworth, A.B. 1980: A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander 1: Commentary on Books I–III (Oxford). —. 1995: Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander 2: Commentary on Books IV–V (Oxford). Briant, P. 1996: Histoire de l’Empire Perse: De Cyrus à Alexandre (Paris). —. 2010: Alexander the Great and His Empire, translation by A. Kuhrt (Princeton). Brown, T.S. (ed.) 1965: Ancient Greece (New York). Burstein, S.M. 1972: A Political History of Heraclea Pontica to 281 B.C. (Dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles). —. 1976: Outpost of Hellenism: The Emergence of Heraclea on the Black Sea (University of California Publications: Classical Studies 14) (Berkeley/Los Angeles). —. 1980: ‘Menander and Politics: The Fragments of the Halieis’. In Burstein, S.M. and Okin, L. (eds.), Panhellenica: Essays in Ancient History and Historiography in Honor of Truesdell S. Brown (Lawrence, KS), 69–76. Desideri, P. 1967: ‘Studi di storiografia eracleota, I: Promathidas e Nymphis’. Studi classici et orientali 16, 366–416. Doonan, O.P. 2004: Sinop Landscapes: Exploring Connection in a Black Sea Hinterland (Philadelphia). Heckel, W. 2006: Who’s Who in the Age of Alexander the Great (Malden, MA). Heisserer, A.J. 1980: Alexander the Great and the Greeks: The Epigraphic Evidence (Norman. OK). Janke, M. 1963: Historische Untersuchungen zu Memnon von Herakleia: Kap. 18-40, FgrHist Nr. 434 (Dissertation, Würzburg). Kuznetsov, V.D. and Nikitin, A.B. 2017: ‘Drevnepersidska Nadpis iz Phanagorii’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. (ed.), Phanagoriya 6 (Moscow), 154–59. Nieling, J. 2010: ‘Persian Imperial Policy Behind the Rise and Fall of the Cimmerian Bosporus in the Last Quarter of the Sixth to the Beginning of the Fifth Century BC’. In Nieling and Rehm 2010, 123–36. Nieling, J. and Rehm, E. (eds.) 2010: Achaemenid Impact in the Black Sea: Communication of Powers (Black Sea Studies 11) (Aarhus). Rehm, E. 2010: ‘The Classification of Objects from the Black Sea Region Made or Influenced by the Achaemenids’. In Nieling and Rehm 2010, 161–94. Seibert, J. 1979: Die politischen Flüchtlinge und Verbannten in der Griechischen Geschichte, 2 vols. (Impulse der Forschung 30) (Darmstadt). Summerer, L. 2005: ‘Achämeniden am Schwarzen Meer: Bermerkungen zum spätarchaischen Marmorkopf aus Herakleia Pontike’. Ancient Near Eastern Studies 42, 231–52. Summerer, L. and von Kienlin, A. 2010: ‘Achaemenid Impact in Paphlagonia: Rupestral Tombs in the Amnias Valley’. In Nieling and Rehm 2010, 195–222. Treister, M. 2010: ‘“Achaemenid” and “Achaemenid Inspired” Goldware and Silverware, Jewellery and Arms and their Imitations to the North of the Achaemenid Empire’. In Nieling and Rehm 2010, 224–79. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2008: ‘The Pontic poleis and the Achaemenid empire: Some thoughts on their experiences’. In Lombardo, M. and Frisone, F. (eds.), Forme Sovrapoleiche e Interpoleiche di

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Organizzazione nel Mondo Greco Antico (Atti del Convegno internazionale Lecce, 17–20 Settembre 2008) (Galatina), 438–46. —. 2013: ‘The Greek Bosporan Kingdom: Regionalism and Globalism in the Black Sea’. In De Angelis, F. (ed.), Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity: Exploring their Limits (Colloquia Antiqua 7) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 201–28. —. 2017: ‘Bridging East and West: Locals, Greeks and Achaemenids around the Black Sea’. In Gallo, L. and Genito, B. (eds.), Grecità di Frontiera: Frontiere geographiche e culturali nell’ evidenza storica e archeologica (Studi di Stori greci e romana 14) (Naples), 27–44. —. 2018: ‘“The Most Marvelous of All Seas”: The Great King and the Cimmerian Bosporus’. In Pavúk, P., Klontza-Jaklová, V. and Harding, A. (eds.), ΕΥΔΑΙΜΩΝ: Studies in Honour of Jan Bouzek (Opera Facultatis philosophicae Universitatis Carolinae Pragensis 18) (Prague), 467–90.

THE ARCHAIC NECROPOLIS OF MYRMEKION Alexander BUTYAGIN

ABSTRACT Although the Archaic layers and buildings of Myrmekion have been well studied, little is known about the necropolis of this time. All burials excavated in the 19th and 20th centuries were located to the north of the city; they were inhumations in burial pits, date from the end of the 6th–first half of the 5th century BC, and have yielded lekythoi and amphorae. In 2017–19 a new part of the necropolis was discovered on the eastern side of Myrmekion, dated to about the second half of the 6th century BC. It yielded three child burials in amphorae, three burials in a flexed position, five inhumations on the back in clay pits, and also a small stone sarcophagus (empty, but probably, having contained a child’s skeleton that was completely destroyed). Vessels of a many types and a bronze bracelet were found here. The presence of a necropolis with child burials bespeaks the presence of a permanent Greek population in Myrmekion in the 6th century BC. The difference between the two parts of the necropolis indicates that at the turn of the 6th/5th centuries BC there was a change of population – probably a re-foundation of the settlement.

The study of the early period of ancient colonisation of the northern Black Sea littoral has always been and remains a focus of attention for Gocha Tsetskhladze. He has devoted many works to various aspects of this period.1 In this small paper I would like to introduce some of the material that could be valuable for clarifying particular aspects of this topic. The ancient site of the Myrmekion, located on the northern coast of Kerch Bay, has long been excavated.2 From the beginning of work in the 1930s, particular attention was given to the Archaic period – the time when Myrmekion was founded – and even more so since 1982 when Yuri Vinogradov began to lead the excavations. Currently, Archaic Myrmekion is explored very carefully, maybe better than any other site in the Bosporus. However, we know very little about the Myrmekion necropolis of Archaic times. There are several reasons for this. The fact is that the Myrmekion necropolis was studied mainly before the October Revolution, and usually was not separated from the Panticapaeum necropolis. The field documentation of these excavations was imperfect and it is difficult to assess the location of the graves and their internal organisation. Many items from the graves left in Kerch either disappeared during the Second World War, or their origin is doubtful because of the absence of museum documentation. In the 1930s, when the excavations of Myrmekion began, the territory of the necropolis

1

 Tsetskhladze 1994; 1998; 2004; 2019; etc.  Brief history of excavation in Vinogradov, Butyagin and Vakhtina 2003, 803–21.

2

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had already been partially built over, and in the period after the War the necropolis was completely buried under town buildings. It is worthwhile considering briefly the history of study of the Myrmekion necropolis.3 The first excavations of a necropolis in the territory adjacent to the site were made in 1863 by the archaeologist Alexander Lyutsenko; however, he was unable to uncover Archaic burials.4 Another archaeologist, Fedor Gross, began excavation in the Myrmekion region in 1883. In 1885, he explored a place located 1.5 km north-east of Myrmekion. Excavations continued until 1889, with Alexey Bobrinsky’s participation in 1888.5 Unfortunately, in the excavation journal sent to the Imperial Archaeological Commission Gross did not describe in detail the graves he had discovered, but gave only a general outline. In general, it is reported that most of the tombs were cut into limestone, which lay at a depth of 1–2 m; the depth of the grave pit was 0.7–1.5 m.6 The grave pits were covered with limestone slabs. They contained skeletons without coffins, sometimes several. More interesting data can be obtained from the report of Bobrinsky, who described open burials thoroughly.7 The only excavated grave that he discovered was covered with a 1.5 × 1 m limestone slab and oriented to the east. The grave pit was 2.15 m in length and 0.7 m in both width and depth. Inside, poorly preserved parts of a skeleton were found, apparently oriented eastwards, with fragments of a black-glazed vessel at the deceased’s left shoulder, and a trade amphora near his legs. It is possible that the burial belonged to the Late Archaic period. Unfortunately, neither the materials nor drawings of the report have survived. The excavations of Karl Dumberg in 1899 did not reveal Late Archaic finds. Those of Vladislav Shkorpil, who excavated the necropolis of Myrmekion in 1903 and 1906, when he managed to open several Late Archaic graves, were more productive.8 With the lack of reports, objects stored in the collections of the State Hermitage can clarify the situation with the dating of opened burials. Unfortunately, only 13 of them belong to the Late Archaic period (Fig. 1).9 I will briefly consider them: twelve come from the excavation of Gross and one from Shkorpil’s. Twelve of the objects were found in five burials (five glass vessels, six Attic lekythoi, a Corinthian exaleiptron) and another in the layer of the necropolis. Three glass alabastrons and two amphoriskoi can be dated to around the turn of the 6th/5th centuries BC; the exaleiptron to the beginning of the 5th century BC. All red-figured and black-figured lekythoi are generally dated from the turn of the 6th/5th centuries until the middle of the 5th century BC. In the layer of the necropolis, a fragment of the bottom of an Attic kylix with the image of a satyr was discovered. It dates from around 490 BC. Two burials, discovered by Viktor Gaidukevich in sector B in 1935, belong to this part of the necropolis, as does a grave opened not far from the site in 1938.10 Black-figured 3

 Butyagin 1999, 35–36; Vinogradov, Butyagin and Vakhtina 2003, 819–21.  Stroganov 1864, xii–xiv. 5  Vasilchikov 1891a, xxxvii; 1891b, lxxxix; 1891c, cii; 1891d, clxxi; 1891e, ccxv; Bobrinsky 1892, 7–10. 6  Vasilchikov 1891b, lxxxix–xl. 7  Manuscript of A.A. Bobrinsky’s report is kept in the Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg: F.1 Op.1888 №64 l.13,14. 8  Bobrinsky 1906, 43, 52–54; 1909, 83–91; Shkorpil 1905, 2, 70–76; 1909, 51, 78–96. 9  Butyagin 2003, 58–63. 10  Gaidukevich 1952, 142–44, 214–16. 4

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Fig. 1. Selected finds from the Late Archaic necropolis of Myrmekion: 1 – glass amphoriskos (inv. P.1885.26); 2 – glass alabastron (inv. P.1885.28); 3 – Corinthian exaleiptron (inv. P.1888.3); 4–7 – Attic black-figured lekythoi (inv. P.1885.18, P.1885.20, P.1885.22, P.1888.2); 8–11 – Attic red-figured lekythoi (inv. P.1885.19, P.1885.23, P.1889.8, P.1889.8). Collection of the State Hermitage Museum.

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Fig. 2. Myrmekion. Sector B. Late Archaic grave (after Gaidukevich 1952, 144).

lekythoi were found in both burials in sector B, and a trade amphora in one (Fig. 2). In the burial of 1938, the situation was very similar. There is also a lekythos and an amphora, also an iron sword and a knife. In general, the dating of these burials also fits within the first half to middle of the 5th century BC. In her work on the Bosporus necropolises Elizaveta Kastanayan identified 66 graves as dating to the 5th century BC, without separating the Late Archaic and Early Classical burials.11 In my opinion, the number of Late Archaic examples cannot exceed one third of open burials. We can agree with Kastanayan, who believed that the Myrmekion necropolis had no significant differences from the other Late Archaic Bosporan necropolises.12 The earliest burials of the Myrmekion necropolis date to the end of the 6th century BC; these are soil pits with inhumations, covered with one or more stone slabs. They usually contain painted Attic lekythoi and glass vessels; other finds are rare. The necropolis was located directly at the northern border of the settlement and to the north-east of it. This part continued to be used later, when the necropolis spread to the west, where Panticapaeum necropolis merges with that of Myrmekion. New finds have allowed us to reconsider this point of view. In 2017 the expedition of the State Hermitage resumed excavation in sector M, located near the eastern border of the Myrmekion site.13 Investigations hereabouts had been 11

 Kastanayan 1959, 287.  Kastanayan 1959, 288. 13  Excavations of sector M were headed by Vladimir Kolosov (State Hermitage Museum), skeletons were examined by Marina Dobrovolskaya (Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences). 12

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conducted in 1957–58 and stopped with the discovery of buildings of Classical and Hellenistic times.14 Since then the section has been conserved, with the exception of a small part on which work was carried out in 2008 to clarify the dating of the defensive wall.15 As a result of these works, unexpectedly, it was possible to open a new section of the Archaic necropolis, hidden by later layers and buildings, including the defensive wall of the Hellenistic period.16 Between 2017 and 2019, twelve burials were discovered, and at least one which could have been destroyed in Antiquity. There are two interesting points: first, the great variety of types of burial, something not characteristic of previous excavations; secondly, dating of the burials does not extend beyond the second half of the 6th century BC, thus this part of necropolis is the earliest at the site. Of the open burials, three are burials of children in amphorae (all of which are located in the northern part of the opened part of the necropolis); perhaps another one such burial was destroyed. Three burials are inhumations in simple pit graves with skeletons in a crouched position. Five are inhumations on the back, also in pits. One burial is a small stone sarcophagus that probably belonged to a child. Currently, the materials from 2019 are being processed, but, in general, the situation is already clear. I will briefly describe these grave categories. The three burials in amphorae are very similar. Amphorae were placed in small ovalshaped pits, and in one case, the amphora was propped up below with several small stones. Inside were the heavily damaged bones of infants. It is curious that all the amphorae are of different types: Clazomenian of the third quarter of the 6th century BC; Chian, no later than the last quarter of the 6th century BC; and Samian of the third quarter of the 6th century BC (Fig. 4.1). A Lesbian amphora was used in the destroyed burial. All the skeletons of children bear traces of malnutrition, developmental delays and various diseases. Burials with skeletons in a crouched position were made in oval-shaped ground pits. Two burials belonged to adult males, one laid on the right, the other on the left side. Neither contains other finds (Fig. 4.2). One of the skeletons carried traces of injuries and of hard work. In the third burial, the skeleton of an elderly woman was located on the right side. In addition, an inventory was discovered here: a clay spindle-whorl and a grey-glazed grey clay vessel (Figs. 3.3, 4.3). The burials in pit graves with skeletons on the back did not yield any covering; apparently, it was made of wood. One burial belongs to an infant up to one year old. A guttus and an Ionian one-handed cup dated about the second half of the 6th century BC were excavated here (Figs. 3.4–5, 4.5). The burial of a child of 6–8 years of age contained no finds and was only partially investigated, since it is covered by the Hellenistic defensive wall. The burial of a man of about 40 years was also partially investigated. Only the lower part of the body has been uncovered. His leg bones bore traces of heavy physical activity. The rest of this burial is also under a defensive wall. Another, presumably, male burial was

14

 Gaidukevich 1987, 149–62.  Butyagin 2015, 127. 16  See preliminary publication of the results of the 2017–18 field seasons: Butyagin and Kolosov 2018, 15–23. 15

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Fig. 3. Selected finds from the sector M Archaic necropolis of Myrmekion: 1 – grey-glazed grey clay jug (Grave 8, inv. M.2018-337); 2 – bronze bracelet (Grave 8, inv. M.2018-523); 3 – grey-glazed grey clay vessel (Grave 7, inv. M.2018-310); 4 – one-handed Ionian cup (Grave 9, inv. M.2019-245); 5 – guttus (Grave 9, inv. M.2019-247); 6 – Ionian olpe (near Grave 10, inv. M.2019-272); 7 – Ionian askos (Grave 12, inv. M.2019-368). Collection of the East Crimean Historical-Cultural Museum.

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Fig. 4. Myrmekion. Graves from the necropolis in sector M: 1 – Grave 6; 2 – Grave 3; 3 – Grave 7; 4 – Grave 8; 5 – Grave 9; 6 – Grave 10.

partially destroyed by a later pit. Inside it an Ionian askos, dated to the last quarter of the 6th century BC has been found (Fig. 3.7). Another burial was also damaged by the pit. A woman of 20–30 years of age was buried here accompanied by a bronze bracelet placed on her hand, and a grey clay, grey-glazed jug put next to her, similar to that found in the burial with female skeleton in a crouched position (Fig. 3.1–2, 4.5). The rarest find is a small sarcophagus made of limestone, measuring 103 × 72 × 44.5 cm, covered by a heavy lid of irregular shape (Fig. 4.6). No bones were found in it, although it is very likely that a child’s skeleton could have completely decomposed. Nearby was a small Ionian olpe, which, however, may relate to another burial (Fig. 3.6). Such a sarcophagus is completely uncharacteristic of Archaic burials in the Bosporus.

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It is clear that all opened burials cannot be dated later than the turn of the 6th/ 5th centuries BC, since at that time a continuous urban development arose close to the west of this part of the site, precluding the continued functioning of the cemetery. Then, in the Hellenistic period, if not earlier, the necropolis was covered by buildings and the city wall.17 The detection of the place of the earliest Myrmekion necropolis is very important for determining the size and status of the site in the first century after its colonisation. Our knowledge of this period is extremely limited. Only a few pits of the first half of the 6th century BC were excavated, together with fragments of painted East Greek pottery.18 All these pits were concentrated in the western part of Myrmekion, near the small rock of the Quarantine Cape. In the second half of the century, a small defensive wall appears around the Acropolis, inside and around which some dugouts were also built.19 Most of the cultural layers and structures of the 6th century BC were badly damaged by later construction activities and levelling of the soil. Nevertheless, even a preliminary study of the open necropolis allows us to draw conclusions regarding several important problems associated with the early history of Myrmekion. First, we can confidently state that at this time a permanent population lived here. Before these investigations, the relatively small quantity of buildings and fortifications, covering only a small area near rock, made it possible to assume that Myrmekion, at the dawn of its existence, was a small fortified point with an anchorage, which might have had no permanent inhabitants, but instead served as a base for farmers and fishermen only during warm times, with a replaceable garrison inside. The discovery of a necropolis with child burials confidently indicates that families with children lived here. Secondly, the presence of burials in trade amphorae allows us to state the Greek affiliation of the necropolis. This point is very significant for discussion about the ownership and purpose of dugouts, typical for the early period of development of the Greek colonies of the Black Sea region.20 The discovery of the necropolis clearly indicates that the permanent Greek population of Myrmekion lived in buildings with an underground element (dugouts and semidugouts). Of course, the harsh living conditions affected the health of the settlers, as evidenced, in particular, by the pathologies of infant skeletons. The presence of burials with skeletons in a crouched position, the origin of which has been discussed in the Russian literature, is very interesting.21 In general, the contrast between the necropolis of the second half of the 6th century BC (with different types of graves: in amphorae, in a crouched position, on the back, in a sarcophagus) and of the first half of the 5th century BC (with only one type – inhumation, on the back in a pit) is noteworthy (Fig. 5). Moreover, the early part of the necropolis (at the eastern border of Myrmekion) had been used until the appearance of a later one (at the northern border of the site). This may indicate that the transition to land-based 17

 Gaidukevich 1987, 149–51.  Vinogradov 1999, 285–90; Vinogradov, Butyagin and Vakhtina 2003, 805–06; Butyagin 2001; 2007, 21. 19  Vinogradov 1999, 280–84; Vinogradov, Butyagin and Vakhtina 2003, 807–09; Butyagin 2007, 22. 20  Tsetskhladze 2004, 270–71. 21  For an overview of the discussion, see Stoyanov 2002, 297–301. 18

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Fig. 5. Scheme of Myrmekion site with sectors B and M sections: 1 – part of necropolis of the second half of the 6th century BC; 2 – part of necropolis of the first half of the 5th century BC.

housing construction and the expansion of the settlement at the turn of the 6th/5th centuries BC was produced by a new group of settlers who actually re-founded Archaic Myrmekion.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bobrinsky, A.A. 1892: Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1889 god (St Petersburg). —. 1906: Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1903 god (St Petersburg). —. 1909: Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1906 god (St Petersburg). Butyagin, A.M. 1999: ‘Arkhaicheskii nekropol Mirmekiya’. In Problemy istorii i archeologii Ukrainy (TD nauchnoy konferentsii 21–23 oktyabrya 1999 goda) (Kharkov), 35–36. —. 2001: ‘Painted pottery from the early levels of Myrmekion (1992 field season)’. In Boardman, J., Solovyov, S.L. and Tsetskhladze, G.R. (eds.), Northern Pontic Antiquities in the State Hermitage Museum (Colloquia Pontica 7) (Leiden/Boston), 179–98. —. 2003: ‘Arkhaicheskaya keramika iz nekropolya Mirmekiya v sobranii Ermitazha’. Soobscheniya Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 60, 58–63. —. 2007: ‘Archaic Myrmekion’. In Solovyov, S.L. (ed.), Greeks and Natives in the Cimmerian Bosporus, 7th–1st Centuries BC (Proceedings of the International Conference, October 2000, Taman, Russia) (BAR International Series 1729) (Oxford), 22–25. —. 2015: ‘Excavations at Myrmekion in 2006–2013’. Hyperboreus 21.1, 127–34. Butyagin, A.M. and Kolosov, V.P. 2018: ‘Novyy uchastok arhaicheskogo nekropolya Mirmekiya (predvaritelnoe soobscheniye)’. Tavricheskie studii 16, 15–23. Gaidukevich, V.F. 1952: ‘Raskopki Mirmekiya v 1935–1938 gg.’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii SSSR 25, 135–222.

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—. 1987: Antichnyye goroda Bospora: Mirmekiy (Leningrad). Kastanayan, E.G. 1959: ‘Gruntovyye nekropoli bosporskikh gorodov VI–IV vv. do n. e. i mestnyye ikh osobennosti’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii SSSR 69, 257–95. Shkorpil, V.V. 1905: ‘Otchet o raskopkakh v g. Kerchi i yego okrestnostyakh v 1903 godu’. Izvestiya Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii 17, 1–76. —. 1909: ‘Otchet o raskopkakh proizvedennykh v 1906 godu v Kerchi i yego okrestnostyakh’. Izvestiya Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii 30, 51–98. Stoyanov, R.V. 2002: ‘Pogrebonnyye v skorchennom polozhenii v grecheskikh nekropolyakh Prichernomor’ya: sostoyaniye problemy i perspektivy yeyo resheniya’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Pogrebal’nye pamyatniki i svyatilischa, vol. 2 (St Petersburg), 297–302. Stroganov, S.G. 1864: ‘Doklad o deystviyah Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1863’. In Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1863 god (St Petersburg), i–xviii. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 1994: ‘Greek Penetration of the Black Sea’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and De Angelis, F. (eds.), The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation: Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman (Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, Monograph 40) (Oxford), 111–36. —. 1998: ‘Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Stages, Models, and Native Population’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area. Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Historia Einzelschriften 121) (Stuttgart), 9–68. —. 2004: ‘On the Earliest Greek Colonial Architecture in the Pontus’. In Tuplin, C.J. (ed.), Pontus and the Outside World. Studies in Black Sea History, Historiography and Archaeology (Colloquia Pontica 9) (Leiden/Boston), 225–78. —. 2019: ‘Once again about the Establishment Date of Some Greek Colonies around the Black Sea’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Atasoy, S. (eds.), Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Select Papers from the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford), 1–41. Vasilchikov, A.A. 1891a: ‘Doklad o deystviyah Imperatorskoy Arkheologicheskoy Komissii za 1883/4 g.’. In Otchet Imperatorskoy Arkheologicheskoy Komissii za 1882–1888 gody (St Petersburg), xxv–lviii. —. 1891b: ‘Doklad o deystviyah Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1885 g.’. In Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1882–1888 gody (St Petersburg), lix–xcvi. —. 1891c: ‘Doklad o deystviyah Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1886 g.’. In Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1882–1888 gody (St Petersburg), xcvii–clxv. —. 1891d: ‘Doklad o deystviyah Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1887 g.’. In Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1882–1888 gody (St Petersburg), clxvii– ccii. —. 1891e: ‘Doklad o deystviyah Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1888 g.’. In Otchet Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii za 1882–1888 gody (St Petersburg), cciii–cccxxxiv. Vinogradov, Y.A. 1999: ‘Selected findings from the Myrmekion acropolis’. Centre d’archéologie Méditerranéenne de l’Académie Polonaise des Sciences. Études et Travaux 18, 280–93. Vinogradov, Y.A., Butyagin, A.M. and Vakhtina, M.Y. 2003: ‘Myrmekion-Porthmeus. Two “Small” Towns of Ancient Bosporus’. In Grammenos, D.V. and Petropoulos, E.K. (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea [1] (Publications of the Archaeological Institute of Northern Greece 4) (Thessalonica), 803–30.

LA PÉRIODE DE DÉBUT DU PRINCIPAT DANS LES VILLES GRECQUES OUEST-PONTIQUES À LA LUMIÈRE DES SOURCES LITTÉRAIRES ET ÉPIGRAPHIQUES Livia BUZOIANU et Maria BĂRBULESCU (†)

RÉSUMÉ L’article traite de la période comprise entre 27 av. J.-C. (l’année où Octavien est devenu Imperator Caesar Augustus) et les premières années du règne de Tibère (18/19 ap. J.-C.). Il analyse en parallèle les sources littéraires et épigraphiques ayant trait à la date probable à laquelle l’autorité romaine fut établie dans la région ouest-pontique; le règne d’Auguste et les manifestations du culte impérial; la création de la province de Mésie par Tibère; l’autorité des Odryses et les moments conflictuels d’Aegyssus et de Troesmis; la confirmation épigraphique de l’information transmise par Ovide. ABSTRACT The paper deals with the period between 27 BC (the year when Octavian became Imperator Caesar Augustus) and the first years of Tiberius’ reign (AD 18/19). It analyses in parallel the literary and epigraphic sources referring to the probable date on which Roman authority was established in the West Pontic region; the reign of Augustus and the manifestations of the Imperial cult; the creation of the province of Moesia by Tiberius; the authority of the Odrysians and the conflicting moments from Aegyssus and Troesmis; and the epigraphic confirmation of the information provided by Ovid.

Le cadre historique auquel nous nous rapporterons se situe entre 27 av. J.-C. – l’année où Auguste est devenu imperator – et les premières années (18–19 ap. J.-C.) après la fondation de la province de Mésie (15 ap. J.-C.) par Tibère. Cette période, ou un moment de celle-ci, coïncide avec ce qui est désigné dans les travaux d’histoire par « l’instauration de l’autorité romaine le long du Danube jusqu’à la mer ». Dans l’historiographie roumaine il y a eu deux courants d’opinions concernant la date de cet événement: Un courant plus ancien, traditionnel, est exprimé par D.M. Pippidi1 et A. Ștefan,2 selon lequel la date de la campagne de M. Licinius Crassus des années 29–28 av. J.-C. représenterait un terminus post quem (ad quem pour Ștefan) de l’instauration de la domination romaine sur la rive droite du Danube. Un terminus ante quem unanimement accepté est représenté par la relégation d’Ovide à Tomis (8 ap. J.-C.) La source antique qui concerne Crassus est le récit de Dion Cassius Hist. Rom. 51. 23–27.3 1

 Pippidi 1974, 256–60 = 1988, 174–78; 1984, 209, n. 7.  Ștefan 1971; 1973 (surtout 104–05); 1975a; 1975b. 3  Voir Dion Cassius Hist. Rom. 51. 23–27, ainsi que son interprétation chez Vulpe 1968, 33–34; Pippidi 1971, 153–54; Avram 1999, 49. Sur l’ensemble de la période: Lica 2007, 236–42. 2

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En ce qui nous concerne, nous retenons de ce récit: – il y a eu deux campagnes de M. Licinius Crassus, proconsul de Macédoine, contre les Bastarnes et les Daces, à des dates très proches: la campagne contre les Daces et les Bastarnes, en 29 av. J.-C., et la campagne contre les Thraces et les Gètes, en 28–27 av. J.-C.;4 – la campagne de l’année 29 av. J.-C. a été organisée en réponse à l’invasion des Bastarnes en Thrace; à noter que, sur leur chemin vers la Thrace, « les Bastarnes n’ont pas eu à affronter les Romains » (οὐδέν σϕισι πρᾶγμα πρὸς τὸυς Ῥωμαίους ἦν (51. 23. 3). À la fin de cette campagne, les Bastarnes sont vaincus (51. 24). En aidant les Denthélètes contre les Bastarnes, Crassus visait principalement la sécurité de la Macédoine; – à l’hiver 29/28 av. J.-C., Crassus se retire « au pays de quelques amis » (ἐς τὴν ϕιλίαν ἀνεχώρησε) et décide de « se contenter de ce qu’il avait réalisé jusqu’alors » (ὅϑενπερ γνώμην ἔσχεν ἀρκεσϑῆναι τοῖς κατειργασμένοις) (51. 25. 2); – une nouvelle campagne de Crassus, en 28–27 av. J.-C., a été provoquée par la résurgence du conflit entre les Bastarnes et les Denthélètes (succession marquée dans le texte de Dion Cassius: ἐπεὶ δέ: 51. 25. 3). En vainquant les Bastarnes cette fois aussi, Crassus leur impose ses propres conditions de paix (51. 25. 3: καὶ κρατήσας σπονδὰς ὁποίας ἠϑέλησεν ἔδωκεν);5 – le 4 juillet 27 av. J.-C. on accorde le triomphe à Crassus ex Thraecia et Geteis;6 – Rholès, « le roi de certains Gètes » (Γετῶν τινων βασιλέως), est mentionné dans les deux campagnes: lors de la première, il aide Crassus dans la lutte finale décisive, étant reconnu, par la suite, comme « ami et allié de l’empereur » (ϕίλος καὶ σύμμαχος Καίσαρος);7 – pendant la deuxième campagne, c’est Crassus est qui aide Rholès dans les conflits que ce dernier a avec Dapyx et Zyraxès, deux dynastes locaux; – l’intervention de Crassus contre les Gètes de Dobroudja n’a lieu qu’à la demande de Rholès (51. 26. 1);8 – les campagnes de Crassus ne visaient pas les villes grecques pontiques, mais les populations « barbares » qui menaçaient la stabilité dans les provinces périphériques de l’empire (à cette époque, la Macédoine); – en tant que campagnes de punition, elles ne s’inscrivent pas dans un plan préétabli de conquête territoriale et d’instauration ferme d’une autorité impériale; – en tant qu’« ami et allié de l’empereur » (amicus Caesaris), qualité reconnue à Rholès, il n’est pas exclu que ce dernier ait été mandaté pour surveiller l’intérieur de la Dobroudja; – il est à retenir aussi l’attitude bienveillante de Crassus envers les Odryses (51. 25. 5): « il (Crassus) les a épargnés parce qu’ils étaient des adorateurs de Dionysos et l’avaient accueilli paisiblement lorsqu’il est arrivé dans leurs territoires »; 4

 Voir aussi Dana 2007, 236–37.  La campagne est également dirigée contre les Thraces qu’il voulait punir pour les ennuis qu’ils lui avaient causés lors de son retour de Mésie: ἐπεϑύμησεν ἀμύνασϑαι τοὺς Θρᾴκας τοὺς ἐν τῇ ἀνακομιδῇ τᾔ ἐκ τῆς Μυσίας (51. 25. 4). 6  CIL I2 478 (= I.Italiae XIII, 1, 87, fragm. XLI, 27). 7  Lica 1992; voir aussi Avram 1999, 49, n. 195. 8  Dion Cassius 51. 26. 1: Πράσσοντα δὲ αὐτὸν ταῦτα ὁ Ῥώλης Δάπυγι Γετῶν τινων καὶ αὐτῷ βασιλεῖ πολεμωϑεὶς μετεπέμψατο. 5

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– la source antique est très précise dans l’utilisation des termes: τήν τε Σεγετικὴν καλουμένην προσεποιήσατο καὶ ἐς τὴν Μυσίδα ἐνέβαλε, καὶ τὴν τε χώραν σϕῶν ἐκάκωσε (51. 23. 5); les trois verbes font la différence entre s’emparer de, attaquer et dévaster une région ou un territoire. Il est peut-être à retenir aussi l’hypothèse selon laquelle la campagne de Licinius Crassus aurait été justifiée aussi par l’intention d’Auguste d’attirer de son côté une zone dépendante jusqu’ alors de Marc Antoine, l’intérêt de ce dernier dans la région des Balkans s’étant intensifié après 35/34 av. J.-C.9 Un deuxième courant est plus récent: A. Avram ne lie pas nécessairement la campagne de Crassus à la date de l’instauration de la domination romaine. L’absence d’une mention expresse à la fois dans la source littéraire et dans l’inscription mentionnant le triomphe de Crassus l’amène à recommander de la « prudence » à l’égard de l’opinion traditionnelle et à proposer une nouvelle date: les années 3–2 av. J.-C. Il s’agit de la date où P. Vinicius était en mission en Thrace et en Macédoine comme légat impérial aux pouvoirs (imperium) proprétoriens.10 Selon le matériel épigraphique callatien sur lequel Avram fonde son argumentation, nous concluons que Vinicius s’est impliqué dans les événements politiques et diplomatiques, de même que militaires. Le premier aspect repose sur la proclamation de Vinicius, autour des années 3–2 av. J.-C., comme patron et bienfaiteur de la cité,11 à la suite de l’octroi ou de la reconnaissance de certaines libertés.12 Le deuxième aspect a comme argument la mention de quelques centuries (κεντoρῖαι) militaires, et non pas territoriales, et de quelques éventuels commandants romains subordonnés à Vinicius (ou peut-être à Lentulus, voir plus bas), dans des documents épigraphiques dont les dates sont proches du début de l’ère chrétienne (ISM III 29 et 30).13 La nouvelle date proposée, les années 3–2 av. J.-C., comme l’a noté son défenseur, se rapproche davantage de la mention d’Ovide: haec est Ausonio sub iure novissima (Trist. 2. 199). Auparavant, les Callatiens avaient attribué le titre de patron à un autre personnage important, Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Augur, qui avait précédé Vinicius (ca. 9–6 av. J.-C.).14 Dans ces conditions, on peut penser qu’au cours de la période 27–3/2 av. J.-C., des tentatives ont été faites pour imposer une forme d’autorité romaine, tout comme il y a 9  Suceveanu 1969, 274–84. Des arguments indirects peuvent être tirés d’une inscription d’Odessos, IGB I2 46, datée de 44/43 av. J.-C. à 2–3 ap. J.-C. 10  Pour P. Vinicius, voir Avram 1999, 51–54, ainsi que les nn. 200–202; et surtout Avram 1998. Dans sa note concernant l’inscription pour Vinicius, R. Vulpe (1968, 45, n. 95) fait référence à « cette dépendance des cités pontiques » et conclut: « Vinicius était donc honoré à Callatis comme legatus Augusti pro praetore, commandant des troupes de Mésie, subalterne, jusqu’à un moment donné, du proconsul de la Macédoine » (avec référence, aussi, à Pippidi 1965, 300, n. 61). 11 Voir dans Avram 1999, 52 et n. 203, les conditions dans lesquelles sont attribués les titres de patrons des cités aux commandants romains. 12  ISM III 57 et commentaire. Pendant la mission de P. Vinicius en Thrace, a été reconnu pour Callatis le statut de civitas foederata; voir Avram 2018, 512–13. 13  Le terme τὰς κεντορίας dans ISM III 30 confirme, selon Avram et Ionescu 2013, 175, l’idée de certaines opérations militaires autour de Callatis qui se sont déroulées sous la commande de Lentulus ou, quelques années après, sous la commande de Vinicius. Pour ISM III 30, il convient également de retenir le terme στρατι[αρχήσας], d’où la supposition que Monianios, le titulaire du décret, aurait été un officier, peut-être, même un στρατιάρχας = tribunus militum (Avram 1999, 269). 14  Avram et Ionescu 2013.

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eu des moments de contestation locale. Celui qui allait leur mettre un terme, peut-être d’une manière plutôt diplomatique, et faire reconnaître l’autorité romaine, est P. Vinicius. Nous retenons comme information secondaire que P. Vinicius était un admirateur d’Ovide: summus amator Ovidii (Seneca Contr. 10. 4. 25). En admettant avec Pippidi que « l’acceptation du vasselage romain par les villes grecques de la côte ouest de la mer Noire n’a certainement pas été le fait d’une victoire militaire, mais le résultat d’une négociation politique »,15 nous créditons en même temps les coïncidences établies par Avram entre les qualités de patron et évergète de la ville de Callatis accordées dans un premier temps à Cornelius Lentulus et puis à P. Vinicius et celle de κτίστας τᾶς πόλιος reconnue à Ariston I. Les coïncidences convergent vers les années 3–2 av. J.-C. en tant que date « très probable où toutes les cités du littoral sont entrées sous le contrôle romain ».16 De plus, nous admettons les formes déduites mais non attestées juridiquement, selon lesquelles cette autorité a été instaurée ici: directement, pour la zone côtière, sous la forme d’une préfecture, qu’elle fût nommée praefectura orae maritimae/Ripae Thraciae/ civitatium orae maritimae/ou juste civitatium17 ou, comme on l’a proposé plus récemment, Pontus ou Laevus Pontus,18 et indirectement, par le biais du royaume des Odryses, client des Romains, pour la zone intérieure de la Dobroudja actuelle. La situation persiste aussi après la création de la province de Mésie (15 ap. J.-C.), avec la mention que le littoral est désormais contrôlé par les praefecti, sous les ordres du gouverneur de la nouvelle province. Une fois précisé le cadre historique, nous étudierons la période de début du Principat reflétée dans les sources épigraphiques et littéraires (les épîtres d’Ovide écrites pendant son exil). Un premier aspect concerne la référence aux deux noms impériaux: Auguste et Tibère. Le nom d’Augustus est présent dans des inscriptions d’Histria et de Callatis, qui renvoient à des consécrations à l’empereur de quelques monuments ou lieux de culte. Les documents remontent à la fin du Ier siècle av. J.-C. – premières années du Ier siècle ap. J.-C., et de toute façon, avant l’année de la mort d’Auguste (14 ap. J.-C.). Ils sont éloquents pour l’attitude des villes grecques à l’égard de la nouvelle autorité et marquent ici, très tôt, des manifestations du culte impérial.19 Une inscription d’Histria fait référence à un temple (ναός) consacré à Auguste par un notable local, Papas fils de Théopompos (ISM I 146).20 Deux autres épigraphes callatiennes mentionnent l’édification de quelques espaces de culte consacrés à Auguste. Le premier document se réfère à une στοά ou βασιλικὰ στοά et au γυμνάσιον.21 15

 Pippidi 1984, 209, n. 7.  Avram 1999, 54; opinion soutenue aussi par Avram et Ionescu en 2013, 175 et Avram 2018, 513. 17  Sur le nom et l’évolution de cette structure (praefectura), voir Suceveanu 1971, 114–15; voir la discussion aussi dans Avram 1999, 54–56 et aux nn. 215–221; Avram 2018, 515–16. 18  Termes synonymes pour praefectura Ponti ou praefectura Laevi Ponti; voir Matei-Popescu 2014, 459–67. Avram 2018, 516, se ralie à cette opinion. 19  Pour le culte impérial, voir aussi Pippidi, dans ISM I 146; 1984, 189 et nn. 3, 4; et aussi les commentaires chez Avram, ISM III 58, et les références bibliographiques, p. 53, n. 213; Avram 2018, 517; Bottez 2009, 32–41. 20  Pour ISM I 146, voir aussi les commentaires dans Pippidi 1962, 101–05; 1969, 157–62. 21  Avram et Ionescu 2016 (451–54 pour l’inscription no 1). Les éditeurs de l’inscription envisagent un espace de culte situé près du gymnase ou même dans le gymnase, complété par l’aménagement d’une (βασιλικὰ) στοά. 16

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Le portique (στοά)22 est clairement mentionné dans la deuxième inscription callatienne (ISM III 58). Celle-ci, datée aussi de l’intervalle 27 av. J.-C.–14 ap. J.-C., mais plus proche, néanmoins, de 14 ap. J.-C., témoigne de la consécration, toujours à Auguste, d’un lieu de culte dans un espace réaménagé comme forum et marqué par les colonnes d’un portique (lignes 3–5: τοὺς κεί/ονας τᾶς στοι/ᾶς). Les documents épigraphiques auxquels nous avons fait référence sont la preuve des initiatives locales entreprises par le peuple (δᾶμος) en tant qu’organe administratif, à Callatis,23 et par une personne privée, portant un nom grec, capable de soutenir financièrement la construction d’un temple, à Histria. Dans les élégies d’Ovide et lié au lieu de son exil, le nom de l’empereur est invoqué à plusieurs reprises.24 Cependant, il faut d’abord distinguer deux hypostases d’Ovide: le citoyen de Rome, relégué par l’empereur dans un pays situé aux confins de l’empire; le citoyen / habitant de Tomis. Dans la première hypostase, l’attitude d’Ovide, subjectivement accentuée, est le déni total des éléments de « nouveauté » avec lesquels il entre en contact (comprenant ici l’espace, le climat, les gens, les réalités quotidiennes). Dans la deuxième hypostase, en particulier dans les Épîtres du Pont, l’attitude du poète commence à être celle de l’acceptation et de l’intégration. Dans la relation empereur-poète, nous considérons comme un possible indice d’erreur un élément défini de manière plus vague, mais qui fait référence à la personne ou à la qualité divine (le pouvoir divin) de l’empereur: à savoir numen Caesaris. Dans les Trist. 5. 8. 51–52, le poète reconnaît: ipsam quoque perdere vitam / Caesaris offenso numine dignus eram. La notion de numen revient aussi dans Ex Pont. 1. 2. 73–76. La construction des vers est basée sur la double opposition nescit-norit, magna molimina-cura minor, et tourne autour de deux noms: Caesar et deus. Dans un jeu des oppositions, Ovide laisse l’impression qu’il persiste dans l’offense: les vers deviennent ironiques et l’ignorance ou la minimisation de certains états de choses deviennent incompatibles avec le pouvoir divin de l’empereur. C’est un geste d’impiété gratuit (occulté par la structure des vers): dans la même élégie (v. 107), le poète fait référence à numina praesentia (y compris Caesaris, avec un pluriel poétique) et dans Ex Pont. 2. 2. 111 il demande à Messalinus: Mite, sed iratum merito mihi numen adora. L’offense assimilée à un acte d’impiété est donc assumée et sera rachetée moralement par la pietas envers Auguste et envers la famille impériale.25 Après la mort d’Auguste, Ovide manifestera sa piété, à la fois personnellement et officiellement en tant qu’homme de la cité. Il aménagera un lieu de culte – sacrum Caesaris – dans sa propre demeure, où se retrouvent aussi les images de Tibère et de Livia (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 105–108). Les deux personnalités sont désignées par natus pius coniunxque sacerdos 22

 Un autre portique (στοά) est consacré à Auguste (mort à cette date) et à Tibère par Ababos, fils de Kallisthénès, à Olbia (IOSPE I2 181); autres dédicaces consacrées à Tibère à Olbia, IOSPE I2 184, 199 A–B. 23  L’inscription ISM III 58 est considérée par A. Avram dans son commentaire « l’acte de la naissance du culte impérial dans cette ville »). Ensuite, Avram 2018 met en rapport l’introduction du culte impérial avec la reconnaissance du statut de civitas foederata (pour Callatis) et avec l’octroi de celui de civitas libera et immunis (pour Histria). 24  Ciocârlie 2018 (surtout 158–74 pour l’œuvre d’exil). 25  Voir la récurrence du terme pietas dans Ex Pont. 4. 9. v. 105 et 117.

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et reconnues comme numina iam facto non leviora deo. En accomplissant un devoir officiel (officium), en qualité d’agonothète, Ovide organisera à Tomis des jeux publics pour célébrer l’anniversaire (dies natalis) du dieu Auguste (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 115–116). C’est une autre forme et une preuve de manifestation du culte impérial à Tomis.26 Les mentions épigraphiques sur l’empereur Tibère sont peu nombreuses. Le nom de l’empereur est reconnu dans une inscription de Callatis (ISM III 46) à titre de basileus éponyme de la ville: ἐπὶ βα[σιλέος Τιβερί]/[ου] Καίσαρος. L’identification de Tibère ici (en l’absence de l’épithète Σεβαστός/Augustus) est due à Pippidi et est soutenue aussi par Avram.27 Le contenu de l’inscription fait référence à une œuvre constructive de Callatis du temps de Tibère;28 d’ailleurs, les préoccupations édilitaires de l’époque de cet empereur sont connues également à Odessos.29 Ovide parle de Tibère en tant que commandant militaire de la campagne contre les Pannoniens et les Dalmates, qui s’achève par un triomphe en 12 ap. J.-C. (Ex Pont. 2. 1. 19–20).30 Les échos de ce triomphe (fama) touchent également Ovide qui y ajoute la promesse: hunc quoque carminibus referam fortasse triumphum, / sufficient nostris si modo vita malis (Ex Pont. 2. 1. 63–64). Les références d’Ovide à Tibère imperator sont indirectes: le nom de Tibère est remplacé par un syntagme (natus pius); il bénéficie d’un locum sacrum, partagé avec Auguste et Livia (Ex Pont. 4. 9). Dans Ex Pont. 4. 14, Ovide attribue aux dieux l’espoir en une période de paix dont les Tomitains ont besoin (v. 61–62: di modo fecissent placidae spem posset habere/pacis). Les commentateurs ont identifié dans le passage cité les signes de consolidation de la domination romaine dans la région, pendant les années 15–16 ap. J.-C., après la création de la province de Mésie.31 En ce qui concerne les Odryses, nous avons à notre disposition un document épigraphique – ISM III 44 – et, encore une fois, les informations d’Ovide. Dans le préambule du décret est mentionné comme éponyme de Callatis, Cotys, fils de Rhoemétalkès (ἐπὶ βασιλέος Κότυος τοῦ Ῥοιμητάλκα). La date du décret est comprise entre 12 et 19 ap. J.-C. (les années où Cotys était le roi des Odryses), qui peut être limitée à ca. 12–15 ap. J.-C.32 Dans sa qualité de « voisin et protecteur des villes pontiques »,33 que Cotys a obtenue après la division du royaume thrace en 12 ap. J.-C., la mention de son nom dans le préambule du décret et dans la coutume callatienne34 ne surprend pas. Tout aussi peu

 Voir l’interprétation dans Lambrino 1958; contra, Pippidi 1984, 189–94.  A. Ștefan attribue l’inscription à Auguste, en restituant la formule αὐτοκράτορος à la place de βασιλέος et la date du troisième quart du Ier s. av. J.-C. (avant le 16 janvier 27 av. J.-C.); Ștefan 1973, 104; 1975a, 629–30; 1975b, 165. Voir les arguments contre cette attribution dans Pippidi 1984, 195–207 (en particulier 201-2); Avram 1999, 332, commentaire de ISM III 46. 28  D.M. Pippidi date l’inscription de Philainos (ISM III 46) de la même période (même décennie) que l’inscription dans laquelle Ariston est nommé pour la deuxième fois fondateur (κτίστηϛ) de la cité (ISM III 45), à savoir, des premières années du règne de Tibère (15 ap. J.-C. ou peu après); cf. Pippidi 1984, 198 et 276. 29  IGB I2 57. Pour les deux édifices (de Callatis et d’Odessos), voir aussi Avram 1995; Preshlenov 2002. 30  Sur la date du triomphe (23 octobre 12 ap. J.-C.), voir aussi Pippidi 1972. 31  Fontes I, 341, n. 104. 32  Les limites rapportées à la présence dans le même décret des noms Ariston I et II et à la durée de vie supposée du premier; voir Avram 1999, 323, commentaire. 33  Vulpe 1968, 46. 34  Pippidi 1984, 276. 26 27

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surprenante est la lettre qu’Ovide adresse à Cotys lui demandant protection et aide. Les vers d’Ovide insistent sur le « voisinage » de Cotys: me tibi finitimi parte iacere soli (Ex Pont. 2. 9. 4); tua nunc vicinia praestet (Ex Pont. 2. 9. 79). Il y a aussi allusion au pouvoir militaire que les Odryses représentaient: tu quoque fac profugo prosint tua castra iacenti / O, Coty (v. 37–38). La formule tua castra fait probablement référence aux camps militaires de surveillance et d’intervention ou aux garnisons militaires, attributs d’une autorité réelle et non seulement nominale. La confirmation se retrouve dans Ex Pont. 1.8: en 12 ap. J.-C., à Aegyssus, il y avait une garnison odryse qui allait être détruite par les Gètes qui s’étaient levés contre le roi odryse.35 Une autre garnison devait se trouver à Troesmis: les termes raptam Troesmin et recepit (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 79) renvoient indirectement à cette conclusion.36 Nous arrivons ainsi à deux moments importants – Aegyssus et Troesmis (12 et 15 ap. J.-C.) – que nous retenons dans ce qui suit. Les deux moments conflictuels provoquent l’intervention romaine et mettent en évidence dans l’œuvre ovidienne trois noms: – Vestalis (Ex Pont. 4. 7. 1–30) – apparaît dans deux hypostases: a) envoyé au Pont pour « rétablir la justice » (v. 1–2: missus es Euxinas quoniam, Vestalis, ad undas, / ut positis reddas iura sub axe locis); b) hypostase antérieure: centurion de premier rang (primuspilus),37 qui s’est fait remarquer pour sa bravoure dans la récupération de la cité d’Aegyssus. La première hypostase – celle d’envoyé au Pont avec une mission spéciale est un « honneur » (honos) récemment obtenu (nuper) et un titre important (titulus ingens), qui peut lui offrir de « nombreux avantages » (plenis fructibus). Nuper et quondam marquent aussi la distinction temporelle entre les deux hypostases. – P. Vitellius (Ex Pont. 4. 7. 27–28), oncle du futur empereur,38 impliqué lui aussi39 dans les mêmes événements, est le commandant d’une légion: il amène des troupes en utilisant la flotte romaine sur le Danube.40 – Flaccus / L. Pomponius Flaccus (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 75–80) a occupé une fonction de commande et a contribué à l’instauration d’une période de sécurité et de paix dans la région; il participe à la reconquête de Troesmis. Ovide souligne à plusieurs reprises la qualité de dirigeant de Flaccus: praefuit his locis, illo sub duce, tenuit Mysas gentes. Les verbes sont au passé, rapportés au moment où Ovide a écrit son épître, alors que la fonction que Flaccus occupait vient de cesser « récemment » (modo). Comme l’épître à  Cotys, selon Fontes I; Rhoemetalces I, selon Pippidi 1965, 298, n. 49 et Vulpe 1968, 44. Podossinov 1987, 113–14, 162–65. 37 Selon Mrozewicz 1994, 12–13, no 2, Vestalis serait primuspilus dans la legio V Macedonica sous les ordres de P. Vitellius. Selon Ritterling et Stein, Vestalis serait primuspilus dans la legio IIII Scythica (apud Avram 1999, 55, n. 218); voir aussi Bărbulescu et Buzoianu 2014, 424, n. 46; de Trizio 2010; Kantor 2017. 38 Voir le nom chez Tacite aussi, Ann. 1. 70 et 3. 10, 13, 17, 19 (légat de Germanicus); Suétone Vitellius 1. 3. 39 La qualité de Vitellius était probablement celle d’un commandant d’une légion: Petolescu 2014, 79; Bărbulescu et Buzoianu 2014, 424, n. 44; Jones 2016, 131, n. 30. 40 Explication donnée dans Vulpe 1968, 36: la flotte militaire romaine doit être supposée dès le début comme étant établie quelque part dans le delta et patrouillant sur le Danube (en 12 ap. J.-C. elle est attestée en pleine action); Bounegru et Zahariade 1996, 7–8, nn. 1–5. 35 36

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Graecinus (Ex Pont. 4. 9) date de l’an 1641 ou de la fin de l’an 15 – début de 16 ap. J.-C.,42 les événements auxquels elle se rapporte se sont déroulés en 15 ap. J.-C. Nous retenons de l’information fournie par Ovide qu’en l’an 12 Vestalis était dans l’exercice de la mission spéciale qu’il avait reçue; à la fin de l’an 15 ou au début de 16 (?), L. Pomponius Flaccus avait mis un terme à sa position de dirigeant qu’il avait occupée dans le Pont Gauche.43 Nous retrouvons les deux noms dans une inscription récemment découverte dans le territoire d’Histria, à Săcele; il s’agit d’un décret honorifique pour Vestalis. Les considérants du décret comprennent les noms de l’empereur Tibère et de Lucius Pomponius Flaccus, le dernier mentionné avec le titre de legatus pro praetore (πρεσβευτὴς καὶ ἀντιστράτηγος).44 L’inscription, datée des années 18–19 ap. J.-C. ou, de manière encore plus restreinte, de 19 ap. J.-C.,45 succède aux informations d’Ovide. La fonction clairement exprimée ne concerne que Flaccus. Q. Iulius Vestalis (maintenant mentionné pour la première fois avec son praenomen) est envoyé par l’empereur pour « le maintien et le salut des cités grecques du littoral gauche du Pont »: l. 4–6, ἐπὶ συμ(μ)ονῇ καὶ σω/[τ]ηρίᾳ τῶν ἐν τοῖς εὐωνύμοις μέρεσι τοῦ Πόντου Ἑλ/[λ]ηνίδων πόλεων. Le terme ἀποσταλείς de l’inscription grecque, appliqué à Vestalis, est l’équivalent de missus de l’épître d’Ovide et il est utilisé pour des envoyés chargés de missions spéciales.46 Malheureusement, cette fois non plus, la fonction de Vestalis n’est pas précisée, mais on suppose, comme dans le premier cas (récit d’Ovide) qu’il s’agissait de celle de praefectus (Laevi Ponti?).47 La fonction lui donne le pouvoir de restaurer l’autorité romaine et de protéger les villes contre les attaques barbares. Le fait que Vestalis soit mentionné à des dates différentes nous amène à affirmer qu’il a exercé sa fonction à deux reprises: sous Auguste, après l’épisode Aegyssus ou comme conséquence immédiate de celui-ci; la deuxième fois sous Tibère et pendant le mandat de Flaccus. En ce qui concerne Pomponius Flaccus, il a été considéré préfet (ou supposé préfet) du Pont Gauche,48 commandant de rang prétorien de la Mésie d’abord, pour devenir ensuite, après avoir obtenu le consulat en 17 ap. J.-C., gouverneur de rang consulaire dans les années 18–19 ap. J.-C.49 L’inscription de Săcele mentionne pour la deuxième fois sa présence dans la région, cette fois dans sa qualité certaine de légat impérial. La fonction que détenait Flaccus 41

Pippidi 1939; Avram 1999, 54, n. 217. Jones 2016, 129. 43 La possibilité que les deux événements – Aegyssus et Troesmis – soient contemporains (12 ap. J.-C.) dans Mrozewicz 1994, 32–33, no 9; contre-arguments dans Avram 1999, 55, n. 219. 44 Bărbulescu et Buzoianu 2014; voir aussi Avram, Bulletin épigraphique 2015, 509; 2016, 433–34; 2017, 375 ; Jones 2016. 45 Jones 2016, 130, n. 25: pas avant 19 ap. J.-C.; Kantor 2017, 89, suppose la présence de Vestalis lors du premier mandat de Pomponius Flaccus en Mésie (15 ap. J.-C.), période au cours de laquelle aurait été pris aussi le décret pour Vestalis; pour une datation de 15 ap. J.-C. avait également opté Matei Popescu 2014, 464. 46 Observation de Jones 2016, 124, 130–31. 47 Analogie avec C. Baebius Atticus (CIL III 1838 = ILS 1349) dans Avram 1999, 55, n. 221; Bărbulescu et Buzoianu 2014, 424, n. 47. 48 Pippidi 1965, 300; 1967, 383. 49 Vulpe 1968, 45, n. 96. 42

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en 15 ap. J.-C. reste discutable. Plusieurs éléments permettent de penser que même en 15 ap. J.-C., Flaccus était toujours légat impérial, avec des pouvoirs, à cette époque, de propraetor: – son intervention ne se limite pas à Troesmis, elle se manifeste sur une zone plus vaste qui comprend ripa ferox Histri (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 76) et le Pont Gauche (v. 119: is quoque, quo laevus fuerat sub praeside Pontus). Nous ne discutons pas ici s’il s’agissait d’une tutella pour la région du Danube et d’une autorité de droit dans la province proprement-dite;50 – comparée à celle de Vestalis, praefectus après le moment Aegyssus, l’autorité de Flaccus en 15 semble plus importante et avec des résultats politiques durables: hic tenuit Mysas gentes in pace fideli (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 77); – l’utilisation du terme praefuit avec référence à Flaccus (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 85) et l’observation selon laquelle le terme, non technique, apparaît à côté des noms des gouverneurs de province, officiellement reconnus;51 – un argument indirect selon lequel Flaccus représente une autorité plus importante que Vestalis: Ovide s’adresse directement à Vestalis; dans la lettre à Graecinus, Flaccus est indirectement invoqué en tant que témoin informé des réalités de la région (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 81–88); – un autre argument, également indirect, mais plus fort, que nous retrouvons dans le récit de Tacite (Ann. 2. 66) concernant la désignation de Pomponius Flaccus comme gouverneur de la Mésie (pro praetore Moesiae, titre sous lequel la fonction a été détenue par Latinius Pandusa): au moment de sa nomination (en 19 ap. J.-C.), Flaccus est considéré comme veterem stipendiis. L’allusion reste valable si nous considérons que la fonction n’est pas nouvelle pour Flaccus (il l’avait occupée aussi en 15) et que l’expérience le recommandait comme la personne la plus capable de mettre en œuvre la politique de Tibère.52 Nous pouvons donc accepter l’idée d’une fonction réitérée dans le cas de Pomponius Flaccus: – le premier mandat, datant de 15 ap. J.-C., était fini à la date où Ovide écrivait à Graecinus (fin 15 / début 16 ap. J.-C.); – le second mandat fait directement suite à la mort de Latinius Pandusa, qui avait occupé le poste de pro praetor Moesiae entre 18 et 19 ap. J.-C. Après avoir exercé son mandat de consul à Rome, en 17 ap. J-C., Flaccus reprend sa fonction en Mésie en 19 ap. J.-C. comme vir consularis. Flaccus exerce les deux mandats comme envoyé de Poppaeus Sabinus, vu que la Mésie, l’Achaïe et la Macédoine avaient à l’origine un gouvernement commun.53

50

Suceveanu 2009, 88 et 110. Voir l’éloge tiburtin consacré à Ti. Plautius Silvanus Aelianus (CIL XIV 3608 = ILS 986), gouverneur de Mésie, 60–67 ap. J.-C.: Moesiae ita praefuit; voir Avram 1999, 55, n. 219, avec une référence à Vulpe 1968, 45, n. 96. 52 Voir plus loin, chez Tacite Ann. 2. 67 le déroulement ultérieur des événements du royaume des Odryses. 53 LP 20. 8-10; Bărbulescu et Buzoianu 2014, 425, nn. 52–55. 51

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Nos considérations sur la carrière de L. Pomponius Flaccus ne font que plaider en faveur d’une opinion plus ancienne soutenue par V. Pârvan54 et défendue également par R. Vulpe.55 Une étude récente sur la publication de l’inscription de Săcele, signée par C.P. Jones, reprend la question56 et mentionne également deux missions de Flaccus en Mésie comme légat de Poppaeus Sabinus. Notre intervention ne se propose pas de donner une réponse définitive; l’œuvre littéraire et le document épigraphique mettent mutuellement en évidence leur importance et offrent un espace ouvert pour l’interprétation historique. L’œuvre d’exil d’Ovide s’avère un document historique et littéraire important et véridique,57 son auteur assumant comme un devoir la transmission des informations: haec tellus testificanda mihi est (Ex Pont. 4. 9. 98).

BIBLIOGRAPHIE Avram, A. 1995: ‘Date epigrafice cu privire la edificiile de la Callatis în epoca elenistică’. Historia urbana 3, 19–28. —. 1998: ‘P. Vinicius und Kallatis. Zum Beginn der römischen Kontrolle der griechischen Städte an der Westküste des Pontos Euxeinos’. Dans Tsetskhladze, G.R. (éd.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Historia Einzelschriften 121) (Stuttgart), 115–29. —. 1999: ‘Étude introductive’. ISM III, 3–198. —. 2015–16: ‘Notes épigraphiques (V)’. Pontica 48–49, 429–35. —. 2018: ‘Le statut juridique des cités grecques de la côte occidentale de la mer Noire à lʼépoque dʼAuguste’. Dans Pavúk, P., Klontza-Jaklová, V. et Harding, A. (éd.), ΕYΔΑIΜΩΝ: Studies in Honour of Jan Bouzek (Opera Facultatis philosophicae Universitatis Carolinae Pragensis 18) (Prague), 511–29. Avram, A. et Ionescu, M. 2013: ‘Un nuovo patronus della città di Callatis: Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Augur’. Il Mar Nero 7 (2007–09), 167–77. —. 2016: ‘Nouvelle inscription de Callatis’. Dans Robu, A. et Bîrzescu, I. (éd.), Mégarika: Nouvelles recherches sur Mégare et les cités de la Propontide et du Pont Euxin: Archéologie, épigraphie, histoire (Actes du colloque de Mangalia, 8–12 juillet 2012) (De l’archéologie à l’histoire 66) (Paris), 451–66. Bărbulescu, M. et Buzoianu, L. 2014: ‘Lʼespace ouest-pontique sous lʼempereur Tibère à la lumière dʼun décret inédit découvert en Dobroudja’. Dans Cojocaru et al. 2014, 415–34. Bottez, V. 2009: Cultul imperial în provincia Moesia Inferior (sec. I–III p. Chr.) (Bucarest). Bounegru, O. et Zahariade, M. 1996: Les forces navales du Bas-Danube et de la mer Noire aux Ier–VIe siècles (Colloquia Pontica 2) (Oxford). Ciocârlie, A. 2018: ‘Poetul și Principele’. Dans Capbun, M. et Nicolae, F. (éd.), Ovidius în România: in memoriam magistri Stephani Cucu (Bucarest), 147–74. Cojocaru, V., Coșkun, A. et Dana, M. (éd.) 2014: Interconnectivity in the Mediterranean and Pontic World during the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Pontica et Mediterranea 3) (Cluj-Napoca). Dana, D. 2007: ‘Orolès ou Rholès? (Justin XXXII 3, 16)’. Dacia n.s. 51, 233–39. De Trizio, M.S. 2010: ‘History, Rhetoric and Political Opportunity in the Encomium of Vestal (Ov. Pont. 4.7)’. The Annals of Ovidius University Constanța/ Philology 21, 71–79. Franga, L. 1990: ‘Ovidius și spațiul danubiano-pontic’. Thraco-Dacica 11.1–2, 225–38. 54

Pârvan 1924, 363–64. Vulpe 1968, 45, n. 96. 56 Jones 2016 réédite l’inscription trouvée à Săcele avec quelques ajouts; voir aussi Avram 2015–16, 433–34; Bulletin épigraphique 2017, 375. 57 Franga 1990; Franga et Franga 2004–05. 55

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Franga, L. et Franga, M. 2004–05: ‘Ovidiana Pontica. Sur les deux mondes réels du poète’. Studii clasice 40–41, 215–22. Jones, C.P. 2016: ‘An Inscription from Istros and Ovidʼs Last Poems’. ZPE 200, 122–32. Kantor, G. 2017: ‘The date and circumstances of Quintus Iulius Vestalis’. ZPE 203, 85–91. Lambrino, S. 1958: ‘Tomis, cité gréco-gète, chez Ovide’. Dans Herescu, N.I. et al., Ovidiana. Recherches sur Ovide (Paris), 379–90. Lica, V. 1992: ‘Φιλορώμαιος oder φιλόκαισαρ’. Bonner Jahrbücher, 225–30. —. 2007: ‘M. Licinius Crassus (cos. 30 v. Chr.) und die römische Donaugrenze’. Pontica 40, 227–44. Matei-Popescu, F. 2014: ‘The Horothesia of Dionysopolis and the Integration of the Western Pontic Greek Cities in the Roman Empire’. Dans Cojocaru et al. 2014, 457–71. Mrozewicz, L. 1994: ‘Exempla prosopographica’. Dans Mrozewicz, L. et Ilski, K. (éd.), Studia Moesiaca (Poznań). Pârvan, V. 1924: ‘À propos du “basileus” Cotys de Callatis’. Dacia 1, 363–67. Petolescu, C.C. 2014: Dacia: Un mileniu de istorie (Bucarest). Pippidi, D.M. 1939: ‘Autour de la chronologie des épîtres d’Ovide ex Ponto’. Dans Pippidi, D.M., Recherches sur le culte impérial (Paris/Bucarest), 179–92. —. 1962: Epigraphische Beiträge zur Geschichte Histrias in hellenistischer und römischer Zeit (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Sektion für Altertumswissenschaft, Schriften 34) (Berlin). —. 1965: ‘Dobrogea în secolele I î.e.n.–I e.n. Începuturile stăpânirii romane la gurile Dunării’. Dans Pippidi, D.M. et Berciu, D., Din istoria Dobrogei I: Geți și greci la Dunărea de Jos (din cele mai vechi timpuri până la cucerirea romană) (Bucarest), 288–324. —. 1967: Contribuții la istoria veche a României, 2e éd. (Bucarest). —. 1969: Studii de istorie a religiilor antice (Bucarest). —. 1971: I Greci nel Basso-Danubio dallʼetà arcaica alla conquista romana (Biblioteca storica dell’antichità 8) (Milan). —. 1972: ‘În jurul cronologiei scrisorilor lui Ovidiu din Pont’. Pontica 5, 419–28. —. 1974: ‘În jurul alipirii orașelor vest-pontice la Imperiul Roman’. Studii clasice 16, 256–60. —. 1984: Parerga: Écrits de philologie, dʼépigraphie et dʼhistoire ancienne (Bucarest/Paris). —. 1988: Studii de istorie și epigrafie (Bucarest). Podossinov, A.V. 1987: Ovids Dichtung als Quelle für die Geschichte des Schwarzmeergebiets (Xenia 19) (Constance). Preshlenov, H. 2002: ‘Urban Spaces in Odessus (6th c. BC–7th c. AD)’. Archaeologia Bulgarica 6.3, 13–43. Ștefan, A. 1971: ‘Applications des méthodes mathématiques à l’épigraphie’. Studii clasice 13, 29–45. —. 1973: ‘Chronologie des inscriptions grecques de Callatis établie à l’aide du calculateur’. Studii clasice 15, 99–107. —. 1975a: ‘Le début de la domination romaine sur les cités de la côte ouest du Pont-Euxin: date et circonstances’. Dans Actes de la XIIe Conférence internationale d’études classiques ‘Eirene’, Cluj-Napoca, 2–7 octobre 1972 (Bucarest/Amsterdam), 621–31. —. 1975b: ‘Callatis à l’époque du Haut-Empire à la lumière des documents épigraphiques’. Dacia n.s. 19, 161–72. Suceveanu, A. 1969: ‘Două note privind istoria Moesiei în sec. I î.e.n’. Pontica 2, 269–84. —. 1971: ‘În legătură cu data de anexare a Dobrogei de către romani’. Pontica 4, 105–24. —. 2009: Opuscula Scythica. Grecs et Romains au Bas-Danube (Bucarest). Vulpe, R. 1968: ‘Începuturile vieții romane în Sciția Minoră’. Dans Vulpe, R. et Barnea, I., Din istoria Dobrogei II: Romanii la Dunărea de Jos (Bucarest), 24–67.

GREEK URBANISATION OF THE NORTH PONTIC REGION IN THE 6TH–EARLY 5TH CENTURIES BC Dmitry CHISTOV

ABSTRACT Among the ancient cities of the northern Black Sea region, various parts of the urban built-up areas of the Archaic period have been studied to date at Berezan settlement, Olbia and various European and Asian Bosporan centres. The regular urban layout, so far best studied at Berezan, was not exceptional. Evidence of building regulations, and in some cases even parts of a regularly arranged street network, are recorded in the excavations of most urban sites in the region, where urbanisation begins in earnest in the second half of the 6th century BC. These planning grids are generally formed by longitudinal and latitudinal streets: most often oriented along the cardinal points, but sometimes at a 45% angle to them. However, the streets were rarely perfectly straight and parallel, their width and directions were often maintained inaccurately; there are no signs of unification in the shape of blocks and the number of houses within each. The sizes of individual houses within one block could differ noticeably.

The appearance of the North Pontic poleis of the Archaic period in the earliest stages of the formation of their urban structure has received little detailed attention until recently, primarily for want of evidence: early architectural remains are mostly inaccessible, overlapped by strata and structures of subsequent periods. As a result, buildings of the Archaic level are often revealed in rather fragmentary fashion – within limited areas where later construction was for some reason poorly preserved, or, for example, within the perimeter of later buildings. The result is that sometimes we can gain adequate information about small structures – dugouts or compact detached buildings of the ‘colonist house’ type – when the latter fit completely or nearly within later buildings. In attempting to study the earliest multi-room buildings, however, we are limited to dealing with fragments of masonry or individual rooms that do not give an idea of the house layout as a whole. The northern Black Sea region is by no means unique in this: in the Greek cities of the Aegean, researchers, for similar reasons, have long focused their attention on building levels of the Classical and Hellenistic periods, as well as on Iron Age structures, whose study Archaic buildings often hampered.1 Despite limitations, for the Archaic cities of the northern Pontus, study of the formation of their urban structure, i.e. the principles of organisation of urban space and street networks, as well as the types, sizes and internal planning of residential buildings, is of

1

 Lang 2005, 13.

Fig. 1. Possible reconstruction of the street network of Berezan settlement (in accordance with the data of 2018). Numbers of the excavation sectors on the plan: 1 – Necropolis; 2 – sector S-1 (Northern-1); 3 – sector S-2 (Northern-2); 4 – sector North-western A; 5 – sector North-western B; 6 – sector T; 7 – sector G; 8 – sector R-1v (eastern); 9 – sector O-Western; 10 – sector O-Eastern; 11 – sector R-1 (western); 12 – sector G.Sh.; 13 – sector A1; 14 – sectors C4–6; 15 – sector B8; 16 – sector Zh.

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particular importance as it reveals common and individual features in their social organisation, plus specific local factors that influenced their development. Within the region, urban planning of the Archaic period has been studied best at the Berezan settlement, where the absence of building remains of the Hellenistic and Roman periods makes it possible to explore early deposits over wide areas. Yet, even for Borysthenes/ Berezan, we lack a complete picture of its spatial organisation in the second half of the 6th–early 5th century BC. Studies of recent decades have made it possible to amend substantially the original reconstruction of its urban plan, previously developed on the basis of data available in the early 1990s.2 New excavations have confirmed the presence of an urban planning grid, which consisted of a system of blocks separated by streets of standard width (3.2–3.5 m), but they have also shown that the layout of Borysthenes was not completely orthogonal. Significant deviations of street alignments from the north– south and west–east axes in various parts of the city, as well as different areas and shapes of city blocks, make it virtually impossible to extrapolate to the rest of the site the features of already uncovered areas, as had been suggested (Fig. 1). What do we know? According to recent studies, the emergence of streets and the large-scale construction of stone and mud-brick houses, grouped into city blocks, can be tentatively dated to the 540s BC.3 Most likely, these processes reflect the arrival of a new large group of settlers, and coincide in time with the establishment of the Achaemenid protectorate over Ionia after the Persian defeat of the Lydian kingdom in 546 BC (Herodotus 1. 153–168). Probably, the same historical events were behind the rapid growth of Olbia and its chora, the erection of its first temple, and a significant increase in the number of offerings in the West Temenos.4 The beginning of mass construction of multi-chamber houses made of mud-brick and limestone may have been preceded by a short stage that is reflected in the appearance of so-called ‘colonist houses’ – rectangular stand-alone single-room structures, with walls of stone, mud-brick or wattle-and-daub, and a floor sunk into the ground. These structures differ in two ways from the numerous dugouts typical of the earliest phase of Berezan settlement in the late 7th–first half of the 6th century BC: they feature a large interior area (18–36 m2) and display signs of long-term residential use.5 In some cases, it is possible to trace the alignment between these structures and the network of insulae of the third quarter of the 6th century BC: ‘colonist houses’ have the same orientation as the later multi-chamber houses, or even line the borders of the streets of the subsequent period. Houses of the second half of the 6th century BC were grouped into blocks; there were eight or ten households in each block, and the plot of an individual house (including courtyard) could vary from 180 to 370 m2, although the average size of most houses probably did not exceed 200–250 m2.6 The city network consisted of five main streets running approximately west–east. In reality, these streets were neither absolutely straight nor strictly parallel to each other, and, in addition, they had noticeable deviations from the cardinal points. Only one of these main streets has so far been uncovered, in three 2

 Solovyov 1999, 78–79, fig. 58.  Chistov et al. 2012, 72, 120–21. 4  Y.G. Vinogradov 1989, 74–75; Rusyaeva 2006, 32–34, 226. 5  Chistov 2016, 10–16. 6  Solovyov 1999, 65–77; Chistov 2017b, 138–40. 3

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different excavation sectors: it runs with a noticeable deviation to the south-east. Two more main streets were reliably identified within one excavation sector each; we can only guess where their continuations may be found in other areas of the modern island of Berezan. The number of streets and alleys that crossed the ancient peninsula (nowadays an island) from approximately north to south was much greater, but to date only about ten of them, in sections of different length, have been studied.7 Longitudinal streets did not always cross the entire built-up area from north to south; for instance, during the excavations of the North-West sector, a T-shaped intersection was brought to light, arising from the different shape of the blocks in the northern and southern parts of Borysthenes.8 The southern block in this area has rectangular shape, elongated in longitudinal direction, whereas the adjacent northern block has an irregular trapezoidal shape. In the northeastern part of Berezan excavations of recent years revealed a city block that had the form of rectangular trapezoid: two longitudinal streets converged at an acute angle as they came from the north, merging into one9 (Fig. 1, no. 9 on plan). Both in this and in other cases, the orientation of the cross streets had deviations from the meridional axis. It seems that while in the western part of the colony these streets were oriented almost strictly along the north–south line, in the central and eastern parts of the city they had a significant deviation to the south-west, to various degrees. Perhaps they ran towards the ancient harbour, possibly corresponding to the small modern bay in the north-eastern part of the island. Insulae of irregular, including triangular, outline are known in the Archaic layout of Megara Hyblaea: they were located in the area of the agora that divided the city into two parts, with different orientations of the street network. Public buildings occupied parts of residential blocks neighbouring the agora.10 It is likely that the different orientation of different sections of the street network of Archaic Borysthenes was also due to the contours of the ancient coastline and the location of public buildings. Although, to date, neither the location of the agora nor the fact of its existence have been ascertained, significant progress has been made in determining the territory occupied by the urban civic centre. All of the four known structures which can be interpreted as public or religious buildings are located in one area of the Archaic city, at a relatively short distance from one another, occupying parts of residential blocks bordering on the north and south of one of the main streets. Among them are two buildings of similar size and layout, tentatively identified as dining halls – hestiatoria (Fig. 2, B, C); the so-called ‘sanctuary of Aphrodite’; a small temple in antis, located inside a rectangular temenos, within the boundaries of which there was also a round altar (Fig. 2, A); and finally, the so-called ‘Apsidal House’, located to the east of two Late Archaic hestiatoria (Fig. 2, D).11 In the process of recent excavations, it was confirmed that the above-mentioned block of irregular trapezoidal shape served to accommodate public buildings in the late 6th– first third of the 5th century BC: in its northern part there was a multi-chamber building 7

 Chistov and Krutilov 2014, 216–20, fig. 2; Bujskikh and Chistov 2018, 11–13, fig. 11.  Solovyov 1999, 57, fig. 77. 9  Chistov and Ilyina 2017, 177–80, fig. 1. 10  Auberson et al. 1976, Portefeuille 3, plans 11–14; Metraux 1978, 153–56; Tréziny 2016, 168–70, fig. 1. 11  Chistov 2015; Bujskikh and Chistov 2018, 11–19. 8

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Fig. 2. Disposition of public buildings within the territory of the supposed civic centre of Borysthenes and 3D reconstruction. A – temenos with the temple in antis (‘sanctuary of Aphrodite’) (3D reconstruction after Kryzhitskii 2001); B, C – Late Archaic public buildings (probable hestiatoria) (B – structure no. 2, C – structure no. 1); D – ‘Apsidal house’; E – Courtyard with the circular altar.

No. 1 (one of two hestiatoria), and in the southern part there was an extensive fenced courtyard, within the boundaries of which a circular altar surrounded by a semi-circular wall was uncovered (Fig. 2, C, E). In addition, the localisation of the civic centre is confirmed by the finds of a small number of architectural members and sculpture, most of which were discovered in the same area of the modern island.12 Any comparison of the urban planning of Berezan and neighbouring Olbia is seriously hampered by the poor knowledge of the early strata of the latter. Until recently, even the very existence of regular planning in Archaic Olbia had been questioned, although some regulation of the town planning process was supposed.13 Nevertheless, new studies in the south-eastern part of the Upper Town of Olbia enabled investigations of part of an insula of the Late Archaic and Early Classical period, overbuilt with residential buildings in the 12

 Bujskikh and Chistov 2018.  Kryzhitskii 1971, 98–99; 1993, 35; Kryzhitskii and Rusyaeva 1978, 5.

13

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last quarter of the 6th century BC. Parts of intersecting meridional and latitudinal city streets with a width of about 3.5 m were uncovered, bounding the quarter from the south and west. These new data, coupled with the results of the earlier excavations of B.V. Farmakovsky in the central part of Olbia (where an intersection of the main meridional street with the cross street, which had existed since the late 6th century BC, was revealed), suggest the existence of a regular planning grid in the entire Upper Town during the Late Archaic period.14 A certain similarity in the spatial organisation of early Olbia and Borysthenes indicates indirectly both the generality of town-planning concepts and the fact that the urbanisation of these centres proceeded almost simultaneously.15 We have very limited evidence on the appearance of the urban centres of the Lower Dniester region at the earliest stages of their existence – i.e. in second half of the 6th– early 5th century BC. At the site of Roksolany (ancient Nikonion), residential houses and outbuildings of this time are represented exclusively by rectangular semi-dugouts. The presence of some remnants of mud-brick masonry or wattle-and-daub walls around the perimeter of these structures, as well as their significant interior area,16 reaching 40 m2, brings these edifices closer to the aforementioned ‘colonist houses’ that immediately preceded the start of mass construction of stone and mud-brick houses at Berezan. In contrast, the transition to mass construction of multi-chamber stone and mud-brick houses at Nikonion is observed only in the middle of the 5th century BC, although some scholars see signs of urban planning regulation in the mutual arrangement of early dugout structures.17 Studies of a number of Greek cities of the European Bosporus, namely Nymphaeum, Myrmekion, Tyritake and, possibly, Porthmion, indicate the appearance of regular urban planning from the last quarter or end of the 6th century BC. In Myrmekion, fragmentary building remains of Archaic residential houses are revealed in various parts of the site, but a significant early built-up area was investigated only within sector I in the eastern part of the ancient town (Fig. 3). In the northern part of this area, Archaic buildings are best preserved (Fig. 4). The boundaries of the Late Archaic insula here were investigated on three sides, including a large segment of a meridional city street about 3 m wide, which bounds this city block on the west. Another latitudinal street that existed since the late 6th century BC was found in the southern part of the same excavation sector. It remains unclear whether the space bounded by these four streets was one large block extending from north to south, or if it was divided by another street into two blocks of lesser size.18 In any case, it can be argued that the eastern part of Myrmekion had an orthogonal street network oriented to the cardinal points since the late 6th century BC. A similar layout probably extended into the western part of the city. At the same time, Late Archaic buildings directly adjacent to the small fortified rock of the Acropolis were erected taking the landscape into account, and their plan had significant deviations from the meridional and latitudinal directions.19 14

 Bujskikh 2017, 13, fig. 5.  Bujskikh 2013, 25–27. 16  Polshchikova and Sekerskaya 2008. 17  Sekerskaya 2013, 516–17. 18  Butyagin and Chistov 2015, 32–33, fig. 1. 19  Butyagin 2007, 24, fig. 2; Butyagin and Chistov 2015, 31. 15

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Fig. 3. Archaic residential block within the sector I in the eastern part of Myrmekion (after Butyagin and Chistov 2015).

The massive shift to mud-brick and stone housebuilding at Nymphaeum took place in the last quarter or at the end of the 6th century BC,20 and led to the emergence of urban built-up area that can be estimated to have been 5–6 ha in extent. To date, the construction remains of the Late Archaic period have been identified in two excavation sectors: B–C and G.21 The archaeological knowledge of Archaic structures in these two 20

 Khudyak 1962, 18.  Chistov 2017a.

21

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Fig. 4. Myrmekion, sector I, possible 3D reconstruction of residential houses located in the northern part of the block.

sectors is very different: the part of the settlement on the cape, that is, the B–C sector, contains the remains of four dwelling houses of the late 6th–5th centuries BC as well as segments of two intersecting streets running in latitudinal and meridional directions (the latter bending noticeably to the south-east). To the west, in excavation sector G, early structures were investigated only in those areas where they were not overlaid by Hellenistic buildings. As a result, the borders of individual households and their layout can be restored only hypothetically. A segment of a meridional street that existed from Late Archaic times was also uncovered in the same sector. The street network of Nymphaeum was probably oriented along the north–south and west–east axes; however, the urban plan was not strictly orthogonal from the outset (Fig. 5). This is particularly so near the tip of the cape, where the outlines of the steep coastline influenced the shape of city blocks.22 Late Archaic residential buildings of Tyritake are relatively well investigated. The structures of this period were excavated in the western part of the site (sectors XIV–XXVII), with the remains of two neighbouring houses (Fig. 7), the walls of which were later 22

 Chistov 2017a, fig. 10

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overlaid by a defensive wall, erected between approximately 510 and 480 BC.23 Investigations have resumed in this part of Tyritake in the last decade, and they now show that parts of these structures continue to the west of the city wall.24 Thus, after the wall’s construction, the built-up area of the city was somewhat reduced.25 A built-up area of a much larger size was uncovered within excavation sector XXVI, located to the east, in the central part of the site. According to V. Zinko, the uncovered structures belong to six residential buildings, which were part of one city block that emerged in the 530s BC.26 Unfortunately, the boundaries of this block are situated outside the area explored to date, and this seriously impedes both the reconstruction of a hypothetical street network for Archaic Tyritake and the validation of ideas concerning the division of the block into individual households. The orientation of Archaic buildings within these two sectors had a noticeable deviation from the cardinal points; the largest deviation (up to 45%) is observed among structures of sector XXVI.27 Some differences in the orientation of buildings in these areas, separated by no more than 50 m, may be due to variations in landscape: houses in the western part of the site were located on a small hill, the ancient level of which was 4–5 m higher than that of the buildings in the block of sector XXVI.28 In Porthmion, the uncovered area of Archaic buildings dated to the late 6th–early 5th centuries BC is still not sufficient for a proper understanding of the layout, since no city streets were found within its boundaries. Apparently, the ‘multi-chamber ground complex’ erected on the terraced slope, consisting of no fewer than nine rooms and courtyards,29 belonged not to one, but to at least two neighbouring households of a single block, on the east attached to the early fortified city wall. These houses are generally oriented according to cardinal points, with a slight deviation due to the direction of the fortifications. The urban core of Archaic Panticapaeum, located on the slopes and terraces of Mt Mithridates, developed in accordance with the peculiarities of terrain and the tasks of defence; therefore, it is impossible to speak of a regular grid plan for this site. The regulation of town planning, in the case of Panticapaeun, evidently manifested itself in the emergence of several functional zones: first, the early Acropolis with a temenos on the Upper Plateau, and a small area of multi-chamber houses adjacent to it from the north; second, the Western Plateau – the territory attached to the Acropolis at the end of the 6th century BC, and probably used to accommodate the polis’ administrative buildings; third, the northern slope of the Western Plateau, occupied by ordinary residential houses.30

23

 Gaidukevich 1952, 86–87; Twardecki 2014, 34–37.  Thus there is a need to make adjustments to the old 3D-reconstruction (my Fig. 7) of these houses drawn as built into the fortifications (Kryzhitskii 1982, fig. 24.4). 25  Twardecki 2016, 37–38. 26  Zinko 2014; 2017. 27  Zinko 2014, 306–07, fig. 291; Gaidukevich 1952, 74–86, fig. 85. 28  Twardecki 2016, 38, figs. 5, 10. 29  Vakhtina 2003, 45, figs. 18–20; 2009, fig. 119. 30  Tolstikov et al. 2017, 212–13. See also the summary street network plan for Archaic Panticapaeum: Tolstikov et al. 2017, 239, tab. 3. 24

Fig. 5. Nymphaeum. Speculative reconstruction of the Archaic and Early Classical street network, based on the architectural remains revealed within sectors B–C and G (after Chistov 2017). Archaic architectural remains in black; Early Classical in red.

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Fig. 6. Tyritake, built-up area revealed within sector XXVI (after Zinko 2014).

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Fig. 7. Residential houses in the western part of Tyritake (after Kryzhitskii 1982).

On the Western Plateau, within the fortified territory of the Acropolis, parts of several quarters have been uncovered, the buildings of which included both multi-chamber buildings and a public building – tholos (Fig. 8.1). Although, in general, the Late Archaic buildings of the Acropolis were oriented along cardinal points, the exposed part of the street network does not represent a regular layout: the main street, running down the slope to the north, bends in accordance with the lie of the land to the north-east, and the cross streets, coming from the west, intersect with it, also not at right angles.31 This area was built up during the expansion of Panticapaeum, its period of active urbanisation, but was destroyed between 490 and 485 BC, probably as a result of an enemy attack.32 The layout of the Archaic residential area, located on the northern slope of the Western Plateau of Mt Mithridates, was also determined by landscape (Fig. 8.2). Very small one- and two-chamber houses were located on the gently descending terrace-shaped ledges  Tolstikov et al. 2017, 32–33, 255, tab. 19.  Tolstikov et al. 2017, 37.

31 32

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Fig. 8. 1 – Street network of the Western Plateau of Panticapaeum Acropolis (after Tolstikov 2017); 2 – Street network of the northern slope of the Western Plateau (after Marchenko 1979).

of the slope along two parallel streets that ran down from north to south and led to a square (possibly of civic significance), which had a pavement of large polygonal slabs. Some of these structures were associated with pottery production and metalworking.33 Excavations of the ancient centres of the Asian Bosporus do not yet confirm the presence of a grid plan at any polis sites from the Late Archaic period. But, in some cases, there are good reasons to expect the existence of a regular grid. In the course of recent excavations of the Upper Town of Phanagoria, a built-up area of the second half of the 6th century BC was uncovered, consisting of houses with mud-brick walls without stone foundations. Judging by the preliminary publications, at the earliest stage of development, households of a very modest size (about 40–65 m2) dominated this area.34 The size of houses along with narrow streets is explained by the archaeologists in charge of excavation as resulting from the limited territory of the hill, on which the earliest settlement was located. The area of the historical core of the city did not exceed 2 ha; it was defended by mud-brick fortifications, built in the third quarter of the 6th century BC.35 According to V.D. Kuznetsov, the houses of the early settlement were not grouped into 33

 Marchenko 1979; 1984, 11–18; Treister 2007, 567–69.  Kuznetsov 2009, 193; 2010, 450–51. 35  Kuznetsov 2017, 52–53, fig. 37. 34

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Fig. 9. Archaic built-up area of the Upper Town of Phanagoria (after Kuznetsov 2018).

insulae. At the same time, all the buildings had the same orientation – from north-west to south-east – and their compact placement indicates the existence of a single development plan since the foundation of the city.36 Some of the buildings, according to the excavators, could have had a public purpose. Among these, there is one (no. 300) with an area of 75 m2,37 and another structure located on the other side of the street (no. 743), interpreted as a small temple in antis, and, possibly, some other structures.38 Judging by the latest published plan39 (Fig. 9), Archaic buildings in the surveyed area were located on both sides of a ‘central’ street, at least 3 m wide, running from west to east with a deviation of about 15o degrees to the north-east. From the east, this street leads to the mud-brick fortifications. 36

 Kuznetsov 2001, 12; 2009, 194–95.  Zavoikin and Kuznetsov 2011. 38  Kuznetsov 2019, 402–11. 39  Kuznetsov 2018, 123, fig. 4. 37

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Fig. 10. Early Greek settlement in Anapa, excavations of the construction area of the Ocean Hotel (after Alekseeva 2010).

Neither the urban layout of the Archaic Anapa settlement (Sindic Harbour, later Gorgippia) nor its area can be reliably reconstructed. However, in this case it is quite possible to speak about the regulation of town planning from the very beginning of the stone and mud-brick construction used to build up a small fortified area of the early settlement. Remains of houses of the late 6th–early 5th centuries BC, uncovered within the Ocean excavation sector (Fig. 10), had a common diagonal orientation – with corners oriented to the cardinal points. A small section of a street paved with small stones, running down to the sea from the south-east to north-west, was also discovered.40 The presence of regulation in the urban development of the settlement of Garkusha I (ancient Patraeus) in the last quarter of the 6th–first quarter of the 5th century BC is indicated by the remains of mud-brick houses oriented to the cardinal points, investigated in the elevated western part of the site.41 The Archaic strata of Hermonassa are very poorly studied. Nevertheless, judging by the uncovered areas, the urban grid of the last quarter of the 6th century BC coincided with the orientation of structures of the Classical and Hellenistic periods: the diagonal orientation was probably due to the directions of the streets running down to the harbour in the north-eastern part of the city.42 In different cities of the North Pontic region, urbanisation of the Archaic period can be dated with varying degrees of reliability. The earliest stone and mud-brick structure in the region so far has been identified on the Acropolis of Panticapaeum. It was a small (19.2 m2) single-chamber edifice, attached to the inner face of the oldest defensive wall that protected the perimeter of the Upper Acropolis Plateau. Finds from the fire layer 40

 Alekseeva 1990, 20–21, fig. 1; 1997, 15–17, 283, tab. 3; 2010, 474, fig. 4.  Abramov 2010, 531–32, fig. 3-4. 42  Zeest 1977, 55. 41

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in this building give the date for its destruction as no later than the middle of the 6th century BC.43 The urban structure of Phanagoria and Berezan/Borysthenes (possibly also Olbia) appears somewhat later – around the beginning of the third quarter of the 6th century BC. It is very likely that these events are not actually separated in time, because they could be associated with the same relocation wave, which was caused by the establishment of the Achaemenid Persian protectorate over Ionia after the defeat of the Lydian kingdom in 546 BC. For the remaining centres listed above, the most acceptable dates for the active phase of urbanisation are the last quarter of the 6th–early 5th centuries BC, that is, a few decades later. However, it cannot be ruled out that, with the accumulation of new archaeological data, the construction date of the first mud-brick and stone houses for some of these sites might get lowered, and it should be noted that the role of the relocation wave of the 540s BC in the dramatic increase in the population of the Black Sea cities is still greatly underappreciated. Some scholars hold the view that the period of active formation of urban structures in the ancient Greek settlements of the northern Black Sea region was usually preceded by a specific ‘adaptation period’, lasting about 60–80 years, and that urbanisation arose largely for internal demographic reasons: a sharp increase in population coincides approximately with the lifetime of the second–third generation of settlers.44 Without denying the significance of the demographic factor, the picture of the formation of the urban structure in the centres listed above does not always fit into this scheme. In Phanagoria, such an ‘adaptation period’ might not have occurred due to the historical circumstances of the foundation of the city; in Panticapaeum, as recent archaeological data suggest, this period was significantly shorter; and as for the Berezan settlement, it would be difficult to explain such a quick and organised transition from dugouts to a wellplanned network of streets and insulae as mere demographic explosion. Nevertheless, there is no reason to deny the very existence of a long period during which a number of the earliest North Pontic Greek settlements existed without an urban structure, with dugouts of various design as the only type of dwelling archaeologically attested.45 The duration of this phase, as rightly noted by Y.A. Vinogradov, distinguishes the Greek colonisation of the northern Black Sea from that of Sicily and Magna Graecia.46 The most striking example here is, again, Berezan, where by now about 240 dugouts of the late 7th–first half of the 6th century BC have been identified, and not a single(!) aboveground stone or mud-brick building of the same period.47 Despite differences in dates, many common features can be seen in the urbanism of Archaic Greek cities of the northern and north-western Black Sea region. The initial stages of development of these centres was, as a rule, carried out according to a single plan; residential construction was regulated. In some cases, this regulation led to the formation of a street network that had a common orientation (with some deviations caused by peculiarities of landscape or coastline). However, nowhere was this grid strictly orthogonal;  Tolstikov et al. 2017, 14–15, 55–56, 59, 247, tab. 11.  Rogov 1996, 83–84; Y.A. Vinogradov 1999, 106–09. 45  The very existence of this period is denied in the articles of V.D. Kuznetsov (1995; 2018). 46  Y.A. Vinogradov 1999, 107–10. 47  Chistov 2017c. 43 44

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the number of houses and the sizes of plots within city blocks could vary greatly. The streets of Archaic northern Black Sea urbanised settlements usually had a similar width (3–3.5 m). Stone paving was not systematically applied, although some areas could have slab pavements.48 In other cases, the streets were paved with potsherds, small stones or gravel. Traces of drainage along the streets can be found in many cases, but its arrangement, apparently, was not regulated in any way. There is no space here to compare in detail various types of residential buildings and their internal spatial organisation. I will focus briefly on their sizes. It is difficult to agree with the opinion, expressed in relation to the North Pontic region, in particular Phanagoria, that single-chamber houses with an area of 15–20 m2 were generally typical of residential architecture of the Archaic period.49 This was not so for the majority of the urbanised sites of the region, as shown above. Structural change in Greek housing during the Archaic period resulted in the emergence of multiple-room houses of various layouts, which was a reflexion of profound changes that took place in the structure of Greek family and society50 – the transformation of early types of housing into an urban courtyard house, traceable from the end of the 8th and through the 7th centuries BC, occurs in conjunction with the development of the civic ideology of the polis.51 The emergence on the territory of a new settlement of dense housing consisting of buildings of small size and simple layout could derive from important reasons unrelated to the property or social status of residents. These may include a need for urgent housing construction after arrival at a new place, or as part of rebuilding after destruction.52 For Berezan/Borysthenes, the above-mentioned single-chamber detached rectangular buildings, partly sunk into the ground, with mud-brick or wattle-and-daub walls – the so-called ‘colonist houses’ – as well as a small of number of above-ground wattle-and-daub structures could serve as an example of such a scenario. Their appearance can be associated either with the arrival of a special group, the advance party of the second wave of settlers, who might have landed on the peninsula at the mouth of the Dnieper-Bug estuary at the end of the second quarter or middle of the 6th century BC; alternatively, they may have served as first dwellings of the inhabitants of an urbanised apoikia, built immediately after the landing of the ‘second wave’ of settlers in the 540s BC.53 Another reason for the prevalence of small-sized households of simple plan, in particular of detached single-chamber buildings, might have been defensive: the wisdom of placing the maximum number of houses within the boundaries of a fortified perimeter and/or in areas suitable for construction on elevated terrain. An obvious example of this is the various built-up areas of the Acropolis of Panticapaeum, and possibly the Upper 48  So, for example, the Archaic street of Myrmekion, which had the stone paving, but only in the area where it was running down a slope of hewn rock (Butyagin and Chistov 2015, 32). 49  Zavoikin and Kuznetsov 2011, 190. 50  Lang 2005, 14–19, 31–32. 51  Morris 1998, 28–30. 52  Besides the dugouts of various shapes and single-chamber structures of the ‘colonist house’ type, known in North Pontic sites, an example of the temporary return to the early forms of the Iron Age dwelling can be seen in small one- and two-room houses, as well as the curvilinear houses that emerged in Clazomenae after catastrophic events in the second half of the 6th century BC (Ersoy 2007, 167–70). 53  Chistov 2017b, 133–36; 2017c, 132–34.

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City of Phanagoria.54 The earliest stone and mud-brick building of the first half of the 6th century BC to be uncovered in the territory of the fortified core of the first apoikia of Panticapaeum, on the Upper Plateau of Mt Mithridates, was a single-chamber house.55 It appears that small single-chamber buildings also predominated in certain areas of Mt Mithridates in later periods – for example, the so-called ‘House of Emporos’,56 currently dated not to the late 7th but to the end of the 6th century BC,57 as well as some of the Late Archaic residential buildings of the Western Plateau. Similar reasons could explain the prevalence of single-chamber buildings with an area of 20–25 m2 in the territory of the oldest settlement of Apollonia on the island of St Kirik58 – although, in my view, the plan of the architectural remains does not give a clear basis for interpreting all the discovered structures as separate houses. Observations to the contrary can be made by analysing the characteristics of the layout of residential buildings in the Berezan settlement of the second half of the 6th century BC, which in some cases indicate a gradual and not entirely rational development of building plots by their owners. This indicates indirectly that in this case the size of the population of the settlement did not lead to a shortage of space for building in the part of the ancient peninsula that was at their disposal.59 It is important to note that the determination of the boundaries of individual households is practically impossible, unless some part of the street network is disclosed within the investigated area of an ancient settlement. Grouping of premises and courtyards into separate multi-chamber houses can rarely be reliable in the absence of at least fragmentary information about the location of the streets that served as their external borders and about the location of entrances to each house. The lack of such data can lead to errors, as a result of which internal passages and parts of courtyards are interpreted by researchers as laneways, and individual structures within a building plot, i.e. constituent elements of a household, as detached one- or two-chamber houses. In addition, similar inaccuracies can occur in cases where the above-ground part of a multi-room house is poorly preserved, while its basement or semi-basement elements are well preserved.60 According to E. Alekseeva, several early buildings of Sindic Harbour can be ‘conditionally considered single-chamber houses’, although in the immediate vicinity there was also another house (no. 2), consisting, based on the remains of walls and floors, of five or six enclosures (including indoor rooms and courtyard).61 The possibility of the simultaneous existence of single-chamber dwellings and of a house of an incomparably larger 54  For the same reasons, there are obviously no signs of a regular plan within the fortified hill Kalabak Tepe in Miletus (Greaves 2002, 81; Senff 1995, Abb. 8–9). 55  Tolstikov et al. 2017, 14–15. 56  Blavatsky 1951. 57  Tolstikov et al. 2017, 11. 58  Panayotova et al. 2014, 595. 59  Chistov 2017b, 146–47. 60  Illustrative examples of this thesis can be found in the housing of Berezan, where edifices, which were often erected within the fenced boundaries of the household, quite often had common walls with other buildings of the same or neighbouring house. Often these constructions were ‘semi-basements’, i.e. had a lowered level of the floor relatively to the ancient surface (Chistov 2017b, 145–47, fig. 8). If such a structure were investigated in limited areas that did not capture the external borders of its household, we could easily interpret it as an isolated single-chamber house. 61  Alekseeva 1997, 16, 283, table 3; 2010, 473–74, fig. 4.

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size and complexity of layout within the boundaries of one limited built-up area is doubtful. It is much more likely that in this case we are dealing with individual structures of badly preserved multi-chamber households. The interpretation as an isolated residential building of an edifice in Kepoi,62 with an area of only 15 m2 but with an underground basement room divided into four small compartments, is probably also erroneous.63 Whether the grouping into households of individual buildings of the second half of the 6th century BC, investigated in the Upper Town of Phanagoria, is reliable, we can judge only after full publication of these excavations. The archaeologists excavating Phanagoria seem to be inclined to view virtually all of the single-chamber structures they have discovered as representative of separate households. In two cases, fenced courtyards adjoin such small buildings.64 However, the plan published to date65 (Fig. 9) does not allow an unambiguous conclusion about the correctness of the volumetric reconstruction of this excavation sector.66 It cannot be ruled out that the investigated area includes parts of multi-room houses, grouped into city blocks, while the apparent stand-alone nature of these buildings is simply a consequence of poor preservation of mud-brick architectural remains. Moreover, the absence of fences around the perimeter of a building plot should not lead us to the mandatory conclusion that each of the uncovered structures is necessarily equal to a separate household, and that the insula planning system did not exist. A good example of this is the history of building development at Megara Hyblaea, where the boundaries of house plots of the first settlers at the end of the 8th century BC show no signs of having been ‘actualised’ by walls, but their small singlechamber buildings ‘… were perfectly aligned with the street network and integrated in the theoretical grid of the building plot, as it can be established for the 7th century’.67 Thus, the regular urban layout, so far best studied at the Berezan settlement, was not an exceptional characteristic of North Pontic Greek centres of the Archaic period. Evidence of building regulations, and in some cases even parts of a regularly arranged street network, are recorded in the excavations of most urban sites in the region, where urbanisation begins in earnest in the second half of the 6th century BC. These planning grids are generally formed by longitudinal and latitudinal streets: most often oriented along the cardinal points, but sometimes at a 45% angle to them. However, the streets were rarely perfectly straight and parallel; their width and directions were often maintained inaccurately; and there are no signs of unification in the shape of blocks and the number of houses within each one. The sizes of individual houses within one block, judging by some examples known to us (Berezan, Myrmekion), could differ noticeably. According to these indicators, the layout of the Berezan settlement has much more in common with the street network of Old Smyrna of the Archaic period68 than with the linear grid per strigas of Magna Graecia in 8th–6th centuries BC.69

62

 Sokolskii 1975; Usacheva and Sorokina 1984, 84, tab. XLIV, 1.  Zhuravlev and Kuznetsov 2010, 542. 64  Kuznetsov 2009, 193–95; Zavoikin and Kuznetsov 2011, 190. 65  Zavoikin and Kuznetsov 2011, 193, fig. 8; Kuznetsov 2018, 123, fig. 4. 66  Kuznetsov 2017, 53, fig. 38. 67  Tréziny 2016, 170–71, fig. 2. 68  Akurgal 1983, 51–56, Abb. 30–31; Lang 1996, Abb. 10. 69  Hoepfner and Schwandner 1994, 2–4. 63

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The most promising direction for the study of the specific features of North Pontic Archaic urbanisation could lie in comparison with the poleis of the western Black Sea coast, but here we also encounter insufficient knowledge of the Archaic layers. Recently, a hypothesis was put forward about the presence of a regular layout in the territory of the Western Plateau of Histria, based on a comparison of orthophoto maps with the data of excavated sectors. It is assumed that this street network existed at least during the Hellenistic period, but the possibility that it may have inherited the earlier Archaic layout can only be entertained on the basis of very fragmentary data.70 A small plot of the earliest built-up area of Apollonia on the island of St Kirik at modern Sozopol, includes part of a city street about 3 m wide, and the remains of residential and production facilities located to the north and south of it.71 The limited extent of the excavated sector and the absence of remains of other streets within its borders do not yet allow us to estimate the size and shape of the city blocks. The period of active urbanisation, including the formation of street networks in the North Pontic cities discussed above, coincides with profound changes in the urban planning traditions of the Greek world, expressed in the development of the concept of public spaces and structures, the growing importance of temples, and the formalisation of architectural orders. Such urban concepts as the allocation of an agora area as well as the organisation of a regular street network, implemented in the colonies of Magna Graecia as early as the late 8th–early 7th centuries BC, by this time also began to appear in the cities of ‘old’ Greece, including some of the metropolises.72 The town-planning experience obtained in the process of the overseas settlement activity of Miletus in the Black Sea region was probably an important source for the development of the concept of the classical orthogonal city grid in the metropolis itself.73

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abramov, A.P. 1999: ‘Gorodishche Patrei. Periodizatsiya i topografiya’. In Patrei: Materialy issledovaniya, vol. 1 (Moscow), 3–32. —. 2010: ‘Patrei’. In Bongard-Levin and Kuznetsov 2010, 528–39. Akurgal, E. 1983: Alt-Smyrna 1: Wohnschichten und Athenatempel (Ankara). Alekseeva, E.M. 1990: ‘Rannee poselenie na meste Anapy (VI–V vv. do n.e.)’. Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Arkheologii AN SSSR 197, 19–29. —. 1997: Antichnyi gorod Gorgippiya (Moscow). —. 2010: ‘Gorgippiya’. In Bongard-Levin and Kuznetsov 2010, 470–509. Angelescu, M. 2017: ‘Histria. Un système urbain orthogonal sur le “Plateau”?’. Pontica 50, 193–214. Auberson, P., Villard, F. and Vallet, G. 1976: Mégara Hyblaea 1: Le quartier de l’agora archaïque (Rome). Blavatskii, V.D. 1951: ‘Raskopki Pantikapeya’. Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Istorii material’noi Kul’tury 37, 212–27. Bongard-Levin, G.M. and Kuznetsov, V.D. (eds.) 2010: Antichnoe nasledie Kubani, vol. 1 (Moscow). Bujskikh, A.V. 2017: ‘From Dugouts to Houses: Urban Development in Late Archaic Olbia Pontica’. Caiete ARA: Arhitectură, Restaurare, Arheologie 8, 5–16. 70

 Angelescu 2017, 195–99.  Panayotova et al. 2014, 595–96. 72  Morris 1998, 23, 33–35, 73–74. 73  Greaves 2002, 82. 71

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Bujskikh, A.V. and Chistov, D. 2018: Architectural Details and Monumental Buildings at Borysthenes’. Caiete ARA: Arhitectură, Restaurare, Arheologie 9, 5–22. Butyagin, A.M. 2007: ‘Archaic Myrmekion’. In Solovyov, S.L. (ed.), Greeks and Natives in the Cimmerian Bosporus, 7th–1st Centuries BC (Proceedings of the International Conference, October 2000, Taman, Russia) (BAR International Series 1729) (Oxford), 22–25. Butyagin, A.M. and Chistov, D.E. 2015: Paleorel’ef Karantinnogo mysa i arkhaicheskaya zastroika Mirmekiya. In Zinko, V.N. (ed.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekov’ya: Geograficheskaya sreda i sotsium (Bosporskie Chteniya 16) (Kerch), 29–37. Chistov, D.E. 2015: ‘The civic centre of Archaic Borysthenes: a new approach to localisation’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 403–13. —. 2016: ‘Houses of the Berezan Settlement: Some Observations on the Features of Archaic Residential Buildings’. In Manoledakis, M. (ed.), The Black Sea in the Light of New Archaeological Data and Theoretical Approaches (Proceedings of the 2nd International Workshop on the Black Sea in Antiquity, held in Thessaloniki, 18–20 September 2015) (Oxford), 7–28. —. 2017a: ‘Urbanizatsiya arkhaicheskogo Nimfeya’. In Butyagin, A.M., Chistov, D.E. and Sokolova, O.Y. (eds.), Peripl: ot Borisfena do Bospora (Trudy Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 88) (St Petersburg), 137–60. —. 2017b: ‘Zhiloe domostroitel’stvo Berezanskogo poseleniya vtoroi poloviny VI–pervoi poloviny V v. do n. e.’. Arkheologicheskie Vesti 23, 132–52. —. 2017c: ‘Zemlyanki arkhaicheskoi Berezani’. In Pivnichne Prichornomor’ya za antichnoi dobi (na poshanu S. D. Krizhitskogo) (Kiev), 127–44. Chistov, D.E. and Ilina, Y.I. 2017: ‘Issledovaniya ekspeditsii Gos. Ermitazha na ostrove Berezan v 2015 godu’. Arkheologicheskii Sbornik Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 41, 177–216. Chistov, D. and Krutilov, V. 2014: ‘The archaic town on the Berezan island: new studies on the chronology and urban planning of the Berezan settlement’. In Povalahev, N. (ed.), Phanagoreia und darüber hinaus... Festschrift für Vladimir Kuznetsov (Altertümer Phanagoreias 3) (Göttingen), 209–30. Ersoy, Y. 2007: ‘Notes on History and Archaeology of Early Clazomenae’. In Cobet, J., von Graeve, V., Niemeier, W.D. and Zimmermann, K. (eds.), Frühes Ionien: Eine Bestandsaufnhame (Panionion-Symposion, Güzelcamli 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 149–78. Gaidukevich, V.F. 1952: ‘Raskopki Tiritaki v 1935–1940 gg.’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii SSSR 25, 15–134. Greaves, A.M. 2002: Miletos: A History (London/New York). Hoepfner, W. and Schwandner, E.-L. 1994: Haus und Stadt im klassischen Griechenland (Wohnen in der klassischen Polis 1) (Munich). Khudyak, M.M. 1962: Iz istorii Nimfeya VI–III vekov do n e. (Leningrad). Kryzhitskii, S.D. 1977: Zhilye ansambli drevnei Olvii (Kiev). —. 1982: Zhilye doma antichnykh gorodov Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (VI v. do n.e.–IV v. n.e.) (Kiev). —. 1993: Arkhitektura antichnykh gosudarstv Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (Kiev). —. 2001: ‘Khram Afrodity na Berezani. Rekonstruktsiya’. VDI 1, 165–75. Kryzhitskii, S.D. and Rusyaeva, A.S. 1978: ‘Naidavnishi zhitla Olvii’. Arkheologiya (Kiev) 26, 3–26. Kuznetsov, V.D. 1995: ‘Rannie tipy grecheskikh zhilishch v Severnom Prichernomor’e’. In V chest 60-letiya professora G.A. Koshelenko (Bosporskii Sbornik 6) (Moscow), 99–126. —. 1999: ‘Early Types of Greek Dwelling Houses in the North Black Sea’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Mnemosyne Suppl. 196) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 531– 65. —. 2001: ‘Raskopki poslednikh let v Fanagorii’. In Solovyov, S.L. (ed.), Tamanskaya starina, vol. 1 (St Petersburg), 9–14.

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—. 2009: ‘Fanagoriya v arkhaicheskoe vremya’. In Pyataya kubanskaya arkheologicheskaya konferentsiya: Materialy konferentsii (Krasnodar), 192–98. —. 2010: ‘Fanagoriya – stolitsa Aziatskogo Bospora’. In Bongard-Levin and Kuznetsov 2010, 430–69. —. 2017: ‘Velikaya grecheskaya kolonizatsiya i osnovanie Pantikapeya i Fanagorii’. In Pantikapei i Fanagoriya. Dve stolitsy Bosporskogo tsarstva (Exhibition Catalogue) (Moscow), 43–45. —. 2018: ‘Domostroitel’stvo severnogo Ponta (epokha arkhaiki)’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. (ed.), Fanagoriya: Rezul’taty arkheologicheskikh issledovanii, vol. 7 (Moscow), 117–35. —. 2019: ‘Drevneishaya Fanagoriya: nekotorye problemy’. Drevnosti Bospora 24, 396–414. Lang, F. 1996: Archaische Siedlungen in Griechenland: Struktur und Entwicklung (Berlin). —. 2005: ‘Structural Change in Archaic Greek Housing’. In Ault, B.A. and Nevett, L.C. (eds.), Ancient Greek Houses and Households: Chronological, Regional, and Social Diversity (Philadelphia), 12–35. Marchenko, I.D. 1979: ‘O planirovke Severnogo sklona Pantikapeya (K probleme izucheniya agory)’. Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 2, 164–78. —. 1984: ‘Raskopki Pantikapeya v 1965–1972 godakh’. In Soobsheniya Gosudarstvennogo museya izobrazitelnykh iskusstv im. A.S. Pushkina 7, 3–27. Metraux, G. 1978: Western Greek Land-Use and City-Planning in the Archaic Period (New York). Morris, I. 1998: ‘Archaeology and archaic Greek history’. In Fisher, N.R.E. and van Wees, H. (eds.), Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence (London), 1–92. Panayotova, K., Damyanov, M., Stoyanova, D. and Bogdanova, T. 2014: ‘Apollonia Pontica: The Archaic Temenos and Settlement on the Island of St. Kirik’. In Álvarez Martínez, J.M., Nogales Basarrate, T. and Rodà de Lanza, I. (eds.), Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World (Proceedings XVIIIth International Congress of Classical Archaeology), vol. 1 (Mérida), 595–98. Polshchikova, N.V. and Sekerskaya, N.M. 2008: ‘Zhiloe stroitel’stvo v Nizhnem Podnestrov’e perioda grecheskoi kolonizatsii VI–V vv. do n.e.’. Problemy Teorii i Istorii Arkhitektury Ukrainy 8, 227–32. Rogov, E.Y. 1996: ‘Ekologiya Zapadnogo Kryma v antichnoe vremya’. VDI 1, 70–84. Rusyaeva, A.S. 2006: Drevneishii temenos Ol’vii Pontiiskoi (Materialy po Istorii i Arkheologii Tavrii Suppl. 2) (Simferopol). Sekerskaya, N.M. 2013: ‘Nikonii’. In Bruiyako, I.V. and Samoilova, T.L. (eds.), Drevnie kul’tury Severo-Zapadnogo Prichernomor’ya (k 95-letiyu Natsional’noi akademii nauk Ukrainy) (Odessa), 493–522. Senff, R. 1995: ‘Die Grabung am Kalabaktepe’. Archäologischer Anzeiger, 208–13. Sokolskii, N.I. 1975: ‘Novye raskopki v Kepakh’. In Actes de la XIIe conference internationale d’études classiques “Eirene”, Cluj-Napoca, 2–7 octobre 1972 (Amsterdam), 615–19. Solovyov, S.L. 1999: Ancient Berezan: The Architecture, History and Culture of the First Greek Colony in the Northern Black Sea, ed. J. Boardman and G.R. Tsetskhladze (Colloquia Pontica 4) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). Timofan, A. 2010: ‘Archaic domestic architecture and construction techniques on the western plateau of Histria. A synthesis of building activity in the Black Sea area (7th–6th centuries BC)’. In Angelescu, M.V., Achim, I., Bâltâc, A., Rusu-Bolindet, V. and Bottez, V. (eds.), Antiquitas Istro-Pontica: Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire ancienne offerts à Alexandru Suceveanu (ClujNapoca), 355–65. Tolstikov, V.P., Astashova, N.S., Lomtadze, G.A., Samar, O.Y. and Tugusheva, O.V. 2017: Drevneishii Pantikapei. Ot apoikii–k gorodu: Po materialam issledovanii Bosporskoi (Pantikapeiskoi) ekspeditsii GMII imeni A.S. Pushkina na gore Mitridat (Moscow). Treister, M.Y. 2007: ‘Archaic Pantikapeum’. In Cobet, J., von Graeve, V., Niemeier, W.D. and Zimmermann, K. (eds.), Frühes Ionien: Eine Bestandsaufnhame (Panionion-Symposion, Güzelcamli 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 567–80. Tréziny, H. 2016: ‘Archaeological data on the foundation of Megara Hyblaea. Certainties and hypotheses’. In Donnelan, L., Nizzo, V. and Burgers, G.-J. (eds.), Conceptualising Early Colonisation (Contextualising Early Colonisation 2; Institut Historique Belge de Rome/Belgisch Historisch Instituut te Rome, Artes 6) (Brussels/Rome), 167–78.

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Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2004: ‘On the Earliest Greek colonial Architecture in the Pontus’. In Tuplin, C.J. (ed.), Pontus and the Outside World: Studies in Black Sea History, Historiography and Archaeology (Colloquia Pontica 9) (Leiden/Boston), 225–78. Twardecki, A. 2014: ‘The Ancient site of Tyritake in the Cymmerian Bosporus. Polish excavations 2008–2013’. In Twardecki, A. (ed.), Tyritake: Antique Site at Cimmerian Bosporus (Proceedings of the International Conference, Warsaw, 27–28 November 2013) (Warsaw), 15–46. —. 2016: ‘Polish excavations at Tyritake 2008–2014. A small revolution in archaic architecture’. In Manoledakis, M. (ed.), The Black Sea in the Light of New Archaeological Data and Theoretical Approaches (Proceedings of the 2nd International Workshop on the Black Sea in Antiquity, held in Thessaloniki, 18–20 September 2015) (Oxford), 29–40. Usacheva, O.N. and Sorokina, N.P. 1984: ‘Kepy’. In Antichnye Gosudarstva Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (Moscow), 84–86. Vakhtina, M.Y. [Vachtina, M.Ju.] 2003: ‘Archaic buildings of Porthmion’. In Bilde, P.G., Højte, J.M. and Stolba, V.F. (eds.), The Cauldron of Ariantas: Studies Presented to A.N. Ščeglov on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday (Black Sea Studies 1) (Aarhus), 37–54. —. 2009: ‘Porfmii – grecheskii gorod u perepravy cherez Kimmeriiskii Bospor’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 22, 91–126. Vinogradov, Y.A. 1999: ‘Grecheskaya kolonizatsiya i grecheskaya urbanizatsiya Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. Stratum Plus 3, 101–15. Vinogradov, Y.G. 1989: Politicheskaya istoriya Olviiskogo polisa (istoriko-epigraficheskoe issledovanie) (Moscow). Zavoikin, A.A. and Kuznetsov, V.D. 2011: ‘Drevneishee obshchestvennoe zdanie v Fanagorii’. Problemy Istorii, Filologii, Kul’tury 4, 188–98. Zeest, I.B. 1977: ‘K voprosu o gorodskoi planirovke Germonassy’. In Kobylina, M.M. (ed.), Istoriya i kul’tura antichnogo mir (Moscow), 54–57. Zhuravlev, D. and Kuznetsov, V.D. 2010: ‘Kepy’. In Bongard-Levin and Kuznetsov 2010, 540–55. Zinko, V.N. 2014: Tiritaka: Raskop XXV, vol. 2 (Bosporskie Issledovaniya Suppl. 11) (Simferopol/ Kerch). —. 2017: ‘Zhilye doma bosporskogo goroda Tiritaka v graficheskikh rekonstruktsiyakh’. In Pivnichne Prichornomor’ya za antichnoi dobi (na poshanu S.D. Krizhitskogo) (Kiev), 222–30.

ACAMPSIS, BOAS, APSARUS, PETRA, SEBASTOPOLIS: RIVERS AND FORTS ON THE SOUTHERN LITTORAL OF COLCHIS* Altay COŞKUN

ABSTRACT In his Periplus Ponti Euxini (ca. AD 132), Arrian describes the Roman fortresses on the estuaries of the Acampsis (Tchorokhi) and the Phasis (Rioni). There are various hints that Fort Apsarus (Gonio) by the Apsarus/Acampsis had been used as a stronghold by other rulers before, such as Mithridates VI Eupator (ca. 100 BC). Arrian mentions no other garrison or settlement along the southern Colchian coast. Ps.-Skylax, Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy and Procopius convey a similar impression, with two exceptions. Ptolemy attests a Sebastopolis just north of the Apsorros/Apsarus/ Acampsis, which scholars tend to ignore. More likely, however, Polemo I (37–9/8 BC) founded it there, before relocating it further north, about 50 km north-west from Dioscurias. Petra figures as the most important stronghold in Colchis/Lazika during Justinian’s Persian War (AD 540s). Common opinion identifies it with Tsikhisdziri, but this is barely compatible with the details provided by Procopius. Although he occasionally confuses the Phasis with the Boas/Acampsis, his narrative suggests locating Petra on the southern bank of the Phasis estuary. It can thus be seen as a successor to the 2nd-century Roman fortress. At some point, it was extended to receive the population of the submerged city of Phasis. The study is preceded by a discussion of the names and identities of the rivers in the area, especially the Acampsis/Boas/Lycus, Apsarus/Apsorros/ Glaucus as well as the Leiston and Rhis.

The 1990s were the Golden Age of ancient Colchian studies: the three most distinguished researchers in the field synthesised the work of generations of Georgian archaeologists and historians, and critically integrated the results of their own investigations into the picture. Their endeavours yielded, among other things, two German and two English monographs, which opened up an exciting new world to the international Classical Studies community.1 These books have served me as invaluable introductions when extending my own research from Asia Minor and the Bosporan kingdom to the eastern Black Sea littoral. My initial concern was the imperial rule and warfare of the Mithridatids and Romans in the region, which still allowed me to avoid a closer engagement with the difficult-to-handle topography of western Georgia. Eventually, * I have prepared this study in the context of my project ‘Ethnic Identities and Diplomatic Affiliations along the Black Sea Littoral’. I am grateful to the Social Science and Humanities Research Council for financial support (2017–22), and to Jess Russell for editorial support. I am also grateful to Chen Stone for co-producing a set of maps with me; these are now accessible on my web site: http://www.altaycoskun.com/ materials. 1  Braund 1994; Lordkipanidze 1996; Tsetskhladze 1998; 1999.

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however, my search for the sanctuary of Leukothea drew me ever deeper into this fascinating landscape,2 whose physical appearance has been modelled constantly by the endless amounts of water running down from the Caucasian Mountains and the alluvium they carry with them. No less dynamic has been the country’s shaping and reshaping in human imagination through a long and complex tradition of mythography, historiography and geography. I would like to dedicate the first of my explorations into the historical geography of Colchis to my most energetic colleague and dear friend Gocha Tsetskhladze.

1. COLCHIS SOUTH

OF THE

PHASIS:

AN

AREA

OF

NEGLECT

Despite its remote location, the land of Colchis was of significant interest to Greek merchants, scholars and poets from the Archaic period on. The Phasis (Rioni) as its largest river, together with its various settlements, stood at the centre of attention, but various sites north of it are repeatedly addressed in Graeco-Roman literature as well, especially Dioscurias/Sebastopolis. Since I (elsewhere) argue for new identifications of Gyenos, Dioscurias, Sebastopolis and Pityus as well as for the rivers near those cities, readers may appreciate a map of the Colchian coastline showing traditional locations besides my alternative suggestions (Fig. 1). A second map focuses on the riverscape of Colchis, including the major cities situated along the Phasis river (Fig. 2).3 Writers have been far less concerned with the area south of the Phasis. This imbalance is most apparent in the Geography of Strabo of Amasia, whose account roughly dates to the monarchy of Augustus (31/27 BC–AD 14). He devotes only a few quite general comments to the economy of the South Colchian plain, without even naming its navigable rivers (Strabo 11. 2. 17 [498C]).4 A similar limitation of interest is reflected in Ptolemy’s Geography (mid-2nd century AD): while he treats the northern coast of Asia Minor in some detail, especially the stretch from Trapezus to the Apsorros river (i.e. the Apsarus, see below), he confines his treatment of the Colchian littoral to its northern half. His district (thesis) of Colchis ranges from Phasis city over Dioscurias/Sebastopolis to the Korax river, the border to Sarmatia (Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 7; 5. 10. 1–6; 8. 17–19).5 Strabo’s and Ptolemy’s focus of attention is mirrored in Procopius’ Wars of Justinian (6th century AD), which locate all noteworthy settlements of the Lazoi north of the Phasis, admitting the Roman city of Petra as the sole exception (Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 18–20; 8. 2. 4. 29).6

2

 See Fig. 1 for the result and Coşkun 2021a for the argument.  Coşkun 2020a; 2020b. 4  As general introductions into the work of Strabo, see, for example, Engels 1999; Roller 2014; 2018a. For the Greek text and English translation (in adaptation), see H.C. Hamilton and W. Falconer (London 1903–06), drawn from the Perseus Database. Cf. Radt 2002–11; Roller 2014. For a description of the Colchian river-landscape and related problems, see, for example, Lordkipanidze 1996, 97–110; Dan 2016; Coşkun 2019b. 5  Ed. by Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006 II, with German translation. For his maps of Asia 1–3, see the illustrations by Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006 II, 846–57. See below for discussion. 6  Greek text quoted after H.B. Dewing (London 1914–28), drawn from the Perseus Database; English translations have been adapted from Dewing 2014. See below for discussion. 3

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Our best ancient witness at least for the rivers of ancient Colchis is Arrian. As Hadrian’s governor of Cappadocia, he travelled much of the Euxine coast in person, so that his Periplus Ponti Euxini (ca. AD 132) is based on autopsy at least in part. He lists the major streams merging into the Black Sea, besides several major settlements and other landmarks.7 Particularly detailed is his account of the littoral between Trapezus and the Phasis, though we shall concentrate on the otherwise neglected part of this coastline from Apsarus to the Phasis. Arrian specifies the distance from the fortress of Apsarus to the estuary of the Acampsis as 15 stades. Next, it took him another 75 stades to the Bathys, a further 90 to the Akinases, moreover 90 to the Isis, once more 90 to the Mogros, which merges into the Euxine yet another 90 stades before the Phasis (Arrian Periplus 7.4–8.1).8 A stade is normally measured at 600 feet or 177.42 m respectively, but Arrian applies lower standards of around 150 m on average, with significant variation depending on the section of his Periplus. It is further obvious that he rounded his numbers to multiples of 15, if not 30, stades. Another reason for uncertainty is the well-known fact that many river beds or their accessibility from the open sea changed over the centuries due to the effects of erosion and sedimentation. In particular, sanding up was (and still is) a vexing problem for Colchian harbours. This is manifest through the satellite images of the littoral, nowadays only a few mouse-clicks away from every desk thanks to Google Maps. The most famous example is Lake Paleostomi, the ‘Old Mouth’ of the Phasis. The sandbar gradually cut off the river from the sea, which ultimately found its new estuary some 10 km to the north, above the industrial zone of modern Poti.9 At any rate, there is precious complementary evidence provided by Ps.-Skylax in the 4th century BC. Most of his information may in fact go back to his main source, the 6th-century BC geographer Skylax of Karyanda: ‘There [south of the Phasis] are the Rhis river, Isis river, Leiston river and Apsarus river.’10 The discrepancies between Arrian’s and Ps.-Skylax’s accounts are substantial. Some of them may result from the fact that names had changed over time. Alternatively, we need to be mindful that in most cases it was owing to settlements that the names of adjacent rivers became known: new colonies had been founded and old cities had vanished by the time of Arrian. A useful starting point for our investigation is the partly confusing Colchian riverlandscape.

7

 See Rémy 1989, 213–17, who presents the most detailed discussion of Arrian’s full career, based on a very extensive bibliography; he dates Arrian’s tenure as governor of Cappadocia to AD 131/2–136/7. Cf. Silberman 1995 VII (AD 131 or 132); Liddle 2003, 5–12 (AD 131/138); Rood 2011 (AD 130s); also Braund 1994, 178 (AD 132); Tsetskhladze 1998, 15; cf. 49–50 (AD 134). My impression is that the Periplus reports Arrian’s first inspection of the Pontic coast, thus around 132 BC. 8  Greek text and (adapted) English translations have been quoted from Liddle 2003; cf. Silberman 1995. 9  Arrian’s use of the stade varies in accordance with his literary sources; for the journey from Phasis to Sebastopolis, his stade seems to average 123 m, for the subsequent stretch to Herakleion, it averages 167 m: see Coşkun 2020b, also with discussion of Poti/Phasis and Lake Paleostomi. Besides, see Tsetskhladze 1998, 7–9 for Poti/Phasis (cf. Liddle 2003, 99); 1999, especially 114, for Pichvnari. 10  Ps.-Skylax, Asia 81: ... ἐνταῦθά ἐστι Ῥὶς ποταμός· Ἴσις ποταμός, Ληιστῶν ποταμός, Ἄψαρος ποταμός. Greek text drawn from https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Periplus_of_Pseudo-Scylax. Whether the Rhis belongs to this list is uncertain, see below.

Fig. 1. Ancient Colchian littoral from Apsarus to Herakleion (A. Coşkun [author]; S. Chen [cartographer]: http://www.altaycoskun.com/materials-2 [Map 7]).

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Fig. 2. Rivers and cities of the Colchian plain (A. Coşkun [author]; S. Chen [cartographer]: http://www.altaycoskun.com/materials-2 [Map 8]).

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2. ACAMPSIS/APSARUS/BOAS Ps.-Skylax still called the first navigable river on the eastern littoral Apsarus instead of Acampsis. The equation of the Apsarus river with the upper and middle course of the Acharistsqali in the north-west of the Lesser Caucasus is now nearly common opinion.11 Likewise accepted is the identity of the Acampsis with most of the Tchorokhi (in Georgian) or Çoruh Nehri (in Turkish) respectively. The Acampsis comes from the south-west of the eastern Pontic mountain range, the Skydises. The two rivers merge some 20 km inland, to yield the southernmost navigable river on the east coast of the Black Sea.12 The name Acampsis seems to have been established for the river’s lower course by the time of Arrian. In the 6th century, Procopius attests that the same originates in the ‘Tzanian Mountains’ (Skydises) under the name Boas, but merges into the Black Sea as Acampsis, after touching Lazian territory (Arrian Periplus 7. 5; Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 1. 7–9).13 Less certain, but widely admitted, is that the Harpasos river, which Xenophon encountered on his way from the Phasis-Araxes to Trapezus (401 BC), is to be identified with the BoasAcampsis as well. Since Harpasos is a hapax legomenon, we can simply leave the question open.14 There is a scholarly tradition claiming that various ancient authors mistook the Apsarus for the Acampsis.15 I think that at least part of the confusion is modern and can be disentangled. First of all, alternate naming traditions for rivers or parts thereof are widespread phenomena, and the synchronic use of two or more different name forms may well be the result of plurilinguality or shifting geographical perspectives, as the Acampsis/Apsarus/Boas exemplifies. Ps.-Skylax, who lists the rivers and cities on the eastern littoral from north to south, may well be applying the lens of the Colchians, extending the name of ‘their’ river Apsarus to the estuary. The name Acampsis, in turn, could have been the choice from a Pontic-Armenian perspective, gaining currency under Pontic, Galatian, Polemonid or Roman rule, without immediately obliterating the alternative form Apsarus. About a generation after the composition of Arrian’s Periplus, Ptolemy still follows the older tradition when calling the river by the somewhat disfigured name form Apsorros. He further details that it combines the waters of its two main tributaries, the Lycus and Glaucus. Until recently, the latter has been interpreted as the Oltu Çayı, which merges into the Acampsis/Çoruh at Yusufeli, whereas the Lycus has been explained as a confused 11  Pace Silberman (1995, 27, n. 29, and 29, n. 50), who denies its identity with the Tchorokhi, which he equates with the Apsarus. See also Dan 2016, 259: ‘the southernmost of the two arms through which the Çoruh Nei flowed into the sea was called Apsorros/Apsaros/Absyrtos’ – a mere confusion? 12  Cf. Braund 1994, 88, 184. 13  Note that Procopius had erroneously conflated the Boas with the Phasis in 2. 29. 3. 14, 16, but (pace Veh 1978, 1272; Dan 2016, 259) his account of the rivers is correct and consistent in 8. 2 (cf. Dewing 2014, 138, n. 272, and 464, n. 740), see below. For further variants of the names Acampsis or Çoruh, see Miller 1916, 650. 14  Xenophon Anabasis 4. 7. 18 on the Harpasos. For its equation with the Boas/Acampsis, see, for example, Baumgartner 1912; Kießling 1912, 2086; Janssen and Cobet 1944 (map); Masqueray 1961, 180–81, 203; Janssens 1969, 36; Lendle 1995, 270–72; cf. Plontke-Lüning 2004, 1060. Mather and Hewitt 1962, map and p. 420, remain uncommitted. 15  For example, Magie 1950 II, 1225 and Braund 1994, 158, referencing Appian Mithr. 101. 465; Pliny NH 6. 4. 12–13. Also Dan 2016, 255–60.

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extension of the Kelkit Çayı. This river also springs in the Pontic Mountains south-west of Trapezus, but runs into the opposite direction, to merge into the Iris river (Yeşil Irmak), which empties into the Black Sea east of Amisos (Samsun). The Çoruh’s confusion with the Kelkit seems unlikely to me. Glaucus probably stood for the upper and middle course of the Apsarus (Acharistsqali), whereas Lycus was simply meant to denote the BoasAcampsis/Çoruh. Such a view would be supported by the coordinates provided by Ptolemy. There are further indications that Ptolemy was drawing at least in part on older literary sources.16 At any rate, the combination of Glaucus and Lycus appear to hint at yet another variation of an (extended) Argonautic landscape, just like the various Aiai, each of which seems to have been surrounded by a Hippos and Kyaneos river.17 Next, Pliny’s Natural History first mentions the river Absarrum along with the namesake castle, before listing flumina Acampseon, Isis, Mogrus, Bathys. The sequence is troubled, which reveals that Pliny drew on at least two different sources and conflated them inaccurately. The same is betrayed more clearly by the fact that he regards both the Absarrum and Acampseon as different rivers merging separately into the Euxine.18 I only see it as a theoretical possibility that he was using recent information on Neronian engagement in the area. Since no reference to the emperor or his governor Cn. Domitius Corbulo is made, and Roman military presence in Colchis is not even alluded to in these paragraphs, it is more likely that he found the names of the river and castle in a much older source.19 Moreover, Appian has been reproached unduly of confusing the two rivers in his narrative of Mithridates’ flight from Pompey in the autumn of 66 BC. After the king of Pontus had been defeated in Armenia Minor, he marched for four days before reaching the springs of the Euphrates (probably the Karaçay, north of Erzurum/Theodosioupolis). We are not told how long it took him to get to the Apsarus river, but Appian specifies

16  Besides the outdated choice of Apsorros, also note the mysterious Aia between Phasis and Dioscurias (Ptolemy Geography 5. 10. 2). See also below on the distinction of Dioscurias/Sebastopolis (Ptolemy Geography 5. 10. 2) and Sebastopolis (in Cappadocia: Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 7). 17  Ps.-Skylax Asia 81 does not name Aia, but locates the hometown of Medea 180 stades up the Phasis; Strabo 1. 2. 39 (45C) puts it on the Phasis; Strabo 11. 2. 17 (498C) mentions the Glaucus and Hippos as tributaries of the Phasis; Pliny NH 6. 4. 13 positions Aia 24 km up the Phasis, in the neighbourhood of the Hippos and Kyaneos (also see below, with n. 24); Ptolemy Geography 5. 10. 2 knows of a Hippos and Kyaneos between Dioscurias/Sebastopolis and Aia; Stephanus of Byzantium s.v. Aia (A 86) mentions the Hippos and Kyaneos, though not the Phasis, locating the city 300 stades (ca. 53 km inland); and s.v. Dioscurias (Δ 93) says that Dioscurias had formerly been Aia and later became Sebastopolis. Scholars (for example Kießling 1913; Lordkipanidze 1996, 244–46; Dan 2016, 259; cf. Roller 2018a, 38) are inclined to conflate the evidence to yield one or perhaps two Aiai; but I suspect many more, see Coşkun 2019b (on Aiai on the Phasis, also considering Kytaion in ‘Aia’ on the Rheon/Glaucus: Apollonius 2. 399–407, 415; Procopius Bell. 8. 14. 6. 47–48 speaks of Kotaïs on the Rheon) and in Coşkun 2020a (on Aia/Dioscurias). For different views, see Braund and Sinclair 2000 and Braund 2000; cf. Dan 2016, 256, 262. See also Kießling 1913 and Honigmann 1922 (Hippos and Kyaneos) as well as Bürchner et al. 1927 (Lycus) and Bürchner and Ruge 1910 (Glaucus). 18  Pliny NH 6. 4. 12 (ed. H. Rackham [Cambridge, MA 1961]): in ora ante Trapezunta flumen est Pyxites, ultra vero gens Sannorum Heniochorum, flumen Absarrum cum castello cognomini in faucibus, a Trapezunte cxl. eius loci a tergo montium Hiberia est, in ora vero Heniochi, Ampreutae, Lazi, flumina Acampseon, Isis, Mogrus, Bathys, gentes Colchorum, oppidum Matium, flumen Heracleum et promunturium eodem nomine, clarissimusque Ponti Phasis. Cf. 6. 10. 29: flumen Absarrum. 19  The same impression is due to the fact that Pliny NH 6. 4. 14–5. 16 distinguishes between Sebastopolis castellum and Dioscurias, see below.

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that he had to break military resistance of the Chotenians and Iberians, before reaching Colchis by crossing the aforesaid river (Appian Mithr. 101. 463–468). It is surprising that this itinerary has been interpreted as implying Mithridates’ arrival at the estuary of the Acampsis or Apsarus. Instead, the report clearly delineates a flight through the Armenian mountains.20 The king was deliberately avoiding the coast out of fear of the Romans. It remains open how the river that merges into the Euxine was called in the days of this king, and where he reached the Black Sea coast before arriving in Dioscurias.

3. LEISTON, RHIS

AND A LIST OF

SOUTH COLCHIAN RIVERS

A few notes on the remainder of Ps.-Skylax’s list can be added. The Barrington Atlas (map 87 by Braund and Sinclair) identifies the Acampsis/Çoruh/Tchorokhi with the Leiston. This is assumed to have been yet another name for the lower course of the Acampsis, possibly an unofficial one (‘River of Bandits’). But since Ps.-Skylax, our only source for this name, mentions it after the Isis and before the Apsarus, the attribution in the Barrington Atlas is counterintuitive, and the Leiston’s identity with either the Akinases or Bathys is more likely.21 Other controversies relate to the Rhis river. The telegram-style of Ps.-Skylax leaves two options open. Either it was located by Medea’s unnamed non-Greek home town, mentioned in the sub-clause that digresses on the Phasis, or it was the next noteworthy river that empties into the Black Sea south of the Phasis estuary.22 The similarity to Rheon/Rioni, which meanders by one of the most famous royal cities of Colchis, might seem to speak for the former interpretation at a first glance. But Kytaion/Kotais/Kutaisi is located about 90 km inland (as the crow flies), hence much further to the east than the 180 stades (ca. 32 km, if a conversion rate of 177.42 m is applied) indicated by Ps.Skylax. He more likely had the same Aia in mind as Pliny, which was probably to be

20  For the mouth of the Acampsis, see Magie 1950 II, 1225 and Braund 1994, 158 (as above, n. 16); for the Çoruh without further specification, see Goukowsky 2003, 236. But see Braund 1994, 185 (in a different context); cf. p. 158 for the possibility of an inland route ‘to avoid the Roman fleet’. Matyszak (2008, 153–54) does not address the Apsarus river, but clearly assumes an ‘inland’ route, while Pompey supposedly kept ‘watch’ over the harbours. I assume that Mithridates followed the valley of the Tortum Çayı north-east, turned west to march along the lower course of the Oltu, then passed through the Acampsis Valley in a north-eastern direction, either continuing until reaching the Apsarus at the confluence with the Acampsis or, perhaps more likely, choosing the courses of the Berta Suyu and Ilıca Deresi towards the upper Apsarus. Ballesteros Pastor (1996, 269) leaves the itinerary to Dioscurias open. 21  Ps.-Skylax Asia 81. Cf. Braund and Sinclair 2000 with Directory p. 1228: ‘the ancient Acampsis ... might evidently be known as “River of Bandits” (Scylax, GGM I.62, Λῃστῶν ποταμός), a name which would help to account further for the location of a fort close to the settlement.’ But on p. 1229, they name the ‘Tchorokhi estuary’ after the Apsarus river. At any rate, all three rivers seem to be the same in Braund 1994, 44, 88, 184–85, 349. 22  Ps.-Skylax Asia 81: ΚΟΛΧΟΙ. Μετὰ δὲ τούτους Κόλχοι ἔθνος καὶ Διοσκουρὶς πόλις καὶ Γυηνὸς πόλις Ἑλληνὶς καὶ Γυηνὸς ποταμὸς καὶ Χερόβιος ποταμός, Χόρσος ποταμός, Ἄριος ποταμός, Φᾶσις ποταμὸς Φᾶσις Ἑλληνὶς πόλις, καὶ ἀνάπλους ἀνὰ τὸν ποταμὸν σταδίων ρπʹ, εἰς πόλιν (μάλην) μεγάλην βάρβαρον, ὅθεν ἡ Μήδεια ἦν· ἐνταῦθά ἐστι Ῥὶς ποταμός· Ἴσις ποταμός, Ληιστῶν ποταμός, Ἄψαρος ποταμός. Braund and Sinclair 2000, with Directory p. 1240, list the Rhis as unlocated ‘below Phasis’, whereas Dan (2016, 256) takes its identity with the Rheon for granted. Dan (2018, 62, n. 117) does not specify which tributary of the Phasis the Rhis is, but rejects the view (with further bibliography) that this is the Homeric Rhesos in the Troad or Bithynia.

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found in the plain of Senaki.23 We should therefore understand that the adverb ἐνταῦθα resumes the list of the rivers merging into the Euxine. The Rhis hence had its estuary between the Phasis and the Mogros. The list of Strabo’s unnamed rivers south of the Phasis/Rioni and north of the Apsarus/Glaucus/Acharitskhali or Acampsis/Boas/Lycus/?Harpasos/Çoruh/Tchorokhi respectively can thus be completed as follows: the Rhis should be equated either with today’s Pichori, which flows into Lake Paleostomi, or perhaps more likely the Kaparcha. Both of them now merge into the Maltavka (the outlet of Lake Paleostomi) to empty into the Euxine. Next, the Mogros is to be identified with the Supsa, the Isis with the Natanebi, the Akinases with the Kintrishi and the Bathys with the Qorolitsqali. The latter’s estuary bordered on Bathys Limen or Portus Altus respectively, which developed into the modern city of Batumi.24

4. THE FORTRESS APSARUS (GONIO) The above-mentioned fortress Apsarus became famous as one of the largest Roman garrisons on the eastern limes. It was established under Nero during Domitius Corbulo’s Parthian War and housed five cohorts by the time of Hadrian, when his governor Arrian inspected it. The place developed into a substantial city (modern Gonio), although its best days were said to be over by Procopius in the 6th century.25 Arrian believed that the history of Apsarus long predated the Roman occupation, since he derived its name from Absyrtos, the son of king Aeetes, who was killed and mutilated by his sister Medea in order to halt their father’s persecution of the Argonauts.26 While this pseudo-etymology is of course of limited value for our historical concern, the names Apsyrtos/Apsarus may still be indicators for its age. The least we can assume is that the fortress or probably its predecessor received its name at a time when the river’s lower course was still called Apsarus rather than Acampsis. In a different context, Tsetskhladze has observed traces of a pre-Roman fort, albeit without specifying its age.27 I leave it to further archaeological research to decide on the date of these earlier layers. A plausible historical background might be the intensive fortification under Mithridates Eupator, when he was extending his rule from Pontus to the east and north around 100 BC. Alternatives would be the Galatian king Deiotarus, who is also known to have built or refurbished castles as the successor of Eupator in eastern 23

 Pliny (NH 6. 4. 13) locates Aia 24 km from the sea. See above, n. 18 for more details and alternative traditions. 24  Cf. Silberman 1995, 6 (though identifying Isis as ‘Chinos Čay’) and 29; Braund and Sinclair 2000; Liddle 2003, 98; thus also Miller 1916, 649–52, though some of the names are oddly conflated, in part following the later itinerary tradition. Qorolitsqali is rendered Korilistskali in Google Maps (2018). 25  Arrian Periplus 6; Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 2. 11–14, 8. 2. 4. 1. Cf. Pliny NH. 6. 4. 12 (as below) and CIL 10. 1. 1202 = ILS 2660; and Bryer and Winfield 1985, 350–51; Braund 1994, 181–87; Silberman 1995, 27–28; Tsetskhladze 1998, 117–24; Liddle 2003, 5–12, 95–96; Kakhidze 2008; Dewing 2014, 465. 26  Arrian Periplus 6. 3–4; cf. Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 2. 12, 14; Stephanus of Byzantium s.v. Apsyrtides (A 579). See Gantz 1993, 361–64 on the many variations of the myth; also Silberman 1995, 27; Liddle 2003, 96; Root 2011, 143–44; Root 2011, 150 on Arrian’s version; Billerbeck 2006, 319, n. 734 on Stephanus’ source (Polybius or Artemidoros of Ephesus). 27  Tsetskhladze 1998, 122.

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Pontus (ca. 64 to 41 BC), or the Polemonids (Polemo I, Pythodoris, Polemo II), who ruled Pontus until ca. AD 64. But even Athenian or Sinopean hegemony in the area during the 5th and 4th centuries BC could provide potential contexts.28

5. SOUTHERN LAZIKA

AND

PETRA

We have literary evidence for further Roman forts or military settlements along the Colchian coast. In the 6th century AD, Procopius states that there were no towns or forts south of the river, with the exception of the Roman city of Petra, which Justinian later renamed Petra Pia Iustiniana (Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 4. 29; Justinian Novellae 28 praef ). David Braund first hesitated to commit to any specific location, but later accepted the suggestion of Nino Inaishvili to identify it with Tsikhisdziri, the site of a less known ancient Greek settlement, about 15 km south of Pichvnari, between the Kintrishi/Akinases and Chakvistskali rivers.29 This has now become the standard identification. Visitors will find ruins of a Late Antique fortress on a shallow mount near the coast, together with the traces of a Byzantine basilica. Google Map’s satellite image presents the site as Petra Fortress. Tsetskhladze summarises the material remains of previous centuries of settlement. This seems to confirm the equation further, since Procopius mentions that, before its fortification by Justinian, the place had housed a less significant community.30 Regardless of the seeming certainty, no epigraphic or numismatic evidence has so far come to light to corroborate the identification. And there are many more unresolved questions that should caution us not yet to end the search for Petra. As far as our main witness Procopius is concerned, his account is quite at odds with Tsikhisdziri. To start with his topographic description: he says that Petra was secured on one side by the sea and on both of its flanks by ‘the sheer cliffs that rise there everywhere’. The former is true for Tsikhisdziri only with some generosity, whereas the latter cannot be substantiated at all. Of course, one may suggest that the Byzantine author was not writing based on autopsy and perhaps simply extrapolated from the name’s etymology. Procopius, indeed, adduces the original meaning of Petra to confirm his topographical account (Procopius Bell. 2. 17. 3. 18).31 Admittedly, while composing his first two books of his  Mithridates: Appian Mithr. 101. 463–468; cf. Strabo. 11. 2. 13 (496C); for scholarship, see above, n. 21. Deiotarus: Coşkun 2013; 2021b. Polemo I and Pythodoris: Braund 2005; Heinen 2011; see below, n. 62. Deiotarus and Polemonids: Strabo 12. 3. 13 (547C). All of them: Hoben 1969; Sullivan 1990; Marek 1993; Coşkun, APR s.vv. Athens and Sinope: Plutarch Pericles 20. 1–2; Meiggs 1972, 197–99; Tsetskhladze 1994, 87–89; 1998, 104–08, 178–80, 193; 1999, 103–08; Nollé 1997, 162–63; Welwei 1999, 135; Coşkun 2019c. 29  Braund 1991 (223, n. 10) cites Russian and Georgian scholarship without comment. Braund 1994 (276, n. 31) only insists on a location north of Apsarus; 117 with n. 190 refers to Inaishvili 1991, followed by a description of Tsikhisdziri on pp. 290–95. Braund and Sinclair 2000 (with Directory p. 1237), also accept this identification, only referencing Braund 1994 (index). 30  Procopius Bell. 2. 17. 2. 3. And Tsetskhladze 1999, 74–81, especially 75, n. 12 on earlier disputes; also 78 on pottery similar to that from the Roman fort of Pityus (on which see below, n. 39) and Sebastopolis (identified as Sukhumi, but see below, n. 52). Cf. Tsetskhladze 2013, 294, n. 5 (with further bibliography); Gramkrelidze et al. 2013, 588–91; Dewing 2014, xxiv. Janssens (1967, 51–52) retells Procopius but withholds from locating Petra. 31  According to Procopius Bell. 2. 15. 2. 9–13, John Tzibos was the first governor whom Justinian sent to Lazika; he encouraged the emperor to build the fortress, but to use it for his own enrichment by exploiting the country; this way, he ushered in the Lazoi into revolt in AD 540 or 541. In AD 535, Justinian 28

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war narrative, he did not yet know to distinguish the Boas/Acampsis from the Phasis. As a result, he construed a counterfactual Boas/Phasis, connected through an imagined Armenian middle course somewhere between Yusufeli or Artvin on the one side and Sarapana on the other. This explains why Petra sometimes appears to be located closer to the Acampsis than to the Phasis in his account.32 But, on balance, most of his comments require us to look for Petra’s whereabouts by the Phasis. At its first mention, Petra is said to have been used to control the long-distance trade with Lazika, especially the importation of salt (Procopius Bell. 2. 15. 2. 9–13). But it is difficult to picture Tsikhisdziri in this role. To my knowledge, no harbour has been attested there; the lack of a navigable estuary or at least of a bay that shelters the harboured ships from the northern winds and currents would have posed a challenge, as much as the sedimentation, which satellite images show to be particularly strong off the shores of Tsikhisdziri. Likewise, there are no traces of a trade route cutting eastwards through the Colchian plain.33 This is not yet all. Trade roads did not simply exist, but needed to be maintained as well as to offer safe stations for travellers and attractive markets for salesmen. This was the case with the two known west–east connexions of Colchis/ Lazika, the one that leads through its centre along the Phasis and the other in the north, extending from Dioscurias/Sebastopolis to Sarapana underneath the southern foothills of the Great Caucasus. I do not see how southern Lazika should have met these conditions.34 In a different context, Braund has tried to reject this negative assessment. While he aptly demonstrates that the historiographer applies distorting stereotypes to the Lazoi, he does not substantiate the existence of other major Lazian settlements in the days of Procopius.35 One might perhaps think that the negative assessment of southern Lazika could be due to the conflation of the Acampsis and Phasis in Procopius’ skewed perspective, in that he simply fades out what this territory had to offer. But this would not do justice to his detailed account.36 All the Colchian towns that he lists are either situated along the Phasis (Rhodopolis, Mocheresis, Sarapanis) or north of it (Archaeopolis, Sebastopolis, (Novellae 28 pr.) only names himself as refounder and name-giver of Petra Pia Iustiniana. There is no other evidence for John’s governorship in Lazika before AD 540/1 (see PLRE 3.1, 638–39 s.v. Ioannes 20). I therefore wonder whether the real founder of the fortress was not rather his predecessor Petros, who had first served Justinian as secretary, before being charged with stationing soldiers in the autonomous kingdom of the Lazoi in AD 526 (1. 12. 1. 9–1. 12. 2. 19, 1. 15. 1. 1–8; PLRE 2, 870–71 s.v. Petros 27). 32  For discussion, see below, with n. 37, with further references. 33  Though accepting Tsikhisdziri as the site of Petra, Braund (1994, 294–95) is at pains to talk around these circumstances. 34  See especially Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 18, 8. 2 .4. 29, besides section 1 above. Also note that various rivers were used to transport natural products from Colchis (linen, honey, pitch, lumber) to the coast according to Strabo 11. 2. 17 (498C). 35  Braund (1994, 276) vaguely draws on some ‘material evidence’, for which he references Braund 1991. This is a fine study on the economy of Lazika, rejecting Procopius’ polemic claim that they were barbarous and not self-sufficient (Bell. 2. 15. 5). The latter argument is convincing, but largely building on literary sources and not focusing on any specific area in the Colchian plain. And to be fair to the Byzantine historiographer, he does not deny the existence of any settlements in southern Lazika, but only of significant towns or forts other than Petra. 36  In part, this conflation explains Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 19: ‘But to the left of the river, the limit of Lazika is one day’s journey for an active traveler, and the land is devoid of people. Adjoining that land is the home of the Romans who are called Pontians.’ See also Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 23–25, quoted below. For further discussion, see below, with nn. 43 and 46.

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Pityus, Skanda) (Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 18–20). As a Roman fortress and town, Petra is omitted here, but mentioned in the description of Lazika: It happens that all the habitations of the Lazoi are on the European side [i.e. north of the Phasis], while on the opposite site there is neither a fortress nor stronghold nor any village of consequence held by the Lazoi, except indeed the city of Petra, which the Romans built formerly (Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 2. 29). Procopius’ pessimistic view aligns with the descriptions by Strabo, Pliny and Arrian, who do not report any settlements or noteworthy harbours on the southern coastal strip.37 It is also compatible with the near-contemporary account that Justinian provides in the Novella of AD 535. In his preface, he first lists the five noteworthy towns of Pontus Polemoniacus, but adds to them the two Roman fortresses Pityus and Sebastopolis in northern Colchis. They had apparently not been part of autonomous Lazika and remained under the control of the Roman governor of Pontus Polemoniacus as external bridgeheads. In a similar way, the garrison of Sebastopolis and possibly the harbour of Pityus had been under the command of Arrian as governor of larger Cappadocia in the days of Hadrian (Arrian Periplus 10. 3–4, 17. 1–18. 1).38 Among the cities of Lazika, Petra (Pia Iustiniana) is the first Justinian mentions, followed by Archaeopolis and Rhodopolis as strong forts, complemented by Skandis (Skanda) and Sarapanis (Sarapana), though further adding Mourisios and Lysiris. The latter two do not receive any qualification, but are indirectly characterised by the closure of the list: ‘and whatever other works we have performed among the Lazoi’.39 Mourisios is normally equated with Mocheresis, which Procopius attests as the largest city in Colchis elsewhere and is thus unlikely to have been omitted by Justinian. Less certain is Lysiris, which Procopius either did not know or found too insignificant to mention. Whichever identification one would like to propose for it, Lysiris will barely change our picture of a desolate southern Lazika.40 There is another implication of Procopius’ and Justinian’s lists: unless we locate Petra close to the southern estuary of the Phasis, there would be no city or fort left at this location, despite the fact that this river maintained its strategic importance in the  See especially Strabo 11. 2. 17 (498C); Pliny NH 6. 10. 29: Colchicae solitudines; Arrian Periplus 7–11, and see above, section 1, for further references. The situation still differed in the 6th–2nd centuries BC (see Tsetskhladze 1999 on Pichvnari and environs). 38  Pityus was not yet known as a Roman fort to Arrian or to Strabo 11. 2. 14 (496C); Pliny NH 6. 5. 16; Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 6. The Greek city is believed to have received a garrison in the course of the 2nd century AD. Mainly due to homonymy, it is identified with modern Pitzunda/Bitchvinta: see, for example, Ehrhardt 1988, 84; Braund 1994, 198–200; Silberman 1995, 50, n. 184; Lordkipanidze 1996, 241–43; Liddle 2003, 120; Roller 2018a, 639. I remain sceptical, since this view seems hard to align with the distances given by Strabo and Arrian (Coşkun 2020b). Instead, I assume that Pityus/Pitzunda was refounded further to the north-west of the first Roman garrison, Pityus (possibly on the site of the Milesian colony); the latter had been abandoned, when Chosroes occupied Colchis (Procopius Bell. 8. 4. 1. 4; Coşkun 2020a). See also below, section 6, on Sebastopolis. 39  Justinian Novellae 28 pr., translation by Braund 1994, 290–91. 40  Braund (1994, 291) identifies Mourisios with Mocheresis (also Braund 2000 with Directory p. 1261), the successor of Kotaïs/Kytaion, whose name was continued for the city’s decayed fortress (Procopius Bell. 8. 14. 6. 46–48, 54), and further Lysiris with Losorium, which he suggests equating with Batumistsikhe (more hesitantly, also Braund and Sinclair 2000 with Directory p. 1239). In my opinion, we should remain open-minded and also consider Tsikhisdziri or Pichori for Lysiris. 37

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Byzantine period. I would even go as far as to claim that the two lists require us to position Petra by the mouth of the Phasis. There is more to commend this place. In AD 541, the Sasanid king Chosroes led his army from Iberia into Colchis, marching along the Phasis. Given the slowness of the progress with the full royal army, he sent an advance guard to lay siege to Petra. He maintained constant communication with those who led the operations, and Procopius’ account suggests that they were undertaken not far from the Phasis (Procopius Bell. 2. 17. 1. 1–2 17. 2. 13). Petra surrendered to Chosroes not much later and received a garrison, so that he could return to Persia with his main throng. Still in the same war, the king is said to have sent lumber into Colchis (Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 1. 1), allegedly to build ships, though actually with the intention to enhance the fortifications of Petra. It need not concern us here that the delivery never reached its destination (it went up in flames on the way). What matters is that one would expect a ship-building industry around the mouth of the Phasis rather than in or by an isolated fortress in Tsikhisdziri (Procopius Bell. 2. 17. 3. 19–28, 2. 19. 6. 47–48 on the siege of Petra). Several passages in Procopius’ account comment on army movements along the Phasis (or assumed Boas), which further buttress my case. Of particular interest is the description of Chosroes’ aforementioned campaign, when he was still in alliance with the Lazoi: Now when the Lazoi brought in Chosroes, they crossed the Boas river and came to Petra keeping the Phasis on the right, claiming that they would thus not have to spend much time and trouble ferrying the men across the Phasis river, but in reality they did not wish to display their own homes to the Persians. Yet Lazika is difficult to traverse everywhere, both to the right and the left of the Phasis river. For there are on both sides extremely high and ragged mountains, and as a result the passes are narrow and very long (Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 23–25). Procopius’ confusion regarding the Boas has to be taken into account when mapping out this itinerary. Since Chosroes approached through Iberia, the Boas mentioned here is supposed to denote one of the first tributaries of the Phasis. The Barimela, which is in most parts fordable, is a likely candidate, whereas the Phasis as of Sarapana is not. The historiographer’s explanations of surmised intentions need not be taken seriously: these are in part meant to illustrate the cunning of the Lazoi, and in part issue from a conflation of the Phasis with the Acampsis. The Acampsis or Boas or Apsarus indeed cut through steep mountain valleys for most of their way to the sea. The Phasis, in contrast, largely flows through the Colchian plain as of Sarapana, whence nearly all strong tributaries come from the north (especially the Rheon, also the Glaucus, Hippos and Kyaneos).41 Procopius appears to follow a more reliable source later on, when describing the Phasis as unfordable and strongly fortified by Lazian bulwarks on its northern bank (Procopius Bell. Just. 2. 30. 4. 24, 27).42 As a result, Persian invasions of Colchis regularly meant campaigning along the southern bank of the Phasis. This was the course that the new Persian commander-in-chief Mihr-Mihroe took into Colchis. The same is said to have  See Strabo 11. 2. 17 (498C); cf. Braund 2000; Braund and Sinclair 2000. See above, n. 18, for further references. 42  Also 8. 14. 6. 54 (Mocheresis). 41

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chosen a different route for his return, hoping to find better opportunities for foraging (further away from the Phasis in southern Lazika) – hopes that were seriously disappointed (Procopius Bell. 2. 30. 1. 1 and 2. 30. 3. 15, 22).43 Moreover, there are further details in Procopius’ war narrative that could barely be explained if Petra were located closer to the Acampsis than to the Phasis. When the Roman commander Dagisthaios heard that the Persian army under Mihr-Mihroe was approaching, he immediately abandoned the siege of Petra, even leaving the tents in the camp behind and quickly moved his troops to the Phasis. He did not intend to confront the Persians, who were more than twice as strong as the Roman, Tzanian and Lazian troops combined, but he was rather looking for shelter on the other side of the Phasis. As an ally of the Lazoi, he could expect his soldiers to be shipped over and also be given quarters. He seems to have been afraid that his troops could be intercepted by Persian cavalry, if he had marched south, since there would be no sufficient shelter before reaching Apsarus (Procopius Bell. 2. 30. 2. 11).44 Last, but not least, Procopius says that ‘from the city of Apsarus to the city of Petra and the borders of Lazike, where the Black Sea ends [where it recesses the most to the east], is a journey of one day’ (Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 4. 21).45 This would be a surprisingly ambitious demand on a traveller, certainly too much for an armed unit. The modern road from Gonio to Poti is about 84 km long, probably only slightly longer than the ancient route. What matters is that Procopius supposes about the same distance to Petra as to the land beyond the Phasis. He makes the same assumption in Book 2: ‘But to the left of the river [Phasis], the limit of Lazike is one day’s journey for an active traveller, and the land is devoid of people.’46 We see that Procopius was still unaware of the existence of the Acampsis, when composing this account, and that his conception of the Colchian coast was very insufficient. What is clear from these lines, however, is that he pictured Petra by the Phasis. The ancient city of Phasis no longer existed at the time, and its site was probably largely submerged in the water of the river delta or Lake Paleostomi.47 But I see a good 43  Also consider Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 4. 27: during the siege of Petra, the king of Colchis, Goubazes, ordered Dagisthaios to send men to defend the pass ἐκτὸς Φάσιδος. Dewing (2014, 139) translates this as ‘below the Phasis’, possibly thinking of a location around the Acampsis. But Procopius is pointing towards the eastern extension of the Phasis past Sarapana, towards Iberia, which could be crossed on foot. Also the final engagements of the war followed this pattern: the additional 5000 troops that Mihr-Mihroe left in southern Lazika in support of the garrison in Petra (Procopius Bell. 2. 30. 5. 30–33) campaigned along the Phasis with the aim of pillaging the northern bank, obviously after fording it in the area of Sarapana. The Romans followed them on the southern side, while the Lazoi flanked the northern side, where they could easily organise ships to cross the rivers. The Persians were finally driven out and defeated in Iberia (Procopius Bell. 2. 30. 6. 34–40). 44  The Persian army still comprised 30,000 men when Mihr-Mihroe returned (2. 30. 5. 31), after leaving 3000 in Petra and losing 1000 at the pass into Colchis), whereas Romans and Lazoi combined had some 14,000 (Procopius Bell. 2. 30. 6. 40). 45  On the recession of the Black Sea and its ideological implications, see Coşkun 2020a. 46  Procopius Bell. Just. 2. 29. 3.1 9: ‘... Adjoining that land is the home of the Romans who are called Pontians’. While this is still largely correct, the subsequent indication is more confused, though understandable with regard to the river conflation. 2. 29. 3. 22: ‘As one leaves the city of Petra going south, Roman territory commences immediately and there are populous towns there, the once called Rizaion, also Athens, and certain others as far as Trebizond.’ 47  Braund and Sinclair 2000 (with Directory, p. 1227) recommend the results of underwater archaeology by Gamkrelidze 1992 for identifying the site largely in Lake Paleostomi. Tsetskhladze (1998, 7–11; 2013, 293–94) does not find them worth mentioning and continues regarding Phasis as unlocated. See Coşkun 2020b for further discussion.

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chance that those who survived the flooding and had a chance to relocate chose Petra as their refuge. I further suppose that this was at or close to the place where Arrian reported the garrison of 400 Roman auxiliary troops. He emphasised its ideal strategic position, though without detailing the natural advantages. Wishful thinking might produce something like a table rock, to provide a solid foundation amidst the sandy estuary, but I am not aware of anything like this in the area, and no material traces of the fortress have yet been identified, not even the bricks it was built with.48 Arrian neither tells us when the Romans decided to establish the garrison. Any emperor, such as Nero who deposed Polemo II, could have given the order in theory. Braund may be right with his observation that the garrison was still of recent date in the AD 130s, when Arrian enhanced its fortifications.49 Support for this view can be drawn from Procopius, who names Trajan as the first Roman emperor to have garrisoned Lazika. One may easily explain this decision in the broader context of his eastern campaigns, reflecting the intention to keep a northern supply line protected.50 Braund further suggests that the garrison was abandoned in the 3rd century due to problems with malaria. There is currently not enough evidence to argue for or against this view. At any rate, I would concur with his assessment that ‘the fort at the estuary of the Phasis was of the first importance to Roman control in the region’, given its position at a crucial juncture of land and sea routes.51 It is therefore a most plausible expectation that the emperor Justin, when re-occupying Lazika in AD 526, sought to gain a stronghold in the same place to which Trajan and Hadrian had dedicated their attention centuries before and which would become the most contested Colchian stronghold during Justinian’s Persian War.

6. ‘CAPPADOCIAN’ SEBASTOPOLIS, SEBASTOPOLIS CASTELLUM AND SEBASTOPOLIS/ DIOSCURIAS Does Ptolemy contradict Procopius by mentioning another settlement in southern Lazika? The geographer locates a certain Sebastopolis just north of the Apsorros river, leaving it without classification (as a polis or phrourion). Since he regards it as part of the province of Cappadocia, he seems to distinguish it from Dioscurias/Sebastopolis, which he mentions in the context of the north-western coast of Colchis.52 Stückelberger and Graßhoff identify Ptolemy’s Sebastopolis with Sulusaray (Tokat Province, Turkey), adding that it was first called Karama, then Herakleiopolis.53 This is the result of multiple confusions. Ptolemy’s Sebastopolis has apparently been mistaken for Karana/Sebastopolis south of Zela in Pontus Galaticus. Although this had become 48  Arrian Periplus 9. 4–5; cf. Braund 1994, 191–93; Silberman 1995, 7–8 (pointing out in n. 63 that no traces of the fortress have so far been identified) and 30–31 (discussing the status of the soldiers). For comments, though not for this identification, see Liddle 2003, 101–02. 49  Braund 1994, 190–92, with Arrian Periplus 9. 3–5. Alternatively, the detailed attention that the garrison enjoys in the Periplus would be explained sufficiently by the simple fact that the author was eager to document his own agency. 50  Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 3. 16. See also Braund 1994, 230–32 on how Trajan’s campaign affected Iberia. 51  Braund 1994, 190–92, with Arrian Periplus 9. 3–5. 52  Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 7; 5. 6. 8, map 1 (Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006 II, 847). Dioscurias/ Sebastopolis is now generally identified with Sukhumi, probably incorrectly; see Coşkun 2020a; 2020b. 53  Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006 II, 516–17 with n. 99, without further reference, but cf. map 1 on p. 847.

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part of the Roman province of Cappadocia by the 2nd century AD, it continued to be treated as a special administrative district. Among this in-land unit, Ptolemy indeed lists ‘another Sebastopolis’, which should be Karana, not Sebasteia/Sivas as assumed by Stückelberger and Graßhoff. The latter was located in Pontus Polemoniacus, where it is duly listed by Ptolemy. Sulusaray/Karanitis thus has to be excluded from our discussion.54 Braund chooses the path of maximum economy by confining the name Sebastopolis on the eastern-Euxine coast to Dioscurias/Sebastopolis alone.55 He does not explain, however, why Ptolemy would have duplicated and further seriously misplaced Sebastopolis. In theory, this negative assessment might draw on the silence of Strabo, Pliny and Arrian. But the first is not aware of the fort Sebastopolis near Dioscurias, Pliny is known for his uneven treatments and, by the time of Arrian, ‘Cappadocian’ Sebastopolis had probably ceased to exist.56 Justinian and Procopius confirm that there was only one Sebastopolis left in the 530s, which was abandoned in the 540s.57 I am thus willing to accept that Ptolemy found evidence for a Sebastopolis in his heterogeneous sources and that his coordinates do not lead us terribly astray. We should concede the existence of a Sebastopolis located somewhere on the northern bank of the Acampsis/ Apsarus, perhaps Batumistsikhe, or possibly going as far north as Tsikhisdziri. The name Sebastopolis points to a foundation under Augustus (27 BC–AD 14) or, more specifically, under Polemo I, who was established over Pontus by Mark Antony in ca. 37 BC, perhaps not much later also over Colchis, and further over the Cimmerian Bosporus in 14 BC by the emperor’s deputy Marcus Agrippa. Polemo extended his territory along the eastern coast of Lake Maeotis by conquest. He is known to have destroyed Tanais before being killed in combat by the Aspurgiani in 9 or 8 BC. He also fostered the renaming of Panticapaeum to Caesarea and of Phanagoria to Agrippia,58 so that a fortress called Sebastopolis on the eastern littoral of the Euxine would be in line with his expansionist pro-Roman politics. Since Pliny, Arrian and Procopius no longer mention any garrison or settlement in the area (except for Petra), Ptolemy’s Sebastopolis was likely moved elsewhere. A first option would be that it was relocated to the site of Apsarus, whether this had been garrisoned simultaneously as Sebastopolis or was established (or re-established) as a fort only when Sebastopolis was dissolved. That both are mentioned by Ptolemy (without classification) does not require us to accept that Apsarus and Sebastopolis (near the Acampsis) served as garrisons synchronically, let alone that the two places were still settled when he composed his Geography. A second possibility would be that the soldiers were moved to the left bank of the Phasis, as a new outpost (one cohort) of the stronger forces (five cohorts) then stationed at Apsarus.59 But I would prefer yet another alternative, namely  Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 9 (Σεβαστόπολις ἑτέρα) and 5 .6. 10 (Σεβάστεια), with map Asia 1, as represented by Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006, II, 847. On Karana/Herakleiopolis/Sebastopolis/Sulusaray, see, for example, Olshausen and Biller 1984, 139–40; Marek 1993, 54–57; Coşkun 2008, 137; cf. Kaletsch and Olshausen 2006; Kohl 2013. Note, however, that Braund and Sinclair (2000, 1231) adduce Karanitis as a variant for Dioskourias/Sebastopolis (without evidence), which is yet another confusion. 55  Ptolemy’s ‘Cappadocian’ Sebastopolis is addressed neither by Braund 1994 nor Braund and Sinclair 2000 (with Directory). 56  See Strabo 11. 2. 14, 16 (496–498C). And see above, n. 19 for Pliny. 57  Justinian Novellae 28 pr.; Procopius Bell. 2. 29. 3. 18–20; 8. 4. 1. 4; see above, section 5. 58  See especially Heinen 2011; see also the references in n. 29 above. 59  Without considering Pliny’s implication for the whereabouts of Sebastopolis, Miller (1916, 651) suggests its identity with the Roman garrison on the Phasis. 54

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that the garrison and its canabae were directed much further up to the north. The new military settlement maintained its name Sebastopolis and (later on) also became the successor of Dioscurias. This way, there would be no need to posit more than one Sebastopolis castellum in the Polemonian kingdom at any one time.60 Given so many unknown variables in our equation, any historical context for the move of Sebastopolis cannot be but hypothetical. Since we do not know when Colchis was added to Polemo’s kingdom, he might have garrisoned the area north of the Acampsis/ Apsarus sometime in the mid-30s BC. Perhaps he added or moved north his strongholds in the 20s BC, as he was gradually incorporating Colchis into his kingdom, unless he received all of it peacefully. 27 BC is the terminus a quo not for the fortification of southwestern Colchis by Polemo, but for naming his most distinguished castle in the area after Augustus/Sebastos. Its relocation seems to date to a time when his interests in the Black Sea region extended to the north, thus most likely while he was preparing for his conquest of the Bosporus in 15/4 BC or at the latest when planning his campaigns on the eastern littoral of the Maeotis. Alternatively, his successor in Pontus and Colchis, Pythodoris, might have wished to strengthen the northern boundaries of Colchis, when she could no longer rely on the forces of a united Bosporan-Pontic kingdom, since the Bosporus had fallen to Dynamis.61 Even later dates remain possible, but I would be hesitant to go beyond the death of Augustus in AD 14, because the then ruling monarch of Pontus-Colchis might have preferred to honour the then living Roman emperor by naming the new settlement after him.

7. CONCLUSIONS: FORTRESSES

ALONG THE

COAST

OF

(SOUTHERN) COLCHIS

Although many uncertainties remain, there are a couple of probable and some even certain conclusions to draw. We can be certain that Mithridates Eupator included Colchis into his network of strongholds throughout his kingdom. Apsarus, Phasis, Dioscurias, Surium/Vani62 and Kytaion/Mocheresis/Kutaisi are all likely candidates for minor or larger fortresses. His immediate successors in Pontus (Deiotarus, with Apsarus) and Colchis (Aristarchus) would have made efforts to maintain them as well as they could, but we are barely in a position to substantiate this assumption.63 We can be more confident about Polemo I’s active fortification of the area. The first Sebastopolis castellum was probably a bridgehead beyond the Apsarus, either as a defence against a potentially hostile Colchis or as a base for the conquest of the country. Soon thereafter, Polemo moved the same soldiers or at least the name of their garrison to the outer limits of his Colchian domain, 50 km north-west past Dioscurias. It is likely that he and his successors maintained garrisons at Apsarus and somewhere at the Phasis estuary as well. 60  That there were effectively two (and only seemingly three) Sebastopoleis in the extended province of Cappadocia as reflected in Ptolemy’s work is the result of Roman administrative geography. 61  Besides the references above at n. 29, see Braund 2005; Ivantchik and Tokhtas’ev 2011; Roller 2018b; Coşkun 2019a. 62  See Braund 1994, 146–49; Lordkipanidze 1991; 1996, 251–69; Tsetskhladze 1998, 114–64; also Coşkun 2021a with modifications. 63  Deiotarus: above, n. 29. Aristarchus: Braund 1994, 169; Lordkipanidze 1996, 293–94; Coşkun 2007– 18; 2021b; Biffi 2010, 54–55 and 72.

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Nero should have been interested in holding a grip on these strategic places during Corbulo’s Parthian campaigns, but we have no positive evidence to confirm this – other than the fact that he dissolved the Polemonid kingdom. We are on more certain ground for the time of Hadrian, thanks to Arrian’s Periplus: Apsarus stands out as the strongest Roman fortress on the eastern Euxine coast, and its urbanisation was probably underway by then, perhaps since the Flavian period. Many open questions still pertain to the Roman positions in the north. We cannot be sure when Sebastopolis presented itself as successor of Dioscurias, but I assume that this resulted from a migration of the latter’s citizens to the site of Sebastopolis. Also open is when the Greek city of Pityus received a Roman garrison.64 The post on the Phasis estuary, whose (new) beginning Procopius allows us to date to the time of Trajan’s Parthian War, was also developing under Hadrian, and perhaps continued doing so in the subsequent generations. In the 3rd century, its canabae may have absorbed the population of Phasis city. When the name Petra became used instead of Phasis remains open to speculation. It is quite possible that it was introduced as late as the AD 520s.65 The name was augmented to Petra Pia Iustiniana in the first half of the 530s, reflecting its growing importance as city and fortress, to emerge as the key to imperial rule over Colchis in the 540s.

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et des cultures (IIe millénaire av. J.-C.–Ve siècle ap. J.-C.) 2: Approches locales et régionales (Colloque international de Besançon, 26–27 novembre 2010) (Besançon), 107–14. Lendle, O. 1995: Kommentar zu Xenophon’s Anabasis (Bücher 1–7) (Darmstadt). Liddle, A. 2003: Arrian, Periplus Ponti Euxini (London). Lordkipanidze, O.D. 1991: ‘Vani: An Ancient City of Colchis’. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 32, 151–95. —. 1996: Das alte Georgien (Kolchis und Iberien) in Strabons Geographie. Neue Scholien (Schwarzmeer-Studien 1) (Amsterdam). Magie, D. 1950: Roman Rule in Asia Minor to the End of the Third Century after Christ, 2 vols. (Princeton). Marek, C. 1993: Stadt, Ära und Territorium in Pontus-Bithynia und Nord-Galatia (Istanbuler Forschungen 39) (Tübingen). Masqueray, P. 1961: Xénophon, Anabase. 2: Livres IV–VII, 4th ed. (Paris). Mather, M.W. and Hewitt, J.W. (eds.) 1962: Xenophon’s Anabasis, Books I–IV (Norman, OK). Matyszak, P. 2008: Mithridates the Great: Rome’s Indomitable Enemy (Barnsley). Meiggs, R. 1972: The Athenian Empire (Oxford). Miller, K. 1916: Itinera Romana (Stuttgart). Nollé, M.K. 1997: ‘Koloniale und mythische Verwandtschaften der Stadt Amisos in Pontos’. In Nollé, J., Overbeck, B. and Weiß, P. (eds.), Internationales Kolloquium zur kaiserzeitlichen Münzprägung Kleinasiens (27.–30. April 1994 in der Staatlichen Münzsammlung, München) (Nomismata 1) (Milan), 157–64. Olshausen, E. and Biller, J. 1984: Historisch-geographische Aspekte der Geschichte des Pontischen und Armenischen Reiches 1: Untersuchungen zur historischen Geographie von Pontos unter den Mithradatiden (Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients. Reihe B, Geisteswissenschaften 29) (Wiesbaden). Plontke-Lüning, A. 2004: ‘Gymnias’. BNP 5, 1060. Radt, S. 2002–11: Strabons Geographika, 10 vols. (Göttingen). Rémy, B. 1989: Les carrières sénatoriales dans les provinces romaines d’Anatolie au Haut-Empire (31 av. J.-C.–284 ap. J.-C.) (Pont-Bithynie, Galatie, Cappadoce, Lycie-Pamphylie et Cilicie) (Varia Anatolica 2) (Istanbul/Paris). Roller, D.W. 2014: The Geography of Strabo (Cambridge). —. 2018a: A Historical and Topographical Guide to the Geography of Strabo (Cambridge). —. 2018b: Cleopatra’s Daughters and Other Royal Women of the Augustan Era (Oxford). Rood, T. 2011: ‘Black Sea Variations: Arrian’s “Periplus”’. Cambridge Classical Journal: Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 57, 137–63. Silberman, A. 2002: Arrien, Périple du Pont-Euxin (Paris). Sinclair, T.A. 1989: Eastern Turkey: An Architectural and Archaeological Survey, vol. 2 (London). Stückelberger, A. and Graßhoff, G. (eds.) 2006: Klaudios Ptolemaios, Handbuch der Geographie, 2 vols. (Basel). Sullivan, R.D. 1990: Near Eastern Royalty and Rome, 100–30 BC (Phoenix Suppl. 24) (Toronto). Talbert, R.J.A. (ed.) 2000: Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (Princeton/Oxford). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 1994: ‘Colchians, Greeks and Achaemenids in the 7th–5th Centuries BC: A Critical Look’. Klio 76, 78–102. —. 1998: Die Griechen in der Kolchis: Historisch-archäologischer Abriß (Schwarzmeer-Studien 3) (Amsterdam). —. 1999: Pichvnari and Its Environs, 6th c. BC–4th c. AD (Annales littéraires de l’Université de Franche-Comté 659) (Besançon/Paris). —. 2013: ‘The Greeks in Colchis Revisited’. Il Mar Nero 8 (for 2010–11), 293–306. Veh, O. 1978: Prokop, Gothenkrieg, 2nd ed. (Munich). Veh, O. and Brodersen, K. 1987: Appian von Alexandria, Römische Geschichte. 1: Die römische Reichsbildung (Bibliothek der griechischen Literatur 23) (Stuttgart). Welwei, K.-W. 1999: Das klassische Athen: Demokratie und Machtpolitik im 5. und 4. Jahrhundert, 2nd ed. (Darmstadt).

AN ESSAY ON THE HISTORY OF APOLLONIA PONTICA TO THE EARLY HELLENISTIC PERIOD Margarit DAMYANOV

ABSTRACT The paper discusses the development of Apollonia on the Black Sea from its foundation in the late 7th century BC to its decline in late 4th and the 3rd century BC, bringing together old and new archaeological evidence and trying to relate it to the scarce written sources. New results from excavations in the ancient city and its surroundings emphasise the importance of the metallurgy (exploiting the copper deposits of the hills of Medni Rid) for Apollonia’s economy from the early 6th century BC. In Archaic times, Apollonia founded settlements along the coast to the north and the south, establishing its control over a sizeable portion of the littoral. This prosperity continued in the Classical period, best exemplified by the erection of the colossal bronze statue of Apollo by Kalamis. Apollonia seems to have enjoyed good relations with the Odrysian kingdom and its collapse as a result of the campaigns of Philip II was a major blow to the polis. Negative processes can be glimpsed in the later 4th and the first half of the 3rd century BC, when neighbouring Mesambria was on the rise to replace Apollonia as the major force in the region of Burgas Bay.

In the last two decades, both rescue excavations prompted by intensive coastal development and the planned investigations of certain archaeological sites have led to the accumulation of new data shedding light on the history of one of the earliest Greek apoikiai on the west coast of the Black Sea – Apollonia (present-day Sozopol in Bulgaria), founded by Milesians in the late 7th century BC. While some projects are ongoing and could add more details (or entirely new developments) to the picture, there is sufficient evidence to fill some gaps and glimpse processes underway in the Archaic, Classical and Hellenistic history of Apollonia, creating a more or less consistent narrative. The present text aims to offer a ‘snapshot’ of the current state of research and to bring together some new discoveries and ideas.

THE ARCHAIC PERIOD The very act of Apollonia’s foundation is explicitly commented upon by Ps.-Scymnus (729–733), who provides both the name of the metropolis and the chronology – ‘50 years before Cyrus [the Great]’, i.e. ca. 610 BC, which is the generally accepted date of the emergence of the city. A late 7th-century BC chronology is also supported by the earliest Greek pottery from the site of ancient Apollonia: South Ionian Middle Wild Goat II vases (Fig. 1), the best-known example being a squat oinochoe with a spotted deer,1 North 1

 See most recently Aytaçlar 2006, 54–55, no. 27; Nedev 2016, 44–45, fig. 1.

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Fig. 1. South Ionian oinochoai (SiA Id) and a Villard-Vallet A1 cup from the island of St Kirik, late 7th century BC.

Ionian ‘bird bowls’ and other related cups (Fig. 2),2 etc. In 2012, a few very early (certainly first-generation) graves with Late Protocorinthian and Early Corinthian perfume vases were discovered,3 again confirming the existence of Apollonia by the end of the 7th century BC. The ceramic assemblage is very similar to what is known from the other early Milesian colonies in the north-western and the northern parts of the Black Sea, for example Istros/ Histria, Orgame and Borysthenes/Berezan, although it appears to be somewhat later – in agreement with the written sources that assign dates closer to the middle of the century to Istros and Borysthenes. Admittedly, it is a peculiar situation, as the place of future Apollonia would have been a much-needed port of call for the early Greek seafarers that sailed to the north-western corner of the Pontus. However, there is nothing so far from Apollonia or the region to compare with the earliest finds from Orgame, Berezan and the deep hinterland of the northern Black Sea area where East Greek pottery appeared in the third quarter of the 7th century BC at latest, but there are even earlier finds.4 Nonetheless, in due course, the processing and the analysis of the huge amount of Archaic pottery accumulated by the excavations on the small offshore island of St Kirik and the peninsula of Sozopol’s Old Town may lead to modifications in this picture and narrow the gap. 2

 Nedev 2016, 45–46, fig. 2.  Baralis et al. 2016, 156–61. 4  Kershner 2006; Buiskikh 2016. For an overview of the early finds, see Tsetskhladze 2007. 3

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Fig. 2. North Ionian bird bowls from the island of St Kirik, late 7th–early 6th century BC.

At present, the materials from St Kirik and the peninsula (Fig. 3) do not reveal any chronological precedence of one of the sites, indicating that either both parts of ancient Apollonia were settled simultaneously, or the interval was negligible and practically undetectable. Only the discovery of the main temenos of the city on St Kirik,5 with the sanctuary of Apollo Ietros (already securely identified there – Fig. 4)6 could suggest that the location of the original settlement may have been on the better-protected island. The question about whether or to what extent the first Milesian settlers needed protection from potentially hostile indigenous Thracians remains open.7 Early Iron Age pottery from slightly before the colonisation (possibly EIA II) has been reported from the peninsula of Apollonia8 but remains unpublished. No such materials have been discovered on St Kirik. Recent investigations of two Early Iron Age sites in the vicinity – one about 1 km to the south, within the limits of the New Town of Sozopol (Fig. 5),9  Panayotova, Damyanov et al. 2014.  See Martinez et al. 2015, cat. 254. 7  See Baralis et al. 2016, 165–66. 8  Nedev and Panayotova 2003, 95–96; Gyuzelev 2008, 119–20. 9  Panayotova, Damyanov and Chacheva 2014a, 268–69; 2014b, fig. 2. 5 6

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Fig. 3. The island of St Kirik and the peninsula of the Old Town of Sozopol, view from the north-west.

Fig. 4. A cup with a dedication to Apollo Ietros from a man from Cnidus, found on the island of St Kirik, early second quarter of the 6th century BC.

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Fig. 5. Early Iron Age Thracian pottery from the New Town of Sozopol.

the other several kilometres to the north-west, on a peninsula near present-day Chernomorets10 – revealed remains of occupation in the early phase of the period (EIA I), with a considerable hiatus before the arrival of the Greeks. Beyond the coast, an Early Iron Age Thracian presence has been detected in the so-called ‘hillforts’ on the peaks of Medni Rid chain that encompasses the coastal plain of Apollonia.11 Only one, Malkoto Kale, has been investigated to some extent12 and its emergence is dated to the 9th century BC.13 Although a continuity has been claimed from before to after the colonisation,14 the situation is not so straightforward, the earliest certain Greek imports dating from the 5th century BC,15 while others appear to have been misidentified.16 Thus, at present the native surroundings of the newly founded Apollonia remain less than clear. However, the apoikia itself became active in its hilly interior as early as the first decades of its existence. It is not an entirely new development, but investigations in recent years have brought important new results. The evidence is indirect but quite unequivocal, and presents itself in the form of large amount of slag from metallurgical activities, associated already with the earliest contexts (the very beginning of the 6th century BC) 10

 Hristov 2013, 24–25; 2017.  Venedikov et al. 1976; Gyuzelev 2008, 107–11. 12  Venedikov et al. 1976, 131–55; Delev et al. 1982, 360–78. 13  Domaradzki et al. 1991; 1992. 14  Shalganova and Gotsev 1995, 328; Archibald 1998, 34–36. 15  Delev et al. 1982, 367. 16  See Gyuzelev 2008, 108. 11

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on St Kirik.17 This would indicate that Apollonians had access to the copper deposits of Medni Rid (‘Copper Ridge’) from (almost) the very beginning. Such a precocious metallurgy may indicate that the first settlers had some information about the metal resources of the region and this may have been one of the reasons for the foundation of Apollonia – against the opinion that metals did not play a role in early Greek colonisation.18 The city was founded several decades after the first Greek ventures in the north-western part of the Black Sea (Istros, Orgame, Borysthenes/Berezan), therefore Ionian settlers should have been able to collect information about the resources in the area. The data from St Kirik is complemented by evidence of metallurgical facilities from the second half of the 6th century BC, excavated in recent years both in the immediate vicinity of the ancient town19 and near the ancient mines of Medni Rid (Fig. 6).20 Hence the conclusion that mining and processing of copper was an essential part of Archaic Apollonia’s economy. Agreements or treaties with the local Thracians have been suggested, as the extraction of the ore from the wooded hills at some distance from the early town would have required their consent or even participation,21 but this remains conjectural in the absence (possibly due to the state of research) of any positive traces of a sizeable native community. The ceramic assemblage from the metallurgical complex, investigated in 2018 near one of the mines on the slope of Medni Rid, is Greek in character. Another site in the region that has long been related to processing of metals22 is the ancient settlement at Atiya Peninsula at about 10 km to the north-west of Apollonia.23 The best-known archaeological finds from the site, which at present is inaccessible for archaeological investigations, are a Late Archaic marble kouros24 and a hoard of the so-called ‘arrowhead-money’, also Archaic, together with a mould for casting it.25 Atiya has been identified as the ancient Antheia, mentioned by Pliny (NH 4. 11. 45) as an earlier name of Apollonia, and as a separate foundation of Miletus and Phocaea by Stephanus of Byzantium (Ethnica: Ἄνθεια). The complete absence of Antheia from later narrative or epigraphical sources indicate that the settlement did not develop as a fully-fledged polis in the Classical and Hellenistic periods. Thus, it probably became part of Apollonia, possibly by means of synoecism.26 A scenario of two early Greek centres in the area, later to merge into one, is reminiscent of two similar situations in the north-western part of the Black Sea, where the earliest Greek colonies emerged. The first is of Orgame and Istros, the former probably earlier, as suggested by archaeology, the latter undoubtedly the major Greek centre in the Dobrudja already by the early 6th century BC. The second, very similar, is of Borysthenes (the island of Berezan) and Olbia on the Dnieper-Bug estuary, the latter a later foundation that quickly eclipsed the early settlement on Berezan. A certain ‘Pontic model’  Panayotova, Damyanov et al. 2014, 595; Damyanov and Panayotova forthcoming.  Treister 1996, 169–70; Tsetskhladze 2009, 335. 19  Baralis et al. 2016, 159, figs. 6–7. 20  Nikov and Leshtakov 2019. 21  Baralis et al. 2016, 166. 22  Chernykh 1978, 19–23. 23  See Gyuzelev 2008, 116–17, 266–67. 24  Martinez et al. 2015, cat. 253. 25  Gerasimov 1959. 26  Oppermann 2004, 12. 17 18

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Fig. 6. Copper smelting furnaces at Propadnala Voda site on the west slope of Medni Rid, second half of the 6th century BC (photograph: Krasimir Nikov, NAIM).

of colonisation emerges,27 and one would be tempted to add the case of Apollonia-Antheia to the picture. While two separate foundations may be presumed, a look at the map reveals that Apollonia was better situated in order to exploit its immediate surroundings, located practically in the centre of the narrow coastal plain, separated from the interior by the chain of Medni Rid. On the other hand, the Atiya Peninsula, if it was ancient Antheia (preserving a degree of scepticism), was closer to the navigable lagoons of Burgas Bay that offered communication with the Thracian interior – and the opportunity to trade. This is another aspect of the early period of Apollonia and the region that has been at least partly elucidated by recent research. It is hardly accidental that it is precisely in the region of the present-day Burgas Lakes (at the site of Kostadin Cheshma) and the adjacent area near present-day Karnobat, some 50 km from the coast, where a significant amount of early Greek imports is observed.28 Atiya/Antheia, with an unobstructed view to the entire bay, would have had the better location to control such trade, while lacking access to sufficient arable land – in agreement with the ‘Pontic model’ mentioned above, presuming an initial trading settlement (emporion), followed by a full-scale apoikia. In this 27

 Alexandrescu 1999; Buiskikh 2013.  Balabanov 1999; Nikov 2009, 118–20; Georgieva and Nikov 2010, 142–49; Tzochev 2009, 124–25; 2011. 28

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case, however, the unclear chronology of the practically un-investigated settlement on the Atiya Peninsula impedes drawing a secure parallel with Berezan and Orgame. Nonetheless, the Archaic imports are an explicit testimony to the contacts between Greeks and natives already in the early 6th century BC, immediately after the colonisation. In the same period, handmade pottery of Thracian shapes is present in the almost all early contexts on St Kirik, illustrating the other side of the process.29 The contacts (commercial or other) with the Thracians beyond the close vicinity of Apollonia and the evidence of very early ore extraction and metallurgy in and around the city create the impression of a thriving and quite important Greek centre. Observations elsewhere in the Pontic region, where Milesians founded early colonies, reveal the early emergence of chorai, as it was the case of Istros, starting at ca. 600 BC,30 or of Olbia in the first quarter of the 6th century BC.31 While the area of Apollonia lacks the huge amount of data accumulated in these regions, the new results permit some comments. The exploitation of the metal deposits of Medni Rid (possibly with the consent of or in collaboration with the native Thracians) indicates that Apollonia felt more or less comfortable in its immediate surroundings. Based on the specifics of the local geography, it is presumed that its ‘near’ territory comprised the coastal plain encompassed by Medni Rid, down to the River Ropotamo in the south.32 The existence of Atiya/Antheia at its northern end already in the Archaic period supports an early date of the formation of the chora, despite the not so clear relations between the two settlements in the early period. Important new evidence on the subject was obtained by the investigations in 2012–13 of an ancient site in present-day Kiten, some 25 km to the south of Apollonia.33 The existence of an Apollonian emporion there has long been presumed.34 Although no early structures were detected, the ceramic assemblage from the Urdoviza Peninsula reveals the existence of a coastal settlement from the middle of the 6th century BC at latest and it bears a strong resemblance to what is observed on St Kirik in the same period, including the occasional sherds of handmade pots.35 Thus, it would suggest an early expansion of Apollonia along the coast to the south. While it is difficult to imagine a continuous Apollonian territory all the way down to Urdoviza, the city may have created ‘enclaves’ at suitable places. In turn, this brings to mind the only Apollonian foundation, known from the written sources (Strabo 7. 6. 1; see also IGB I2 388 bis = ISM I 64) – Anchialo, at the northeastern end of Burgas Bay, opposite Apollonia (and Atiya/Antheia). In the famous decree of Hegesagoras, the area is termed the peran chora – ‘the territory beyond [the sea]’, and again, it is very unlikely that Apollonia controlled the entire bay (the distance along the coast is more than 50 km, while only 15 km across the bay). Thus, Anchialo could be

29

 Damyanov forthcoming.  Avram 2007. 31  Bujskich [Buiskikh] and Bujskich [Buiskikh] 2013. 32  Nedev and Panayotova 2003, 100; Gyuzelev 2008, 134. 33  Panayotova, Daskalov et al. 2013; Daskalov and Panayotova 2015. 34  de Boer 2002, 128–29; de Boer and Stronk 2002, 235–36; Gyuzelev 2008, 229–31. 35  The materials, analysed by the author, were presented at the International Symposium on Propontis and the Surrounding Cultures, held in Biga, Turkey, in October 2018 (K. Panayotova and M. Damyanov: ‘Urdoviza: An early Greek settlement on the West Pontic coast’). 30

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another ‘enclave’, controlled by an important settlement (there was a phrourion there in the Hellenistic period). The written evidence is late (2nd–1st century BC), but there are archaeological materials indicating a Greek(?) presence in the area already in the second half of the 6th century BC.36 The results from Urdoviza Peninsula make it very probable that the emergence of Anchialo belongs to the same period – and the logic dictates that it should have been created before the foundation of Dorian Mesambria just to the north in the late 6th century BC. Apparently, the territory of Apollonia started to take shape in the course of the 6th century BC, and the existence of other sites should be presumed, especially along the coast. The following century marked a new stage in the development of the chora. Thus, within a century, between the late 7th and the second half of the 6th century BC, Apollonia seems to have developed into a major factor along this part of the Black Sea coast. Another sign of this upward trend was the appearance of the first stone architecture (a temple and an altar) in the main temenos on St Kirik in the last quarter of the 6th century BC37 – a ‘monumental’ or ‘urban’ phase that has been identified in other Pontic colonies, including Istros,38 Olbia, etc.39 It was a planned reorganisation, which required abandoning and levelling part of the earlier settlement on the island – in order to create a large public space. These developments that could be positively identified or at least glimpsed in the available evidence – mining, secondary foundations, monumental constructions – would have required building a significant demographic potential. Traditionally, groups of additional settlers are seen as the source of such a population surge in the Archaic period of the Pontic colonies,40 and Apollonia may offer an additional clue – the mention of the philosopher Anaximander as a leader of the apoikia (Aelian Var. Hist. 3. 17). Anaximander could have brought epoikoi in Apollonia – an event that Alexandru Avram tends to relate to the troubled situation in Ionia, created by the fall of Lydia and the Persian invasion just after the middle of the 6th century BC.41 Avram also puts in the context of Anaximander the arrival of epoikoi in Apollonia, explicitly mentioned by Aristotle (Politics 5. 3. 1303a) – although these could equally be two different episodes (see below). A hypothetical synoecism with Antheia would also have added to the population. Finally, another new development should be mentioned. The excavations on St Kirik since 2009 have added to the number of the well-known terracotta relief plaques with warriors, discovered in 1904 by the French consul Degrand.42 The new fragments enabled the reconstruction of a frieze(?) of battle scenes between hoplites (Greeks) and cavalrymen (non-Greeks) that could be dated to the end of the 6th century BC (Fig. 7).43 The best parallels of the composition are provided by the Clazomenian sarcophagi of the

36

 Stoyanov 1993, 20–21, figs. 4–5; Gyuzelev 2008, 95.  Panayotova, Damyanov et al. 2014; Panayotova, Stoyanova and Damyanov 2021. 38  Avram 2003, 320–22; Alexandrescu 2005, 66–86, figs. 1.1–3.1. 39  See, for example, Vinogradov 1999; 2000. According to another concept, it would correspond to reaching the polis phase in the development of the Black Sea apoikiai: Tsestskhladze 1998, 16. 40  Avram 2012, 199–200. 41  Avram 2012, 200–07. 42  Seure 1924, 307–16, fig. 86; see Martinez et al. 2015, cat. 255–256 (with references). 43  Panayotova, Stoyanova and Damyanov 2021; Damyanov and Stoyanova forthcoming. 37

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Fig. 7. Graphic reconstruction of a ceramic plaque with battle between hoplites and cavalrymen from the island of St Kirik, late 6th century BC.

so-called Albertinum Group,44 also illustrating combats between hoplites and cavalry,45 variously interpreted as historical or (semi-)mythical narratives – the horsemen being identified as either Persians46 or Cimmerians/Scythians.47 It is the former interpretation that is appealing in the case of the plaques from Apollonia. The scenes are very incomplete and the only element that could suggest the ethnicity of the horsemen are the pelta shields discernible on two fragments. The pelta is commonly associated with the Thracians,48 which is beautifully illustrated by the two well-known red-figure Attic mugs with Thracian warriors from Apollonia and Karnobat, dated to the late 5th century BC.49 Thus, we might have a depiction of an historical (?) conflict between Greeks (Apollonians?) and natives. However, the wicker shields together with other Thracian paraphernalia were also added to depictions of Amazons on Attic vases already in the second half of the 6th century BC,50 thus a mythical subject cannot be excluded. In any case, if a conflict with the Thracians did actually occur, Apollonia survived it well, as illustrated by the following century. 44

 The best parallel appears to be a sarcophagus in the British Museum: Cook 1981, G.1, pls. 39.2, 40–41. 45  Cook 1981, 116–17. 46  Greenhalgh 1973, 143–44; Cook 1981, 117; Nefedkin 2006, 9. 47  Zeren Hasdağlı 2015; Ürkmez 2015. 48  Best 1969, 3–16. 49  Reho 1990, no. 190; Lazarov 1990, no. 16; Georgieva 2005. 50  Shapiro 1983, 107–10.

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In this respect, another hypothesis should be mentioned as well – the presumed Persian control over the West Pontic coast that may have been established (including with garrisons) when Darius campaigned against the Scythians (514/3 BC), to be overthrown during the Ionian Revolt and re-established briefly by Mardonius in 492 BC.51 However, while Herodotus (4. 93) uses Apollonia and Mesambria as reference points to locate some of the Thracians that Darius conquered, there is nothing else so far to suggest Persian presence in Apollonia. To summarise, the new evidence from recent decades pictures a successful 6th century BC, when the polis gained access to and exploited the metal riches of the surrounding hills, seems to have spread its control over a significant stretch of the coast, creating settlements, and reached deeper inland in the hinterland of Burgas Bay, establishing relations with the local Thracians.

THE CLASSICAL PERIOD Certainly, the best-known (if not the only known) episode in the history of Apollonia in the first half of the 5th century BC is the erection in the main sanctuary of a bronze colossus of Apollo, 13 m high (Strabo 7. 6. 1; Pliny NH 34. 39), created by Kalamis in the second quarter or the middle of the century.52 The historical value of this piece of evidence is twofold. On the one hand, which is more apparent, Apollonia must have been thriving in order to commission such an expensive work to embellish its temenos. On the other, the polis still had control of and actively exploited the copper deposits of Medni Rid, the obvious source of such a large quantity of metal – an argument against the presumed decline of metallurgy at the turn of the 5th century BC.53 Although the Romans carried away the statue of Apollo in 72 BC, other structures uncovered on St Kirik illustrate this new building phase: a second temple was built in more or less the same period – the second quarter of the 5th century BC, adding to the monumental appearance of the temenos.54 Another ambitious public undertaking from the same period is detected on the territory of the necropolis, predating its expansion in the mid-5th century BC (see below) – a tunnel for laying a water main of clay pipes, dug in the soft limestone, with service shafts at regular distances (Fig. 8).55 The tunnel has been traced for more than 80 m, though its total length remains unknown; the water main itself is traced over more than 1 km. Parallel developments could be observed in the surroundings of Apollonia, for example the emergence of farmsteads and other structures in the near vicinity of the city. The best example is the site in the Mesarite locality on a hill to the south of Apollonia (Fig. 9), overlooking the bay, where the earliest structure appeared in the first decades of the 5th century BC.56

51

 Avram 2017, 7–11, 16–18; 2019, 18–19.  Mattusch 1988, 140–41; Moreno 2001. 53  Baralis et al. 2016, 176. 54  Panayotova, Stoyanova and Damyanov 2021. 55  Panayotova, Gyuzelev and Nedev 2008, 317; Panayotova, Damyanov and Chacheva 2014c, 278. 56  Baralis and Panayotova 2015, 982–93; Baralis et al. 2016, 168–74. 52

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Fig. 8. Tunnel dug for laying water main in the limestone to the south of Sozopol, first half of the 5th century BC(?).

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Fig. 9. The site of Mesarite (in the foreground) on a hill above Sozopol (ancient Apollonia), view from the south-west.

Fig. 10. The hill of the ancient fortress at the village of Ravadinovo, with Sozopol visible in the background, view from the west.

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Fig. 11. Map of the near chora of Apollonia with Antheia(?), the site at Mesarite and the metallurgical site and the fortress at the village of Ravadinovo.

Equally important is a site detected by a LiDAR survey in 2015 on one of the southernmost spurs of the Bakarlaka ridge of the Medni Rid chain, some 8 km from Apollonia (near the present-day village of Ravadinovo)57 – a fortress that is strategically located to control the main pass that leads from the interior to the coast (Figs. 10–11). What is more, the fortress, some 80 × 80 m, is very close to the Archaic metalworking site mentioned above. Since then, two short campaigns58 revealed massive stone walls, an inner fortified part in the north-eastern corner, and earliest materials from the first half of the 5th century BC. The site appears to be a very good example of a phrourion (the term is used in the Hegesagoras decree regarding Anchialo), meant to protect the territory of the polis, and its premeditated one-time creation (the design is very geometrical and oriented  Kunze et al. 2018, 608–09, figs. 26–27, 29–30.  Devlova and Kirov 2018; Devlova et al. 2019. The author was deputy director of the investigations in 2018. 57 58

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Fig. 12. Map of the surroundings of Apollonia with toponyms designating various parts of the necropolis.

almost precisely to the cardinal points), requiring a considerable effort on the part of the polis, again illustrates the power of Apollonia in this period. The importance of the first half of the 5th century BC in the development of Apollonia is illustrated also by changes in the necropolis that become particularly visible around the middle of the century, marked by a huge expansion to the south. An overview of the process has been offered recently,59 therefore only the historical implications will be commented upon here. Around 450 BC, a coastal strip of about 1 km (the wellknown necropolis in the Kalfata/Budzhaka localities – Fig. 12)60 was added to the existing necropolis, practically doubling its size – and there was another extension in the last quarter of the century (Fig. 13.3–4). It seems to have been an organised development – an act of the polis, which requires probing into the possible historical reasons. 59

 Damyanov 2017, 361–65.  Venedikov et al. 1963; Hermary et al. 2010.

60

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Fig. 13. Phases in the spatial development of the necropolis of Apollonia, 6th–3rd centuries BC.

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One of the possible explanations is a population surge – too sudden to be due to natural growth. Thus, another arrival of new settlers at some point in the first half of the 5th century BC may be surmised – with time, the boost of the population created the necessity to expand the funerary space. In fact, as suggested by Avram, the aftermath of the Ionian Revolt and the fall of Miletus in 494 BC could have caused such an exodus.61 Although there is no solid (written) evidence to support it, the archaeology of the Apollonian necropolis appears to be consistent with such a scenario. Even the ‘construction boom’ in the territory of the polis in the first half of the 5th century BC seems to fit well, as the newcomers had to be accommodated somewhere. And Apollonia could have profited by more manpower to consolidate its control on the surrounding territory and exploit it more effectively. While based on conjectures, this hypothesis brings us back to the epoikoi of Aristotle, the arrival of which caused civil strife in Apollonia – an episode that has already been related to the changes in the necropolis.62 To add to the hypothesis – the disturbances mentioned by Aristotle may have led to the reorganisation of the necropolis (as part of the reorganisation of the chora and the entire polis?). The major changes around Apollonia in the several decades to the middle of the 5th century BC, quite visible in the archaeological record, need an explanation, and the arrival of another group of settlers appears as plausible as any – or even more so, as such an event is actually mentioned in the sources. Again, there may have been more than one such episodes. The 5th century BC offers a probable context for another event mentioned by Aristotle (Politics 5. 6. 1305b) – a change in the government of the Apollonia, from oligarchy to democracy. In the text, there is no connexion whatsoever with the above-discussed epoikoi, thus it was most probably a separate episode. Also, there is no hint of an interference from outside – the change is presented as an internal affair, when the oligarchs tried to rob the public funds. Thus, there is no solid ground to relate the political change in Apollonia to the famous (although poorly known) Pontic expedition of Pericles (Plutarch Pericles 20), usually dated to 438–437 BC and believed to have had great impact in the region63 – while it is by no means impossible. In any case, Athenian power between the Persian and the Peloponnesian Wars should have created favourable conditions for democratic leanings, and Apollonia is attested in the tribute lists of the Athenian League for 425/4 BC (IG I3 71, col. 4, l. 128). Indirect evidence for such changes can be detected again in the funerary sphere, where monuments with figured relief decoration virtually disappear after the early 5th century BC and the famous marble stele of Deines, ‘the noblest of the citizens’ (Fig. 14).64 Having in mind that Apollonia has yielded the largest number of grave markers in the West Pontic region (some 200, most of them Classical),65 this situation was adduced to support the hypothesis of introducing regulations to limit ostentatious burials.66 The archaeological 61

 Avram 2012, 207–08.  Hermary et al. 2010, 15, n. 26; Damyanov 2017, 363–64; contra Avram 2012, 205, n. 26. 63  On a date in 438 BC, see Angelescu 1992. On the scope and the significance of the expedition, see Braund 2005, 80–89; Gallo 2013, 160. 64  IGB I2 405; Petrova 2015, 166–68. 65  See Damyanov 2018, 470. 66  Petrova 2010, 265–69; 2015, 138. 62

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Fig. 14. The stele of Deines, son of Anaxander, ca. 500 BC (photograph: Krasimir Georgiev, NAIM).

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record suggests that such regulations were already in place when the large new necropolis was created ca. 450 BC, providing a possible terminus ante quem. Finally, in the context of a possible Athenian influence on the burial customs in Apollonia, it is worth mentioning that an intriguing structure in the necropolis from a century later (mid-4th century BC) seems to emulate a very specific Athenian civic practice (see below). Like the developments in the territory, the expansion of the necropolis also illustrates that the community felt comfortable in its surroundings. There is no evidence of conflicts with the Thracians in the period when the Odrysians were on the rise. Apollonians may have been among the coastal Greeks that paid tribute to Sitalkes and Seuthes I in the second half of the 5th century BC (Thucydides 2. 97. 3), but the polis maintained its trade relations with the Thracian interior. This is particularly well illustrated by the red-figure mug with Thracian warriors, an almost exact copy of the famous vase from Sozopol (considered a ‘special commission’),67 found near Karnobat.68 As in the Archaic period, this trade passed through the region of Burgas Bay and its navigable limans, and there are at least two Classical sites that seem to have played some role – the presumed emporion at Sladkite Kladentsi,69 and the site at Kostadin Cheshma.70 Both sites appear to have been (mostly) Thracian – a necropolis of cremations in the first case,71 and a ‘field of pits’ in the second – which fact may be telling of the mechanisms of exchange in this contact area and one more time indicates that the Apollonian possessions around Anchialo were cut off from the main territory of the polis. Based on the distribution of Heraclean trade amphorae, C. Tzochev has reconstructed the zone of economic influence of Apollonia to as far as Nova Zagora to the west, some 130 km from the coast.72 The reach of the polis may have penetrated even deeper inland – two rare Type VIII B red-figure oinochoai from the grave under Svetitsata Tumulus near Kazanlak73 have very good parallels in Apollonia74 and Sladkite Kladentsi,75 the latter possibly tracing the first leg of the trade route. Then again, the apparent power and economic prosperity of Apollonia in the Classical period raises the question about which city of that name is mentioned in the so-called ‘Pistiros inscription’, found some 300 km from the coast. The new results seem to support its identification precisely as the Pontic Apollonia, as already suggested76 – the only one that could match the importance of Thasos and Maroneia. The tombstone of an Apolloniates (Dionysios, son of Diotrephes), discovered at the same site, comes as an illustration of the mobility of the Apollonians in the Classical period.77 It took an external factor to bring to an end this heyday. Around the middle of the 4th century BC, the imports of Heraclean amphorae in the Thracian interior were 67

 Lezzi-Hafter 1997.  Georgieva 2005. 69  Isaac 1986, 249; Oppermann 2004, 89–90; Gyuzelev 2008, 98–99, 187–92. 70  Balabanov 2011; Balabanov, Garlan and Pantov 2016. 71  See Balabanov and Drazheva 1985. 72  Tzochev 2010, 99–100, pl. 56.2. 73  Kitov 2005, 35–36, figs. 18–22. 74  Panayotova, Damyanov and Pencheva 2011, 266, fig. 3. 75  Lazarov 1990, no. 38; Reho 1990, no. 412. 76  Loukopoulou 1999, 371; Picard 1999, 340–41; Salviat 1999, 260–61. 77  Domaradzka 1999, 352. 68

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Fig. 15. The polyandrion in the necropolis of Apollonia, second quarter or mid-4th century BC (archive photographs: Georgi Boyadzhiev).

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discontinued, indicating disturbances in the distribution network. It has been suggested that this was due to Philip’s campaigns (342–339 BC) and the decline of the Odrysian kingdom.78 At Kostadin Cheshma, the latest stamped amphorae date from the 340s BC, immediately before Philip II.79 Although the evidence of Philip’s movements is scarce, he probably reached the coast, as Apollonia is mentioned as intermediary between him and the Scythian king Ataias (Justin 9. 2. 1–16). More revealing are the finds of inscribed lead sling bullets from the city, including with the name of Potalos, known from Olynthos and Stageira,80 possibly indicating a clash between Macedonians and Apollonians. While the outcome remains unclear – the city was fortified (Aeneas Tacticus 20, 4) and Philip was unsuccessful against Odessos (Jordan Getica 10. 65) – the status quo was disrupted and Apollonia suffered. The necropolis of the city may have yielded a dramatic evidence of these events. In 1966, an extraordinary tomb was excavated in the Harmanite neighbourhood – a chamber 3 m long with partial corbel vault (Fig. 15), the floor of which was covered with a thick layer of burnt human bones. It was undoubtedly a polyandrion, much in accordance with the Athenian practice (Thucydides 2. 34. 1–7), and it may have contained up to 100 dead.81 The accompanying pottery dates from the second quarter of the 4th century BC, but a date after the middle of the century (around the time of Philip’s campaign) is not unthinkable. In any case, the loss of several dozen hoplites should have been a severe blow for Apollonia.

THE EARLY HELLENISTIC PERIOD The effects of the crisis caused by the Macedonians are not immediately visible in the archaeological record82 and the Early Hellenistic period in Apollonia remains poorly understood. The buildings (farmsteads) in the Mesarite locality were abandoned at some point in the late 4th century BC – to be replaced by a small necropolis, but the chronology of the process is yet to be refined.83 These changes may be related to more isolated finds of sling bullets indicating Macedonian activity in the years after Philip II – in the time of the strategoi Alexander of Lyncestis and Zopyrion,84 but there is not enough evidence to fill the gaps. If there was some kind of Macedonian control over the West Pontic Greek cities, it was probably overthrown after the ill-fated campaign of Zopyrion against the Scythians (Curtius 10. 1. 43–45). 78

 Tzochev 2010, 100.  Balabanov, Garlan and Pantov 2016, 86–88, table III. 80  Damyanov, Nankov and Stoyanova forthcoming. Emil Nankov contributed the analysis of the sling bullets. 81  Damyanov et al. 2021. 82  According to the preliminary results, the investigations of the fortress near the village of Ravadinovo yielded pottery that does not go beyond the mid-4th century BC, possibly coinciding with the coming of Philip II, but a few Early Hellenistic coins were also found (Devlova et al. 2018, 207) and the situation is to be clarified. 83  Baralis et al. 2016, 174–76; Panayotova, Bogdanova and Delev 2018, 170. 84  Damyanov, Nankov and Stoyanova 2021. 79

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Thus, when Lysimachus came to claim his part of Alexander’s empire in 323 BC, he received ‘Thrace and the Chersonesus, together with the countries bordering the sea as far as Salmydessos on the Euxine’ (Arrian Anabasis, Jacoby 1.7). The latter description would leave the region of Apollonia, 100 km to the north, out of his reach. The next time we hear of the Diadoch, ten years later, he is fighting Callatis, Istros and Odessos (Diodorus 19. 73. 1–10). It is therefore presumed that in the intervening period Lysimachus established his control also over the region of Burgas Bay – the hinterland of Apollonia and Mesambria.85 The problem is that both Apollonia and Mesambria are completely absent from the not so copious sources about Lysimachus. On the contrary, it would appear that his activities were focused to the north of the Balkan Range – the war with Callatis, the wars with the Getic king Dromichaites (Diodorus 21. 11; 12. 1–6), Odessos as an important military/naval base in 302 BC (Diodorus 20. 112. 1–4), Tyrizis as his treasury (Strabo 7. 6. 1). The archaeological and epigraphic evidence, although mostly indirect, strengthen this impression.86 For example, the cult of the Great Gods of Samothrace – Lysimachus was active in the sanctuary, where he was declared ‘benefactor’,87 and most probably propagated the cult88 – is attested in all cities to north of the Balkan Range,89 but not in Apollonia and Mesambria. Also, Early Hellenistic barrel-vaulted (‘Macedonian’) tombs are known only from the surroundings of Odessos and Callatis, which implies the actual presence of high-ranking Macedonians.90 Regarding the tombs, Apollonia could offer an intriguing comparison. Early Hellenistic ‘monumental’ burial structures are attested there, but what is known actually emphasises the differences with Odessos or Callatis. The ‘tombs’ around Apollonia are rather crudely built, without strict architectural type, at least some of them probably covered with wooden constructions with roof tiles.91 Thus, while probably emulating the Hellenistic fashion, these structures are very different from the typical barrel-vaulted tombs of the period and indicate some local development. In fact, two of the structures belong to the ‘non-normative’ tumular necropolis on the Kolokita Promontory that emerged in the early 4th century BC,92 while others are situated in the chora, far from the main necropolises. Nonetheless, the tombs could illustrate changes in the society, possibly some departure from the democratic practices, in accordance with the new Hellenistic ways. This could be glimpsed also in the gold jewellery, found in a grave associated with one of the tombs (itself looted in ancient times)93 – definitely an exception from the general picture of the necropolis of Apollonia in the same period. The presence of isolated tumuli with tombs in the territory could be also indicative of changes in the ownership of the land. 85

 Delev 2004, 150–51.  A more detailed analysis of the overall picture is offered in Damyanov, Nankov and Stoyanova 2021. 87  Cole 1984, 21–22. 88  Rabadjiev 2017. 89  Cole 1984, appendix 1, nos. 3–13. 90  Stoyanova 2008; Damyanov 2010, 272–74; 2012, 54–55, 59–61; Ştefan and Sirbu 2016; Ştefan et al. 2017, 67–70. 91  Seure 1924, 335–39; Katsarova 2007; Mikov 2007; Katsarova and Stoyanova 2009; Mikov and Stoyanova 2010; Bogdanova et al. 2017. 92  Damyanov 2012, 50–51. 93  Bogdanova et al. 2017. 86

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For the first time, the archaeological investigations in the last few years brought evidence of the Thracian surroundings of Apollonia in the Early Hellenistic period. A dismantled tomb was discovered under a tumulus near the town of Primorsko, several kilometres in the interior along the course of the Ropotamo, to the south of the river. Among the finds, there is a set of gold ornaments for a horse harness94 that belongs to a group of similar sets from Thrace, dated to the first half of the 3rd century BC.95 This discovery could be crucial for the reconstruction of the territory of Apollonia in this period, as it is the first positive testimony about the presence of Thracian aristocracy in the region. Possibly, it indicates that the River Ropotamo served as the southern border of the Apollonian chora – something that is presumed for earlier periods as well, leaving the coastal settlement at Urdoviza as an isolated ‘enclave’ (see above). It could also illustrate Thracians encroaching on the territory of Apollonia. The death of the Lysimachus in 281 BC created a vacuum of power along the West Pontic coast (or at least part of it), not immediately filled by the Seleucids.96 The Celtic invasion followed shortly, of which we do not know with any certainty if it reached the coast. Again, if Apollonia was not part of the Lysimachus’ kingdom (or even if it was), we cannot say how these events affected the city. In any case, during these decades the balance of the forces around Burgas Bay shifted, bringing Mesambria to the front. In the first half of the 3rd century BC, Mesambrian amphorae were distributed widely both along the Black Sea coast and in the Thracian interior, reaching as far as the Kazanlak Valley to the west,97 which is only one sign of the economic prosperity of the Dorian polis. The decline of Apollonia in the late 4th and the early 3rd century BC seems to have been gradual, but a larger crisis becomes apparent around the middle of the 3rd century BC, the most telling sign being the abrupt reduction of the territory of the necropolis, which shrank to a limited area in the immediate vicinity of the ancient town (see Fig. 13.6).98 The presence of coins of Antiochus II in graves in the Kalfata locality99 also supports this chronology. The name of the Seleucid king is also plausibly reconstructed in an inscription found in Apollonia but probably inscribed elsewhere, judging by the Doric dialect (Mesambria is the nearest Dorian city, which makes it the most probable candidate) (IGB I2 388); the text suggests military help rendered (to Apollonia and Mesambria?) by a general, appointed by Antiochus II.100 These events could be related to Antiochus’ campaign in Thrace, usually dated to just before the middle of the 3rd century BC (255–253 BC).101 Bringing together a number of (often fragmentary) inscriptions and other evidence,102 Avram has offered a comprehensive reconstruction of the events along the Black Sea coast in the 250s BC (including the war for the ‘emporion Tomis’), which he sets in the 94

 Balabanov and Pantov 2017; 2018.  See Tonkova 2010. 96  See Dumitru 2015, 293. 97  Stoyanov 2011; 2016. 98  See most recently Damyanov 2017, 366–69. 99  Gerasimov 1963, nos. 1253–1254; Yurukova 1982; Paunov 2015, 271. 100  The reconstructions of the inscription diverge – whether the strategos was appointed over Apollonia (IGB I2 388) or over Astike (Avram 2003b, 1192). It has been also suggested that a garrison was established in Apollonia (Kosmin 2014, 303–04, nn. 58, 65; contra Dumitru 2015, 296–97). 101  Delev 2015, 61; Paunov 2015, 271; Kosmin 2014, 89. 102  Avram 2003b, 1190–1200. 95

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context of a conflict between Antiochus II and Ptolemy II. He envisions a large alliance of the West Pontic cities from Istros to Apollonia in support of the Seleucid, and a swift reaction against it on the part of Ptolemy II, as early as 254 BC – followed by a complete domination of the Ptolemies.103 The chronology fits well the collapse of the Apollonian necropolis, although the entire hypothesis should leave room for local histories as well. There should be an explanation for this sudden change – just as a population surge may be the reason for the expansion of the necropolis in the 5th century BC. Thus, some sort of demographic crisis may be presumed, although of unknown character. Also, while Apollonia seems to have gone into steep decline, Mesambria, across Burgas Bay, continued to thrive in the later 3rd and the first half of the 2nd century BC, when it issued gold and heavy silver coins104 and there are numerous rich graves with gold jewellery in the necropolis.105 Apparently, there were more factors at play in addition to the presumed conflict between Antiochus II and Ptolemy II, for example the elusive Celts or the local Thracians106 – the famous Mesambrian decree and treaty with Sadala (IGB I2 307) dates broadly from the same period, and the Astai in the coastal region to the south of Apollonia were on the rise, to become visible in the early 2nd century BC.107 Whatever misfortunes befell Apollonia in the middle of the 3rd century BC, they spared Mesambria – or this more powerful city was able to ward them off. This unbalanced situation inevitably led to the clash between Mesambria and Apollonia for Anchialo at some point in the first half of the 2nd century BC, based on the proposed date for the famous honorary decree of the Istrian admiral Hegesagoras, son of Monimos (IGB I2 388 bis = ISM I 64).108 If Avram is right about the large West Pontic alliance several decades earlier, this would explain the indignation against the ‘undeclared war’ started by the Mesambrians. As a result, Apollonia lost its outpost across Burgas Bay – the phrourion of Anchialo was razed to the ground, though the city managed to safeguard its remaining chora, probably the core territory in the coastal plain. The troubled period is also illustrated by funerary monuments of Apollonians that probably fell in battle;109 in one case at least, Thracians were the enemy (IGB I2 463 ter). By this time, however, Apollonia was only a shadow of its former glory in the Classical period.

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Delev, P., Karayotov, I. and Domaradski, M. 1982: ‘Strandzha planina’. In Fol, A. (ed.), Megalitite v Trakiya 2: Trakiya Pontika (Trakiiski pametnitsi 3) (Sofia), 263–390. Devlova, P. and Kirov, I. 2018: ‘Antichna krepost v zemlishteto na s. Ravadinovo, obsht. Sozopol’. In Arheologicheski otkritiya i razkopki prez 2017 g. (Sofia), 171–73. Devlova, P., Kirov, I. and Damyanov, M. 2019: ‘Antichna krepost v zemlishteto na s. Ravadinovo, obsht. Sozopol’. In Arheologicheski otkritiya i razkopki prez 2018 g. (Sofia), 205–08. Domaradzka, L. 1999: ‘Monuments épigraphiques de Pistiros’. BCH 123.1, 347–58. Domaradzki, M., Karaiotov, I. and Gotzev, A. 1991: ‘L’habitat du premier âge du Fer de Malkoto kale’. Thracia Pontica 4, 119–32. —. 1992: ‘Keramika ot rannozhelyaznata epoha ot krepostta Malkoto kale pri s. Ravadinovo, obsht. Sozopol’. Arheologiya (Sofia) 34.4, 29–42. Dumitru, A.G. 2015: ‘Some Thoughts about Seleucid Thrace in the 3rd c. BC’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 293–98. Gallo, L. 2013: ‘Athens and the Pontic Poleis in the Tribute List of 425/424 BC’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Atasoy, S., Avram, A., Dönmez, Ş. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Istanbul, 14th–18th September 2009) (BAR International Series 2517) (Oxford), 159–61. Georgieva, R. 2005: ‘Kanichka ot Karnobat s izobrazhenie na trakiiski voini’. Arheologiya (Sofia) 47.1–4, 32–40. Georgieva, R. and Nikov, K. 2010: ‘Ranni trako-elinski kontakti (po arheologicheski danni ot Karnobatsko)’. In Georgieva et al. 2010, 142–57. Georgieva, R., Stoyanov, T. and Momchilov, D. (eds.) 2010: Yugoiztochna Balgariya prez II–I hilyadoletie pr.Hr. (Varna). Gerasimov, T. 1959: ‘Domonetni formi na pari u trakiiskoto pleme asti’. Arheologiya (Sofia) 1, 85–87. —. 1963: ‘Monetite v nekropola na Apoloniya’. In Venedikov, I. et al., Apoloniya: Razkopkite v nekropola na Apoloniya prez 1947–1949 g. (Sofia), 331–40. Greenhalgh, P. 1973: Early Greek Warfare: Horsemen and Chariots in the Homeric and Archaic Ages (Cambridge). Gyuzelev, M. 2008: The West Pontic Coast between Emine Cape and Byzantion during the First Millennium BC (Burgas). Hermary, A., Panayotova, K., Baralis, A., Damyanov, M. and Riapov, A. 2010: Apollonia du Pont (Sozopol). La nécropole de Kalfata (Ve–IIIe s. av. J.-C.) (Bibliothèque d’archéologie méditerranéenne et africaine 5) (Paris/Aix-en-Provence). Hristov, I. 2017: ‘Trakiiskata Akra. Prouchvane na yami ot IX v. pr. Hr. na nos Akra, zemlishte na gr. Chernomorets’. Izvestiya na Natsionalniya istoricheski muzei 29, 9–38. —. 2013: Akra mezhdu Anchialo i Sozopol (Sofia). Isaac, B. 1986: The Greek Settlements in Thrace before the Macedonian Conquest (Studies of the Dutch Archaeological and Historical Society 10) (Leiden). Karayotov, I. 2007: ‘Le monnayage de Messambria et les monnayages d’Apollonia, Odessos et Dionysopolis’. In Grammenos, D. and Petropoulos, E. (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea 2 (BAR International Series 1675) (Oxford), 127–74. Katsarova, V. 2007: ‘Spasitelni arheologicheski prouchvaniya na nadgrobna mogila no.10 na n. Kolokita, gr. Sozopol’. In Arheologicheski otkritiya i razkopki prez 2006 g. (Sofia), 307–10. Katsarova, V. and Stoyanova, D. 2009: ‘Nadgrobna mogila no. 6000010 po AKB na n. Kolokita, gr. Sozopol’. In Popov, H. and Tenchova, A. (eds.), Sbornik v pamet na professor Velizar Velkov (Sofia), 186–210. Kerschner, M. 2006: ‘Zum Beginn und zu den Phasen der griechischen Kolonisation am Schwarzen Meer. Die Evidenz der ostgriechischen Keramik’. Eurasia Antiqua 12, 227–50. Kosmin, P. 2014: The Land of the Elephant Kings: Space, Territory, and Ideology in the Seleucid Empire (Cambridge, MA/London).

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Panayotova, K., Damyanov, M., Stoyanova, D. and Bogdanova, T. 2014: ‘Apollonia Pontica: The Archaic Temenos and Settlement on the Island of St. Kirik’. In Álvarez Martínez, J.M., Nogales Basarrate, T. and Rodà de Llanza, I. (eds.), Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World (Proceedings of the XVIIIth International Congress of Classical Archaeology), vol. 1 (Mérida), 595–98. Panayotova, K., Daskalov, M., Draganov, B. and Todorov, V. 2013: ‘Arheologicheski razkopki na poluostrov Urdoviza v gr. Kiten’. In Arheologicheski otkritiya i razkopki prez 2012 g. (Sofia), 428–30. Panayotova, K., Gyuzelev, M. and Nedev, D. 2008: ‘Spasitelni prouchvaniya na teritoriyata na nekropola na Apoloniya Pontiiska’. In Arheologicheski otkritiya i razkopki prez 2007 g. (Sofia), 317–21. Panayotova, K., Stoyanova, D. and Damyanov, M. 2021: ‘Late Archaic Relief Plaques with Warriors from Apollonia Pontica’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Greeks and Romans in the Black Sea and the Importance of the Pontic Region for the GraecoRoman World (7th Century BC–5th Century AD): 20 years On (1997–2017) (Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Constanţa, 18–22 September 2017) (Oxford), 598–611. Paunov, E. 2015: ‘Introduction to the Numismatics of Thrace, ca. 540 BCE–46CE’. In Valeva, J., Nankov, E. and Graninger, D. (eds.), A Companion to Ancient Thrace (Malden, MA/Oxford), 265–92. Petrova, A. 2005: ‘Shield, Altar and Wreath. Gravestones of Fallen Citizens from Apollonia Pontica’. In Stoyanov, T., Angelova, S. and Lozanov, I. (eds.), Stephanos Archaeologicos in honorem Professoris Ludmili Getov (Sofia), 591–98. —. 2010: ‘Pogrebalno zakonadetelstvo v Apoloniya? Opit za rekonstruktsiya na bazata na nadgrobnite pametnitsi ot VI–II v. pr. Hr.’. In Rabadzhiev, K. (ed.), Stephanos Archaeologicos in Honorem Professoris Stephcae Angelova (Sofia), 261–76. —. 2015: Funerary Reliefs from the West Pontic Area (6th–1st Centuries BC) (Colloquia Antiqua 14) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA). Picard, O. 1999: ‘Le commerce de l’argent dans la charte de Pistiros’. BCH 123.1, 331–46. Rabadjiev, K. 2017: ‘Theoi Samothrakes at Pontos Euxeinos’. Archaeologia Bulgarica 21.2, 11–25. Reho, M. 1990: La Ceramica attica a figure nere e rosse nella Tracia Bulgara (Archeologica 86) (Rome). Salviat, F. 1999: ‘Le roi Kersobleptès, Maronée, Apollonia, Thasos, Pistiros et l’histoire d’Hérodote’. BCH 123.1, 259–73. Seure, G. 1924: ‘Archéologie Thrace’. RA 19, 307–50. Shalganova, T. and Gotsev, A. 1995: ‘Problems of Research on the Early Iron Age’. In Bailey, D. and Panayotov, I. (eds.), Prehistoric Bulgaria (Monographs in World Archaeology 22) (Madison, WI), 327–43. Shapiro, H.A. 1983: ‘Amazons, Thracians, and Scythians’. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 24.2, 106–13. Ştefan, M.-M. and Sirbu, V. 2016: ‘Early-Hellenistic Barrel-vaulted Tombs from Kallatis’. In Coimbra, F., Delfino, D., Schuster, C. and Sîrbu, V. (eds.), Late Prehistory and Protohistory: Bronze Age and Iron Age (Proceedings of the XVII UISPP World Congress, 1–7 September 2014, Burgos, Spain, Sessions A3c and A16a) (Oxford), 211–21. Ştefan, M.-M., Sirbu, V. and Ştefan, D. 2017: ‘Tumuli, Roads and Plots. Decoding the Monumental Funerary Space of the 4th–3rd Centuries BC Kallatis’. Journal of Ancient History and Archaeology 4.1, 52–84. Stoyanov, T. 2011: ‘New Evidence of Amphorae Production in Early Hellenistic Mesambria Pontica’. In Tzochev et al. 2011, 191–201. —. 2016: ‘More on the Amphorae Production in Early Hellenistic Mesambria Pontica’. In Slavova, M. and Sharankov, N. (eds.), Monuments and Texts in Antiquity and Beyond: Essays for the Centenary of G. Mihaylov (Sofia), 362–70. Stoyanova, D. 2008: ‘Grobnitsi s polutsilindrichen svod v Severoiztochna Trakiya’. In Marazov, I. and Draganov, D. (eds.), Svetat na getite, Izvestiya na Regionalen istoricheski muzey – Ruse 12, 115–35.

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L’ANNEAU DU ROI SKYLÈS: POUVOIR ET TERRITOIRE AU NORD-OUEST DE LA MER NOIRE Madalina DANA et Dan DANA

RÉSUMÉ Cette étude revient sur la question du roi Skylès, connu par un célèbre passage chez Hérodote et par des monnaies, en reprenant l’analyse de l’étonnante inscription sur une bague en or, découverte jadis dans la Dobroudja, ainsi que de son iconographie. Il est désormais permis d’améliorer la compréhension de ce document à la lumière des pratiques épistolaires de l’époque, afin de mieux saisir les rapports entre les Grecs des côtes pontiques et les élites ‘barbares’. ABSTRACT This paper reconsiders the question of king Scyles, known by a famous passage in Herodotus and by coins, through the analysis of the astonishing inscription on a golden ring, discovered once in the Dobrudja, as well as its iconography. This allows to improve the comprehension of this document, in the light of contemporary epistolary practices, in order to better understand the relationships between the Greek inhabitants of the Pontic shore and the ‘barbarian’ elites.

Cette étude se propose de revenir sur la question du roi Skylès, connu par un célèbre passage d’Hérodote et par des monnaies de bronze. Nous reprenons l’analyse de l’étonnante inscription sur une bague en or, découverte jadis dans la Dobroudja, dont la scène figurée sur le chaton demande d’être explicitée dans le cadre de l’iconographie grecque.1 Nous profitons de l’occasion pour fournir plusieurs photos en couleur de ce document et pour améliorer sa compréhension à la lumière des pratiques épistolaires de l’époque. En effet, ces dernières sont mieux connues de nos jours grâce aux lettres privées sur plomb et sur support céramique récemment découvertes.

1. DÉCOUVERTE

ET PUBLICATIONS

L’objet fut découvert de manière fortuite au début des années 1930, à environ 10 km au sud de la cité grecque d’Istros, par des paysans du village de Caraharman (rebaptisé depuis 1926 Vadu, commune de Corbu, dép. de Constanţa), qui labouraient les terres. Il est conservé au Musée National d’Histoire de la Roumanie (MNIR, Bucarest), inv. 10616.

1  Nous remercions Alexandru Bădescu (MNIR, Bucarest) d’avoir facilité l’accès à la documentation photographique et Nikolina Kéi (ANHIMA, Paris) pour ses suggestions concernant l’iconographie.

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Après deux éditions préliminaires dont les lectures fantaisistes ne méritent pas d’être reproduites,2 la première véritable édition et un long commentaire furent donnés par J.G. Vinogradov il y a quatre décennies, dans une version russe reprise aussitôt en italien.3 L’épigraphiste russe publia à cette occasion deux photos assez lisibles, généreusement fournies par D.M. Pippidi – reproduisant le chaton et une partie de l’inscription principale –, ainsi que trois dessins réalisés d’après cette documentation photographique.4 Cette édition a été améliorée par Laurent Dubois, qui offre 15 ans plus tard une interprétation différente (IGDOP 4).

2. DESCRIPTION

DE L’ANNEAU ET ÉDITION DE L’INSCRIPTION

Cet anneau d’or de facture olbienne (diam. min. 2.4 cm, diam. max. 2.8 cm; poids: 28.5 g.)5 présente une iconographie remarquable et une légende diversement interprétée.6 Sur le chaton ovale (1.5 × 2 cm), en guise de sceau, figure une femme habillée d’un chiton, assise sur une chaise élégamment dessinée (Fig. 1). La femme est représentée selon un style provincial et archaïsant: la tête est de profil, avec un œil de grandes dimensions, stylisé; les cheveux, retenus par un fin diadème, sont attachés en queue de cheval; les mèches sont rendues par de gros traits. Ses pieds chaussés de poulaines, dont la pointe dressée fait pendant à l’extrémité du dossier, reposent sur un pose-pied.7 Elle tient dans la main droite un miroir rond, figuré de face, avec une longue manche qui présente une extrémité arrondie, et dans la main gauche une fleur; une autre fleur, plus petite, est figurée sur la baguette qui relie les pieds de la chaise. 2

 Apostolidis 1936 (photos p. 222–33), avec les descriptions du médecin Hektor Sarafidis de Constantza, accompagnées de lectures et commentaires invraisemblables (Myrtilos Apostolidis était un savant grec de Philippoupolis/Plovdiv); Canarache 1950, 216‒17 (et photos), qui pense que sur le jonc figurait une inscription probablement scythe en caractères grecs. Pour la critique de leurs théories, voir Vinogradov 1997, 616–17. 3  Après une première intervention (Vinogradov 1978), voir Vinogradov 1981a (cf. J. et L. Robert, Bulletin épigraphique 1982, 233: Κελεόε Αργοταν πὰρ ναι, « tell to be with Argotas ») (= Vinogradov 1997, 613‒33; SEG XXX 800, ca. 500‒460/450 av. J.-C.), qui cite quelques mentions de ce document dans les publications en russe. 4  Vinogradov 1981a, 10, fig. 1 a–b (photos), et 14, fig. 2 a–c (dessins) (= Vinogradov 1997, pl. 39.1‒2 et a‒c). 5  Type V des anneaux d’époque classique, cf. Boardman 1970, 214 (et dessin 213). 6  IGDOP 4. Voir L. Dubois, dans IGDOP, 1996, p. 11–13 (dessins p. 12), suivi par Jajlenko 1996, 191‒94 [cf. SEG XLVII 1126]. Voir aussi Meljukova 1979, 245; Vinogradov et Kryžickij 1995, 103–05 (photos pl. 99); Tohtas’ev 1999, 169–73 (excursus sur le nom grec Ἀγρότας); Hornblower 2000, 132–33; Vinogradov 2000, 329, critiquant l’interprétation de Dubois; Avram 2003, 306, qui ne partage pas l’interprétation de Vinogradov; Oppermann 2004, 62‒63 (et photos de qualité en noir et blanc, pl. 26, fig. 4a‒c); Alekseyev 2005, 40 et 42 (dessins 41, fig. 1); Irimia 2005, 67–74 (dessin 91, fig. 5.1 a–c); Heinen 2006, 23‒24 (cf. A. Avram, Bulletin épigraphique 2007, 399); Biondi 2011, 375–77 (et dessins, 376, pl. 1); Vlassopoulos 2013, 114 (dessins 115, fig. 13); Teleagă 2014, 295–301 (dessin 297, fig. 1), qui soutient que la pièce était conservée dans la collection de la Maison mémorielle George Severeanu; Jajlenko 2016, 272‒74 (dessins 272, fig. 33); Teleagă 2016, 211, n. 13 et 217, n° 30 (dessin 220, fig. 3.1) ; une photo du chaton dans le catalogue récent Dacia Felix (Demarsin et Derwael 2019, 12). 7  Ces chaussures féminines portent le nom d’akatia, car elles évoquent les petites barques (Morrow 1985, 38‒39, 147‒48; Stieber 2004, 176; Lee 2015, 163). Une korè du Musée de l’Acropole d’Athènes, du dernier tiers du VIe siècle av. J.-C. (inv. n° 683), porte des chaussures pointues/ἀκάτια peintes en rouge (voir Karakasi 2003, pl. 167 et 264). Pour les connotations érotiques des chaussures, voir Levine 2005, 60‒61.

L’ANNEAU DU ROI SKYLÈS

Fig. 1. Chaton de l’anneau (iconographie et inscription A) (© MNIR, Bucarest, inv. 10616).

Fig. 2. Jonc de l’anneau (inscription B) (© MNIR, Bucarest, inv. 10616).

Fig. 3. Jonc de l’anneau (fin de l’inscription B) (© MNIR, Bucarest, inv. 10616).

Fig. 4. Jonc de l’anneau (détail de l’inscription B) (© MNIR, Bucarest, inv. 10616).

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Deux inscriptions en caractères grecs ornent l’anneau, indiquant par leur paléographie le milieu du Ve siècle av. J.-C., ce qui est corroboré par le contexte historique: (A) Six lettres régulières furent assez profondément gravées, avec l’enlèvement de la matière par copeaux, sur le chaton, à gauche de la femme (Fig. 1); les deux dernières sont séparées du reste par le miroir. Ht. des lettres: 0.4 cm, et 0.3 cm pour l’ômega; epsilon carré, avec les trois branches de longueur égale; kappa avec les deux bras plus courts, placés dans la partie supérieure; lambda à hastes presque égales, car la première dépasse un peu en haut; sigma à quatre bras, dont le bras supérieur est oblique vers le haut, et le bras inférieur horizontal; ypsilon de forme classique; ômega plus petit, de tradition archaïque. On lit: ΣΚΥΛ–ΕΩ.

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(B) Sur le jonc de l’anneau, une autre inscription fut profondément gravée; plus longue, elle est composée de 20 lettres (Fig. 2 et 4), dont les quatre dernières, qui ne tenaient pas sur le cercle, sont placées sur la partie externe de l’anneau, près du chaton. Sur le cercle de l’anneau, les lettres sont gravées de manière dextroverse; en revanche, pour les quatre dernières lettres de l’inscription, gravées sur la partie externe du jonc, le ductus est sinistroverse, alors que la graphie des lettres est dextroverse, permettant une lecture de droite à gauche (Fig. 3).8 On lit: ΚΕΛΕΟΕΑΡΓΟΤΑΝΠΑΡ|ΙΑΝΕ. Les lettres, de taille égale (ht. des lettres: 0.3–0.4 cm), ont été gravées en plusieurs temps. À l’instar de la technique de gravure, différente par rapport au chaton (sans enlèvement de métal, avec des segments triangulaires), la forme des lettres est différente de celle de l’inscription A et trahit une inspiration archaïsante: alpha avec les deux hastes déconnectées et la barré médiane oblique, orientée vers la gauche (à l’exception de l’avant-dernier alpha, de forme classique); gamma avec des bras quasi-égaux; epsilon carré, avec les bras légèrement inégaux et la haste verticale prolongée en bas; iota régulier; kappa avec les bras plus longs, légèrement recourbés; lambda à hastes égales; ny asymétrique, les hastes déconnectées, dont la troisième penchée vers la droite; omikron tracé en deux temps; pi avec la seconde haste dissymétrique; rhô à grande boucle; tau régulier. A. Sur le chaton, on lit le nom du roi, au génitif ionien des noms en -ης: Σκυλεω. B. Sur le jonc de l’anneau, les éditeurs se sont confrontés à des problèmes de coupe et de compréhension. Vinogradov, qui a reconnu à juste titre la forme ionienne attendue du verbe κελεύω, avec ouverture du second élément de la diphtongue -ευ-, avait lu, en ordre, une forme d’impératif, un nom de personne à l’acc., une syncope de παρά et la graphie ionienne de l’infinitif εἶναι: κέλεοε [= κέλευε] Αργοταν πὰρ | ναι; en traduction italienne, « ordina di stare presso Argotas! ». D’après le savant russe, il s’agissait d’un message émanant de l’anneau lui-même, adressé à la déesse figurée sur le chaton, pour que l’objet soit laissé à son possesseur: « Ordonne-moi d’être auprès d’Argotas » ou « Ordonne-moi, (déesse), d’être auprès d’Argotas! ». Le sujet du verbe serait dans ce cas la divinité figurée sur le chaton, sur lequel serait représentée une scène d’investiture royale: on aurait ainsi affaire à un objet parlant, marque du pouvoir d’un nouveau roi, appelé Argotas. Afin de mieux étayer sa thèse, Vinogradov estimait qu’il était question de deux inscriptions éloignées l’une de l’autre dans le temps. S’appuyant également sur l’avis de M. Guarducci, qui lui a été communiqué par une lettre de 1978, concernant la paléographie et la datation, il arrivait à la conclusion que l’inscription de l’anneau (au passage des VIe–Ve siècles av. J.-C.) serait plus ancienne que celle du chaton. Dans cette optique, l’objet en or aurait d’abord appartenu au grand-père de Skylès, Argotas;9 ce n’est

8  Dans la célèbre « lettre sur plomb de Berezan » d’Achillodôros (IGDOP 23, seconde moitié du VIe siècle av. J.-C.), les trois dernières lettres du mot final de la l. 3 sont notées en dessous, en boustrophèdon: Ἐλθὼμ παρ᾿ Ἀναξαγό(←)ρην. 9  Vinogradov prend Argotas pour un ancêtre de Skylès, à placer entre Idanthyrsos (victorieux contre les Perses) et Ariapeithès, père de Skylès. Sur Skylès, voir également Vinogradov 1981b, 60–61 et 74–75 (= Vinogradov 1997, 205–06 et 224).

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que trois à cinq décennies plus tard, vers 460-450, que le jeune roi aurait gravé son nom au génitif sur un objet dynastique hérité de son grand-père.10 Loin de ces spéculations sur lesquelles on aura l’occasion de revenir, nous adoptons la lecture de L. Dubois, qui critique l’interprétation romanesque du savant russe:11 ̯ κελεόε ˉ Αργοταν παρ|εναι←. Dubois reprend en effet l’une des hypothèses de Vinogradov, qui avait déjà pensé à l’éventualité de voir dans κελεόε ˉ la forme attendue de κελεύει (IIIe pers. sg. de l’indicatif présent), en graphie ionienne, avec l’ouverture du second élément de la diphtongue médiane -eu- et la graphie de la vraie diphtongue -ei- par le simple epsilon.12 Comme le note Dubois, conformément à la syntaxe, le verbe κελεύω est suivi de la construction accusatif + infinitif, ce qui autorise sa traduction: « x ordonne qu’Argotas soit auprès ». Seuls deux sujets s’avèrent possibles pour le verbe initial, le roi Skylès ou bien l’anneau, en tant qu’objet parlant, ce qui revient au même, étant donné que l’anneau est le symbole du pouvoir royal. L’objet constitue alors pour le savant français un « signe royal envoyé par Skylès à Argotas, l’un de ses princes ou de ses représentants en pays odryse », étant par conséquent « porteur d’un message royal qui intime l’ordre à celui qui le reçoit de rejoindre le roi des Scythes ».13

3. L’ICONOGRAPHIE:

INVESTITURE ROYALE OU SCÈNE-TYPE?

En accord avec son interprétation, Vinogradov exploite l’iconographie du chaton comme si elle revêtait une signification politico-religieuse. Le personnage féminin serait une déesse, figurée dans une scène d’investiture royale, scène qui a été proposée et largement popularisée dans la littérature scythologique, depuis Mikhail Rostovtzeff jusqu’à l’influent D.S. Raevskij.14 L’interprétation de Vinogradov s’appuie sur la présence fréquente, dans l’inventaire de plusieurs kourganes scythes (Čertomlyk, Kul’ Oba, Melitopol, Nosaky, Oguz, Soloha)15 10  Vinogradov (cf. SEG XXX 800, avec une accentuation différente pour le verbe, κελεόε [= κελεύε] Αργοταν πὰρ | ναι: « tell to be with Argotas »). Une autre interprétation fut aussitôt proposée par Georgi Mihailov, qui rejette l’écart d’un demi-siècle entre les deux inscriptions (cf. SEG XXX 800, per litt.): Skylès étant le propriétaire de l’anneau, son nom fut gravé par la personne qui réalisa l’image d’Aphrodite; un second graveur réalisa l’autre inscription. Selon l’épigraphiste bulgare, Skylès demande à la déesse « ordonne à Argotas d’être présent », Argotas étant ainsi l’amoureux de Skylès, plutôt que son ami. 11  « Tout ceci me paraît un roman. Pour que cette hypothèse soit admissible il faudrait impérativement que le nom du roi fût au datif et non à l’accusatif » (L. Dubois, dans IGDOP, p. 13). 12  Pour la notation de la vraie diphtongue ei par un simple epsilon, voir l’Appendice grammatical de L. Dubois, dans IGDOP, p. 184–85, § 4. 13  L. Dubois, dans IGDOP, p. 13. La même interprétation est soutenue par Teleagă 2014, 297–98 et Teleagă 2016, 237, qui parle d’un « signe de pouvoir ». 14  Conception résumée par Ustinova 1999, 120: « The idea of the communion with the goddess as a guarantee of sovereignty finds perhaps its most striking expression in the representation and the inscription on King Scyles’ ring ». Pour une critique argumentée de la vision anachronique de Rostovtzeff sur la mystique de la communion, voir Meyer 2013, 245–53. 15  Quelques exemples: Artamonov 1969, 59, fig. 114 (3.6 × 3.8 cm, Čertomlyk), pl. 235 (3.4 × 3.8 cm, Kul’ Oba). || Gold der Skythen 1984, n° 53 (et photo), 57 appliques rectangulaires en or (3.5 × 4.3 cm) avec le même motif (kourgane de Čertomlyk, Dnepropetrovsk, région du Dniepr, seconde moitié du Ve siècle av. J.-C.). || Meyer 2013, 246, fig. 89 d (photo) et 325, K.14f (et d’autres plaques de la collection Uvarov): 17 appliques

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de plaquettes rectangulaires en or avec un schéma iconographique récurrent: à droite, un jeune Scythe imberbe tenant dans sa main gauche un vase et buvant dans un rhyton face à une femme assise sur un fauteuil à gauche, tenant un miroir dans sa main gauche. Selon l’interprétation courante, la figure féminine serait une déesse (Tabiti) et le personnage masculin le jeune roi; il s’agirait pour la plupart des commentateurs d’une scène appartenant au cycle de l’investiture royale ou du mariage, qui aurait la même valeur de rituel d’union.16 Du fait que ce type de plaquettes se rencontre dans l’inventaire funéraire de femmes de statut social élevé, comme éléments de la parure de la défunte,17 on a déduit leur fonction de prêtresses. Nous préférons nous éloigner de cette surinterprétation iconographique, dans une clé religieuse qui projette sur le monde scythe des fantasmes savants modernes. Il s’agit en réalité d’appliques de vêtement sous la forme de petites plaquettes en or de la même dimension (ca. 3.5 × 3.5 cm), qui entrent dans une série de scènes-type plus variées, figurant des animaux (réels ou fantastiques), des cavaliers ou divers autres personnages. La scène qui nous intéresse présente en réalité deux figures complémentaires: une femme habillée à la grecque, avec l’attribut féminin par excellence qu’est le miroir, et un jeune homme qui porte des vêtements scythes et est en train de boire. L’insertion typologique et fonctionnelle de cette scène dans une série à valeur décorative lui enlève toute signification politique, idéologique ou religieuse précise, la rattachant à l’iconographie qui évoque le monde des femmes et la complémentarité des rôles sociaux. Nous passons ainsi, dans ce contexte scythe nord-pontique, du sacré au profane. Par conséquent, pour revenir à l’iconographie de notre anneau, nous ne partageons pas l’interprétation religieuse donnée par Vinogradov et suivie par la plupart des commentateurs. Tout d’abord, l’exécution et le style trahissent une production grecque régionale.18 L’absence du jeune guerrier scythe enlève à cette scène toute insertion dans la série citée ci-dessus; en revanche, il est plus approprié de chercher des parallèles pour la figure féminine à l’intérieur de l’iconographie grecque. Des scènes similaires comportant une femme assise au miroir apparaissent aussi bien sur les gemmes et les anneaux que dans l’art funéraire grec. Ainsi, une gemme d’anneau en calcédoine gris, de la fin du Ve siècle av. J.-C., figure une femme assise sur une chaise, en sakkos, chiton et himation, un miroir dans la main droite, en train de mettre la dernière main à sa coiffure.19 Un scarabée en rectangulaires en or (3.8 × 3.8 cm) du kourgane de Kul’ Oba (IVe siècle). || Na kraju ojkumeny 2002, 47, n° 130 (collection Uvarov, de Kul’ Oba?) (photo). || Dal mille 1995, 95, n° 86 (kourgane d’Oguz, seconde moitié du IVe siècle). || ZGG, 251, fig. 8 (Čertomlyk), 283, fig. 8 (Kul’ Oba). || Reeder 2001, 148, fig. 41: plaquette avec femme au miroir (3.5 × 3.7 cm) (Nosaky, ca. 250). || Meyer 2013, 294, fig. 120 (photo) et 295, fig. 121 (dessin): sur une bande de diadème en or, une figure féminine centrale, avec un miroir et un vase rond à boire, et des figures de Scythes (Sahnovka Kyrgan 2, région Čerkasy, Ukraine, seconde moitié du IVe siècle). || D’autres images: Schiltz 1994, 186, fig. 134 (kourgane de Melitopol, IVe siècle), 188, fig. 135 A et E (diadème du kourgane de Sahnovka, IVe siècle av. J.-C.). || Reeder 2001, 146, fig. 40), 189, fig. 137 (Kul’ Oba). 16  Selon Raevskiy 1993, 43–44, il s’agirait du rituel d’union entre la déesse Tabiti et le roi scythe. 17  Cf. Schiltz 1994, 184‒86, qui parle d’un cycle d’investiture lié à la fonction royale, avec la déesse au miroir (Tabiti?) et un homme tenant un rhyton dans la main (exemples de Kul’ Oba, Soloha, Čertomlyk et Nosaky). 18  Boardman 1994, 339, n. 33 (femme assise, style grec provincial). 19  Collection privée; voir Boardman 1975, 89, n° 38 (photo n° 38).

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Fig. 5. Lécythe attribué à Syriskos (© AGORHA).

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Fig. 6. Lécythe attribué au « Peintre d’Icare » (© AGORHA, cliché F. Lissarrague).

lamine d’or de Tarente de la fin du Ve siècle présente l’inscription ΔΩΡΟΝ ‒ renvoyant à la pratique du cadeau, δῶρον ‒ à côté d’une figure féminine (en chiton et himation), assise sur un diphros, qui soulève de la main gauche une couronne et tient un miroir dans sa main droite, tendue vers le bas.20 Un lécythe attique de la première moitié du Ve siècle, attribué au peintre Syriskos, figure une jeune femme désirable assise sur une chaise à décor floral avec pose-pied, en face d’un homme drapé; elle tient de ses mains une couronne, alors qu’un perdrix est posé sur ses genoux; autour d’elle, d’autres accessoires féminins complètent l’espace domestique: un alabastre, un panier et un miroir suspendu (Fig. 5).21 Un autre lécythe attique à fond blanc, attribuée au « Peintre d’Icare », du milieu du Ve siècle, montre une jeune fille debout dans un espace intérieur, délimité par une chaise et une corbeille à laine, regardant la fleur qu’elle tient dans la main droite, alors que dans la main gauche elle tient un miroir (Fig. 6).22 Le parallèle le plus frappant apparaît sur une pyxis attique à figures rouges attribué à Pistoxénos (vers 480–470), figurant trois groupes de femmes; l’une des femmes est assise sur une chaise à dossier (klismos) et tient de la main droite un miroir, dont la manche se termine par une double volute, alors que de la main gauche elle tient une fleur (Fig. 7).23 Pour ne donner que des exemples de 20

 Collection Castellani, à présent au British Museum; voir en dernier lieu Bevilacqua 2018, 341‒42 (photo et dessin 355, fig. 4 a–b). 21  Berlin, Antikensammlung, F2252; ARV² 1641; Add² 205; BAPD 202736. 22  Palerme, Collection Mormino 33; ARV² 1667.61 bis; Add² 281; BAPD 275342; Kéi 2008, 198 (photo fig. 3). 23  Bibliothèque Royale de Bruxelles 9; ARV² 1555; Add² 229; BAPD 211359; Feytmans 1948, 49‒54, n° 9 (photo pl. XXII); Miroirs 2000, 73, n° 31; dans le même catalogue, 72, n° 28, une hydrie attique à figures rouges du deuxième quart du Ve siècle figure une femme assise qui se regarde dans un miroir.

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pièces trouvées au nord de la mer Noire, d’autres scènes-type sur anneau figurent des femmes assises jouant avec un chien ou en train de jouer de la lyre.24 Attribut par excellence de la beauté féminine, le miroir fait partie du décor et des accessoires féminins sur les vases grecs, alors que sur les stèles funéraires il constitue l’un Fig. 7. Pyxis attique attribuée à Pistoxénos des objets indiquant que la défunte est une (© AGORHA). femme (miroir en main).25 La position la plus courante représente la femme de profil, tenant un miroir vu de face. Dans l’autre main, un autre attribut lui fait parfois écho (flacon/parfum, foulard brodé) ‒ cf. dans notre cas une fleur; ce sont tout autant d’objets-signes montrés comme des prolongements du corps féminin, témoignant de son charme naturel, sa charis.26 Quant au miroir figuré sur l’« anneau du roi Skylès », il appartient à un type rencontré souvent parmi les productions grecques au nord de la mer Noire, tel un miroir rond en bronze à manche ornée de plaques en or comportant des motifs animaliers, retrouvé dans le kourgane de Kul’ Oba.27

4. DES

PRATIQUES ÉPISTOLAIRES QUI SORTENT DE L’OUBLI

Une minorité de gemmes et d’anneau sont inscrits, dans une variété de genres: des marques de propriété et des dons,28 des signatures d’artisans, des acclamations, des formules de bon augure et de salutation.29 Notre pièce relève d’une autre sous-catégorie, puisqu’il convient de parler d’un objet-message,30 comportant la marque de propriété royale et un bref message en dialecte ionien. En effet, en accord avec la syntaxe, le verbe ̯ κελεύω est suivi de la construction accusatif + infinitif: κελεόε ˉ Αργοταν παρ|εναι←. Cette séquence fait en réalité écho à des pratiques épistolaires en cours à la même époque. Les dernières découvertes de lettres sur plomb et sur support céramique ont confirmé que l’épistolographie grecque d’époque archaïque et classique utilisait deux verbes d’envoi qui, par leur emploi canonique dans le prescrit, indiquaient qu’il s’agissait 24  Artamonov 1969, pl. 281, anneau sigillaire en or (2.4 × 1.9 cm), figurant une femme assise jouant avec un chien (Velika Bliznica), et pl. 316, anneau en or (long. 2.1 cm), figurant une femme assise jouant de la lyre (Karagodeuašh). 25  Cf. le livre de Frontisi-Ducroux et Vernant 1997; sur le motif du miroir dans l’art antique, voir Balensiefen 1990. 26  F. Frontisi-Ducroux, dans Frontisi-Ducroux et Vernant 1997, 82. Sur les miroirs et les bijoux comme attributs des femmes, voir Lissarrague 2011. Sur la correspondance sémantique très directe entre la fleur et la jeune fille dans la céramique attique, voir Kéi 2008. Voir aussi les conclusions de Kéi 2015, sur l’esthétique florale des vases attiques à figures rouges: « Vehicles of visual and olfactory sensations, florals magnify figures and, at the same time, supply the vase scenes with a reservoir of values linked to the physical and social charis: youthful beauty, generosity and favour, delight and joy ». 27  Artamonov 1969, fig. 213; Meyer 2013, 14, fig. 4b. 28  Ainsi un anneau d’or du VIIe siècle av. J.-C. arrivé dans les collections du Paul Getty Museum, avec une dédicace circulaire à Héra en dialecte argien: Ηα· Ϝρικνίδας ἀνέθκε θιιι λευϙλένι Ηραι; voir Masson 1988 et Kritzas 2000. 29  Voir l’étude de Bevilacqua 2018. 30  Pour ce genre d’objets, voir Burzachechi 1962–63.

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d’un message comportant des instructions. Si le premier verbe, ἐπιστέλλω, est plus fréquent dans les documents conservés (dont beaucoup proviennent du nord de la mer Noire), il est vraisemblable que l’autre verbe, κελεύω, a connu une popularité similaire à une époque plus reculée. On connaît à présent quatre lettres privées qui utilisent ce verbe dans le prescrit ou à l’intérieur du message, dont trois dans l’espace phocéen occidental et une au nord de l’Égée: (1) lettre sur une tablette d’argile incomplète de Thasos (vers 500),31 qui commence de la manière suivante: Ἐχίονι | Ἀρτυμοκλέος | Εὔαρχος ⁝ σέ κελεύει, « À Échiôn, fils d’Artymoklès, Euarchos: (il) ordonne ». Ce même verbe pourrait revenir à la l. 6, [--ἐκέλε?]υέ σε ὅτι, « il t’ordonnait de ». L’adresse est donc suivie de l’injonction σέ κελεύει, selon un formulaire ou plutôt une constante épistolaire d’époque archaïque et classique. (2) lettre sur plomb d’Emporion, de la fin du VIe siècle av. J.-C. (IGEP 129), l. 7: καὶ κελεύε ˉ σε Βασπεδ[2] ἔλκ[ε ˉν ---], « et il ordonne que tu remorques Basped[–] »; dans la même lettre, ce verbe revient vers la fin, à la l. 14, sous la forme [κεκ]έλευκα, « voilà mes ordres ». La forme verbale κελεύε ˉ doit être comprise comme un indicatif présent à la IIIe pers. sg., avec la graphie epsilon pour la vraie diphtongue ei, plutôt qu’une forme d’impératif. L’expéditeur de la lettre se réfère à lui-même à la IIIe pers., comme dans la lettre de Berezan’ envoyée par Achillodôros (IGDOP 23), dans celle d’Attique expédiée par Mnèsiergos32 et dans la lettre d’Agathè (voir infra). Comme le remarque à juste titre R.A. Santiago,33 cette lettre retrouvée sur la côte catalane n’est rien d’autre qu’une série de κελεύματα, à savoir des instructions données par l’expéditeur à son homme d’affaires d’Emporion. La restitution du participe parfait neutre pl. [κεκ]έλευκα est parfaitement appropriée pour la fin de cette longue liste d’instructions. (3) lettre sur plomb de Ruscino (près de Perpignan), de la première moitié du IVe siècle av. J.-C.,34 où ce verbe apparaît quatre fois: A, ll. 1–2, [κ]ελε[ύει] | σε πρ[ῶτον ---] (« ordonne que d’abord »), A, l. 6, κελεύε[ι] σε παρεῖνα[ι ---] (« il t’ordonne d’être présent »), B, l. 1, [κ]ελεύει σ[ε ---] (« il t’ordonne »), B, l. 4, [σε] κελεύει βάλλεσθαι (« il ordonne que tu paies le (droit de) passage »). (4) lettre sur plomb d’Agathè (auj. Agde, dép. d’Hérault), de la fin du IVe siècle. ou du début du IIIe siècle,35 où le même verbe apparaît après le prescrit (A, l. 2), οὐ κελεύει [---]. On peut remarquer l’emploi d’une construction-type κελεύε ˉ σε, présente deux fois dans la lettre sur tablette d’argile de Thasos et quatre fois dans la lettre sur plomb de Ruscino, alors que dans les documents plus tardifs le verbe κελεύω comporte une nuance d’exhortation. Deuxième « verbe épistolaire » le plus fréquent aux commencements de l’épistolographie grecque, κελεύω a dû connaître un usage en tout point semblable au verbe ἐπιστέλλω, « envoyer, ordonner par lettre ». Il apparaissait par ailleurs dans les sources littéraires, avec le même sens d’envoyer des instructions, y compris par lettre: on peut ainsi citer 31

 Trippé 2015–16.  Wilhelm 1904. 33  Santiago 2003, 169, n. 17. 34  Rébé et al. 2017. 35  IGF 130, et nouvelle édition Dana 2017, avec le déchiffrement de la plupart du document, y compris pour cette séquence. 32

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Fig. 8. Carte des espaces nord-pontique et thrace (D. Dana).

κελεύει σε Ἀστυάγης, κελεύει σε Περίανδρος et même κελεύει με Μαρδόνιος.36 Dans le domaine religieux et dans l’épigraphie civique, ce verbe renvoie à la formule consacrée ὁ νόμος κελεύει.

5. SKYLÈS

DANS LE LOGOS SCYTHE D’HÉRODOTE

Le nom Skylès est tout sauf anodin, car un roi scythe du même nom est le protagoniste d’un célèbre récit d’Hérodote (4. 78–80), abondamment commenté,37 étant en outre attesté par un monnayge de bronze. Dans son livre IV consacré au Pont nord, appelé aussi le logos scythe, composé de récits géographiques, historiques et ethnographiques,38 l’historien d’Halicarnasse juxtapose deux histoires sur l’adoption des mœurs grecques par deux Scythes, ayant comme 36  Voir le message d’Astyage transmis par Harpagos à un bouvier: Κελεύει σε Ἀστυάγης τὸ παιδίον τοῦτο λαβόντα κτλ (Hérodote 1. 110); Xerxès s’adressant à Artémise: Κελεύει με Μαρδόνιος (Hérodote 8. 101); Plutarque Mor. 149 C (Conv. sept. sap.): Ἐκ τούτου περιελθὼν ὑπηρέτης ‘κελεύει σε Περίανδρος’, ἔφη, ‘καὶ Θαλῆν παραλαβόντα κτλ. Ou encore Xénophon qui raconte son entrevue à Chalcédoine avec un homme de confiance du roi thrace (Anab. 7. 1. 5): Σεύθης δὲ ὁ Θρᾷξ πέμπει Μηδοσάδην καὶ κελεύει Ξενοφῶντα συμπροθυμεῖσθαι, ὅπως διαβῇ τὸ στράτευμα, καὶ ἕφη αὐτῷ ταῦτα συμπροθυμηθέντι ὅτι οὐ μεταμελήσει (« De son côté le thrace Seuthès envoie Médosadès et ordonne que Xénophon jointe ses efforts à ceux des autres pour que l’armée franchisse le détroit; il lui assurait que s’il agissait ainsi, il ne s’en repentirait point », trad. P. Masqueray, modifiée). 37  Voir, à titre d’exemple, le commentaire de Corcella 1993, 296–99 (version anglaise: Asheri et al. 2007, 638–40). 38  Hartog 2001, 23–51 (« Les Scythes d’Hérodote: le miroir scythe »).

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conséquence leur fin tragique. Le premier est Anacharsis qui, « après avoir visité beaucoup de contrées et y avoir donné de grandes marques de sagesse » (ἐπείτε γῆν πολλὴν θεωρήσας καὶ ἀποδεξάμενος κατ᾿ αὐτὴν σοφίην πολλήν), retourna en Scythie et y célébra les rites de Cybèle, qu’il avait appris des Cyzicéens; accusé d’avoir adopté des coutumes étrangères et d’avoir eu commerce avec les Grecs (Ἑλληνικὰς ὁμιλίας),39 Anacharsis sera tué par le roi Saulios.40 Le second est le roi Skylès.41 Fils du roi Ariapeithès, « protecteur » d’Olbia, dans la première moitié du Ve siècle av. J.-C.,42 Skylès était né d’une mère grecque, originaire d’Istros, qui lui avait appris la langue et les lettres grecques – ἐξ Ἰστριηνῆς γυναικὸς οὗτος γίνεται καὶ οὐδαμῶς ἐπιχωρίης, τὸν ἡ μήτηρ αὐτὴ γλῶσσάν τε Ἑλλάδα καὶ γράμματα ἐδίδαξε (4. 78) –, raison pour laquelle il manifestait sa préférence pour les mœurs grecques. Selon le récit d’Hérodote, quand il résidait à Olbia, ville où il avait un palais et une épouse olbienne,43 Skylès prenait des vêtements grecs et adoptait le genre de vie hellénique (καὶ τἆλλα ἐχρᾶτο διαίτῃ Ἑλληνικῇ) et non celui scythe (διαίτῃ μὲν οὐδαμῶς ἠρέσκετο Σκυθικῇ): régnant sur les Scythes, Skylès n’avait aucun goût pour la vie à la mode scythique; il était bien plutôt tourné vers les mœurs grecques, du fait de l’éducation qu’il avait reçue (…). Chaque fois qu’il amenait la troupe des Scythes près de la ville des Borysthénites (ces Borysthénites disent être Milésiens), toutes les fois que Skylès venait chez eux, il laissait sa troupe dans la banlieue; et quand il entrait lui-même dans l’enceinte et en avait fait fermer les portes, il déposait le costume scythique, prenait un vêtement grec (…) [et] offrait aux dieux des sacrifices suivant les coutumes des Grecs (κατὰ νόμους τοὺς Ἑλλήνων);[44] puis, après avoir passé un mois ou davantage, il s’en allait revêtu du costume scythique. 39  Hérodote 4. 78, cf. une expression similaire pour Salmoxis en Ionie, οἷα Ἕλλησί τε ὁμιλήσαντα, « pour avoir fréquenté des Grecs » (4. 95). 40  Hérodote 4. 76–78 (trad. P.-E. Legrand), en partic. 4. 76: « Les Scythes, eux aussi (sc. comme les Égyptiens, 2.91) répugnent terriblement à adopter des coutumes étrangères, que ce soient celles d’autres peuples ou surtout des coutumes helléniques; ils le firent bien voir dans le cas d’Anacharsis et de nouveau, après lui, dans le cas de Skylès ». Après l’épisode d’Anacharsis tué pour avoir abandonné les nomoi scythes, Hérodote 4. 77 rapporte la version des Lacédémoniens, selon laquelle le sage scythe fut envoyé en Grèce par le roi scythe lui-même; or, Hérodote la rejette comme étant un récit inventé par les Grecs, ἀλλ᾿ οὗτος μὲν ὁ λόγος ἄλλως πέπλασται ὑπ᾿ αὐτῶν Ἑλλήνων (Hartog 2001, 148–49). Borgeaud 1996, 29–30 attire l’attention sur le fait que, dans le récit d’Hérodote, Cybèle et son culte sont vus comme grecs, étant apportés de Grèce. 41  Tohtas’ev 2005, 68–70, n° 12 (et nn. 59 et 62), 72, n° 15 (Skylès). À ce sujet, il faut mentionner l’endonyme des Scythes, Skolotoi, d’après le nom d’un roi (Hérodote 4. 6). 42  Tymnès, ἐπίτροπος de Ariapeithès, sans doute à Olbia (Hérodote 4. 76), porteur d’un nom carien. Pour la question du « protectorat » scythe, voir infra. 43  Voir pour la discussion Hartog 2001, 142–43. Ariapeithès avait eu au moins trois épouses: à part les deux Grecques, d’Istros et d’Olbia, il avait hérité après la disparition de son père de la scythe Opoia (Hérodote 4. 78); le fils d’Opoia avec Ariapeithès s’appelait Orikos. 44  Une dédicace olbienne à Hermès, en grec, pourrait rappeler l’engouement du roi Skylès pour le culte des divinités grecques, sans le contexte dramatique de l’histoire racontée par Hérodote. Le dédicant de ce graffite de Ve siècle av. J.-C. (vers 490–470, selon L. Dubois, IGDOP 77), porte un nom vraisemblablement scythe: Ἰγδαμπαιης: Ἑρμῆι; il est sans doute question d’un indigène établi dans la cité ou dans la chôra. Sur un graffite symposiaque de Berezan’ (ca. 550 av. J.-C.), Ju.G. Vinogradov a reconnu un composé hybride gréco-scythe Ἰδάνθεμις, en le rapprochant pour le premier membre du nom d’un roi scythe mentionné par Hérodote, Ἰδάνθυρσος (4. 76, 120 et 127); Vinogradov, Bulletin épigraphique 1990, 552–53; IGDOP 27. Ce graffite sur vase dans un contexte symposiaque (« Petit puisoir pour le lubrique Idanthémis ») atteste l’adoption par les indigènes hellénisés de pratiques typiquement grecques.

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Sa participation aux cérémonies bachiques entraînera sa fin. Renversé par les siens et remplacé par son frère Oktamasadès – lui-aussi d’origine melangée, puisqu’il était né de la fille du roi Térès, fondateur du royaume odryse45 –, Skylès se réfugie au sud de l’Istros, chez les Odryses, avant d’être livré par le roi Sitalkès, fils de Térès (et donc oncle d’Oktamasadès), en échange du frère du roi odryse, réfugié chez les Scythes. Skylès fut par la suite décapité sur l’ordre d’Oktamasadès.46 Selon Hérodote, Skylès avait donc appris la langue et les lettres grecques de sa mère, une Grecque originaire de la cité d’Istros. Cette transmission d’une partie importante de l’héritage culturel passe par la mère, signe qu’elle-même était une personne éduquée, ce qui à cette époque, en particulier pour les femmes, était l’apanage de l’élite. Dans cette histoire particulièrement instructive d’acculturation, (ré)élaborée par les Olbiopolites et Hérodote, on voit comment le jeune souverain préféra à la manière de vivre scythe les pratiques cultuelles grecques, en honorant Dionysos dans une cité grecque, Olbia, habillé à la grecque; or, de cette transgression des frontières culturelles, personne ne peut ressortir indemne, car le roi est finalement tué par ses sujets scythes, scandalisés par l’abandon des traditions.47 Comme l’avait souligné F. Hartog, la question de la frontière culturelle est posée ainsi chez Hérodote par deux épisodes du logos scythe: d’un côté les mésaventures d’Anacharsis et de Skylès, Scythes de haut parage, de l’autre, l’histoire du gète Salmoxis, personnage à l’identité incertaine (4. 93–96). Les deux textes offrent en effet deux approches opposées de la frontière: Anacharsis et Skylès « oublient » en effet la frontière entre les Grecs et les Scythes et en subissent les conséquences, illustrant une fois de plus le pouvoir du nomos; au contraire, dans l’épisode de Salmoxis, le Gète esclave qui aurait fréquenté Pythagore sur l’île de Samos pour revenir ensuite chez lui, ce sont les Grecs du Pont qui font tout pour qu’on ne puisse « oublier » la distance les séparant des Gètes.48 Dans ces trois cas, c’est toujours la supériorité des Grecs qui est affirmée au détriment des indigènes, jaloux, comme les Scythes, de leurs coutumes, ou bien sots et prêts à être trompés, comme les Thraces de Salmoxis. Issu d’un mariage mixte, Skylès a de manière évidente une double identité, manifeste à tour de rôle;49 l’une grecque, qu’il assume dès qu’il endosse le vêtement grec, l’autre scythe, qu’il reprend avec son costume scythe pour retourner parmi ses sujets. Par l’intermédiaire du vêtement, le Scythe se métamorphose en Grec: il parle grec, fait des sacrifices aux dieux grecs et épouse une Grecque. On reconnaît facilement ici la fameuse formule 45

 Archibald 1998, 103.  Ce nom est en outre porté par Oktamasadès fils d’Hékataios, roi de la Sindikè (au début du IVe siècle av. J.-C.), dans une dédicace en vers à Apollon par Leukôn Ier, vers 360–355 (Müller 2010, 32–33 et 359–60, n° DE 1); il est également porté par le propriétaire d’une coupe attique à vernis noir d’Hermonassa, vers 480, gén. Οκταμασια|δεος εἰμί κτλ. (Vinogradov 2002, 15–16, exemple absent du LGPN IV). Sur le principe agnatique chez les Thraces, voir Vulpe 1974. 47  Hartog 2001, 137–64 (« Anacharsis et Scylès: parcours d’une transgression »). 48  Voir le commentaire détaillé de ces deux récits chez Hartog 2001, 135–200 (« Frontière et altérité »). L’épisode de Salmoxis présente une structure plus riche: au discours de vérité tenu par les Grecs du Pont, soutenant que Salmoxis etait un charlatan, discours qui en sait plus long que les Gètes eux-mêmes sur leur propre compte, vient se rajouter une prise de parole directe du narrateur qui ruine l’explication rassurante et réductrice donnée par les Grecs pontiques et relance la question de l’identité du personnage (Hartog 2001, 200). 49  Personnage bilingue et « biculturel » (Petre 2004, 111‒13). 46

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que le même Hérodote énonçait pour définir l’hellénité, τὸ Ἑλληνικόν (8. 144). C’est pourtant son acculturation – réussie, du point de vue grec – qui le conduit à une fin tragique. Son projet de se faire initier au culte de Dionysos Bakcheios est le geste de trop: les Scythes, révoltés par de tels agissements, qu’ils méprisaient chez les Grecs, le punirent en lui tranchant la gorge. « Tel est le respect des Scythes pour leurs propres coutumes, et les châtiments qu’ils infligent à ceux qui y ajoutent des pratiques étrangères », conclut Hérodote (4. 80). On découvre ainsi une région où les cités grecques sont entourées par des « Barbares » plus ou moins réceptifs, où ceux qui transgressent leurs coutumes sont punis, comme Skylès, roi hellénisé, qui paye cher son engouement pour la culture grecque et pour le mode de vie des Olbiopolites, ou bien comme le très sage Anacharsis,50 tué à son retour de Grèce pour avoir voulu célébrer un culte étranger chez les Scythes – dans un récit encore plus romanesque.51 S’il n’est toujours pas sûr qu’Hérodote ait visité lui-même le Pont,52 il invoque des informateurs privilégiés tels les Grecs du Pont et d’Hellespont. Ce « folklore colonial », selon l’heureuse expression de Z. Petre,53 représente une source importante aussi bien pour les cités grecques que pour les indigènes: la légende concernant la divinité gète Salmoxis comme esclave et disciple de Pythagore y trouve en effet son origine. Dans le cas d’Olbia du Pont, ce folklore colonial avait fabriqué les versions sur l’échec de vivre à la manière grecque d’Anacharsis et de Skylès, qui nous éclairent sur la fascination que le mode de vie grec a pu exercer sur les dynastes indigènes.54  

6. SKYLÈS

COMME ACTEUR DE L’HISTOIRE RÉGIONALE: LE ROI, SES HOMMES ET

LES CITÉS GRECQUES

Le nom de Skylès figure par ailleurs sur des monnaies de bronze frappées autour de Nikonion; au moins 70 exemplaires sont connus, avec trois dénominations, comportant au revers les légendes ΣΚ, ΣΚΥ, ΣΚΥΛ et ΣΚΥΛΕ,55 et au droit l’image d’une chouette, symbole d’Athéna.56 Ces monnaies, découvertes exclusivement dans la région de Nikonion, apparaissent en compagnie des monnaies locales, y compris des imitations avec la légende 50  Contemporain de Solon, le légendaire sage scythe Anacharsis aurait quitté son pays pour se mettre à l’école de la Grèce; voir la monographie de Kindstrand 1981. 51  Or, c’est le mode de vie des cités grecques comme Olbia ou Cyzique (où Anacharsis aurait assisté à la fête de la Mère des Dieux) qui entraîne des changements importants dans cette contrée qu’Hérodote ne cesse de caractériser comme sauvage (le froid devenu légendaire, les coutumes étranges des Sauromates et des Scythes, la cruauté des Taures qui font des sacrifices humains). Ce dernier épisode se déroule cependant dans le cadre d’une légende grecque (4. 103): « À ce que disent les Taures eux-mêmes, la déité à laquelle ils offrent ces sacrifices serait Iphigénie, la fille d’Agamemnon » (qui, d’après les Grecs, était seulement la prêtresse de la Parthénos). 52  Selon Armayor 1978, bien qu’Hérodote clame avoir visité la mer Noire, il semble que ce soit plutôt la tradition ionienne que sa propre expérience qui a été décisive dans l’élaboration de son histoire sur les thaumasia qui se trouvent au nord de la mer Noire. 53  Petre 2004, 70–126. 54  Dana 2011, 374. Sur Anacharsis et Skylès, qui « incarnent en ce sens tous deux l’hostilité des populations locales, disposées aux confins de l’œcoumène; un espace qui rassemble selon Hérodote les communautés les moins évoluées, empêchant par leur profonde aversion envers les cultures qui leur sont étrangères tout dialogue fertile », voir Baralis 2013, 101. 55  On reconnaît le génitif Σκυλε(ω). 56  Il s’agit du symbole de la déesse elle-même, plutôt que d’une improbable influence athénienne, surtout à cette époque.

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ΙΣΤ, sur le modèle des monnaies d’Istros.57 Située sur la rive gauche de l’estuaire du fleuve Tyras, Nikonion est une cité ionienne fondée dans la seconde moitié du VIe siècle av. J.-C., dont les rapports avec la cité d’Istros ont été très étroits.58 Le nom Argotas59 n’est pas inconnu non plus; de facture iranienne, il doit être un nom scythique60 en -τας, cf. le nom du roi Αριαντας (Hérodote 4. 81) et en particulier Κανιτας, roi scythe de la Dobroudja à l’époque hellénistique.61 Il est encore attesté par deux fois, trois siècles plus tard, pour la même personne, à chaque fois au gén. Αργοτου. À Panticapée, une dédicace des membres d’un thiase en l’honneur d’Aphrodite Ourania, datant du règne de Pairisadès IV Philomètôr, nous fait connaître le remariage de sa mère, la reine Kamasaryè (fille de Spartokos V), après la mort de son premier mari (Pairisadès III), avec un Argotas, fils d’I[dan?]thès.62 Cet Argotas est un dynaste du royaume tardo-scythe de Tauride, vers 170–150 av. J.-C.; prédécesseur de Skilouros, il fut honoré d’un hérôon à Néapolis de Scythie, comportant cette épigramme funéraire qui abonde en références homériques, dont nous ne donnons que le début: Λαΐνεον τόδε σῆμα μεγαυχ[ήτοι]ο ἔ[στησεν] [Α]ργοτου ὁ Σκυθίης κοίρανος ἱπποβό[του] ‘Ce tombeau de pierre fut érigé en l’honneur du glorieux Argotas par le souverain de la Scythie qui nourrit les chevaux’.63 On retrouve le même nom sous la graphie légèrement différente Αργοδας dans une épitaphe du Ier siècle ap. J.-C.(?) de Panticapée (gén. Αργοδα).64 57  Karyškovskij et Zaginajlo 1990; Mielczarek 2005, 274–75; Leschhorn et Franke 2009, 812. On a identifié trois dénominations: (1) les plus petites (9.6–13 mm; 1.50 g), 24 exemplaires, en trois séries (revers ΣΚ); leur poids constitue ⅛ de la dénomination moyenne; (2) les moyennes (diam. 30 mm; 11.94–15.48 g), en deux séries (revers roue à quatre rayons et ΣΚΥ): leur poids constitue ⅛ de l’obole olbienne; (3) les plus grandes (diam. 60 mm; 59.8 g), connues par seulement deux exemplaires, comportent la même iconographie que la dénomination n° 2, et les légendes Β (droit) et ΣΚΥΛ ou ΣΚΥΛΕ (revers); leur poids correspond à ½ de l’obole olbienne. 58  Aujourd’hui Roksolani (raïon d’Ovidiopol’, région d’Odessa); Mielczarek et al. 1997; Ohotnikov et al. 1997; Sekerskaya 2001 (p. 77, monnaies de Skylès); Avram 2003, 287‒89; Avram et al. 2004, 935‒36, n° 688 (cité fondée par Milet ou plus probablement par Istros; les monnaies montrent en tout cas le rôle d’Istros dans sa (re)fondation); Sekerskaya 2007 (monnaies 479, 490‒91). 59  Étymologies iraniennes citées par Vinogradov 1997, 618 (cf. ossète ařgud, « béni, sacré »); Tohtas’ev 2005, 84, n° 33 (arg-, « valeur, valeureux »). Pour la racine, Vinogradov 1997, 618 donne quelques noms iraniens dans les sources littéraires: Ἀργήστης (Perse tombé à Salamine) et Ἀργόστη, la mère de Cyrus l’Ancien. 60  Zgusta 1955, 338, § 773 (nominatif Αργοτος, p. 440). D’autres noms en Αργ- au nord de la mer Noire, de facture iranienne, sont répertoriés dans LGPN IV 40–41 (Αργαμηνος, Αργοναις, Αργουαναγος). 61  Monnaies (Draganov 2015, BAΣIΛEΩΣ KANITOY) et le décret IGB I² 41 d’Odessos (παρὰ βασιλεῖ Σκυθῶν Κανιται) (LGPN IV 186). 62  IOSPE II 19 = CIRB 75: Παιρισάδου. Καμασαρύης. Ἀργότου.| (trois couronnes) | ὑπὲρ ἄρχοντος καὶ βασιλέως | Παιρ[ι]σάδου τοῦ βασιλέως Παι|ρισάδου φιλομήτορος καὶ βασι|λίσσης Καμασαρύης τῆς Σπαρτ[ό]|κου θυγατρὸς φιλ[ο]τέκνου [καὶ] | Ἀργότου τοῦ Ἰ[---]θου βασ[ιλίσ]|σης Καμασαρ[ύη]ς ἀνδρὸς κτλ. [Ἰ[σάν]θου Latyšev CIRB]; cf. la photo dans CIRB-Album. La restitution de son patronyme est très suspecte, Ἀργότου τοῦ Ἰ[σάν]θου, car ce serait un nom gète; Christel Müller propose, avec plus de raison, le nom Ἰδανθης (voir Müller 2010, 81, 88–89, 91). 63  SEG LIII 775; Ivantchik 2004, 66‒67; Müller 2010, 400, n° DE 23 (dont nous empruntons la traduction). Sur les relations du royaume tardo-scythe de Crimée au IIe siècle avec les cités grecques pontiques, voir Ivantchik 2004. 64  IOSPE IV 338 = CIRB 510 (Kreuz 2012, 851–52, n° 996); Zgusta 1955, 338, § 772.

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À l’instar de Vinogradov, Dubois estime que l’objet qui nous préoccupe est un « anneau-sceau » et commente deux autres inscriptions sur bagues, qu’il inclut dans la même catégorie65 (un autre exemple est connu depuis peu): (1) une bague en or du Ve siècle av. J.-C., découverte dans le tumulus de Goljamata mogila, près de Duvanlij (dép. de Plovdiv), dans la nécropole des rois et aristocrates odryses. À droite de l’image d’un cavalier, le chaton présente la légende ΣΚΥΘΟΔ‒ΟΚΟ, donc Σκυθοδοκ, « propriété de Skythodokos».66 Plutôt que d’un nom grec, « ami des Scythes »,67 il s’agit d’un nom hybride (OnomThrac 309),68 comportant comme premier membre le nom grec des Scythes et comme second membre -δοκος (variante du plus fréquent -τοκος), racine fréquente dans l’onomastique thrace et particulièrement en vogue aux époques classique et hellénistique.69 Ce nom d’un personnage par ailleurs inconnu mais appartenant vraisemblablement à la lignée royale thrace doit être mis en rapport avec l’alliance dynastique entre les rois odryses et scythes (Hérodote 4. 80). (2) un anneau en or de Panticapée, conservé au British Museum, qui comporte, à côté d’une niké, la légende Παρμένων βασιλεῖ, « Parménôn (a fait cet objet) pour le roi » (trad. Dubois). Vinogradov, quant à lui, avait lu, en mettant une minuscule comme s’il s’agissait d’un participe verbal, (δακτύλιος) παρμένων βασιλεῖ, « (anneau) qui reste en permanence auprès du roi ».70 Cette hypothèse doit être écartée. D’autre part, la fonction sigillaire ne doit elle non plus être retenue, s’agissant manifestement de la marque d’un simple cadeau, « Parménôn au roi ». (3) en revanche, il faut verser à ce dossier la découverte récente d’une véritable baguesceau en or dans le tumulus de Dalakova mogila, près de Topolčane (dép. de Sliven), dans la vallée de la Tundža (Tonzos) et dans le voisinage de Kabylè, du premier quart du IVe siècle. Deux noms au génitif figurent des deux côtés d’un portrait de profil (tête barbue), en écriture rétrograde: ← Σηυσα Τηρητος, « de Sèusas, fils de Térès ».71 L’anneau était encore fixé au doigt du défunt, qui avait été décapité. Une autre bague en or de l’espace thrace comporte un long message, en langue thrace. Découverte à Ezerovo (dép. de Plovdiv), dans un tumulus de la fin du Ve–début du IVe siècle av. J.-C., elle comporte sept lignes sur le chaton mobile, alors que la suite (quatre lettres) a été gravée sur la tranche,72 comme dans le cas de l’anneau trouvé près d’Istros.  L. Dubois, dans IGDOP, p. 14.  Filow 1934, 105, n° 1, photos pl. VIII.4 et 9; Boardman 1994, 189, fig. 6.6 (photo); diam. anneau 2.6 cm, diam. chaton 1.4 × 2.3 cm, poids 13.70 g. 67  Vlahov 1965, 312; L. Dubois, dans IGDOP, p. 14, qui suit Boardman 1970, 216, 230 et 290, n° 672 (photo pl. 672), « Friend/host of the Scythians », cf. Ξενόδοκος. 68  Pour Velkova 1975, il serait un témoignage des rapports étroits entre les aristocrates scythes et odryses au Ve siècle. 69  OnomThrac 373, par exemple Αματοκος, Μητοκος, Σατοκος, Σπαραδοκος. 70  Vinogradov 1997, 625–26 (avec la bibliographie); Guarducci 1974, 524–25, fig. 214, qui supposait un anthroponyme Βασιλεύς. 71  Kitov et Dimitrov 2008 (SEG LVIII 699); Dana 2015, 247 (brièvement); diam. anneau 1.7 × 2 cm, diam. chaton 2.3 × 2.7 cm, poids 23.25 g. 72  Voir en dernier lieu L. Domaradzka et M. Tonkova, dans Martinez et al. 2015, 160, n° 114; diam. anneau 2,7 cm, diam. chaton 1.7 × 2 cm, poids 31.3 g. Le texte est le suivant: ΡΟΛΙΣΤΕΝΕΑΣΝ|ΕΡΕΝ ΕΑΤΙΛ|ΤΕΑΝΗΣΚΟΑ|ΡΑΖΕΑΔΟΜ|ΕΑΝΤΙΛΕΖΥ|ΠΤΑΜΙΗΕ|ΡΑΖ|ΗΛΤΑ. 65 66

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Il convient d’insérer « l’anneau du roi Skylès » dans un contexte politique et militaire mouvementé dont nous n’entrevoyons que des bribes, à savoir dans le sillage des affaires perso-grecques, perso-scythes (en particulier la campagne de Darius, en 514/513), thraco-grecques et scytho-grecques. Le mariage d’Ariapeithès avec une Grecque d’Istros devait sceller une alliance entre le roi scythe et l’aristocratie de cette cité ionienne, 73 qui se trouvait alors à la périphérie du royaume scythe. Sur le modèle de son père, Skylès prendra une épouse grecque, d’Olbia du Pont, plus proche de son centre de pouvoir. Ces pratiques d’intermariage ne sont pas singulières à cette époque, puisque, pour parler avec J.-P. Vernant, « l’échange des femmes apparaît comme un moyen de créer des liens de solidarité ou de dépendance, d’acquérir du prestige, de confirmer une vassalité ».74 Hérodote 2. 181 nous informe que le pharaon Amasis avait épousé une femme de Cyrène. Plus proche de notre région, dans l’espace thrace,75 on peut citer toute une série d’unions et alliances entre dynastes indigènes et aristocrates grecs et macédoniens depuis la fin de l’époque classique jusqu’au début de l’époque hellénistique: l’Athénien Miltiade le Jeune, de la famille des Philaïdes, domine la Chersonèse Thrace avec 500 mercenaires et épouse vers 515 ou 513 Hégésipylè, fille du roi thrace Oloros (Hérodote 6. 39), union de laquelle est issu Cimon;76 les Athéniens font appel à Nymphodôros fils de Pythès, d’Abdère, frère de l’épouse grecque de Sitalkès, pour leur procurer une alliance avec le roi thrace (Thucydide 2. 29); le même roi Sitalkès reçoit pour épouse Stratonikè, la sœur du roi macédonien Perdiccas; le roi Seuthès propose sa fille comme épouse à Xénophon l’Athénienn en lui offrant également la ville de Bisanthè comme lieu d’habitation et en s’engageant, si Xénophon avait une fille, à la lui acheter, selon la « coutume thrace » (Xénophon Anabasis 7. 2. 38); le général athénien Iphicrate se met au service du roi Cotys, dont il épouse la fille, qui lui donna un fils, Ménesthée (Anaxandridès F 42 K.-A.; Cornelius Nepos Iphicr. 3. 4); Mèda, fille de Kothèlas, est l’une des épouses de Philippe II, au terme d’une campagne difficile au pays des Gètes;77 Bérénice, épouse de Seuthès III, est évidemment d’origine macédonienne;78 enfin, après une expédition malheureuse contre Dromichaitès, le diadoque Lysimaque fut obligé à lui donner une fille en mariage (Pausanias 1. 9. 6). Comme l’avançait déjà P. Alexandrescu, « la tradition des mariages princiers était familière aux colons milésiens depuis leur patrie d’origine. Le modèle micrasiatique, où les rois locaux concluaient des mariages avec les familles aristocratiques grecques, a donc opéré également à Istros: autant dire que la cité était gouvernée à l’époque par un régime oligarchique »; de cette manière, le possible conflit avec les Scythes « a pris fin par une action diplomatique scellée par un mariage ».79 A. Avram, qui suppose qu’Istros avait 73

 Alexandrescu 1990, 68‒70; 1999, 105–07; 2005, 96–98 (« affaires scytho-istriennes »); Avram 1991, 28; 2001, 591‒92; 2003, 288 et 306; 2011, 65. 74  Vernant 2007 I, 660 (texte de 1973); sur les mariages des tyrans, voir Gernet 1976, 344‒59; sur le mariage mixte, voir Vlassopoulos 2013, 132–33. 75  Pour les pratiques maritales et le statut de la femme chez les Thraces, voir Kotova 2000; sur les mariages mixtes, Vlassopoulos 2013, 123‒24. 76  Plutarque Cim. 4. 1-2 (480 CD), citant les poèmes d’Archélaos et de Mélanthios composés en l’honneur de Cimon, qui était donc un μητρόξενος, fils d’un citoyen et d’une étrangère. En revanche, le fils aîné de Miltiade, Métiochos, était né d’une autre femme, comme le précise Hérodote 6. 41. 77  Athénée 557 D (Satyros de Callatis, Βίος Φιλίππου, F 25 Schorn); Jordanès Get. X, 65 (et Dion Chrysostome FGrHist 707 F 3), sur Medopa Gudilae regis filia. 78  Voir le fameux serment de Seuthopolis, IGB III.2 1731 et SEG XLII 661. 79  Alexandrescu 2005, 97.

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cherché à un certain moment l’alliance avec la maison royale scythe, dans le contexte d’un nouvel épisode de la concurrence scytho-odryse, pense dans le même sens qu’il est « permis d’imaginer à Istros un régime dominé par les clans aristocratiques, d’ailleurs toujours ouverts à des alliances matrimoniales avec les familles royales indigènes ».80 Si Skylès a pu régner vers 460–440 av. J.-C., ses frappes monétaires dans la région de Nikonion ont été diversement interprétées. La principale tendance a été d’envisager un « protectorat scythe » sur Olbia et les Grecs nord-ouest pontiques;81 en réaction, d’autres voix se sont élevées contre cette image commode, rappelant que le monnayage de Skylès vers 450 dans cette cité grecque n’est pas en soi un signe du protectorat; pour preuve, des rois thraces ont également frappé monnaie dans les cités grecques égéennes, comme Amadokos et Térès, prédécesseurs de Kotys, à Maronée.82 Entre ces deux positions radicales, et en l’absence de données plus concrètes, il convient d’envisager un compromis entre domination scythe et indépendance grecque: les Scythes pouvaient penser qu’ils contrôlaient les cités grecques, alors que les Grecs pouvaient estimer qu’ils étaient toujours indépendants, ces parties restant prisonnières d’un équilibre soumis à la négociation. Nous avons reconnu dans l’iconographie de l’« anneau du roi Skylès » non pas une déesse et d’autant moins une scène d’investiture royale, mais bien une simple scène-type, de la belle femme au miroir, sans aucun message iconographique à caractère religieux ou politique. Vraisemblablement, Skylès disposait de plusieurs anneaux en or inscrits de son nom ou qu’il faisait marquer de son nom (peut-être offerts par ses amis grecs) dès que l’occasion d’envoyer des cadeaux coûteux se présentait. Dans ce cas, on avait choisi, peut-être par défaut, un anneau avec une thématique féminine. Argotas n’est pas un roi qui précède Ariapeithès – par ailleurs inconnu dans la documentation –, mais bien un subordonné de Skylès, préposé aux territoires situés au sud de l’Istros. Ce message s’apparentant à une investiture s’adresse aussi-bien à Argotas qu’aux Grecs d’Istros, grâce à sa formulation neutre. Argotas devait donc être le représentant de Skylès dans la région d’Istros, dans un domaine d’influence d’étendue inconnue dans la Dobroudja. La découverte fortuite de l’anneau, vraisemblablement dans un tumulus ravagé – et non en tant qu’objet perdu – a eu lieu dans le territoire proche de la cité grecque; Vadu est par ailleurs régulièrement cité parmi les sites d’époque archaïque du territoire d’Istros.83 C’est ici que se croisaient à l’époque les intérêts tantôt convergents tantôts divergents des royaumes scythe et odryse, ce dernier en pleine expansion, même si l’on envisage le fleuve Istros comme marquant la limite entre les deux ensembles,84 en particulier après l’expédition de Darius.85 Des traces 80

 Avram 2003, 306.  Sur la question du « protectorat scythe » sur Olbia dans la première moitié du Ve siècle av. J.-C. voir, entre autres, Vinogradov 1989, 90–109; cette hypothèse a été critiquée par Kryzhitskiy 2005, Cojocaru 2009 et Müller 2010, 49 et 51–52 (qui met en avant l’acculturation, et non la domination). 82  Müller 2010, 32, 49 et 51. 83  Avram 1991, 22; 2003, 291; 2006, 62. Sur le territoire d’Istros, voir Avram 1990. 84  Thucydide 2. 97. 1 notait l’extension du royaume odryse sous Sitalkès, fils de Térès, jusqu’à l’embouchure de l’Istros. Sur l’image de ce fleuve chez Hérodote, voir Dan 2011, qui adopte une analyse similaire à celle de F. Hartog (Le miroir d’Hérodote), sans toutefois le citer. 85  Sur la cité d’Istros, la Thrace et les Perses à l’époque de Darius, voir Avram 2017, qui déplore (15, n. 57) à propos de l’article de Teleagă 2014 sur l’anneau de Skylès, « des accents polémiques agrémentés de quelques aspérités inutiles »; en réalité, la prétendue omission dans l’historiographie roumaine s’explique par les deux mauvaises éditions, avant les études de Vinogradov et la nouvelle interprétation de Dubois. 81

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de la présence scythe ou d’objets scythes dans la Dobroudja ne manquent pas, ainsi, entre autres, à Celic, Sibioara et Stupina,86 sans oublier le petit royaume scythe, néanmoins plus tardif, attesté par un monnayage royal dans l’arrière-pays de Callatis.87 Inversement, la phiale inscrite avec le nom de Kotys (Κοτυος ἐγ Βε, cf. SEG XXXVII 618) découverte dans la tombe d’Agighiol (dép. de Tulcea), illustre les échanges de cadeaux depuis le centre odryse vers la périphérie septentrionale du royaume. Ces échanges sont attestés par les découvertes des tombes aristocratiques du IVe siècle av. J.-C. de Rogozen et Mogilanska mogila (dép. de Vraca), Aleksandrovo (dép. de Loveč), Braničevo (dép. de Šumen) et Borovo (dép. de Ruse), parsemées entre l’Hémus et le Danube. * * * Au cours de notre enquête, nous avons constaté la multiplicité des liens hérités ou créés du roi Skylès avec les Odryses, Istros, Nikonion (cité-sœur, voire colonie secondaire d’Istros) et Olbia. Si nous nous distançons de Dubois dans le sens où nous pensons qu’il ne s’agit ni d’un anneau-sceau ni d’un message qui ordonne à Argotas de rejoindre Skylès ‒ le fait que l’anneau fut trouvé à Istros exclut l’éventualité d’un message lui intimant de se rendre auprès du roi, dans le voisinage de Nikonion ou d’Olbia ‒, nous retenons la structure syntactique et le sens politique du message, manifeste à la lumière des pratiques épistolaires contemporaines. Skylès envoie un anneau qui était dans sa propriété et qu’il fait inscrire nommément à l’intention d’Argotas, lui conférant une mission dans le lointain territoire d’Istros. On peut donc traduire: « (le roi) ordonne qu’Argotas soit présent (sc. agisse en son nom) ». Argotas devait être un subordonné scythe préposé à la région d’Istros (et de la Dobroudja?), qui reçut ce signe royal porteur d’un message personnel. Il est remarquable que ce message, qui a comme destinataire un Scythe, est non seulement rédigé en grec – le seul moyen écrit de communication – mais il emploie par ailleurs un verbe de la correspondance privée, dont seules des bribes sont parvenues jusqu’à nous. Cette injonction montre clairement la maîtrise par le roi – et par ses subordonnés directs – de l’expression écrite grecque. On comprend mieux l’emploi de l’écriture et du grec quand on pense que ce bref texte à forte portée était destiné aussi bien à Argotas que, et surtout, aux Grecs d’Istros.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE Alekseyev, A.Y. 2005: ‘Scythian Kings and “Royal” Burial-Mounds of the Fifth and Fourth Centuries BC’. Dans Braund 2005, 39–55. Alexandrescu, P. 1990: ‘Histria in archaischer Zeit’. Dans Alexandrescu et Schuller 1990, 47‒101. —. 1999: L’Aigle et le Dauphin: Études d’archéologie pontique (Bucarest/Paris). —. 2005: Histria VII: La zone sacrée d’époque grecque (Fouilles 1915–1989) (Bucarest). Alexandrescu, P. et Schuller, W. (éd.) 1990: Histria. Eine Griechenstadt an der rümanischen Schwarzmeerküste (Xenia 25) (Constance). Apostolidis, M. 1936: ‘Χρυσοῦς ἐξ Ἴστρου ἐνεπίγραφος δακτύλιος’. Thrakika 7, 221‒27. Archibald, Z.H. 1998: The Odrysian Kingdom of Thrace: Orpheus Unmasked (Oxford).

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 Oppermann 2004, 62‒63 (et l’anneau de Skylès).  A. Avram, dans ISM III, pp. 19‒21; Draganov 2015.

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Dana, M. 2011: Culture et mobilité dans le Pont-Euxin: Approche régionale de la vie culturelle des cités grecques (Scripta Antiqua 37) (Bordeaux). —. 2017: ‘La lettre grecque sur plomb d’Agathè (Agde, Hérault): édition et commentaire’. ZPE 201, 123–38. Demarsin, B. et Derwael, S. 2019: Dacia Felix. Grandeurs de la Roumanie antique ‒ Romains, Daces, Gètes, Grecs, Scythes et Celtes (Tongres). Draganov, D. 2015: The Coinage of the Scythian Kings in the West Pontic Area (Sofia). Feytmans, D. 1948: Les vases grecs de la Bibliothèque royale de Belgique (Cabinet des Médailles) (Bruxelles). Filow, B.D. 1934: Die Grabhügelnekropole bei Duvanlij in Südbulgarien (Sofia). Frontisi-Ducroux, F. et Vernant, J.-P. 1997: Dans l’œil du miroir (Paris). Gernet, L. 1976: Anthropologie de la Grèce antique (Paris). Gold der Skythen 1984: Gold der Skythen aus der Leningrader Eremitage (Catalogue de l’exposition) (Munich). Guarducci, M. 1974: Epigrafia greca 3: Epigrafi di carattere privato (Rome). Hartog, F. 2001: Le miroir d’Hérodote. Essai sur la représentation de l’autre, 3e éd. (Paris). Heinen, H. 2006: Antike am Rand der Steppe. Der nördliche Schwarzmeerraum als Forschungsaufgabe (Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, Abhandlungen der Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse 2006, 5) (Mayence). Hornblower, S. 2000: ‘Personal Names and the Study of the Ancient Greek Historians’. Dans Hornblower, S. et Matthews, E. (éd.), Greek Personal Names. Their Value as Evidence (Proceedings of the British Academy 104) (Oxford), 129‒43. Irimia, M. 2005: ‘Cu privire la raporturile dintre sciţi, geţi şi coloniile greceşti de la Dunărea de Jos în secolele VI-IV a. Chr.’. Revista română de studii eurasiatice 1, 51–93. Ivantchik, A. 2004: ‘Le royaume scythe et ses relations avec les cités grecques de la mer Noire au IIe siècle av. J.-C.’. Mediterraneo Antico 7.1, 61‒71. Jajlenko, V.P. 1996: ‘Psevdoėpigrafika antičnogo Severnogo Pričernomor’ja’. Dans Istorija i kul’tura drevnego mira. Rossijsko-bolgarskij sbornik statej i učebnyh materialov v čest’ T.V. Blavackoj (Moscou), 175‒222. —. 2016: Istorija i ėpigrafika Ol’vii, Hersonesa i Bospora VII v. do n.ė .–VII v. n.ė. (Saint-Pétersbourg). Karakasi, K. 2003: Archaic Korai (Los Angeles). Karyškovskij, P.O. et Zaginajlo, A.G. 1990: ‘Monety skifskogo carja Skila’. Dans Janin, V.L. (éd.), Numizmatičeskie issledovanija po istorii Jugo-Vostočnoj Evropy. Sbornik stat’ej (Chişinău), 3–15. Kéi, N. 2008: ‘La fleur, signe de parfum dans la céramique attique’. Dans Bodiou, L., Frère, D. et Mehl, V. (éd.), Parfums et odeurs dans l’Antiquité (Rennes), 197‒203. —. 2015: ‘The Floral Aesthetics of Attic Red-Figure Pottery: Visual Adornment and Interplay between Ornament and Figure’. Dans Laung-Auinger, C. et Trinkl, E. (éd.), ΦΥΤΑ ΚΑΙ ΖΩΙΑ. Pflanzen und Tiere auf griechischen Vasen (Akten des internationalen Symposiums an der Universität Graz, 26.–28. September 2013) (CVA Österreich Beiheft 2) (Vienne), 271‒ 80. Kindstrand, J.F. 1981: Anacharsis: The Legend and The Apophtegmata (Uppsala). Kitov, G. et Dimitrov, P. 2008: ‘A 4th Century BC Thracian Gold Signet-Ring from the Dalakova Tumulus (SE Bulgaria)’. Archaeologia Bulgarica 12.2, 25‒32. Kotova, D. 2000: ‘Les femmes et la famille en Thrace ancienne: glanes sur quelques textes antiques’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 26.2, 19–43. Kreuz, P.-A. 2012: Die Grabreliefs aus dem Bosporanischen Reich (Colloquia Antiqua 6) (Louvain/ Paris/Walpole, MA). Kritzas, C.B. 2000: ‘La dédicace argienne attribuée à Wriknidas’. Dans Dubois, L. et Masson, E. (éd.), Philokypros: Mélanges de philologie et d’antiquités grecques et proche-orientales dédiés à la mémoire d’Olivier Masson (Minos Suppl. 16) (Salamanque), 191‒95. Kryzhitskiy, S.D. 2005: ‘Olbia and the Scythians in the Fifth Century BC. The Scythian “Protectorate”’. Dans Braund 2005, 123–30. Lee, M.M. 2015: Body, Dress, and Identity in Ancient Greece (Cambridge).

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Leschhorn, W. et Franke, P.R. 2009: Lexikon der Aufschriften auf griechischen Münzen 2: Ethnika und ‘Beamtennamen’ (Lexicon of Greek Coin Inscriptions 1) (Vienne). Levine, D.B. 2005: ‘ERATON BAMA (“Her Lovely Footstep”): The Erotics of Feet in Ancient Greece’. Dans Cairns, D. (éd.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Swansea), 55‒72. Lissarrague, F. 2011: ‘Éros en tête: femme, miroir et bijoux en Grèce ancienne’. Dans Bodiou, L. et al. (éd.), Parures et artifices: Le corps exposé dans l’Antiquité (Paris), 15‒22. Martinez, J.-L., Baralis, A., Mathieux, N., Stoyanov, T. et Tonkova, M. (éd.) 2015: L’épopée des rois thraces : Des guerres médiques aux invasions celtes, 479–278 avant J.-C. Découvertes archéologiques en Bulgarie (Paris). Masson, O. 1988: ‘La dédicace argienne de Wriknidas’. Revue des études grecques 101.1, 170‒72. Meljukova, A.I. 1979: Skifija i frakijskij mir (Moscou). Meyer, C. 2013: Greco-Scythian Art and the Birth of Eurasia. From Classical Antiquity to Russian Modernity (Oxford). Mielczarek, M. 2005: ‘Coinage of Nikonion. Greek Bronze Cast Coins between Istrus and Olbia’. Dans Alfaro, C., Marcos, C. et Otero, P. (éd.), XIII Congreso Internacional de Numismática, Madrid, 15 y 19 de septiembre 2003. Actas (Madrid), 273‒76. Mielczarek, M., Ohotnikov, S.B. et Sekunda, N.V. 1997: Nikonion: An Ancient City on the Lower Dniester. Commemorative Paper for the 40th Anniversary of the Archaeological Excavations at Nikonion (Toruń). Miroirs 2000: Miroirs: Jeux et reflets depuis l’Antiquité. Mirroirs et reflets, de l’antiquité à la Renaissance (Catalogue de l’exposition) (Paris). Morrow, K.D. 1985: Greek Footwear and the Dating of Sculpture (Madison, WI). Müller, C. 2010: D’Olbia à Tanaïs: Territoires et réseaux d’échanges dans la mer Noire septentrionale aux époques classique et hellénistique (Scripta Antiqua 28) (Bordeaux). Na kraju ojkumeny 2002: Na kraju ojkumeny. Greki i varvari na severnom berezu Ponta Evksinskogo (Catalogue de l’exposition) (Moscou). Ohotnikov, S.B. et al. 1997: Nikonij i antičnyi mir Severnogo Pričernomor’ja (Odessa). Oppermann, M. 2004: Die westpontischen Poleis und ihr indigenes Umfeld in vorrömischer Zeit (Schriften des Zentrums für Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte des Schwarzmeerraumes 2) (Langenweißbach). Petre, Z. 2004: Practica nemuririi: O lectură critică a izvoarelor greceşti referitoare la geţi (Iaşi). Raevskiy, D. 1993: Scythian Mythology (Sofia). Rébé, I., de Hoz, M.P. et de Hoz, J. 2017: ‘La carta griega sobre lámina de plomo de Ruscino (Languedoc, Francia)’. Emerita 85, 199–221. Reeder, E.D. (éd.) 2001 : L’or des Scythes (Catalogue de l’exposition) (Paris). Santiago, R.A. 2003: ‘Las láminas de plomo de Ampurias y Pech Maho revisitadas’. ZPE 144, 167–72. Schiltz, V. 1994: Les Scythes et les nomades des steppes: VIIIe siècle avant J.-C.–Ier siècle après J.-C. (Univers des formes 39) (Paris). Sekerskaya, N.M. 2001: ‘Nikonion’. Dans Tsetskhladze, G.R. (éd.), North Pontic Archaeology: Recent Discoveries and Studies (Colloquia Pontica 6) (Leyde/Boston/Cologne), 67‒90. —. 2007: ‘The Ancient City of Nikonion’. Dans Grammenos, D.V. et Petropoulos, E.K. (éd.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea 2 (BAR International Series 1675) (Oxford), 471‒506. Stieber, M. 2004: The Poetics of Appearance in the Attic Korai (Austin). Teleagă, E. 2014: ‘Pecetea lui Skyles și tumulii fastuoși de la Agighiol și Cugir. Omisiune și falsificare în fondarea mitului “strămoșilor” românilor, geto-dacii’. Studii şi Cercetări de Istorie Veche şi Arheologie 65.3–4, 295–318. —. 2016: ‘Începuturile artei figurative tracice în secolul al V-lea a. Chr. – cu privire specială asupra Dobrogei de Nord şi a spaţiului de la nord de Dunăre până la Nistru’. Studii şi Cercetări de Istorie Veche şi Arheologie 67.3–4, 207–68. Tohtas’ev, S.R. 1999: Compte rendu d’IGDOP. Hyperboreus 5, 164–92. —. 2005: ‘Problema skifskogo jazyka v sovremennoj nauke’. Dans Cojocaru, V. (éd.), Ethnic Contacts and Cultural Exchanges North and West of the Black Sea from the Greek Colonization to the Ottoman Conquest (Iaşi), 59–108.

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THE COINAGE OF TIOS IN BITHYNIA: LOCAL HISTORY, RELIGION AND CIVIC REPRESENTATION Edward DANDROW

ABSTRACT In this contribution I examine the coinage of Tios during the Roman Imperial period. Compared with little extant literary or epigraphic evidence, the city’s numerous coins can provide us a window into civic history, culture and religion, and how its citizens desired to represent their community. From Domitian to Valerian and Gallienus (AD 81–260) Tios produced more than 360 coin types, many of which reflect the city’s mythic history and civic cults. These coins were not produced in isolation, but were part of a network of engravers and minters who shared dies with many communities. One central theme on the coinage relates to the city’s founding, with Dionysos presented as ktistes, only to be replaced during the Antonine period by Teios. While numerous deities are represented, Tios highlighted both Zeus Syrgastes and Dionysos as the two most important civic deities. Almost one-third of all coins minted depict one of these gods. Finally, I address the phenomenon of ‘glocalisation’ – the interplay between the local and global (regional and imperial) – as expressed on the coins through two case studies, the death of Antinous and the ascension of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, and note that the citizens of Tios were knowledgeable of and engaged with imperial events and propaganda, but made them meaningful through the filter of glocalism.

INTRODUCTION Among the ancient Greek communities that dot the southern coast of the Black Sea, Tios has received significant attention in recent years. While Strabo (12. 3. 8) dismisses Tieion (as he calls it) as ‘a town not worth mentioning/remembering’ (To de Tieion esti polichnion ouden echon mnêmês axion),1 surviving ruins and archaeological excavation reveal that during the height of the Roman empire, Tios was a sizeable polis that had a theatre, aqueduct, gymnasium, basilica, baths, a harbour with two breakwaters, and a well-built Acropolis on which survives a prominent temple platform.2 A boule and ekklesia governed Tios, while annually elected magistrates managed the city and its territory. Moreover, inscriptions reveal that the city was part of a Black Sea trade network that consisted of Bithynian and Pontic cities, hinterland communities and even Greek poleis in the Chersonese.3 Further inland on the banks of the Billaios river and along one of the Roman roads in the area, the city maintained an entrêpot located at what is today Gökçebey. Literary references to Tios are very scarce, and much of the data used to reconstruct the history and culture of Tios come from material sources. One type of source, numismatic 1

 He adds that the city was the birthplace of Philataerus, founder of the Attalid dynasty.  See Atasoy 2013; Atasoy and Yıldırım 2015; Öztürk 2013b; Yıldırım 2017. 3  Öztürk 2013b. 2

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evidence, has been used in passing to support information presented in texts and inscriptions, but to date there has been no systematic investigation of Tios’ coinage.4 Because coins serve as a mass medium to communicate both textually and visually the values, cults, myths and histories essential to civic identity, this chapter examines the coinage of Tios in order to understand how the citizens of Tios depicted their community to themselves and outsiders.5 This study is by no means exhaustive; rather it identifies broad trends and utilises select case studies to examine civic representation. I begin by providing an overview of the different coin types and address questions of production. Next, I examine the iconography. I begin by addressing literary accounts of the mythic foundations of the city and their allusions on the coinage. I then turn to examining the Tian pantheon, with particular attention paid to Zeus Syrgastes and Dionysos and the insights that the coinage provides us regarding these two central deities. Finally, I address the coinage as expressions of localism and as evidence of glocalication (the interplay between the ‘local’ and ‘global’ or in this case ‘imperial’).

COIN ISSUES

AND

PRODUCTION: AN OVERVIEW

A total of 372 different types of coins were minted for Tios. The city’s earliest coinage dates probably to the Early Hellenistic period after the city acquired its independence from Amastris. After it came under the control under the kings of Bithynia, it issued a small bronze coin for the Bithynian king Prusias I or II and tetradrachms for Nicomedes III and IV. Tios produced little coinage, however, until the reign of Domitian (AD 81–96) and achieved its greatest production during the Antonine period (143 issues or 38% of all coin types). The following chart reveals the number of different coin types produced during each dynasty or reign of individual emperors.

COIN ISSUES PER DYNASTY/REIGN 70

65

63

60 47

50

41

40 30 20 10

26

21 13

8 1

7

6

24 9

19 5

11 4

1

Pr eJu Imp e lio -C rial la ud ia Fl n av ia n Tr a An ja n to H a ni nu dri M an ar cu s P iu s Au s ( re 1) liu Ps s C eu ( do omm 2) Se -A o d ut El ver on us u ag ab s-C om a o al us rac us al -A l a le (3 xa ) M nde ax r( im 4) G inu or s ( di an 5) III Ph (6 ilip ) D I (7 ec ) iu s (8 Vo ) lu si an V G aler al lie ian nu s (9 )

0

4

 There are, however, two publications concerning the coin finds at Tios and Gökçebey: Lenger and Atasoy 2015; Lenger 2012. 5  For coinage as modes of communication, see Howgego 2005; Manders 2012; Noreña 2011a; 2011b.

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(1) The coins of Antoninus Pius include those of Marcus Aurelius as Caesar. (2) The coins of Marcus Aurelius include those of Lucius Verus, Faustina II and Commodus as Caesar. (3) The coins of Severus and Caracalla include those of Julia Domna, Geta and Plautilla. (4) The coins of Elagabalus and Alexander include those of Julia Paula, Julia Maesa and Julia Mamaea. (5) The coins of Maximinus include those of Maximus. (6) The coins of Gordian III include those of Tranquillina. (7) The coins of Philip I include those of Otacilia Severa. (8) The coins of Decius include that of Hostilian. (9) The coins of Gallienus include those of Salonina and Saloninus. Period/Ruler Hellenistic/Autonomous Prusias I/II Nicomedes III Nicomedes IV Late Republic Tiberius Vespasian Domitian Trajan Hadrian (Antinoos) Antoninus Pius Marcus Aurelius Lucius Verus Faustina II Commodus Ps.-Autonomous (Antoninus Pius-Sev. Alex.) Septimius Severus Julia Domna Caracalla Plautilla Geta Elagabalus Julia Paula Julia Maesa Severus Alexander Julia Mamaea Maximinus Maximus Gordian III Tranquillina Philip I

Issues 4 1 1 1 1 1 1 12 21 7 43 50 13 1 10 26 10 5 32 2 16 10 6 3 8 14 4 5 18 6 4

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Otacilia Severa Trajan Decius Hostilian Volusian Valerian Gallienus Salonina Saloninus Total:

1 3 1 1 11 13 2 4 372

The distribution of production follows what we see elsewhere in many communities in the Roman East: a bell-curve-shaped pattern with a marked increase during the Flavian period and notable decline following the Severan period, with renewed productivity during the reigns of Valerian I (AD 253–260) and Gallienus (AD 253–268). At first glance this production trend seems unremarkable, but the fact that the small city of Tios maintained consistent production in line with many larger communities throughout the East (and one could say more productive) is remarkable itself. It reveals that Tios was economically lively and important to Black Sea and hinterland trade. In terms of the manner of production, Kraft (1972) has influenced our understanding of mints and their operation in Asia Minor. He argues that most communities did not have their own mints, but outsourced production. At any particular time, there were no more than a dozen fixed mints operating in throughout Asia Minor, which produced the dies, flans and coins and shipped them to communities in need. The basis of his argument is the use of the same obverse dies for multiple cities as well as stylistic similarities.6 MacDonald (1992) adds that the similarities were due to itinerant minters who travelled from city to city whenever coinage was needed and carried with them the dies.7 Johnson synthesises their findings and argues that each region had two or three large mints that were fixed or mobile and employed several engravers assigned to specific cities, and that either the finished coins or the engravers and their staffs were sent to communities.8 Recently, Katsari (2011) has added to the discussion that there were likely to have been more than just the handful of mints proposed by Kraft and that although there was die-sharing, we cannot say that there were monetarily integrated areas or that there was a region-wide denomination system or standard. Rather, archaeological findings indicate cities relied on a wide variety of denominations and standards, especially when we consider that local coinage mixed with coins from other cities. There are examples from Tios and elsewhere to support these arguments. An examination of the obverse dies of Julia Maesa and Julia Paula will suffice. Tios issued two coins for Julia Maesa with the obverse legend IOVΛ•MAICAN CEB with a draped bust facing right, wearing a stephane and holding a poppy with both hands (see Fig. 1).9 We find the 6

 Kraft 1972, 90, 92–93.  MacDonald 1992, 5–8. 8  Johnston 1974; 1982–83; 1995. 9  See Classical Numismatic Group printed auction 90, lot 953; SNG von Aulock 7183 = Kraft 1972, 101.18.1; Waddington, RG 137, pl. CX, 5. The model for this design is perhaps a coin of Julia Domna from Pessinus in Galatia. The obverse legend is rare for this city, IOYΛIA AYΓOYCTA (only the second 7

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same die used on an issue for Amastris in Paphlagonia and Creteia-Flaviopolis, and three issues for Bithynium in Bithynia (see Figs. 2–3).10 The same design but a different die is found on a coin from Amastris.11 For Julia Paula, there are five issues using the same die at Tios: a draped, left-facing bust wearing a stephane and holding a poppy in both hands (see Figs. 4–6).12 There is another issue with a draped bust facing right and holding a poppy in both hands (see Fig. 7).13 Both dies have the legend IOV KOP ΠAVΛA CEB. We find both dies for Julia Paula used on three issues from Bithynium (see Figs. 8–10),14 and the left-facing die for Creteia-Flaviopolis (see Fig. 11).15 The same design, but different die is found on a coin from Prusias ad Hippium.16 The geographic distribution of the dies reveals that re-use occurred within a small area of Asia Minor in cities that neighboured one another and were connected by Roman roads (a point that Katsari argues). This would possibly indicate a small network of die exchange between communities, evidence for a centralised mint or itinerant minters who travelled from city to city. The answer is uncertain, but given the number of dies used and issues minted, Tios or possibly Bithynium served as the focal point of minting activity.

FOUNDERS It was common practice among ancient cities to advertise their ktisteis or founders (historical, legendary or otherwise) on their coinage. Tios was no exception. The timing of the minting of these coins as well as literary traditions associated with the founding of known from this mint), with a unique image of the empress: a draped bust wearing a stephane and holding a long poppy in both hands. The reverse legend is ΠECCINOYNTIΩN with Dionysos seated on a throne on a quadriga led by four elephants and holding a thyrsus behind him in his left hand and pouring wine from a kantharos in his extended right hand; Classical Numismatic Group electronic auction 272, lot 246 (34.0 mm; 19.15 g; 1 h). 10  For Amastris, see BnF 17486 = RPC VI, 3627; BnF 593 = Kraft 1972, 101.18.2; Münzkabinett, Staatliche Museem zu Berlin, no. 18214201. For Creteia-Flaviopolis, see BnF L3114 = RPC VI, 3637 = Waddington, RG 38, pl. LIV, 16. For Bithynium, see BM 1979.0101.1274 = SNG von Aulock 322 = Kraft 1972, 101.18.3 = RPC Online, RPC VI, 3658; Rome 80258 = RPC Online, RPC VI, 3658 (Athena); and RPC Online, RPC VI, 3644 (octostyle temple). 11  For Amastris, see BM 1979.0101.1234 = RPC Online, RPC VI, 3626; BMC 13: 89, no. 34, pl. XX.13. For Bithynium, BM 1979.0101.1275 = RPC Online, RPC VI, 3660. 12  With Nemesis, BnF 1680 = Waddington, RG 136, pl. CX, 4; SNG von Aulock 980; Naville Numismatics live auction 36, 3 Dec. 2017, lot 206. With Isis, Forum Ancient Coins Discussion Board (Tom Mullally, 9 May 9 2014) = Busso Peus auction 384, 2 Nov 2005, lot 832 = Gorny and Mosch auction 176, 10 March 2009, lot 1620. For Poseidon, Hirsch XXI, Nov. 1908, lot 2363 = RPC VI, 3585 = Vienna GR 33832; SNG von Aulock 981. For Tyche-Demeter, Lindgren 1985, 196. For Hades-Serapis, Milne 1935, p. 198, pl. XVII, 12. 13  With Athena-Roma, BMC 17; BnF 1679; SNG von Aulock 979; Waddington, RG 135, pl. CX, 1–3. 14  One issue has an octostyle temple within which is a statue facing forward, its head wearing a radiate crown turned right and holding a spear in his right hand and an uncertain object under his left arm: SNG von Aulock 324; Gorny auction 186 (March 2010), lot 1585; Numismatik Lanz München auction 92 (4–5 June 1999), lot 933. A second issue has a similar reverse with an octostyle temple and a statue, which holds a globe in its left hand: Classical Numismatic Group electronic auction 160, lot 142, which describes the figure within the temple as Caracalla and notes that the obverse die is the same as SNG von Aulock, no. 324 but the reverse differs. The third issue has on the reverse Aphrodite riding a hippocamp left, flanked by two Erotes who hold a velum: BMC 13, p. 119, no. 14, pl. XXVI, 6; Gorny auction 160 (October 2007), lot 1891; SNG von Aulock 325; Staatliche Münzsammlung Munich = Kraft 1972, 101.17.1; Waddington, RG 60.1–3; and Yale 2013.17.371. 15  With Hades-Serapis seated, Münzkabinett Berlin L1906 = RPC Online, RPC VI, 3639; SNG von Aulock 527 = Kraft 1972, 101.17.2. 16  BM 1974, 0411.91 = RPC VI, 3525.

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Tios, however, complicate any claims of an ‘official’ history or singular tradition. Scholars commonly accept that Tios was a Milesian colony founded by a priest named Tios/ Teios.17 Our only extant evidence for this, however, comes from the Stephanus of Byzantium (6th century AD), who cites in his Ethnika Herennius of Philon’s (AD 64–141) claim that the Milesian priest Tios founded the city (624, 20). Yet, Stephanus provides a second version, citing Demosthenes of Byzantium, who notes that a certain Thracian chieftain names Pataros invaded Paphlagonia and established Tios in honour of Zeus.18 Continuing with barbarous foundations, Strabo notes that Tios was the capital of the Caucones (12. 3. 5) and makes no mention of any Hellenic founding or colonising of the city. While literary evidence is contradictory, the ‘pseudo-autonomous’ coins with a bust of Teios wearing a taenia and some with drapery or robes provide only partial help in ascertaining the historical foundations of the community (for example, see Fig. 12). These coins (with identifying legend TEIOC) were minted along with anepigraphic issues depicting on the obverse Dionysos (2), Hermes (2), Serapis (1) and Zeus (1). Collectively these are the most commonly depicted deities (sans Serapis; see the coin count below) and thus establish Teios as a figure of great importance to Tios. Franke classifies the pseudo-autonomous coins into two groups, with the first group minted during the joint reign of Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius and a second group during the Severan period (notably under Septimius Severus and Severus Alexander).19 New finds have added to the overall corpus, but do not challenge Franke’s overall assessment except to reveal some production during the reign of Commodus.20 While we identify 18 different pseudo-autonomous issues with Teios (and one of Severus Alexander with a bust of Teios on the reverse), not one identifies him explicitly as ktistês of Tios.21 The sheer number of coins probably celebrates him as such, but if the citizens of Tios sought to advertise their eponymous founder in a somewhat oblique way, they were explicit in calling Dionysos ktistês. The earliest depiction of Dionysos on Tian coinage is an issue minted during the proconsulship of C. Papinius Carbo (62–59 BC), who approved a series of coins for several cities (such as Bithynium, Nicaea, Nicomedia and Prusa) in Bithynia with the bust of Dionysos, date (in the case of Tios, ΔKΣ, or 224 = 59/8 BC), and city name on the obverse and a reverse with Roma or a thyrsus.22 The explicit 17  Cf. Gorman 2001, 70, 249; Avram, Hind and Tsetskhladze 2004, 963–64; Tsetskhladze 2006, lxxii, table 6. For the purpose of this study, when referring to the priest I will rely on the spelling Teios to distinguish it from the city Tios. 18  For a discussion of the foundation of the colony, see Öztürk 2013a, 147–49. He also notes that there is a possible connexion between the name Tios and Dios (Zeus). He points to work done on Phrygian inscriptions found in Galatia and Phrygia that call Zeus ‘Tios’ (149). 19  Franke 1966. For a broader discussion, see Johnson 1985. 20  For example, in a 2004 auction a medallion (35.0 mm; 23.02 g; orientation n/a) dating to the reign of Commodus was sold. On the obverse is a bust of Teios facing right with the legend TEIOC, while on the reverse Commodus is riding a horse facing right with his right hand raised. The reverse legend reads AYTKM-KOMMOΔOC (Münzen und Medaillen auction 15, 21 October 2004, lot 453). 21  For the coin of Severus Alexander, see BnF 1685 (n/a; 5.62 g; n/a) and Waddington, RG 142, pl. CX, 10 (23.0 mm; n/a; n/a). The same obverse is used for an issue with a personified Boulê (BnF 1972.1212 and SNG von Aulock 983) and another with a caduceus (BMC 11, p. 206, 19; SNG Copenhagen 619; SNG von Aulock 984–985; Waddington, RG 143, pl. CX, 11). 22  For Tios, see BnF 1972.1207 (n/a; 5.53 g; n/a); Busso Peus auction 376, 29 October 2003, 326 (n/a; 7.17 g; n/a); and Waddington, RG 5, pl. CVI, 9 (24.0 mm; n/a; n/a). Given the very similar dies and styles

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title ΔIONYΣOΣ KTIΣTHΣ, however, is not found on the coins of Tios until Domitian, then Trajan, and later Marcus Aurelius during the reign of Antoninus Pius (see Fig. 13).23 Throughout Bithynia, besides Tios, only Nicaea strongly and continuously advertised her Dionysian origins; we find the title ktistês on coins minted for Nero, Domitian, Antoninus Pius (see Fig. 14), and Valerian and Gallienus.24 Whereas Nicaea included images of the infant Dionysos on coinage during the Antonine and Severan periods (and possibly claimed a place in the birth-myth of the god), the iconography at Tios is the common image of a youth standing with a thyrsus in hand and holding a kantharos (sometimes with a panther/leopard at his feet).25 We do not know of any local versions of the Dionysos story at Tios. It is likely that it is just one of many ‘generic’ cities founded upon his triumphant return from India. Tios was by no means unique or special in claiming Dionysos as its founder – many other communities did as well – and this foundation myth probably originated during the Hellenistic period, which saw Greek communities both old and new resurrect, re-invent or fabricate mythical foundations for themselves.26 These foundation myths often served as real-world strategies to negotiate Hellenistic politics.27 It is unknown why Tios selected Dionysos – perhaps to distinguish itself from neighbouring Heraclea Pontica (founded by Heracles) and Amastris (founded by Amastris, niece of the last Persian king, Darius III). During the Antonine period, however, there was a shift from Dionysos to Teios on the coinage. A single issue for Marcus Aurelius as Caesar denotes Dionysos as ktistês; afterwards we do not see any coins designating Dionysos as the founder of Tios.28 Instead, there is marked increase in the pseudo-autonomous coinage with the bust of Teios. The cause for this change is uncertain, but it occurs during another wave of Greek of the coins minted during Carbo’s governorship, they were possibly produced at the single mint and then distributed to their respective cities, although the authors of RPC I suggest that each city produced its own coinage in the name of the proconsul (336). 23  For Domitian, see BMC 11, p. 203, 4 = RC 24 = RPC II, 704 (26.67 mm; 10.43 g; n/a). For Trajan, see BnF 1624 = RPC III, 1182 (28.0 mm; 11.54 g; n/a) = Waddington, RG 28, pl. CVII, 2; RPC III, 1181 = VCoins G. Rohde 5999 (27.0 mm; 11.47 g; n/a); and SNG Leypold 275 (n/a; 11/37g; n/a). For Marcus Aurelius, see BM 1979-1-1-1478 = SNG von Aulock 7176 = RPC IV, 5567 (23.0 mm; 8.60 g; 6 h); and Waddington, RG 67, pl. CVIII, 11 (24.0 mm; n/a; n/a). 24  For Nero, see RPC I, 2049. For Domitian, see RPC II, 638. For Antoninus Pius, see SNG von Aulock 7017 and Waddington, RG 80; for Valerian and Gallienus, see BMC 147; and Waddington, RG 819 (accompanying Dionysos on this coin is Artemis and collectively they are called OI KTICTAI NIKAIEΩN). Another tradition referring to Heracles as ktistês is also attested on the coins of Domitian (RPC II, 639). Antoninus Pius (Waddington, RG 161), Marcus Aurelius (Waddington, RG 160). 25  For Nicaea and the infant Dionysos, see Antoninus Pius: SNG von Aulock 544; SNG Copenhagen 480; SNG Leypold 145; and Waddington, RG 79. For Marcus Aurelius, see BMC 35; and Waddington, RG 151. For Lucius Verus, see Imhoof-Blumer 1908, GRMK 4. For Septimius Severus, Dr Busso Peus auction 403, April 2011, lot 603. For Julia Domna, see Waddington, RG 371. For Caracalla, see BMC 74; and Waddington, RG 469. For Geta, see Waddington, RG 509. Nicaea’s possible claim is an alternative to the commonly accepted tradition that Nysa was the birthplace of Dionysos. 26  For example, there are dozens of cities names Nysa scattered claiming to be the god’s birthplace and founded by him. See Price 2005, 119. For broader discussions of mythic foundations, see Curty 1995; 1999; Scheer 1993; 2003; Strubbe 1984; Weiss 1984. 27  For representative works discussing this phenomenon, see Erskine 2002; Jones 1999; Musti 1963; Scheer 1993; Strubbe 1984; Weiss 1984. 28  For Marcus Aurelius, see BM 1979-1-1-1478 = SNG von Aulock 7176 = RPC IV, 5567 (23.0 mm; 8.60 g; 6 h); and Waddington, RG 67, pl. CVIII, 11 (24.0 mm; n/a; n/a).

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communal redefinition and re-invention that marks the 2nd century AD.29 It is likely that the story of Teios as founder was accentuated (or possibly invented) at this time to provide a more historically plausible foundation myth or, as characteristic of cultural ethos of the time, to highlight local history.

THE TIAN PANTHEON, ZEUS SYRGASTES

AND

DIONYSOS

As is the case with the coinage of a vast majority of cities, the dominant iconography is that of deities worshipped in or around those communities. While some caution should be exercised when dealing with the coins as expressions of religion or evidence for the presence of cults, in general the representation of divinities indicates religious interest in certain deities, implicit appeals to the power of certain gods and goddesses, and honouring them. Among the coins of Tios, we find represented directly or by symbol Zeus (without title, 43 issues), Zeus Syrgastes (24), Dionysos (39), Hermes (32), Nemesis or DikaiosyneNemesis (26), Asklepios (23), Tios (20), Tyche (17), Athena/Roma (15), Hades-Serapis (11), Poseidon (11), Demeter (10), Billaios river-god (10), Hera (9), Heracles (7), Cybele (6), Hygieia (6) and Nike (6). The least common deities are Glycon (3), Isis (3), Aphrodite/Eros (2), Ares (2), Artemis/Apollo (2), Harpocrates (2), Pan (2), the river nymph Sardo (2), Telesphorus (2), Hestia (1), Helios (1) and the river-god Ladon (1). Compared to numismatic evidence, inscriptions addressing cults and gods are much scarcer. While supporting the presence of a few deities found on coinage – Dionysos, Asklepios, Meter Theôn (Cybele), Heracles ‘Alexikakos’ and Glycon – we also find an unknown goddess and Theos Hypsistos (Zeus). Due to the small number of inscriptions, we cannot draw any conclusions. Numismatic evidence, however, suggests that Zeus Syrgastes and Dionysos were the most important gods in Tios. During the Roman Imperial period, Zeus Syrgastes was the central deity at Tios. He was the synthesis of the Greek Zeus and the Thracian deity Syrgastes.30 An inscription points to a festival and games in his honour.31 It is possible that the temple podium on the Acropolis, dating to the Roman period, belongs to this god.32 Coins with Zeus on the reverse make up almost one-fifth (18%) of all of those minted at Tios. He is mentioned by the title Syrgastes on 24 coins, although 20 other coins without that name represent him in the manner of Zeus Syrgastes: standing and facing left, with his right hand behind him holding a long sceptre and a patera in his extended right hand. Below at his feet is an eagle.33 The explicit mention of Zeus Syrgastes contrasts earlier representation of Zeus produced at Tios. The earliest coinage of Tios, dating to the Early Hellenistic period, depicts only the bust of Zeus on the obverse and an eagle or flower on the 29  For a discussion of this phenomenon, see Bowie 1974; Goldhill 2001; Linder 1994; Price 2005; Strubbe 1984; Swain 1996; Weiss 1984. For a more thematic and historicising approach, see Harl 1987. 30  It is unclear, however, if he was worshipped as Zeus Syrgastes at Tios since its founding in the 7th century BC, but the god was known in Phrygia at that time. For Zeus Syrastes as one of many localised deities, see Marek 2016, 509. 31  Öztürk 2018. 32  There is no evidence, however, that this temple was built over an older one. 33  Nineteen coins depict him in the same fashion, but without the eagle at his feet. Two coins have him in the same stance, but holding a thunderbolt, while one has him holding an eagle.

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reverse.34 Another coin with Hera on the obverse and Eleutheria on the reverse possibly connects Zeus to the city’s liberation from Amastris, thus casting him as Zeus Eleutherios.35 The coins minted under the Bithynian kings do not name Zeus depicted on the obverse for the bronze coin minted for Prusias I or II, or on the reverse of the tetradrachms for Nicomedes III and IV.36 On the latter, he is depicted as Zeus Stephanophoros. It is not until the reign of Domitian (AD 81–96) that we see the first use of the title Syrgastes on coins at Tios (see Fig. 15). We then find him on coins of Trajan, Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius, Lucius Verus, a pseudo-autonomous issue, and lastly on a coin of Geta.37 Issues minted under Trajan and Lucius Verus refer to him as Zeus Syrgasteios or Syrgastios (see Fig. 16). A coin issued for Trajan with the title ZEYZΩTHPKY-TIANNΩN, an abbreviated and somewhat erroneous form for ZEYC ΣΩTHP KYPIOC, perhaps comes closest to communicating the meaning of the title Syrgastes (Fig. 17) and can be read as ‘Zeus, Saviour and Lord of Tios’.38 One of the peculiarities of the coinage of Tios are coins minted with Hera and Zeus on the reverse: Hera standing and facing right, holding a long sceptre in her left hand behind her and facing Zeus, who stands facing left while holding a long sceptre in his left hand behind him, a patera in his extended right hand, and on some coins an eagle at his foot (see Fig. 18). Although this image or the pairing of the gods on coinage occurs elsewhere in Asia Minor and the Near East, there is no comparable reverse found on any civic coins from Bithynia, Paphlagonia or Pontus. This is peculiar considering that, as stated above, cities frequently shared dies and iconographic programmes. Regarding this reverse, we find four issues for Trajan, and one for Lucius Verus, Gordian III and Tranquillina respectively.39 The presence and importance of the cult of Hera in Tios is unknown, but the coinage indicates that the divine pair had a special relationship with the city. 34  For example, see BnF 1610; SNG Stancomb 844; SNG Tübingen 2151; SNG von Aulock 917; and Waddington, RG 1–2, pl. CVI, 5–6. For a coin with the ethnonym TIΩN, see Scholz 1901, 31, 39. For Zeus and a four-ray star of four-petal flower on the reverse, see Waddington, RG 3, pl. CVI, 7. 35  BMC 11, 1–2; BnF 1611; SNG von Aulock 918; Waddington, RG 4, pl. CVI, 8. 36  For Prusias I/II, see Waddington, RG 14, 1. 37  For Domitian, see BMC 11, p. 203, 3; BnF 1620; Lindgren 1985, 191; RPC II, 700–701; and Waddington, RG 20–22, pl. CVI 24–25. For Trajan, see Amsterdam S 2579–2580; BnF 1622, 1984.720; BM 1911-1-11-3, 1979-1-1-1474; NY 1972.185.2 = RPC III, 1186; RPC III, 1178; SNG von Aulock 934 = RPC III, 1187; and Waddington, RG 25–26. For Antoninus Pius, see BMC 6, pl. XXXVI.5; BnF 1628– 1629 = RPC IV, 6119; Lenger 2015, 184. NY 1970.142.292; RPC IV, 6118; SNG von Aulock 939; Vienna 15901 = RPC IV, 5556. For Marcus Aurelius, see BnF 1639 = RPC IV, 6132 = Waddington, RG 61, pl. CVIII.6. For Lucius Verus, see BM 1971-7-2-8 (listed under Commodus); BnF 1654 = RPC IV, 5704 = Waddington, RG 89, pl. CVIII.30. For pseudo-autonomous, see Lenger 2012, 25 = Lenger 2015, 15; RPC IV, 7991 = Waddington, RG 9, pl. CVI.13. For Geta, see Waddington, RG 127, pl. CIX, 21. 38  An unpublished coin (26.0 mm; 12.08 g; n/a), Tom Vossen VCoins web site, item 11286. 39  The coins issued for Trajan are part of a series that includes Zeus Syrgastes and can be dated to sometime after AD 102 or 106 because the obverse legend includes the title Dakikos. See ArsCoins Rome 5, 14 May 2012, lot 544; CNG printed auction 87, 11 May 2011, lot 832; CNG electronic auction 326, lot 275; MFA 1984.242; Busso Peus auction 410, 30 October 2013, lot 675; RPC III, 1185 = Amsterdam S 2578; SNG von Aulock 933 and 7173 (BM 1979-1-1-1473); Vienna GR 15295 (listed under Amastris). For Lucius Verus, see BMC 14, pl. XXXVI.10 = RPC IV, 5581 (the description is uncertain as to the identification of the female figure – it is either Hera or Bithynia. She is not in her typical position: she is on the right side facing left and holding a long sceptre before her. Zeus has an eagle at his foot) = Waddington, RG 90, pl. CVIII.3.1. For Gordian III, see BnF 1695 = Waddington, RG 164, pl. CXI, 8 (listed as Tyche and emperor); SNG von Aulock 1005. Based on a shared obverse die, this coin is part of a series that includes Ascelpius, Athena, Hades-Serapis, Helios, Nemesis and Zeus alone. For Tranquillina, see SNG von Aulock 1019. Von Aulock

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Second to Zeus, Dionysos is prominent in the Tian pantheon. There is no known temple for him, although two inscriptions refer to his cultic presence in Tios. One mentions a Dionysiakos, while another a Dionysotrophikos.40 It is in the coinage that we find the greatest amount of evidence of Dionysos’ importance. The god or associated symbols (grapes, vines, kantharos, etc.) are found on 39 or 11% of all coin types (the second most depicted deity). We find a considerable number of coins with Dionysos standing and facing left, holding his thyrsus behind him and pouring a kantharos (and sometimes with a panther/leopard at his foot). This is the traditional image used as Tios to represent him as ktistês. There are also several coins with him riding a panther/leopard and holding his thyrsus. Both of these depictions are widely used on provincial coinage. Yet, on coins of Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius, we find him incorporated into the landscape and local deities. The Antonine period was known for its expressions of local myths and identities, and these two examples align with the cultural ethos of the time. On a coin minted for Antoninus Pius (larger than most others minted for him), a statue of Dionysos stands facing left on a base, holding his thyrsus behind him and grapes in his extended right hand. It is situated between the river-god Billaios facing right and the nymph Sardo facing left. Both are reclining on water urns. Billaios holds reeds in his hand, while Sardo holds grain ears and a cornucopia. The legend on the reverse reads BIΛΛAIOC CAPΔΩ TIANΩN (see Fig. 19).41 The legend indicates that Billaios and Sardo are the main focus of this image, but the statue of Dionysos has the central position located between the two. All three symbolise the fertility of the region, but given the geography of the area, Dionysos could represent Tios itself, located between the Billaios river and the cavern located a few miles south of the city that provides the water for the its aqueduct. A medallion issued for Marcus Aurelius shows the Tyche of Tios standing facing right, dressed in military garb and holding a parazonium, shaking hands with Dionysos, who is standing facing left and holding his thyrsus in his left hand behind him.42 The reverse legend reads TEIOC-DIONYCOC, with the names behind the figures they identify (see Fig. 20). This coin is peculiar given Tyche’s style of dress, and it is probably a reworked coin of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus expressing homonoia or concordia. Still, the concord between The Tyche of Tios and Dionysos expresses a special relationship between the two that transcends the mere founding of the community. Taken with the issue for Antoninus Pius, it is an expression of the centrality of Dionysos to the life and livelihood of the community. Like Zeus, Dionysos is a saviour figure in the Tian pantheon. The importance of the two gods to the citizens of Tios might be best represented by a series of weights from Tios sold at auction.43 The weights represent 10, 5, 2 and ½ minae. On the largest weight (10 minae) there are busts of Dionysos with vines on one side and Zeus wearing a himation on the other. The 5-minae weight has busts of Dionysos with himation and Hermes with a caduceus, while a 2-minae weight has busts of Zeus describes the figures as Tyche and Demos, but is appears as Hera and Zeus. Unlike previous issues, a flaming altar stands between them. 40  Öztürk 2010, 79. 41  London 1897-1-4-46; New York 1944-100-42376 = RPC IV, 8458; Paris 1630 = RPC IV, 5557 = Waddington, RG 42, pl. CVII. 17; SNG von Aulock 943 = London 1979-1-1-1477; Vienna 15903. 42  Classical Numismatic Group auction 88, lot 862. 43  Classical Numismatic Group, Triton VI, 13 January 2003, lot 293.

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with a sceptre and Hermes. These daily, mundane objects are not only inscribed by the officials who give authority and veracity to their weight, they are decorated with the gods who are central to civic identity, authority and economic exchange. Thus, they reinforce the pre-eminence of Zeus and Dionysos on Tios’ coinage and give further support of the principal place both gods held in the civic pantheon.

(G)LOCALISATION COMMUNICATION

AND

EMPIRE: THE ART

OF

CIVIC REPRESENTATION

AND

In general, many of the coins of Tios above express a worldview that can be called ‘provincial’ in the modern sense. Narrow in focus, they address specific aspects of local life, religion and culture with little regard for the broader world.44 While the obverse busts of emperors expose the sense of belonging to Rome, there is at first glance little sense from the reverse imagery that the citizens of Tios saw themselves as belonging to anything other than their polis. While many of the representations on the reverses are so common as to be characterised as typological (and are expressions of a generic Panhellenism), the representation and communication of the ‘local’ occurs through depictions of local myths and histories (such as the depiction of Teios), the inclusion of the civic ethnonym TIANΩN (or variant), names such as Zeus Syragastes (requiring knowledge that he was specific to Tios) or a combination of both, such as ZEYC CYPΓACTEIOC TIANΩN, AΣKΛEΠIOC TIANΩN, ΔIONYCOC TIANΩN or ΔIONYCOC KTICTHC TIANΩN – the combination of nominative and genitive cases indicating a specific manifestation of the god belonging to the community (Zeus Syrgastes of Tios, Asklepios of Tios, Dionysos of Tios or Dionysos the Founder of Tios). As mentioned earlier, geographic personifications of the Billaios or Ladon rivers or mention of the nymph Sardo (whose local myth is lost to us) likewise help in creating a sense of the ‘local’. Finally, local architectural features such as temples, gates and harbours likewise add to communal self-representation. In the case of Tios, however, of all the coinage, only one coin issued for Severus Alexander depicts a distyle temple or shrine.45 Evidently, Tios was not known for its civic monuments or topography. The Tians’ identification of their principal deities as ‘of Tios’ implies knowledge of different versions and external audiences. In this case, these local designations recognise a world beyond the walls of the city, i.e. the regional and imperial. It would be misleading, however, to address civic coinage from a local versus regional/imperial dichotomy. The local, regional and imperial inform one another, and at times the coinage reflects this hybrid perspective (a perspective more common than realised).46 While some coins may allusively or allegorically refer to regional affairs or events in the empire such as war, plague, etc., some explicitly express the power dynamics. For example, two issues for Vespasian and Domitian mention that they were minted during the governorships of Marcus Salvidenus Asprenas and Marcus Salvidenus Proculus (it was common for 44

 Talbert 2004 recognises this view for many communities.  Classical Numismatic Group auction 88, lot 865; RG 138, pl. CX, 6. 46  For this phenomenon, see Appadurai 1990; Hannerz 1990; Howgego 2005; Talbert 2004; Whitmarsh 2010. 45

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governors to appear on reverse legends on 1st-century AD provincial coinage), while another mentions the year of Trajan’s reign (see Figs. 21–22).47 The inclusion of Roman measurements of time belies the idea of a hermetically sealed localism. It is a localism in communication with and shaped by engagement with Roman power. Examples of this phenomenon are a group of coins minted for Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus that aligns with the official message of concordia (homonoia) found on aurei, denarii and bronzes minted by the imperial mints (see Fig. 23).48 In fact, two coins for Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus explicitly communicates this aspiration (see Figs. 24–25).49 On the reverse are both emperors facing each other and clasping hands, the legend reading OMONOIAN AYTOKPATOPΩN TIANOI with the citizens of Tios in the nominative case followed by an accusative of respect or direct object and genitive.50 A possible translation is ‘The Citizens of Tios [issue this] with respect to the homonoia of the Emperors’. The Greek OMONOIAN AYTOKPATOPΩN is a direct translation of CONCORDIA AVGVSTORVM found on imperial coins issued from Rome, indicating a replication of the propaganda produced and communicated from the imperial centre.51 In fact, many communities throughout the Greek East shared the Tians’ aspiration for unity among the emperors, but only two in Bithynia – Nicomedia and Tios – produced coins communicating or celebrating the message.52 Other coins from Tios, lacking a comparable legend, only communicate visually the unity between the two emperors. On a coin for Lucius Verus, we find on the reverse both emperors standing facing, heads turned left, holding spears, while one also holds a wreath.53 On another coin of Lucius Verus, both emperors, holding long sceptres, drive a quadriga left (see Fig. 26).54 Interestingly we find no comparable imagery on any coinage minted by the cities of Bithynia or Paphlagonia. Tios is unique in the number of different types of coins it produced as well as the iconography it utilised.

47  For Vespasian, see BnF 1619 = Waddington, RG 19. RPC II, 708 lists this coin as ‘Uncertain of Bithynia’ (pp. 111–12). For Domitian, see Lindgren 1985, 192; RPC II, 699; Spink auction 1979, lot 5081; Mike R. Vosper Coins (MA Shops), item 604500844; Weber 2361. For Trajan, see NY 1944.100.53110 = RPC III, 1189, which mentions ETOYC IZ (year 16 or AD 112/3). 48  See RIC 8, 449, 795–801, 823–830, 1278–1292, 1308–1314. 49  For Marcus Aurleius, SNG von Aulock 947 = RPC IV, 10405. For Lucius Verus, SNG von Aulock 949 = RPC IV, 10406. 50  The editors of RPC IV record the reverse legend for Marcus Aurelius as [OMONOIA]N AYTOKPATOPΩN TIANΩN, but it is apparent in von Aulock that the civic ethnonym ends in I. This is confirmed by the reverse legend on the coin of Lucius Verus. 51  For studies of this phenomenon, see Hedlund 2008; Manders 2012; Noreña 2011. For a broader study of imperial propaganda and the provinces, see Ando 2000. 52  Nicomedia issued a series of two (likely three) coins all from the same reverse design with a tetrastyle temple, within which is a statue of Homonoia seated on a throne and holding a long sceptre and patera. The reverse legend reads NEOKO-NIKOM-OMONOIA. One coin was issued for Lucius Verus, and it is likely that another was issued for Marcus Aurelius, although none is recorded. See RPC IV, 6095 = BnF 1326 = Waddington, RG 115, pl. XCI.31; and RPC IV, 10656. A second issue has confronting busts of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, each wearing a cuirass and paludamentum, with the legend MAYPANT ΩNINOC•ΛAYPOYHPOC•AYTOKPATOPEC. The choice of language connects this coin to the one minted at Tios, but likewise advertises the city’s connexion to the Imperial cult through its neocorate status, thus distinguishing her from other communities. See BM 1979-1-1-1416; BnF 1321 = Waddington, RG 112, pl. XCI. 28; NY 1944.100.42294; RPC IV, 5617; SNG Copenhagen 561; Vienna 15780 and 15781. 53  RPC IV, 6144. 54  BM 1979-1-1-1482; BnF 1657 = Waddington, RG 95, pl. CVIII. 36; RPC IV, 5583.

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These coins are excellent examples that reveal the dynamic between simultaneous expressions of imperial belonging and localisation. While absorbing the imperial message, the citizens of Tios responded by utilising and manipulating imperial imagery. Moreover, the expression of imperial belonging through their coinage served as a way to compete with and stand out among their neighbours. We see this dynamic in greater detail with the commemorative coins for Antinous. After the apotheosis of Hadrian’s lover Antinous, who had drowned in the Nile during the emperor’s trip to Egypt in AD 130, many communities throughout the empire sought to commiserate with and honour the emperor by establishing cults for the young man and to commemorate him.55 One method of memorialising was the production of medallic (and sometimes smaller) coins with Antinous’ bust on the obverse and identifying legend of ANTINOOC ΘEOC or more commonly ANTINOOC HPΩC. Thirty-three known poleis and koina in Greece and Asia Minor issued such coinage, and made the young man meaningful to their communities by incorporating him into local myth and history. Although a native of Bithynium-Claudiopolis, each community could potentially claim him as their own and in their own way. Tios was one of those communities. Tios issued no coins for Hadrian specifically, but produced seven different types for Antinous that are identifiable based on obverse dies and weight. One group consists of two medallions using the same obverse die: a bare and draped bust facing left with the legend ANTINOΩI-HPΩI. On one the reverse is Antinous as Dionysos holding a thyrsus in his left hand over his left shoulder while riding a panther/leopard right (see Fig. 27). The second coin in known from one specimen, the reverse the reverse of which has Antinous as Poseidon holding a trident in his right hand while driving a biga led by two hippocamps (see Fig. 28).56 Both have the reverse legend TIANOI instead of the more common TIANΩN. A second group consists a lighter coin (approximately 22 grammes) with a bare bust facing right or left (the left-facing bust is modified from the obverse die of the group above) with the legend ANTINOΩI-HPΩI. The reverse has a half-naked Antinous seated facing left on a garlanded altar, leaning on his right hand and holding a sistrum in a partly raised left hand. The reverse legend is TIANOI (see Fig. 29).57 A third group consists of two lighter (approximately 12 grammes) coins using the same obverse die, on which is a bare and draped bust facing left with the legend ANTINOOC-HPΩC. One coin has the river-god Billaios reclining facing left, his left arm leaning on a water urn while his right hand holds a vine with grapes. The reverse legend is TIANΩN with BIΛΛAIO in the exergue (see Fig. 30).58 The second coin has a winged caduceus with the legend TIA-NΩN across the field (see Fig. 31).59 The final group consists of a single specimen (6.63 grammes) that has the bare head of Antinous facing right with the legend 55

 For broader discussions of Antinous, see Pudill 2014; Vout 2005; 2006.  Vienna GR 15897 = RPC III, 1192 = Waddington, RG 32, pl. CVII, 6. 57  For left-facing bust, see RPC III, 1193; BMC 204; BnF 1627 = Blum 1915, p. 46, 2, pl. III, 6 = Waddington, RG 35, pl. CVII, 10; BnF 2471; BnF AA.GR.493; BnF AA.GR.2800 (broken); CNG electronic auction 326, lot 276; RG pl. CVII, 11; Stack’s Bower and Ponterio, The Robert O. Ebert collection New York, 11–12 January 2013, lot 5411; J. Vico 114, 7 June 2007, lot 169. For right-facing bust, see RPC III, 1194; BnF Chandon de Briailles 1673; Leu 30, 28 April 1982, lot 368. 58  Artemide Asta XVIII, 9 December 2007, lot 115 = RPC III, 1195. 59  NAC 51, 5 March 2009, lot 282 = RPC III, 1196. 56

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ANTINOOC-HPΩC. On the reverse is Antinous as Dionysos standing facing left, holding a thyrsus in his left hand behind him and pouring wine from a kantharos in his extended right hand, below which is a panther/leopard. The reverse legend is TIANOI (see Fig. 32).60 This coinage appears to be engaging in an empire-wide dialogue regarding the significance of Antinous and how best to commemorate him. The most common representation of Antinous is that of Hermes, which is found on coins minted in Achaea, Amisus, Bithynium-Claudiopolis and Nicomedia. Coins from Alexandria depict Antinous riding a horse and holding a caduceus.61 Tios did not represent Antinous as Hermes, but did mint a coin with a winged caduceus. This design is found only on one coin from Hadrianotherae and a couple of issues from Alexandria in Egypt, while a coin from Smyrna has a ram with a caduceus in the field before.62 Instead, Tios highlighted Antinous as both Dionysos and Poseidon. Only one specimen survives for Poseidon, a unique design not found elsewhere.63 There are over 20 known specimens with Antinous as Dionysos riding a panther/leopard, however, and the importance of this connexion is manifest in the community’s use of medallions. While this image is common on provincial coinage in general, only Tios and Tarsus use it for Antinous.64 Furthermore, on the smallest unit minted for Antinous at Tios we find him depicted as Dionysos standing and holding a thyrsus and pouring wine from a kantharos. Elsewhere, the Koinon of Achaea issued a unique medallion of Dionysos standing facing right half naked and leaning on a herm before him. His right hand on his hip and a transverse thyrsus is in his left hand. Behind him is a column. Also, Sala issued a coin with Antinous as Dionysos standing and holding grapes, head turned right, holding a kantharos in left hand and leaning on a column.65 Tios’ depiction of Antinous as Dionysos can be explained in a few ways. First of all, his apotheosis parallels the overall mythic structure of the demi-god Dionysos becoming a god. Secondly, whereas other communities rely on Antinous-as-Hermes to define the relationship between the young man and Hadrian (Antinous as assistant to the Zeus-like  Blum 1915, 5; RG 33.  For Amisus, see BnF N7223/1251; RPC III, 1260; SNG Leypold 24; SNG von Aulock 77. For Bithynium-Claudiopolis, see Blum 1915, pp. 43–44, 4–10; RPC III, 1110–1113 and 1115–1117. For Nicomedia, see Blum 1915, p. 45, 4, pl. III, 4; BMC 9, pl. XXXIV; RPC III, 1097. For Alexandria, see Blum 1915, pp. 53–56, 1–13, 15–30; BMC 925 and 2930–29232; BnF AA.GR 5500; BnF FG 1918–1922; RPC III, 6062–6064, 6073–6074, 6082, 6228, 6235, 6243. The authors of RPC have designated two coins issued for the Koinon of Achaea with Antinous as Hermes as forgeries (RPC III, 265–266). 62  For Hadrianotherae, see RPC III, 1632. For Alexandria, see Blum 1915, p. 55, 14; BMC 926; BnF FG 1932; RPC III, 6086 and 6249. For Smyrna, see Blum 1915, p. 40, 4–7; BMC 340; BnF 2254; RPC III, 1980; SNG Copenhagen 1367. It is likely that issues from Corinth, Cius, with a bull or ram on the reverse also refer to Hermes. 63  The Koinon of Achaea issued a medallion with Antinous as Poseidon seated on a throne, holding a long sceptre on his left hand behind and a patera in his extended right hand; a dolphin is at his feet (RPC III, 261). 64  For Tarsus, Blum 1915, p. 52, 1; RPC III, 3285 On several coins with Dionysian symbolism Tarsus added NEΩ IAKΧΩ, the ‘new Iacchus’ or New Dionysos; see RPC III, 3288–3291. See also BMC 157; BnF 1222 and 1228; RPC III, 3292–3293; SNG Copenhagen 360 for his title as NEΩ ΠYΘIΩ, the ‘New Pythios’ or Apollo. 65  For Achaea, see RPC III, 263 = Münzhandlung Basel 3, Prince Waldeck coll., 5 March 1935, lot 454. For Sala, see Blum 1915, p. 50, 1–2; BMC 35–38; BnF 1039 and 1099; RPC III, 2446–2447A; SNG Copenhagen 439. 60 61

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emperor), that position was filled in the Tian pantheon by Dionysos. Thus, we see a local interpretation of the relationship. Finally, by correlating Antinous and Dionysos, the citizens of Tios possibly were attempting to integrate the young man into local history, as we see at Cyzicus (where Antinous is depicted as Cyzicus), Ephesus (as Androclus) and Tmolus (as Tmolus). One could argue that Antinous as Teios would be a better choice, but as shown above, Tios had not made that change from Dionysos to Teios on its coinage yet.66 Strengthening this claim of local integration is the coin with Antinous as the river-god Billaios. The river-god becomes emblematic of localism at Tios during the Antonine period, and this correlation likely anticipates that change in iconography. Elsewhere we find Antinous as a local river-god possibly on a coin from Amisus, but definitely on a coin from Elis (Hadrian’s bust on obverse, Antinous as the River Alphaeus on reverse) and from Tarsus as the River Cydnus.67 Finally, there is a large module, the second most in number of known specimens, with Antinous semi-nude and seated on an altar and holding a sistrum. This object not only evokes the memory of Egypt, where he died, but likewise accentuates the goddess Isis, whose presence at Tios was growing at this time. As a symbol of Isis, the sistrum might also evoke Osiris, husband of Isis, Lord of the Underworld, and with whom Antinous was synthesised and worshipped in Egypt. It is unclear why he is seated on an altar – perhaps representative of a cult in his honour. Overall, the coins of Antinous, like the homonoia coins for Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, reflect a local response to imperial events. An interesting observation is the lack of reference to Bithynia. While Bithynium-Claudiopolis proclaimed itself to be Antinous’ patria, there is no indication that communities coordinated their efforts to depict Antinous broadly as a provincial native son. His city of origin was all that mattered. Instead, communities like Tios directly engaged the ‘imperial’ by interpreting it through the ‘local’.

CONCLUSION Although a small polis on the southern shore of the Black Sea, Tios issued a large number of coins during the period from Domitian to Valerian and Gallienus (AD 81–260). Located geopolitically at the periphery of the Graeco-Roman world, the citizens of Tios relied on coinage, among other things, to locate themselves at the centre of Hellenic culture by utilising typological images and sharing dies and joint production with neighbouring cities. Yet, like all Greek communities, the Tians localised their self-presentation/representation by privileging certain images that best represented local history, myth and religion. Thus they converted the common image of Dionysos standing and holding 66  For Cyzicus, see Blum 1915, p. 48, 1–2; BMC 214; BnF 323; RPC III, 1528. For Ephesus, see BMC 232; RPC III, 2084; SNG von Aulock 7867. For Tmolus, see Blum 1915, p. 51, 1, pl. IV, 3; BM 1979-11-2070; RPC III, 2389. 67  For Elis, see RPC III, 310 and 316; For Tarsus, see Blum 1915, p. 53, 10–12; BnF 1224–1225; RPC III, 3294-7. It is possible that Antinous is depicted as the Thermodon river on a coin of Amisus, but the condition of the coins does not allow for definitive assessment; see Blum 1915, p. 42, 1; BnF M 6655 = Waddington, RG 108A; RPC III, 1258.

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a thyrsus in one hand and a kantharos into ΔIONYΣOΣ KTIΣTHΣ, and with slight modification Zeus became ZEYC CYPΓACTEIOC TIANΩN. Like other communities, the citizens of Tios further localised their coinage and expressions of civic identity by accentuating their eponymous founder Teios during the Antonine and Severan periods and relied on topographic features such as the Billaios river. This process of localisation, however, is not entirely local. It is often a response to regional rivalries or affairs and imperial politics and events. Tios’ responses to the death of Antinous and the advent of the joint rule of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus highlight this dynamic, in which she engaged imperial affairs but did so by filtering and reinterpreting them for local consumption. At the same time, by means of their coinage the citizens of Tios expressed belonging to empire partly as they saw fit, and engaged in self-representation and – presentation by means of manipulating imperial imagery. Although Tios is a small community, it serves as a useful case study to understand the dynamics of civic representation and glocalisation.

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Fig. 1. Julia Maesa from Tios (31.0 mm; 14.62 g; 1 h) (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group: www.cngcoins.com).

Fig. 2. Julia Maesa from Amastris (32.0 mm; 13.76 g; 12 h) (courtesy of Münzkabinett, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin).

Fig. 3. Julia Maesa from Creteia-Flaviopolis (28 mm; 10.73 g; n/a) (courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France).

Fig. 4. Julia Paula from Tios (n/a; 6.54 g; n/a) (courtesy of Busso Peus auction 384, 2 November 2005, lot 832).

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Fig. 5. Julia Paula from Tios (25.0 mm; 5.0 g; n/a) (courtesy of Naville Numismatics live auction 36, 3 December 2017, lot 206).

Fig. 6. Julia Paula from Tios (n/a; 8.31 g; 6 h) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC VI, 3585 = Kunst Historisches Museum Wien GR 33832).

Fig. 7. Julia Paula from Tios (31.0 mm; 13.4 g; 7 h) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC VI, 3574 = Münzkabinett Berlin L1906).

Fig. 8. Julia Paula from Bithynium (28.0 mm; 10.23 g; n/a) (courtesy of Bibliothèque nationale de France M6217).

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Fig. 9. Julia Paula from Bithynium (30.0 mm; 12.19 g; n/a) (courtesy of Gorny and Mosch auction 186, March 2010, lot 1585).

Fig. 10. Julia Paula from Bithynium (30.0 mm; 15.7 g; n/a) (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group e-auction 160, lot 142).

Fig. 11. Julia Paula from Creteia-Flaviopolis (27.0 mm; 9.21 g; n/a) (courtesy of the Münzkabinett Berlin L 1906 = RPC Online, RPC VI, 3639).

Fig. 12. Teios (Pseudo-autonomous) from Tios (23.0 mm; 5.72 g; 1 h) (courtesy of Leu Numismatik auction 3, 25 February 2018, lot 532).

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Fig. 13. Marcus Aurelius as Caesar from Tios (23.0 mm; 8.60 g; 6 h) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 5567 = BM 1979-1-1-1478 = SNG von Aulock 7176).

Fig. 14. Antoninus Pius from Nicaea (n/a; 14.26 g; n/a) (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, June 2006).

Fig. 15. Domitian from Tios (n/a; n/a; n/a) (courtesy of www.wildwinds.com, with permission from www.slaveycoins.com).

Fig. 16. Trajan from Tios (n/a; 23.45 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1186 = NY 1972.185.2).

THE COINAGE OF TIOS IN BITHYNIA

Fig. 17. Trajan from Tios (26.0 mm; 12.08 g; n/a) (courtesy of Tom Vossen Coins, item 11286).

Fig. 18. Trajan from Tios (n/a; 20.66 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1185 = Amsterdam S2578).

Fig. 19. Antoninus Pius from Tios (27.0 mm; 14.25 g; 6 h) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC IV, 5557 = Bibliothèque national de France 1630).

Fig. 20. Marcus Aurelius from Tios (33.0 mm; 25.02 g; 7 h) (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group auction 88, lot 862).

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Fig. 21. Domitian from Tios (21.0 mm; 5.2 g; n/a) (courtesy of Mike R. Vosper Coins [MA Shops], item 604500844).

Fig. 22. Trajan from Tios (n/a; 8.36 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1189 = NY 1944.100.53110).

Fig. 23. Aureus of Marcus Aurelius (19.0 mm; 7.32 g; 6 h) (courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group on-line sale, item 783899).

Fig. 24. Marcus Aurelius from Tios (34.0 mm; 24.85 g; n/a) (courtesy of SNG von Aulock 947).

THE COINAGE OF TIOS IN BITHYNIA

Fig. 25. Lucius Verus from Tios (35.0 mm; 24.15 g; n/a) (courtesy of SNG von Aulock 949).

Fig. 26. Lucius Verus from Tios (36.0 mm; 31.59 g; 12 h) (courtesy of SNG von Aulock 948).

Fig. 27. Antinous from Tios (n/a; 38.25 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1191 = Bibliothèque national de France 1626).

Fig. 28. Antinous from Tios (40.0 mm; 35.56 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1192 = Vienna GR 15897).

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Fig. 29. Antinous from Tios (n/a; 24.94 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1193 = Stack’s Bowers and Ponterio, The Robert O. Ebert collection, New York, 11–12 January 2013, lot 5411).

Fig. 30. Antinous from Tios (n/a; 12.30 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1195 = Artemide Asta XVIII, 9 December 2007, lot 115).

Fig. 31. Antinous from Tios (27.0 mm; 11.43 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1196 = NAC 51, 5 March 2009, lot 282).

Fig. 32. Antinous from Tios (19.0 mm; 6.63 g; n/a) (courtesy of RPC Online, RPC III, 1197 = Vienna GR 15900).

GREEK COLONIES, A MIDDLE GROUND AND THE HINTERLAND IN SOUTH-EASTERN THRACE Jan G. DE BOER

ABSTRACT The development of models in archaeology has progressed significantly during the last few decades. The Greek Archaic period was recently treated in this sense by I. Malkin using a combination of ‘middle ground’ and ‘network’ models. As there are several resemblances between the development of Greek maritime colonisation in the Archaic period and the Archaic to Hellenistic river-orientated inland trade in eastern and central Thrace, it would be interesting to apply such models to this region. However, the fact that these trade networks in Thrace are attributed to Greek traders probably needs revision. The so-called middle grounds were probably more numerous than earlier considered, casting doubt on the overall ethnicity of the inland traders. Greek material, amphorae and amphora stamps as products used by both the Greeks and the Thracian elite in this area can confirm or rebut the possibilities of these models. The existence of so-called inland emporia of Greek traders is also open to discussion.

INTRODUCTION It is an honour for me to contribute to this Festschrift for my colleague and good friend Gocha Tsetskhladze. It is 25 years since we first met at the Thracia Pontica 6 symposium (Sozopol, Bulgaria) in 1994. Afterwards, he sent me a copy of (I believe) the first book he edited after arriving in Britain: Tsetskhladze and De Angelis 1994. Since then, we have had regular contact by post and later by e-mail. We met again at what was then called the First Pontic Congress, in Varna in 1997, and later at several places: Taman, again Sozopol (where I remember the long discussions with Gocha and Jan Bouzek on the terrace), Prague, etc. Especially fresh in my mind is the visit my wife Els and I paid to Gocha in London. Here we discussed Black Sea archaeology all night while my wife fell asleep out of boredom. This visit resulted in the publication of The Black Sea Region in the Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Periods (Talanta 32–33 for 2000–01), which we edited jointly. I would like to dedicate this paper, which is an extended and updated version of a paper that I read during the 13th International Congress of Thracology in Kazanlak (Bulgaria), to Gocha. His critical views of the more or less accepted ‘dogmas’ in Black Sea and Near Eastern archaeology have always been a stimulating approach for me. The so-called Greek emporia in inland Thrace became a popular subject for study of the history of Greek trade in Thrace during Antiquity, especially after the discovery in 1988 of the site at Adzhiyska Vodenitsa, near Vetren in central Bulgaria, and its subsequent

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(ongoing) excavation. This was possibly the ancient settlement of Pistiros.1 The common opinion is that sites like this and that at Kale near Krševica in south-eastern Serbia were emporia of Greek traders, protected by a local kingdom and operating from Greek colonies on the western Black Sea coast, the coast of the North Aegean and the Adriatic coast to the hinterland.2 However, this opinion deserves a critical reconsideration, due to the large amount of archaeological material which has been unearthed during the last decades and which gives us a better view of trade in eastern and central Thrace during the Archaic, Classical and Hellenistic periods.3

MODELS

IN

ARCHAEOLOGY

In order to determine the economic situation in Thrace in Antiquity, several archaeological models, especially when combined, may possibly be used for a reconstruction. Modelling of historical and archaeological systems started in the 1950s onwards, especially after the publication of Fernand Braudel’s theory regarding the long-, middle- and short-term periods in history.4 It received a boost, at least for archaeology, in the early 1960s after the introduction of the ‘new’ or processual archaeology, followed by its child, post-processual archaeology. The development of models in archaeology has progressed significantly during the last few decades, as several new models have been presented, for instance world-systems theory, nowadays updated to world-systems analysis, also called the core–periphery theory,5 network theory, the small world model and the least cost path theory, but also ‘middle ground’ and ‘hybridity’. These different models have been combined like networks, with ‘middle ground’ and ‘hybridity’ the most common.6 Key to the world-systems model is an inequality in exchange, in which the periphery supplies the raw materials desired by the core for refinement into luxury goods. World-systems theory was among others used to explain the contacts between Greek poleis (thousands of mobile people) to create a connective network which embraced the whole Greek world through economic, cultural, political and spatial linkages.7 In the network model, humans and non-humans are assembled together in complex collectives which are by nature without a centre, origin or root.8 Networks can incorporate both people and objects and are used in archaeology in principle to model interactions between sites at regional and inter-regional scales, like road systems or trade routes.9 Extended from the network model is the so-called small world model, as combined networks can show the characteristics of a ‘small world-network’ where, for instance, (inland) harbours can be understood as ‘hubs of connectivity’ in a traffic system.10 Closely connected to the 1  Bouzek et al. 1996; 2002; 2007; 2010; 2013. The identification of the site at Adzhiyska Vodenitsa as Pistiros is still controversial (see Bravo and Chankowski 1999; Tsetskhladze 2000; Demetriou 2012). There are some attempts to identify Pistiros as the Masteira of Demosthenes (Bošnakov 1999). 2  Archibald 2016; Popović 2007. 3  de Boer 2017. 4  Braudel 1949. 5  Wallerstein 1974. 6  Tsetskhladze 2014. 7  Bintliff 1997, 19; Vlassopoulos 2007, 92. 8  Knappett 2008, 142. 9  Knappett 2013, 13. 10  Preiser-Kapeller 2011, 390; Preiser-Kapeller and Werther 2016, 11.

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small world is the gateway or hubs model, in which communities located in a specific geographical area are acting as transitional zones and redistributive centres, controlling the exploitation and transport of goods and ideas.11 Costs of transport play a minor role in network theories.12 To overcome this problem, the least cost path model was developed, in which the traveller can move as quickly and directly as possible between any pair of sites in a network. According to this model, whenever a new site was founded within the region considered, it established the shortest path connexions to all other sites that existed previously. Hybridity and hybridisation is a situation where an interaction results in the fusion of customs, practices, beliefs and traditions. Hybridity is not an intermixture of cultural packages but a reworking of cultural elements into new practices which might seem incongruous to the cultures from which they are derived.13 Finally, there is the model of a colonial ‘middle ground’, adopted from work on 17th- and 18th-century North America14 and very important in the case of Thrace. In this model, misunderstandings and distortions between local groups and colonists give rise to new meanings and new practices, creating a negotiated third space between two groups, a middle ground.15 These middle grounds are never purely native nor entirely colonial/imported. They were an area in which neither party felt itself threatened by the other and in which indigenous groups (in the case of Greek colonisation) adopted Greek practices, especially among elites, but the Greeks also adapted some of those of the indigenous groups.16 The model of the middle ground escapes the polarities of Greek and barbarian, of coloniser and colonised and it suggests that, especially for the early Archaic period, a model of interaction on a basis of near equality is more appropriate than one of violence and conflict.17 Trading relationships held a better chance of prospering against a pacific background than one of permanent hostilities.18 Intermarriages would have been central in this model as those involved would have acted as negotiators and interpreters between the two groups.19 Most of the middle grounds were localised in the frontier regions and not in the centres of colonies. Independent relations with peripheral or hinterland peoples were, especially in the case of Archaic Greek colonisation, important in view of the limited territories of the early colonies (colonies on the coast and trade contacts with the coastal hinterlands), as the Greeks were never oriented inland, aiming at huge territorial conquest, unlike the Philistines in the Near East or the Romans in Gaul in the mid-1st century BC.20 The reason for this rather long and exhaustive introduction to the area under discussion is the fact that the history of the southern and eastern Black Sea coast has to be seen, as already proposed by Owen Doonan, in a long-term perspective,21 according to Braudel’s

11

 Babič 2007, 60.  Nakoinz 2012, 218. 13  Miller 2015, 130; Stockhammer 2013; Sommer 2012, 237. 14  White 1991. 15  Antonaccio 2013, 249. 16  Antonaccio 2013, 239, 241; Malkin 1998, 133; 2001, 172; 2011 167. 17  Antonaccio 2013, 237–39. 18  Bats 2012, 9. 19  Moisio 2015, 107. 20  Malkin 1998, 132; 2016, 288. 21  Doonan 2010, 68. 12

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and Horden and Purcell’s models.22 It would be interesting to apply the above-mentioned models to the region of central and eastern Thrace between the Archaic and the Hellenistic periods. As luxury ceramics and amphorae are the remains of products used by both the Greeks and the Thracians in this area, they can be used to confirm or dismiss the possibilities of these models.

DEBELT Local and regional trading networks can criss-cross a region, while the economic sphere of influence of one centre can influence another. Thrace was a well-connected world, and a strict interpretation of core and periphery, in which it would be simply the low-value supplier of raw materials, does not consider the complex economy of the region.23 The area of the industrial complex Kostadin Tchechma near the modern town of Debelt in south-eastern Thrace could be a candidate for a Thracian middle ground (Fig. 1). The most ancient finds of this site are from the end of the Bronze Age, while occupation existed until the 13th–14th centuries AD. During the reign of the emperor Vespasian, veterans of the legio VIII Augusta founded a colony here, named Flavia Pacis Deultensium. The site revealed, from the Archaic to the Hellenistic period, large amounts of Attic pottery, Greek amphorae and storage facilities, indicating that this town was an important trading post. It linked the hinterland with the Black Sea ports, as ships could voyage as far as 15–20 km inland.24 There was also a permanent road on dry land linking Debelt with the Greek colony of Apollonia Pontica: recent research on the south-western Black Sea coast has uncovered Thracian sites with mixed material at Vromos (underwater) and Attia.25 The earliest finds of Archaic Greek material are from the end of the 7th century BC, for example, a bird bowl, early amphorae from Chios and Lesbos and a small luxury Corinthian vessel, dating just after the foundation of the nearby Greek colony of Apollonia Pontica.26 A Chian amphora wall with the graffito Δοβελτ (possibly meaning ‘Two Marshes’ in Thracian, indicating that this is the oldest name of the town), found in 1985, was dated to the third quarter of the 4th century BC.27 The amount of material at Debelt exploded during the following centuries.28 Near Debelt, at the Sladkite Kladentsi locality of the modern town of Burgas, a site was excavated with a total area of 20,000 m2, spread on a sandbar. Here a necropolis and amphora deposits were found, all dated between the 5th and the 3rd century BC (Fig. 1). This settlement was connected with Lake Burgas and probably had commercial relations with Apollonia Pontica, the Dobrudja and Byzantium.29 It is almost certain that the sites at Sladkite Kladentsi, near Debelt, and at Tursis, where a settlement with imported Greek material was discovered, were Thracian settlements and for some time a 22

 Braudel 1949; Horden and Purcell 2000.  Mangum 216, 28–29. 24  Balabanov 2011, 126; Balabanov et al. 2016, 23–32; Castelli 2015, 81. 25  Balabanov 2012a, 3; Hristov 2014. 26  Gyuzelev 2008, 104; Tzochev 2011, fig. 8.4. 27  Balabanov 1999, 76; 2012a, 2; Castelli 2015, 85. 28  At Debelt, more than 5000 amphorae were found, amounting to approximately 1–2 million amphorae in a period of 300 years (Balabanov 2005a, 124). 29  Balabanov and Drazheva 1985, 29; Gyuzelev 2008, 97–99; Damyanov 2015, 303; 2018, 243. 23

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Fig. 1. Map of Burgas Bay.

part of Thynoi and later of Odrysian territory.30 They were not emporia of Apollonia Pontica but more ‘the beach’, a contact zone between Greeks and locals.31 Thracian fortresses and settlements at Sladkite Kladentsi, Debelt, the sanctuaries near Manastir Tepe, Shiloto Hill (the highest point of Varli Bryag sanctuary was a Thracian fortress32) between Lake Mandra and Lake Burgas, sites at or near Tursis, Chukara, Kameno and the Burhama fortress on the left side of Ropotamo were, as Peter Balabanov called it, like a crown around the Greek coastal settlements and their emporia at Agathopolis, Kiten, Ropotamo, Apollonia Pontica, Athia, Anchialo, Navlochos, Ravda and Mesambria (Fig. 2).33 This area, which has all the characteristics of a middle ground, probably included a large area from Malko Tarnovo, where Greek material was found,34 and Milija, Kirklareli, Salmydessos and Viza in Turkish Thrace,35 in the south, through Ruen, 30  Balabanov 2011, 126–27; Castelli 2015, 85; Damyanov 2015, 303; Gyuzelev 2008, 98–99; Tzochev 2011, 85. 31  Tsetskhladze 2012; Ilves 2011, 6. 32  Gyuzelev 2008, 101; Castelli 2015, 81–83. 33  Balabanov 2000, 87–91; Balabanov et al. 2016, 24. 34  Velkov 1965, 85; Delev 1984, 47. 35  Skorpil 1913, 262; Stoyanov 2017, 128.

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Fig. 2. ‘Crown’ of settlements (after Balabanov et al. 2016, 24, fig. 1).

where Greek material was found in a Thracian burial mound,36 to Atanasovsko Ezero north of Burgas. This type of middle ground is not unique on the Black Sea coast. On the southern shore, the Greek settlers in Sinope and Amisos had to deal with the indigenous population from the beginning of their colonial activities, as their survival depended on regular access to native territory to obtain agricultural products, valuable minerals and metals. The relatively abundant presence of local pottery and the mixed tumuli in Sinope and Amisos suggest that the native Syrians and Cappadocians formed a part of the populations 36

 Lazarov 1971, 67.

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there.37 In western Georgia, at Pichvnari on the Black Sea coast, the Graeco-Colchian division in cemeteries is disappearing as further excavation is undertaken, revealing they were in fact one.38 The evidence from the Panskoye I necropolis in the Crimea strongly suggests that the population of this settlement was of a complex and mixed character, which along with Greeks included Scythian and Taurian components.39 The area around Berezan and Olbia shows no traces of middle grounds, probably because there were (practically) no local inhabitants on this coast at the start of Greek colonisation in this area.40 And on the North Aegean coast are, for instance, the sites at Oisyme, Molyvoti Karabournaki, all ideally situated for trade with the hinterland. Here large amounts of Chian amphorae, dating to the second half of 7th–beginning of the 6th century BC, were found.41 Here we can also note clusters of habitations that functioned as middle-ground networks, involving Greeks and non-Greek populations. Storage facilities (silos, granaries) found in these native sites are seen as having served for an exchange of commodities.42

ROUTES

TO THE

HINTERLAND

Hinterlands are a complex phenomenon and should be considered in terms of the relationship between emporia and the surrounding regions.43 There is good evidence for river- and road transport in many parts of the Mediterranean and the northern regions, and for the fact that these networks evolved over time.44 In the pre-modern world, transaction costs were a limitation on gains from trade.45 Paths must be cost effective and major settlements were often created in the vicinity of ancient roads. For instance, the geographical distribution of imported Greek amphorae in the Balkans was sometimes clustered near the course of the later Roman via Egnatia,46 and an early road, crossing the Strandzha Mountains along the Ergene Valley and then along the Hebros, which was later also used by the Romans.47 It is estimated that a distance of ca. 300 km represents the limit for transporting perishable foodstuffs overland; and foodstuffs, agricultural produce and textiles were commodities that needed to be moved to storage facilities for further processing or to the market.48 The geographical situation in Thrace facilitated these routes, both from east to west through the plains in between the Rhodopes and the Stara Planina Mountains or along the Danube, and from south to north through the river valleys east and west of the Rhodopes.49 The dense network of rivers, some so important that they were regarded as 37

 Doonan 2016; Summerer 2008, 266.  Tsetskhladze 2015, 15. 39  Stolba 2011, 334. 40  Tsetskhladze 2015, 23; 2017, 299. 41  Arrington et al. 2016, 39; Filis 2014, 235; Mangum 2016. 42  Malkin 1998, 134. 43  Naylor 2016, 66. 44  Archibald 2016, 43. 45  North 1985, 558. 46  Babič 2007, 59. 47  Topalov 2000, 112. 48  Archibald 2016, 47; Bresson 2007, 89. 49  Nikov 2007, 408. 38

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holy, like the Struma (Strabo 7. 7. 4), were navigable in Antiquity and helped the transport of goods and also to make it possible for one place to develop links with others.50 The cost of river transport was lower than that by land, even on good Roman roads, as we know from a famous decree by Diocletian.51 However, traffic by river was constrained by a pattern of seasonal fluctuations in the water level, which limited bulk transport to spring and autumn. It is possible that cheap labour and animal traction could reduce costs of transport on land.52 Donkeys, mules and camels could carry weights from 100 to 230 kg over a distance of 24 km per day.53 The choice of either trading by land or by river was probably the result of a combination of factors, like costs, socio-economic infrastructure, tribal control, the perishability, quantity and volume of the traded products, etc. All this could be an indication of a class of independent traffickers for the transfer of commodities.54 There were several main roads through which Greek material reached eastern and central Thrace, the road from Apollonia Pontica inland through the Vaia and Mandra lakes and the Fakiysika river to the Svetulyiski hills, Kabyle and further on to the east, a road still to be found in the Itinerarium Antonini. At the end of the second half of the 4th century this route changed to pass through Burgas, Aytios (springs), Ruen, the Karnobat passes and again to Kabyle.55 Seuthopolis’ main communication route passed through the Tundzha Valley and Kabyle, connected to both the Aegean and Black Sea trade networks. Trade from the North Aegean went along the rivers Hebros, Nestos, Struma (whose middle course was probably called Pontus) and Vardar to the north, and possibly along the western Black Sea coast and the Danube to certain sites further to the north.56 From Apollonia Pontica to the south was a road via Bizye through Thynian territory (Xenophon Anabasis 7. 3. 11) to Heraion Teichos near Perinthos, which blossomed after the foundation of a Thracian (Astai) stronghold in the 3th century BC.57 But it was already used by Darius of Persia during his Scythian expedition (Herodotus 4. 89–91). Archaeological excavations at ancient Heraion Teichos revealed an important Thracian fortified settlement, which existed from the Archaic to at least the Hellenistic period.58

TRADE

IN

ANCIENT THRACE

Developments in the 8th century BC suggest that a form of centralisation may have been occurring in the settlements on the southern Thracian littoral.59 Troy and Lemnos were the leading exporters of North Aegean G 2/3 ware and early trade amphorae, found at 50

 Avramea 2002, 64; Babič 2002, 73; de Boer 2010; Bouzek 1996, 221; Chiverrell and Archibald 2009, 290; Tsontchev 1962, 854. 51  For calculations, see Bouzek 1996. 52  Archibald 2016, 39. 53  Archibald 2016, 40. 54  Archibald 2016, 41. 55  Balabanov 2005a, 124; Gyuzelev 2008, 97. 56  Archibald 1983, 306; Baralis 2008, 120; Bravo and Chankowski 1999, 286–96; Delev et al. 2000, 159; Demetriou 2012, 185; Egri and Berecki 2015, 130; Mitrev 2015, 47; 2018, 80; Popovič 2007, 126–28; Tsontchev 1962, 54; Vranič 2012, 35. 57  Kolev 2017, 126. 58  Tzetkova 2013, 8. 59  Nikov 2007, 407; Mangum 2016, 30.

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several settlements on the Struma river. This supports the assumption of early contacts between Inner and Aegean Thrace, indicated by the presence of these wares alongside handmade local ceramics.60 In the second half of the 8th and the beginning of the 7th century BC, Thasos became an important station in a trade network developed in the North Aegean.61 The number of sites from the Thracian interior where early imported pottery was found, has grown in recent years. The North Aegean group of wheel-made wares with red painted geometric decoration, sometimes called Subgeometric, Subprotogeometric, Matt Painted or Olynthus style, and dated to the period between the 8th and the 6th century BC, is the predominant category of fine ware in the Archaic layers at Koprivlen.62 It has been suggested that the Middle Nestos Valley was integrated in the process of commercial exchange current in the Aegean region as early as the second half of the 8th or the beginning of the 7th century BC.63 The finds from Koprivlen also contained imported Late Helladic IIIB–C pottery, so it is possible that an ancient Mycenaean route to the inland was revived during this period.64 Aeolian wares were found in the Rhodope Mountains,65 Greek geometric material near Simeonovgrad,66 a fragment from Protogeometric or Geometric ware is reported from Levunovo in the western Rhodopes,67 an unpublished sherd from an aryballos in Middle Corinthian style from Prilep in the Karnobat region and sherds from 7th-century BC bird bowls (like those at Debelt) at Zavoy and Drama (where also imported LH IIIB–C pottery was found) in the Tundzha Valley. A Milesian table amphora, found in an elite burial mound near the town of Karnobat,68 some 60 km from Apollonia, represents one of the earliest pieces of evidence for direct contact between Greeks and locals in Pontic Thrace.69 If taken alone, this find may be an indication of aristocratic gift-exchange between colonists and locals. But excavations at a nearby settlement revealed larger quantities of Archaic East Greek sherds, making it unlikely that this type of pottery was restricted to the elite.70 Most early exchange between Greeks and Thracians is seen as aristocratic gift-exchange in which luxury goods were given without being considered as merchandise.71 But frequent and bulky imports found in settlements are more likely to represent traded commodities, for a luxury commodity might well lose its status if spread too widely. Other early Greek material comes from the Gradets-Sakar Mountains, Mednikarovo, the Sokolitsa Valley and Plovdiv/Philippopolis.72 At Debelt, Molyvoti and Karabournaki, the earliest finds such as bird bowls come from the end of the 7th century BC for Debelt and Karabournaki, and the 6th century BC for Molyvoti.73 60

 Ilieva 2007, 213.  Blakely 2013, 159. 62  Bozkova and Delev 2002, 97. 63  Bozkova and Delev 2002, 7; Bozkova 2005, 89; Damyanov 2015, 298; Tzochev 2015, 412. 64  Cambitoglou and Papadopoulos 1993, 289; Nikov 2007, 412. 65  Tzochev 2011, 413. 66  Bozkova and Delev 2007, 85. 67  Gergova 1995, 46. 68  Georgieva and Nikov 2010, 149, fig. 4. 69  Georgieva and Momčilov 2000, 111; Tzochev 2015, 413. 70  Ilieva 2007, 214–15; Tzochev 2011. 71  Malkin 2016, 288. 72  Nikov 2007, 411. 73  Arrington et al. 2016, 39; Balabanov 1999, 76; 2012a, 4; 2005b, 39–40; Filis 2014; Tzochev 2011, 82. 61

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Fig. 3. Map of Thracian tribes and some sites with Greek imports. □ Early Greek imports; ● Classical/Hellenistic ceramics and Greek transport amphorae.

A large number of sites containing Classical and Hellenistic Greek material (before and after the Macedonian conquest), especially amphorae, have been found during recent decades. For instance, from west to east, large quantities of imported Greek material from these periods were recovered at Rogozen, Belovo, Krastevich, Starosel, Vetren, Hisar, Akandjievo, Koprivlen, Vasil Levski, Duvanli, Plovdiv, Ada Tepe, Asenovets, Kazanlak, Stara Zagora, Nova Zagora, Sliven, Brezovo, Malko Tarnovo, Cirpan, Yabalkovo, Simeonovgrad, Glavan, Radnovo, Veliko Tarnovo, Sboryanovo, Shumen, Kabyle, Krumovgrad and Karnobat74 (Fig. 3). Black-glazed ceramics were found at Kozi Gramadi and Simeonovgrad, together with a part of a red-figured krater neck from the first decades of the 5th century BC, analogous to one from the pre-Roman materials from Stara Zagora.75 Distribution of 5th-century BC painted pottery was found in a limited area along the middle reaches of the Maritsa and from the neighbouring highlands of the eastern Rhodopes. Greek amphorae were found at Sladkite Kladenzi,76 Debelt,77 near 74  These finds, together with many others, can be found in the volumes of Arheologicheski otkritiya i razkpoki (Archaeological Discoveries and Excavations) of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, National Archaeological Institute with Museum. See also Bozkova 2010; Vasileva 2013. 75  Bozkova and Vasileva 2009; Handzhiiska-Yankulova 2012, 109. 76  Balabanov and Drazheva 1985, 29; Gyuzelev 2008, 98–99; Damyanov 2015, 303. 77  Balabanov 2005a, 124.

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Karnobat,78 at Tatul in the eastern Rhodopes,79 at the site of Kabyle,80 at Kozi Gramadi,81 near Chirpan,82 at the site of Nebetteppe near Plovdiv,83 the site near Krastevich,84 the site of Seuthopolis,85 Vasil Levski,86 at Adzihiyska Vodenitsa87 and at several other sites;88 but also in a line from Apollonia Pontica to the south through Malko Tarnovo89 to Bizye in Turkish Thrace,90 and to the north along the Shumen91 to Sveshtari, possibly the former town of Helis.92 Another line can be detected from the North Aegean harbour of Karabournaki93 through Heraclea Sintica near Petrich,94 Koprivlen and possibly to the site of Kale near Krševica in southern Serbia.95

LOCAL

TRADERS

As already mentioned, it is now almost always taken for granted that the traders of most products were Greeks from the Black Sea region or the North Aegean. The site at Adzhiyska Vodenitsa is compared with sites like Naucratis96 or the inland sites of the northern and eastern Black Sea littoral.97 The idea is that in Thrace we are dealing with a network of connected Greek traders in mixed settlements and protected by the Thracian rulers against assaults, according to the inscription found near Adzhiyska Vodenitsa. However, it has become clear that the economic situation in Thrace from the Archaic to the Hellenistic period, and even before that, is much more complicated and it cannot be encompassed in such a simple model. At Debelt and Karabournaki, amphorae trade had already started in the 7th century BC, and at Koprivlen in the Middle Nestos Valley in the 6th century BC or earlier. As the archaeology of inland southern Thrace does not provide a basis to assume a permanent Greek presence prior to the 5th century BC, it is hardly reasonable to think of Greek trading activity during this period beyond the immediate hinterland of the coastal zone. As I have noted, there are indications of an independent class of traders, Greeks and/ or Thracians, and the question arises about the degree of trading activity undertaken by the Thracians.98 The coastal Thracians most probably had access to the Greek markets 78

 Georgieva and Nikov 2010, 151.  Dimitrov 2016, 127. 80  Getov 1995. 81  Handzhiiska-Yankulova 2012, 109. 82  Bozkova and Nikov 2010, 217; Lozanov 2010, 85. 83  Bozkova 2004; Domaradzki and Taneva 1998, 22–29. 84  Tzochev 2015, 417. 85  Balkanska and Tzochev 2008; Chichikova 1983. 86  http://www.fastionline.org/excavation/micro_view.php?fst_cd=AIAC_1877&curcol=sea_cd-AIAC_4442. 87  Tušlova et al. 2009; Tušlova and Weissová 2013. 88  Tzochev 2010. 89  Gospodinov 2003, 195. 90  Dirimtekin 1963. 91  Balabanov 2012b, 59. 92  Chichikova 1992, 150; Stoyanov et al. 2017. 93  Filis 2014, 249. 94  Koukouli-Chrysanthaki 2002, 37. 95  Popovič 2007, 126. 96  Loukopoulou 1999, 366; Archibald 2013, 226. 97  Tsetskhladze 2000, 236–37; 2011, 19. 98  Ilieva 2007, 217. 79

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on the North Aegean/Pontic coast and to the trading routes along the Hebros Valley.99 Greek traders were normally of a lower rank of society, and it would have been very difficult for them to operate inland in a foreign and hostile environment due to the many local structures and the local tribes who exercised control along the rivers and on the roads.100 For instance, during the reign of Nero, Roman traders for the first time made a journey along the whole amber road under the protection of the Roman empire. Before this period, amber was transferred from one hub to another.101 For the early period, the so-called transaction cost theory is important as we are dealing not only with the high costs of transport but also with security and protection. Foreign traders needed an institutional infrastructure that provided a necessary minimum of security and predictability. Mediaeval caravan trading frequently involved protection when caravans passed through territories of local political/military powers.102 Even in the mediaeval period, crossing the Haemus Valley without protection was a hazardous experience.103 Thracian society consisted of tribal groups and unions, i.e. ‘big tribes’, and local (‘small’) tribes which interrelated, resulting in a gradual transition of the initial tribal system into larger tribal chiefdoms and kingdoms (Fig. 3). Ancient sources regarding tribal geography are vague and not always correct. For instance, the source of Thucydides is hundreds of years apart from that of Strabo.104 Tribal territories should not be viewed in the same way of civic territories. A tribe could operate within a much wider area, intermingle with other tribes, or move into other territories. Early Greek knowledge about the Thracians was limited to the Axios and Struma Valleys, the area around Maroneia, the Hebros and the Straits.105 In the 5th century BC, Hecataeus of Miletus for the first time mentions the Thracian tribes (fr. 146–151, 156–181). Persian control during the occupation of Thrace was concentrated on an area between the Chersonese and Macedonia; the rest of Thrace was more or less unaffected. Tribes in Thrace had a strong influence on the trade in the hinterland as, for instance, in the case of the Triballi, a Palaeobalkan tribe who lived in the Central Balkans between the Danube and the Isker. It seems that the Triballi were interested neither in trade with neighbouring tribes nor in intensive contacts with the Greek world: no imported material in the so-called princely graves was found in Triballi territory, nor, unlike the surrounding area, was any amber found here.106 Another example is the Thracian Dentheletae (Danteletai) tribe, who inhabited the lands along the Upper Struma, had their own economy, and issued their own coins in the 4th century BC. There are indications that trade networks in Thrace correspond to the established tribal communities.107 The south flank of the Haemus and Rhodopes Mountains was controlled by the Bessians; after 310 BC, they also occupied the upper course of the Hebros, the Sredna Gora Mountains and the western part of the Haemus Mountains, 99

 Ilieva 2007, 218.  Braund 2014, 437. 101  Harris 1925, 232. 102  North 1985, 561. 103  Marinow 2018, 20. 104  Topalov 2000, 109. 105  Archibald 1998, 94. 106  Filipović 2014, 47. 107  Manov 2012, 135; Nikov 2007, 408. 100

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before they merged with the Odrysians. The Thynoi, the most powerful and warlike Thracian tribe, who inhabited the metal-rich Strandzha Mountains and the commercial routes into the interior, also slowly merged with the Odrysians.108 The Odrysians are first documented as a tribe after the Persian defeat (Herodotus 4. 93) and the nucleus of their original territory was westwards and northwards of the Strandzha, controlling the middle course of the Hebros, and later the upper course of the Hebros and Tonzos in the vicinity of Plovdiv.109 Their main seats were at Seuthopolis, Kabyle and Philippopolis, with less important settlements at Asenovgrad, Stara Zagora, Vetren, Vasil Levski, Simeonovgrad, Panagyurishte and Starosel. Other strongholds were in south-eastern Thrace at Kirklareli (possibly Ergiske, known from the Rogozen Treasure and already an important site during the Middle Bronze Age), Didymoteichon (Geistoi from the Rogozen Treasure?) and Beos.110 Alexander Fol proposed the so-called ‘royal economy’,111 which had a strong Marxist ideological background. This model presents the economy of Odrysian Thrace as a centralised monopoly in which the king was the ultimate owner of all means of production and initiator of all economic actions, especially at the time before the establishment of Macedonian power in Thrace. After this shift of political power, the Odrysian kings would have lost their ability to control surplus produce, causing the emergence of a middle class of traders and craftsmen resulting in a more market-oriented economy.112 The Odrysians never exercised complete sovereignty over the whole of the Eastern Balkans. According to Thucydides (2. 96. 3), the control of the Thracian king Sitalkes varied from one area to another. Some tribes submitted to the Odrysians but kept their own leaders.113 Independent tribes existed in the Rhodopes and the Haemus Mountains.114 Especially from the last quarter of the 5th century BC, the Odrysian state was in crisis, hardly able to control the tribes.115 Thinking of the Odrysian kingdom as a single, unified economy is not supported by the archaeological evidence: there are no traces of the Odrysian kingdom as a real Hellenistic monarchy with a fully developed complex society and economy.116 The hinterland of the later Odrysian capital shows no signs of having been restructured to the needs of a real state, and the lack of a real Late Iron Age settlement structure in Kazanlak indicates that the Thracian state did not leave permanent marks on the landscape.117 The monarchical organisation of the Thracian kingdoms can be defined as ‘soft’. The Odrysian princes drew their revenues from their country estates run by peasant farmers, while Greek cities paid tribute to them (Thucydides 2. 97) but did not overcome the system of local rulers.118 Archaeological evidence from recent research in the Kazanlak Valley 108

 Topalov 2000, 112.  Archibald 1998, 102. 110  Hristov 2003, 559; Stoyanov 2017, 23–28; Topalov 2000, 54. 111  A. Fol 1972, 124; 1990, 87–88; A. Fol et al. 2000, 134, 138, 139, 143. 112  Tzochev 2011, 414. 113  Topalov 2000, 110. 114  Topalov 2000, 105. 115  Zhekov 2012, 111. 116  Vranič 2014, 165. 117  Sobotkova 2012, 253; 2013, 133, 142. 118  V. Fol 2018, 53. 109

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proves that the influence of the Thracian royal elite and warrior aristocracy on local trade is overestimated, they being involved in internal rivalries which resulted in a lack of state control, while the local activities of the Thracian tribes were underestimated.119 The Odrysian state was a complex web of tribes, cities and other smaller settlements, in fact a non-hierarchical organisation. Tribal socio-political entities in the Balkans during the Late Iron Age were probably small, consisting of numerous tribes in constant struggle and encompassing probably only a few neighbouring settlements.120 What is clear is that the local tribal Thraco-Macedonians clearly understood the value of their resources through control over their territory, trade routes, mines, etc. Exports from the periphery to the core are ores/metals, agricultural products, timber and labourers, showing that the natives controlled these resources, including mining and exports.121 But they actively sought trading partners, both Greek and non-Greek, and were not passive recipients of ‘luxury’ goods from the core.122 It is certain that most of the mines in inland Thrace were under the control of local tribes (Herodotus 7. 112; Xenophon Hellenica 11. 5. 2, 11–43). Material from an excavation near Sinemorets on the western Black Sea coast led to the conclusion that it was a centre of economic and political power in the region. The local ruler was probably a strategos, one of the local paramounts within the Odrysian kingdom. He governed a small territory (at the same time there was a residence of another aristocrat about 10 km inland of Strandzha, near the village of Brodilovo) along the lower course of the Veleka, which was used as a trade route to the interior of the Strandzha Mountains and controlled the organisation and trade in the mineral and timber resources of this region.123 This could be an indication of a local centralised redistributive system in which tribal leaders controlled a small territory from which the surplus products of the whole community were exchanged with the outside world. Parallel market exchanges existed in Thrace at least as early as the end of the 5th century and they were probably not exclusively Greek.124 John Papadopoulos and Jane Waldbaum showed clearly that the assumption that Greek pottery is an equivalent of Greek presence is often unjustified.125 So there is no reason to believe that commercial activities were entirely monopolised by Greeks, especially in areas remote from the Aegean. Trade was not a priority in the initial stage of Greek colonisation, when colonists had to deal with the difficulties of survival. The already mentioned variables regarding safety, such as road conditions or river harbours and local routes with possibilities of overnight accommodation, did not exist in Thrace during this period.126 During excavation of Apollonia Pontica it was discovered that some of the amphorae which are supposed to be of type Heraclea Pontica II or III were made of a red clay fabric which closely resembles that of locally made plain ware, indicating that these were

119

 Bishop-Taylor 2013, 48.  Vranič 2014, 165. 121  Kostoglou 2008, 42–49. 122  Mangum 2016, 32. 123  Agre 2016, 209–12. 124  Tzochev 2011, 415. 125  Waldbaum 1997; Papadopoulos 1996. 126  Archibald 2016, 43. 120

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Fig. 4. Locally produced amphorae at Apollonia Pontica.

produced in Apollonia itself127 (Fig. 4), an idea earlier proposed by the Bulgarian archaeologist Peter Balabanov. He found at Debelt large amounts of these Heraclea Ponticatype amphorae, sometimes with englyphic stamps, and suggested that the quantity was too large to consist only of imports.128 His theory was fiercely rejected by V.I. Kac,129 though more recently Kac has accepted that not every amphora with an englyphic stamp originated from Heraclea Pontica.130 Imitations can also be seen in Colchis where amphorae of Sinopean type were copied,131 a phenomenon which is much more widespread than earlier assumed.132 If Apollonia Pontica produced its own amphorae, it is possible that the region of Anchialo on the Black Sea coast already produced wine in the Hellenistic period which could serve as a cheaper alternative for the expensive wines from Thasos and other Greek islands. The number of these Heraclea Pontica-type amphorae in inland Thrace, mostly unstamped like the overall majority of amphorae,133 is probably much higher than assumed, on account of the lack of publications, especially from minor Thracian sites.134 Other examples of local amphorae are the imitations of North Aegean vessels produced in or near Seuthopolis (14% of the 300 amphorae, being about 127

 de Boer 2008, 113.  Balabanov 2001; 2006. 129  Kac 2003, 261–63. 130  Kac 2015. 131  Tsetskhladze and Vnukov 1992, 365. 132  Lawall 2011, 71. 133  Lawall 2005, 188. 134  Lozanov 2010, 85. 128

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17,000 amphorae for the 50-year existence of Seuthopolis: between 0.25 and 0.5% of the total output per year survives),135 Kabyle, the site at Gotse Delchev and Philippopolis all probably also used for a cheap alternatives to Aegean wine.136 But amphorae and their contents were only a part, maybe a small part, of the total amount of ceramics, raw material or perishable products which were traded in Thrace before the Roman period. Metals from the many mines in Thrace, Macedonia and southern Serbia137 were turned into products in, among others, Pistiros,138 Sboryanavo139 and Apollonia Pontica.140 Salt was produced at Anchialo141 and exported to the hinterland, sometimes exchanged for slaves (Pollux 7. 14, cf. Suda, A 1384) sold by the Thracian elite to the Greek world.142 Marble from the quarries near Heraclea Sintica was transported to the east,143 and fish sauce from the Black Sea and olive oil from Greece were traded to the Greek communities inland. Other traded products included honey and textiles, but these goods were perishables and have hardly left a trace in the archaeological record.144 Amber was probably already transferred through Thrace from the Late Bronze Age onwards.145 The middle ground of the Rhône Delta in the hinterland of the Greek colony of Massalia offers comparisons with Thrace. From the Final Bronze Age III onwards (Ha B), the presence in regions north-west of the Alps (West Hallstatt area) of imported objects, which were generally prestige or luxury items, shows evidence of contact with other geographical and cultural areas.146 In 217 BC, when Hannibal was about to cross the Rhône, approximately four days’ march from the sea for an army, i.e. somewhere north of Avignon, ‘he used all possible means to win over the riverside residents and bought all their boats, small and large, which were many as a large number of the Rhône residents use them to transport goods from the sea’ (Polybius 3. 42). So here is evidence that the local inhabitants were involved in this trade.147 The local population interacted with the Greeks and traded themselves. The same situation could have existed in Thrace. It seems, for instance, that transport from the western Black Sea coast followed a road through Thracian settlements like Žitosvjak near Karnobat148 and Malko Tarnovo near Cirphan149 to royal cities such as Kabyle, Seuthopolis or Helis.150 Almost all the sites where Greek imports are found were religious centres,151 and as resinated wine and olive 135

 de Boer 2013, 109; Stissi 2002, 24–30.  Bozkova 2006, 133. 137  Davies 1932; 1936, 93; Gale et al. 2000; Lavelle 1992, 5; Nenov 2008, 258; Tcherkezova et al. 2014, 215; Tonkova 2008, 266. 138  Katinčarova and Bogdanova 1996. 139  Kuleff et al. 2006, 254; Stoyanov and Mihaylova 1996. 140  Personal observations during still unpublished excavation in the old town of Sozopol, Damyanov 2015, 303; Panayotova et al. 2014. 141  Khristchev 1982. 142  Sacks 1997, 248. 143  Nankov 2015, 10. 144  Tsetskhladze 2014, 240. 145  de Boer forthcoming; Bouzek 2010, 67; Braund 2014, 436; Gergova 1993, 70; Harris 1925, 231. 146  Sacchetti 2016, 248. 147  Bats 2012, 7; Garcia and Sourisseau 2017, 82, 84. 148  Georgieva and Momčilov 2000, 111. 149  Bozhkova and Nikov 2010, 220. 150  Rabadjiev 2000, 387. 151  Balabanov 2005b, 40; 2012b, 59; Bozhkova and Nikov 2010, 220. 136

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oil were widely used at rituals,152 it is possible that these were traded, probably in the form of a bazaar system. As the pattern of Greek imports in Thrace has a close relation to tribal groupings,153 it is most logical that these goods were transported and traded by locals. This phenomenon is also attested in other parts of the Mediterranean.154 An example of an extremely rich Thracian merchant is Methocus Tarulas, who financed the rebuilding of the walls of Apollonia Pontica after its destruction by the Romans in 72 BC. Of course this does not mean that no Greeks at all were involved in inland trade, as the find of the skeleton of a possible Greek trader 500 km inland in the Ukraine indicates,155 but Greek involvement was probably less common than we had assumed.

LOCAL MARKETS People have probably always exchanged goods. Gift-exchange developed into an exchange through markets with rules, like pricing, quality control, freedom of entry and protection.156 A market-town radius of 15–20 km is normal for cereal crops being transported overland.157 Markets were often socially and politically embedded and were located at transport hubs, which existed where long-distance trade routes crossed or separated, and at centres of consumption.158 Formal markets, in which transactions are clear and under regulations, were mostly close to religious centres, fortresses or royal residences.159 The idea of security and trust was especially facilitated by sacred places, which often guaranteed and encouraged economic exchange.160 The large crowds on religious feast days provided potential customers and opportunities for trade. The association between ancient cult places and trade activities is a phenomenon often attested in Antiquity. An example of the linking of fairs, called agorai, with religious festivals are the panegyreis attested in Greek sanctuaries (Polybius 5. 8. 5; Strabo 10. 5. 4). In Pausanias’ Periegesis, some details on such commercial activities held during the panegyris are described. According to him, the panegyris was held twice a year and lasted three days. On the second day, traders built stands or cubicles (skene) and on the last day a fair took place in which slaves, cattle of all kind, clothes, silver and gold were sold. During the panegyris, there were fiscal privileges or ateleia, which supported economic exchange during festival days. The discovery of votive objects at rural sanctuaries is an indication of the availability of local and imported products.161 Other proof of markets during religious festivals comes from the sanctuary of Isis in Industria, on the Padus near Turin, where the sanctuary of Isis probably replaced an earlier market place that had been associated with the use of the Po for the transport and exchange of goods from the Aosta Valley to the Adriatic coast.162

 Stout et al. 2003, 87.  Archibald 1983, 304. 154  Lawall 2005, 193; Vlassopoulos 2007, 95; Egri and Berecki 2015, 130. 155  Ganina 1970. 156  Cason and Lee 2011, 9–13; van der Spek 2015, 22. 157  Bintliff 2002, 217. 158  Rahmstorf 2018, 20. 159  Krämer 2016, 76. 160  Morcillo 2013, 272–73. 161  Feyel 2006, 125. 162  Morcillo 2013, 245. 152 153

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The provisional nature of this trade leaves hardly any significant archaeological traces. A market place can only be attested archaeologically by large open areas where weighing stones and coins are found, often near places of worship. Other indicators are a small number of rather simply built structures, large amounts of fragmented artefacts, thick organic but trampled levels, many bones, and some evidence of small scale production on the site.163 There is no evidence for long-distance trading facilities in Thrace but there are indications for parallel market exchanges ruled by demand and supply, at least as early as the end of the 7th century BC;164 and the geographically advantageous locations of sacred places in Thrace, often at important crossings at the border between the mountain and the plain made them ideal places for a market.165 Periodic rural markets, typical for agrarian economies characterised by relatively low demand, underdeveloped infrastructure and political instability are easy to imagine in ancient Thrace.166 Both Seuthopolis and Kabyle probably had agorai, where official decrees were exhibited in public (SEG 42 661). The agora of Seuthopolis is an open square in which only an altar and a statue base have survived. The concentration of coin finds in the square and in its surrounding buildings, particularly of bronze coins destined for small transactions, indicates a retail market place. The agora of Kabyle has not yet been located but it was a flourishing Thracian and Early Hellenistic town by the mid-4th century BC.167 During the first half of the 3rd century BC, it was the seat of the local Thracian rulers, housing a mint which struck large series of bronze and silver tetradrachms of the Alexander type.168 Mesambrian amphora stamps from the Black Sea coast at Kabyle prove that it was a main importing and distribution centre.169 An inscription found in the Upper Hebros Valley, near the village of Batkun (IGB III 1 1114) and dated to the Early Hellenistic period records a festival (πανήγυρις) in honour of Apollo. This has been interpreted as an indication of a periodic fair.170 A hoard of ‘satyr and nymph’ imitations and a lead weight marked with a relief astragalos, a standard Greek device for the weight of a stater, were found in the 5th-century BC settlement at Krastevich. The presence of these market instruments along with foreign coins and transport amphorae, a large warehouse-like building and the lack of any fortifications, indicates the existence of a regulated market place in the heart of the Odrysian kingdom in an early period.171 Excavation of the site at Krastevich is still continuing, but it is already clear that this was another transit or trans-shipment centre, with a sanctuary.172 Belana, probably also mentioned in the Pistiros inscription, was situated at a strategic position near today’s town of Belovo and lying along the Maritsa.173 It has the same features as Krastevich and 163

 Rahmstorf 2018, 29–31.  Tzochev 2015, 415. 165  Tsetskhladze 2013, 645. 166  Tzochev 2011, 418. 167  Tzochev 2011, 416. 168  Paunov 2012, 481. 169  Stoyanov 2011, 200. 170  Velkov 1977, 173; Domaradzki 1995, 24; Domaradzki and Taneva 1998, 18. 171  Tzochev 2011, 417. 172  Madzharov and Tancheva 2016, 244; 2017, 165; 2018, 109. 173  Tonkova 2002, 148; Manov 2009, 289. 164

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was situated at the place where two important roads crossed in the past. One of them runs southward to the valley of the Mesta and was later called the via Diagonalis by the Romans.

PISTIROS

AND

OTHER SO-CALLED GREEK EMPORIA

INLAND

But how should we consider sites like Pistiros (Adzhiyska Vodenitsa) and possibly that at Kale near Krševica in south-eastern Serbia? The possibility of Greek trading posts in the Thracian plain will continue to be controversial. The debate over the question of Pistiros is generally confined to two options: Adzhiyska Vodenitsa was either a Greek emporion or an Odrysian royal residence. Both the male and female populations of Pistiros were ethnically mixed (Greek and Thracian proper names are presented among the graffiti) and they were probably bilingual;174 it remains a fact that the Greeks are not very visible in the archaeological remains in Pistiros.175 The inscription found near the site176 mentions Greeks from Maroneia, Thasos and Apollonia and calls the inhabitants emporitai but not specifically traders. It also mentions the land and pastures of the Greeks, a fact which more or less contradicts their status as mere traders. Anyway, the definition of an emporion only as a trading centre is ours and may not be that of the ancient Greeks.177 The number of amphorae found at Pistiros (and also at Seuthopolis and Kabyle) is very small compared with the Greek colonies on the western Black sea coast.178 This suggests that one is dealing with a consumer centre, like Helis, rather than with a trading emporion. It is almost certain that Greeks, probably most originating from the North Aegean, were involved in all kinds of crafts.179 The building of the many Thracian royal tombs, of whose building techniques the Milesians already had knowledge since the 7th century BC, was probably done by them.180 But Greek craftsmen were also involved in the building of royal cities like Koprivlen,181 Seuthopolis, Kabyle, Pistiros itself, and later in the Macedonian cities such as Philippopolis and Heraclea Sintica. Greek artisans were probably (partly) responsible for the production of silver and golden metalwork for Thracian royalty and the warrior aristocracy, while the paintings in the famous Kazanlak tomb, the Thracian tomb at Sveshtari, the Alexandrovo tomb and the tomb at Starosel near Kazanlak were probably executed by a Greek painter.182 The use of Greek craftsmen by foreign rulers in creating elite culture and the objects and edifices through which wealth and power were displayed was quite common.183 So it is possible that the inscription found near Pistiros was intended to protect the 174

 Bouzek and Domaradzka 2013, 67–69.  Tsetskhladze 2000, 241; 2011, 18. 176  Bravo and Chankowski 1999; Chankowski and Domaradzka 1999; Graninger 2012; Velkov and Domaradzka 1994. 177  Altern 2012; Demetriou 2011. 178  Nankov 2009, 668; Demetriou 2010, 78. 179  Vlassopoulos 2007, 98; Egri and Berecki 2015, 132. 180  Tsetskhladze 1998, 80; 2002, 86. 181  Delev et al. 2000, 152. 182  Ognenova-Marinova 1977, 188; Theodossiev 2000, 92; Valeva 2005, 162. 183  Ilieva 2007, 218; Tsetskhladze 2013, 645; Vranič 2014, 166. 175

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Greek artisans working in Thrace against high taxes on products they imported for living or for the production of objects for the Thracian elite. These were very important for the prestige of the Thracian elite, caught, as already mentioned, in a culture of strong intraelite rivalry,184 The fact that the Greek script and language were rather common in Seuthopolis185 is another indication of a standing population of craftsmen instead of a fleeting group of foreign traders.

CONCLUSION We can conclude that several models like middle ground, small world, least cost path and gateway/hubs can be applied for Thrace, while world-system analysis can be used for explaining, for instance, the long-distance amber trade. In several sites, imported Greek material was found from such an early time that the existence of Greek traders in the hinterland is very unlikely. Some of these sites also produced Mycenaean ceramics, both near the Hebros and Struma rivers, indicating a revival of old routes into Thrace. Also there is strong evidence in Thrace from the Archaic to the Hellenistic period, enabling us to employ a model of middle grounds and a network of religious gateway communities, indicating that Greeks brought the products to the middle grounds while local traders carried their products by land and river through a bazaar system trading from one market to the next, probably protected and taxed by their own tribal elite. Most imported Greek material is found in the territories of the Odrysians, the Bessi and the Thynoi, and all their sub-tribes. The real middle ground for the Greek traders from the western Black Sea coast and the Aegean was probably located at Sladkite Kladenzi/Debelt and near the Greek cities on the North Aegean coast. The picture of these imports corresponds to the established tribal communities. Hubs served primarily as gateways for the long-distance trade between a large number of parties, protected during trade at cult places, which can be considered as neutral zones. Regarding a site like Pistiros, it is much more likely, considering the archaeological finds, that we are dealing with a settlement of Greek craftsmen who were working for the Thracian elite. Although I want to emphasise, especially during the Hellenistic period, that there were most likely some Greek traders operating in inland Thrace and there were probably also Thracian craftsmen active, the main evidence in my opinion points to a small world of Thracian traders and Greek artisans working in a politically unstable situation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Agre, D. (ed.) 2016: Trakiiski vladetelski dom krai selo Sinemorets, vol. 1 (Sofia). Altern, P. 2012: ‘What is an emporion and what role did emporia play in Mediterranean archaic trade?’ (http://www.academia.edu/11461502/). Antonaccio, C. 2013: ‘Networking the Middle Ground?: The Greek Diaspora, Tenth to Fifth Century BC’. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 28.1, 237–51. Archibald, Z.H. 1983: ‘Greek imports: Some aspects of the Hellenic impact on Thrace’. In Poulter, A.G. (ed.), Ancient Bulgaria (Papers presented to the International Symposium on 184

 Bishop-Taylor 2013, 51.  Nankov 2012, 109.

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PHRYGIAN TRACES IN GREEK EPIGRAPHY OF ROMAN ANATOLIA: SURVIVAL OR IDENTITY REVIVAL?* María-Paz DE HOZ

ABSTRACT Elements in Roman Anatolia that can be traced back to ancient Phrygia are concentrated in an area that does not include the whole territory called Phrygia at certain moments and by certain authors. The aim of this paper is to identify that territory, to see its possible relationship with the real ancient presence of Phrygians – not just Phrygian domination and influence – and to consider if these traces in Roman times should be considered a voluntary revival of identity or survival through the centuries.

INTRODUCTION The term ‘Phrygia’ in the ancient Greek and Latin sources is mainly related to the legendary past of king Midas and mythic stories about Cybele and Attis, Marsyas, and the discovery of music.1 When the term is used by ancient authors, in inscriptions and in modern bibliography to designate an historical and concrete people, it refers to an ancient territory in Asia Minor whose political and cultural frontiers are not known for most of its history, in part because its extent changed significantly over the course of time and because its people and culture were already from their origin mixed with other Anatolian and non-Anatolian peoples in Asia Minor. There are nevertheless common features in some areas of Roman Anatolia that may be traced back to the Phrygian culture that arose in Asia Minor during the first centuries of the 1st millennium BC, which was a mixture of elements brought by the Phrygians from the Balkan territories and elements adopted by them from the local Anatolians or from other peoples with whom they had contact, mainly Luwians. In a general way, ‘ancient Phrygian’ will be used in this paper to designate that culture which achieved its main power and expansion in Anatolia in the 8th and 7th centuries BC. Though lack of Phrygian traces in the ancient sources for certain areas of the country

* This research is part of the project ‘Hellenization in the Greco-Roman Orient: Processes of Perception and Assimilation of the Local Cultures’ (FFI2015-63956-P), sponsored by the Spanish MINECO and FEDER funds. I have chosen the ‘Phrygian’ topic thinking it would be especially suitable for my friend and colleague Gocha. I want to thank the Institute for Advanced Study (Princeton) and Angelos Chaniotis for the opportunity to carry out research there, where I studied different aspects of Roman Phrygia, parts of which have been used for this paper. I also thank Bartomeu Obrador-Cursach for his help and his clarification concerning several aspects of the Phrygian language, and for letting me use his yet unpublished catalogue of Neophrygian inscriptions; and Jorge Luis Pérez Reyes for the revision of my English. 1  On these aspects, see Levick 2013, 41–45; Kelp 2015, 130–46.

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called Phrygia cannot be considered proof that these were never really inhabited by Phrygians, the survival of traces in other areas at least sheds some light on the extent of ancient Phrygian populations, and provides some clues for better interpreting sources such as Herodotus, Xenophon or Strabo. In researching these traces, it is nevertheless necessary to distinguish survival from artificial recreation as an identity mark, two important phenomena in Roman Asia Minor that are not always easy to separate. The aim of this paper is to identify original Phrygian elements in Roman times and their territorial distribution, using epigraphic sources to consider if they represent a continuation of ancient elements or are an artificial Roman recreation of an ancient and glorious past. Greek Classical sources show that before Hellenistic times there was a Phrygia Hellespontica and a Great Phrygia (around Ancyra and the Tembris Valley, extending as far as Iconium to the south and at least Colossae to the west).2 Departing mostly from Hellenistic sources (Eratosthenes, Poseidonius and Artemidorus), Strabo recognises the existence of a Phrygia Parva, also called Epictetus, and of a Phrygia Magna. He also mentions Phrygia Hellespontica, but usually confusing it with Phrygia Parva or Epictetus (12 .4. 1, 12. 8. 1). It was located around Daskyleion, capital of a Persian satrapy, in Mysia on the Hellespont, but was completely Hellenised soon after Alexander the Great; Strabo does not even mention the Phrygians in his description of the city (12. 8. 10).3 Epictetus was the name given by the Attalids to a part of Phrygia annexed by Eumenes II in 183/2 BC, in the context of the Bithynia-Pergamum Wars, though it is one of the earliest Phrygian areas of occupation. It was mostly traversed by the Sangarios and Tembris rivers, and included the cities of Aizanoi, Nacoleia, Cotyaeum, Midaeum, Dorylaeum and Cadi (12. 8. 12; cf. 12. 4. 5, 12. 8. 1, 2. 5. 31).4 Phrygia Magna (12. 8. 13) extended from the Galatians to the Lycaonians,5 and between Maeonians, Lydians and Carians in the west, and Pessinus, Orcaorci and Lycaonia in the east. Strabo includes in Phrygia Magna the Parorean Phrygia with Philomelion to the north and Antioch to the south, the territories of Amorium, Eumeneia and Synnada with nearby Docimaeum, as well as the biggest Phrygian cities which were Apamea Cibotus and Laodicea by the Lycus, together with other smaller ones such as Aphrodisias, Colossae, Themisonium, Sanaus, Metropolis and Apolonias, and, further away, Peltae, Tabae, Eucarpia and Lysias.6 The term ‘Phrygia’ is used in this paper to refer roughly to the territory corresponding to Strabo’s Phrygia Magna together with Phrygia Epictetus, i.e. the territory that was still known as Phrygia 2  Herodotus. 3. 127; Xenophon Hellenica 3. 2. 1, 3. 4. 12, 3. 4. 26–27; Cyropaedia 1. 5. 3, 1. 1. 4, 2. 1. 5, 4. 2. 30, 6. 2. 10, 7. 4. 8–11, etc. On Iconium and Colossae, cf. Xenophon Anabasis 1. 2 .6–19. In Ciro’s expedition from Sardis to Cunaxa, the king crossed the Maeander and went through Phrygian Colossae... and through Iconium, the last Phrygian city. 3  In the second book he nevertheless distinguishes Phrygia Hellespontica and Phrygia Epictetus, this one as a part of Phrygia together with Galatia (2. 5. 31). His source here is surely Eratosthenes, who was much more aware of the state of affairs existing at the end of the Persian domination, before the changes brought about by Alexander the Great, and, especially, the politics of the Seleucids and Attalids. 4  Strabo says that Cadi is called by some authors Mysian. He probably means Eratosthenes, one of his main sources, since Poseidonius considered it Phrygian and Ptolemy Maeonian (5. 2. 21), being Maeonia between Mysia, Phrygia and Lydia. Cf. Lasserre 1981, 140, n. 1, and supplementary note on p. 175. With the exception of Cadi, there are no cities in the area before Julio-Claudian times. 5  After Xenophon (Anabasis 1. 2), Iconium is the farthest Phrygian city. For Phrygian traces in Roman Iconium, see below. 6  In 12. 7. 2 Strabo includes Tabas among the Pisidian cities. On Strabo’s Phrygia, see Campanile 2000.

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in Hellenistic times after the appropriation by the Galatians of the territory to the east of the Sangarios river, and the suppression of the Persian satrapy of Daskyleion with the end of the Hellespontine Phrygia.

THE ETHNIC ‘PHRYX’

IN THE

EPIGRAPHY

As Strabo mentions when describing the area of ancient Troy, the Anatolian distribution of the ancient ethne changed with the different shifts of power in the region so that by Roman times many of them were not called by their ancient names anymore (12. 4. 6; cf. 12. 8. 7). The epigraphic evidence of the ethnic confirms this statement in the Phrygian case. In Classic and Hellenistic epigraphy, the ethnics ‘Phrygia’ and ‘Phryx’ are well attested in Macedonia, Boeotia (Thespias, 4th century BC: BCH 50 [1926], 414, 29), and Athens;7 a Φρύξ is known in Cnidus (IKnidos 1. 23, 2nd century BC) as member of a thyasos. A Phrygian community is identified as such in 3rd-century BC Astypalaia, where at least 61 members join in a koinon.8 In Rhodes there are many inscriptions where men and women are identified as Phryx (IG XII.1 527, 530, 531, 533, 535–539; Clara Rhodos 2 [1932] 242,167; SEG 39 793, 799, 814, 819). There is also a Phrygian community, probably from Alexandria, attested through an inscription from Pompeii (IG XIV 701) where a priest of the Phrygian politeuma makes a dedication to Zeus Phrygios: ἱερατεύσας τοῦ πολιτεύματος τῶν Φρυγῶν ἀνέθηκε Δία Φρύγιον;9 and a Τατεὶς Φρυγία is surely attested in Alexandria (SEG 8 387). Besides this evidence, many slaves are identified with the Phrygian ethnic.10 We do not know where all these people identified as Phrygians came from exactly, but it seems that there existed a clear idea of the Phrygian land as an ethnic unit, which would have made it unnecessary to identify the locality of origin more accurately. Judging from Strabo’s sources, in the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC the Phrygians were the inhabitants of so-called Phrygia Epictetus and so-called Phrygia Magna, which included the Parorea near Pisidia, and whose limits with Pisidia, Caria, Lydia and Mysia were very difficult to define. None of the provinces into which the Romans divided Anatolia was called Phrygia until the 3rd century AD, and then the term does not seem to fit into any ancient conception of Phrygian territory.11 Stephen Mitchell states that only the province names are found as names of koina, and that there is no clear evidence that the pre-Roman sense of ethnicity survived in Asia Minor the changes brought by Roman rule; ethnics appear in relation to province names, and when there is no coincidence, as in the Pisidian case, the ethnic does not appear.12 It is true that, in opposition to the evidence of the Cappadocian, Lycian, Galatian or Cilician ones, the evidence of a Phrygian koinon is 7

 DeVries 2000, 341.  τὸ κοινὸν τῶμ Φρυγῶν (IdI 88, ll. 13–14). The koinon resolved to inscribe on a stele the names of those contributing to pay off the debt of a house. 9  I. Alex. Imp. 74 (3 BC). They were probably mercenaries who had served under the Ptolomies. 10  For instance, in Delphi (FD III 3. 13; II BC; GDI II 1710, 1922, 2289), Acarnania (IG IX 12 2. 394), Naupactus (IG IX 12 3. 640), most of them in the 2nd century BC. On Phrygian slaves, see Campanile 2000, 499–500, with references to ancient authors; and Lewis 2018, especially 250, 285–86. 11  For the complicated provincial boundaries in Asia Minor between AD 235 and 535, see Mitchell 1993 II, 155, 158–63. 12  Mitchell 2000, 125–26. 8

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extremely scarce and problematic. But we have the evidence of the legend ΚΟΙΝΟΝ ΦΡΥΓΙΑΣ AΠAMEIC on issues of bronze coinage minted in Apamea on three occasions under Nero and the Flavians, and two more in the early 3rd century.13 Peter Thonemann relates these occasions to the celebration of festivals at the Roman proconsular assizes in Apamea, a gathering that the city ‘re-imagined’ as the meeting of a regional ethno-nationalist association serving to naturalise the imperial institution.14 But did the Phrygians themselves, at least the inhabitants of the whole area that was considered to be Phrygian by ancient authors, have by that time an idea of a common ethnic origin that could move them to appeal for such a koinon? The evidence of a Phrygian koinon comes only from Apamea, as we have seen, and appears in official evidence of the city. There is scarce evidence of the toponym ‘Phrygia’ referring the origin of a person, or of the ethnic ‘Phrygian’, in Roman times besides their use as a reference to the ancient Phrygian mythic and religious traditions, or as in reference to the Homeric tradition, as is the case, for instance, in poetic epitaphs: Apollonia is said to be in ‘Phrygia rich in sheep’ (MAMA IV 202, 1st–2nd century AD), and an architect who ‘came to Phrygia’ had his tomb in Appia (MAMA X 137, 3rd century AD).15 The few references to Phrygian or Phrygia in Roman times related to a concrete locality belong to Phrygia Epictetus and the area of Synnada-Apollonia in Phrygia Magna.16 A man in the area of Tibur (Tivoli) identifies himself as Φρὺξ Συνναδεύς in the late 2nd century AD (SEG 30 1224), and also in Synnada Aurelios Aristainetos is praised for being the most just procurator from Phrygia (MAMA IV 63, AD 200–250). The personal name ‘Phryx’ is not very common in Roman times either. In Lycian Olympus, Demetrios, Phryx by nickname, erects a tomb for him and his family (TAM II 999); Phryx as personal name is attested in Nacoleia (MAMA V 242); and in Lydian Tripolis there is an Alexandros [Ph]rygiskou (MAMA VI 58b). What ethnic elements did the inhabitants of that huge territory called Phrygia in the literary sources have that could have led them to identify themselves as Phrygians in Roman times? Possible Phrygian features may not be survivals of ancient Phrygia, but recent common elements or developments in a cultural area, or they could even be external influences, ancient or recent. Besides, we do not know if those elements had a continuation from ancient times, which would naturally emerge through written evidence, or if the new globalising Roman empire that stimulated Hellenic education and culture as a unifying element, also promoted the artificial revival of ancient customs as identifying elements in a homogenising world, as occurred in some areas of the Roman empire.

13

 Thonemann 2011, 109–17; Kelp 2015, 109.  Thonemann 2011, 112–16, according to whom Phrygia had developed a high corporate identity under the Roman empire since the time of Hadrian, and was a separate body from the rest of the province Asia for indirect taxation and the management of the patrimonium. Apamea, one of the three Phrygian jurisdictions with Cibyra and Synnada, played a major role in this aspect of things and was probably especially interested in being the capital of a real or fictive ethnic association. 15  Cf. MAMA X 220 for a foreigner who died in Appia, though in Hellenistic times, and whose verse epitaph refers to ‘Phrygia of many horses’. 16  The funerary verse inscription IPorto 45 (dated in the 1st or 2nd century AD) is problematic, where Μάγνης (ἐκ Φρυγίης, v. 1) is probably not an ethnic but a personal name, since Μα|γνήτων πόλιν (v. 3) is not Phrygian, but Lydian or Carian. The city mentioned here is probably Magnesia on the Maeander because of the expression Μανθίωι ἐν πε|δίωι, being Manthius another name for the Maeander. Cf. Sacco, comment to IPorto 45; Ebert 1985 (SEG 35 1039). 14

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Language is one of the most reliable elements for recognising ethnic continuity in a territory.17 If a group of people living in a certain area started writing in the Phrygian language by the 1st century AD, when they adopted the epigraphic habit and the alphabet from the Greeks, it is obvious that they had preserved their language.18 This area comprises Cotyaeum, Appia, Lysias, Docimaeum, Synnada, Tymandus, the Central Highlands and further south into Pisidian Antioch and Neapolis, and south-east to the other side of the Sultan Dağları, in the area of Philomelium and Tyriaeum, and even further in Lycaonian Laodicea.19 The question would be in what degree and for what uses the inhabitants of this area used Phrygian. Most Neophrygian inscriptions are imprecations appealing to the gods added to Greek epitaphs. Are we to understand this as an identification mark or just as a normal use of their language in order to make the imprecation more effective while speaking to ancient and patrioi gods in their ancient language? We could consider that such brief and formulary clauses in Greek inscriptions are not enough evidence of these people speaking Phrygian in their private lives.20 But the bilingualism we find in these inscriptions fits a phenomenon well known in bilingual societies and that is well attested through epigraphy in other ancient areas, for instance in the Greek communities of the Latin West. The Greek part in the bilingual inscriptions is the one with all the information that the author wants people to know, so that the deceased achieves eternity between mortals. The switch into Phrygian is established in the part of the inscription that appeals to the gods. If we add the fact that there are also inscriptions only in Phrygian, where all the elements concerning the deceased are given in this language; that there are even cases where Phrygian appears first, and others where there is not an inter-sentential switching but a tag-switching, where Greek words are introduced in the Phrygian text and the other way round; and especially that the Greek language in this same area has particular features that are explained through Phrygian contamination, I think that what we have here is evidence of Phrygian-speaking communities.21 As Claude Brixhe has already stated, the survival of a language throughout so many centuries implies the survival of a community who is monolingual or who has that language as their main language.22 Thanks to Brixhe’s study of Greek in Asia Minor,23 17  Being true, as Barbara Levick (2013, 47) states, that language is a critical mark for establishing ethnic boundaries, since for various reasons part of an ethnic group could have adopted another language. 18  It is important to highlight that there was an earlier epigraphic tradition represented by Phrygian texts in Phrygian alphabet, which came to an end in Hellenistic times. Cf. Thonemann (2013a) for a hypothesis on this disappearance. On Neophrygian inscriptions as an act of culture identity against Greek and Latin, see Levick 2013, 47–48; Bru 2017, 295. 19  For the extension of Neophrygian, see Brixhe 2013, 60; Bru 2017, 226–37. For a complete catalogue, see Obrador-Cursach 2020a. 20  Cf. Levick 2007, 111. 21  Phrygian was still being spoken at least in the area of Cotyaeum in the 5th century AD, as attested by Socrates, who in his Ecclesiastical History 5. 23 says of the archbishop of Cotyaeum that he was a Goth from his father’s side and a Phrygian from his mother’s, and that he used both languages in his prayers. 22  Brixhe 2002, 254–56. This author states that if we consider that the Neophrygian inscriptions belong to a middle class, since the upper class was Hellenised and the lower one did not leave inscriptions, we may assume that the lower classes still spoke Phrygian, and probably so too did the middle class, at least in their private life, and most probably their women. 23  See especially Brixhe 2002a; 2002b; Brixhe and Lejeune 1984.

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many Phrygian features can be identified in Greek inscriptions. Although most Greek Anatolian particularities are due to internal Greek development, and the high deviations in many inscriptions are to be explained through this general change, it is significant that the features that are to be ascribed to the Phrygian language appear in an area that corresponds mainly to the area where Neophrygian inscriptions have been found. It actually surpasses this area in some limits, but the phenomenon is not attested or only scarcely attested and isolated in other parts of Phrygia. Here is a list with the main features and examples:24 1. Assimilation of Greek aspirates to Phrygian voiceless occlusives:25 κάριν (χάριν), ἀδελπῶ (ἀδελφῶ), τυγατρί (θυγατρί), γυνηχί (γυναικί), προνοῦσα (φρονοῦσα). This phenomenon produces abundant hypercorrections such as: τυγαθέρε (θυγατέρη), λίφοιτο (λίποιτο), θέχνοις (τέχνοις), φρεσβυτέρου (πρεσβυτέρου), φωλευτοῦ (βουλευτοῦ). It is not exclusive of this area, but the intensity we find here is surely proof of the survival of the Phrygian language. The fact that it also appears, though only scarcely, in the west, could be explained by the possibility that Phrygian was still also spoken there. 2. Phrygian prothetic vowel before the Greek cluster /st/:26 ἰστήλην, εἰστρατιώτων; with extension to other clusters: ἰσπουδασάντων. This phenomenon is attested in eastern Phrygia and bordering areas of Lycaonia, Pisidia and Isauria. 3. Metathesis of /r/ and /l/:27 Οὐαρελιανός, Οὐαρελίῳ, Αὐλήριος, attested in Greek inscriptions to the west of Lake Tatta and in Nacolea. It is also attested in Phrygian language in the double form σκελεδριαι (Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 44.3) and σκερεδριας (Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 55.1). 4. πός, ποσ- instead of πρός, προσ- is attested in the cities of the Upper Tembris, in Eumenea and Docymaeum, and also in the Phrygian-Pisidian area. After considering it a phonetic phenomenon, not necessarily belonging to a Phrygian substratum, Brixhe has created awareness of the possibility of a lexical substratum influence from a Phrygian preverb ποσ- attested in a Neophrygian inscription.28 In opposition to the other features, this one is also – and especially well – attested in Lydian Maeonia and the bordering Dionysopolis, and the sanctuary of Motella in western Phrygia. 5. Isolated preservation of a state prior to the contraction between long /a/ and /ei/:29 Δεὶ Ζεμεταειν (Philomelion: Sterrett 1888, 165, 155). 6. Calque of Phrygian formulae: μνημείῳ κακὸν προσποιήσει (MAMA IV 23, 27, IX 103, Waelkens 1986, 475, 492, 493, etc.) = κνουμανει κακουν αδδακετ (Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 4.1, 35.1, 63.2, 22.2).30 7. Adoption of Phrygian vocabulary: βέννος and derivatives.31

 For concrete references, see Brixhe and Lejeune 1984 and the database PHI 7.  Brixhe 1987a, 110. 26  Brixhe 1987a, 115–16; 2002a, 263. 27  Brixhe 1987a, 113. 28  Brixhe 1987a, 113–14; 1987b, 58; 2002a, 261–62. 29  Brixhe 2002b, 68. 30  Brixhe 2002a, 262. 31  For bennos, see Drew-Bear and Naour 1990, 1952–91, especially 1955–61. 24 25

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We should not ascribe to chance the fact that there is no evidence of Phrygian-speaking communities and of specific Phrygian features in Greek in other areas of Phrygia, since the number of inscriptions is big enough. A very plausible reason is surely the fact that the areas lacking this evidence have been strongly Hellenised and urbanised. But another possible reason, much more difficult to prove, could be that south-western and western Phrygia were never completely Phrygianised. There is no real proof that before the Lydian conquest Phrygia was ever a political unit; there are well differentiated archaeological areas, and scholars are now doubting that Gordion was the capital of a great state.32 Contrasting how Phrygian-speaking areas overlapped with the areas of other probable ancient Phrygian cultural elements could allow us to reach some conclusions on this question.

ONOMASTICS Onomastics is a very complex phenomenon that can only be used as ethnic proof with many limitations. I will not, hence, comment on this matter here, but will in turn just establish the geographic area where personal names securely identified as Phrygian are attested. Only very few names belong in this category. Already in Old Phrygian, less than half of the anthroponymia is Phrygian, more than 10% is Anatolian, and almost as numerous as Phrygian occurrences are Lallnamen.33 The best attested Phrygian name in Roman times is Ἰμαν, also attested in Palaeophrygian. It is a well-attested name in the area comprising the Axylon villages (MAMA I 298), Lysias (MAMA IV 119), Amorium (Waelkens 1986, no. 565) and other localities in eastern Phrygia (MAMA VII 271, I 298), and further to the south in the territory of Laodicea Catacecaumene (MAMA I 2a, 147, SEG 34 1371), even in Iconium (CIG 4002).34 Among the tekmoreioi in Pisidian Antioch, there are also many people with that name, whose ethnic designations refer probably to Phrygian or Pisidian nearby villages.35 Other personal names that have been considered to be Phrygian by Brixhe are Οὐάναξος, Οὐανάξων, Οὐαναξίων, attested in the Phrygian-Galatian border (MAMA VII 213, 251, 257, 278) and Amorium;36 the group of names Πριβις (Laodicea Catacecaumene: MAMA I 74), Πρειβις, Πρειουεις, etc, attested in eastern Phrygia, southern Galatia (MAMA VII 437; JHS 19 [1899], 129, no. 151) and 32

 Genz 2011.  Brixhe 2013, on which I base the identification of clearly Phrygian names in Roman Anatolia (2013, 64–68). On Phrygian onomastics, see also Innocente 1997; Avram 2020. 34  To the area of Lycaonia belong a couple of inscriptions where the name Iman appears together with other non-Greek features: Ἴμαν κὲ Τειμόλαος κὲ Ἰσκληπία (SEG 6 373); [..]ος Ουρανδε[ως]/ [Α]ὐρήλιοι Ουραν[δι]/[ς] καὶ Λαφρηνὸς καὶ/ [Ι]μανος κὲ Μανοσας/ [ἀν]έστησαν ἕνεχα/ [μνήμης] (SEG 34 1371). Cf. MAMA I 2 a, 147. 35  SERP 319, 2; 333, 10; 333, 12; 335, 15; 337, 16 etc. Among the ethnics: Perkeniates, Darrenos, Kranosagenos, Ktimenenos, Simmikeus, Ptagianos, Tuitenos, Raitenos (see especially SERP 319, 2). 36  Zgusta 1964, and 1138/1-3. Brixhe (2002b, 62–71) considers this name a continuation of Old Phrygian wanakt, equivalent to Greek wanax, but not necessarily a borrowing from Mycenaean. Related to this Phrygian name is the divine epiclesis Ouanaktan that appears together with Ouranion in a Neophrygian inscription from north-west Amorium (MAMA I 413; Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 6.1). Brixhe considers these personal names surely theophoric, probably related to the worship of a god Wanak, that he identifies with Men because of the evidence of the epiclesis Ouranios for this god (2002b, 62). As Bartomeu ObradorCursach pointed out to me, there is no Phrygian god Wanak, and the epiclesis in this inscription is addressed to Dionysos: ουανακταν κε ουρανιον ιστ?εικετ διουνσιν ‘and let him be responsible towards the heavenly king Dionysos’ (translation Lubotsky 1998, no. 88). 33

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Lystra in Lycaonia (MAMA VIII 83);37 Ξευνα and variants, attested in the north-east (Appia, Dorylaeum, Nacolea, the Highlands, Upper Tembris) and south-east (Laodicea Catacecaumene) and Tyriaeum in Lycaonia (JHS 31 [1911], 179, 31 [bilingual]; MAMA VII 128) with two instances in northern Galatia;38 or Οὐεναυα in the area of Midas city, Nacolea, Laodicea Catacecaumene and north of Amorium.39 It is in this Neophrygian area where all the names identified securely as Phrygian are found. But the most usual non-Greek and non-Roman names in Phrygia are the socalled Lallnamen, greatly appreciated by the Anatolians and already almost as numerous as Phrygian names in Palaeophrygian inscriptions.40 Though Greek personal names constitute a large group in most of Phrygia, and Roman names are common in cities with Roman colonies (such as Antioch in Pisidia) or with imperial properties (such as Laodicea Catacecaumene), in the Neophrygian areas Lallnamen are almost as numerous as Greek and, in some areas, much more frequent. In Neophrygian areas, feminine names in particular are mostly Lallnamen, or Greek appellatives referring to the most appreciated values in women. It cannot be discarded that in some cases they represent translations of Phrygian names. Perhaps the importance of justice and moral values in central and eastern Phrygia (see below) is an ancient element that had an echo in Phrygian onomastic and the reason why Greek names such as Δικαιοσύνη, Εὐήθιος or Φρόνιμος are so beloved in this area.

RELIGION Besides language and onomastics, religious cult practice is the other sphere where tradition is especially persistent. I will however limit this study to mentioning some features that seem to be ancient Phrygian survivals, and that are attested only in certain areas. One particularity of Phrygia Epictetus, with some evidence also in the Bithynian area of Nicaea, seems to be the cult of Zeus Bronton associated to tombs, where the deceased are prayed to along with the god, for instance: Ἀντιόχω πατρὶ φιλτάτω κὲ Διὶ Βροντῶ[ντι] εὐχήν, ‘to Antiochus, dear father, and to Zeus Bronton, a prayer’ (MAMA V R15, Nacolea).41 Often the prayer is explicitly made on behalf of the dedicant and all his family and belongings. The worship to the deceased is further attested by more seldom, though clearer inscriptions, such as the one from Alia (Arpali, south of Appia), where a woman honours his deceased man, who has become a god: Τατεις ἐτείμησεν ἄνδρα τὸν ἑαυτ[ῆς] / Μητρᾶν, θεὸν γενόμενον.42 There are also some particular expressions in metric funerary 37

 On the problems concerning this group of names, see Brixhe 2013, 66.  This name is probably related to the epiclesis Xeunagogenos of Men attested in the area of Afyon (Drew-Bear and Naour 1990, 1963, n. 202). For Xeune in a Neophrygian context (MAMA I 33; Waelkens 1986, no. 664), see Brixhe 2013, 67. 39  For theories relating this name to Hittito-Luwian, see Brixhe 2013, 67. 40  Brixhe 2013, 58. 41  Cf. INikaia 1088, in ancient Bithynian (Διὶ Βροντῶντι, Ζωΐλῳ καὶ Ἀψάδι / Τρύφων καὶ ὑ ἀδελφὺ / βωμὸν ἀνέστησαν, ‘For Zeus Bronton, Zoilos and Apsas, Tryphon and his brothers dedicated the altar’. On the cult of Zeus Bronton and his extension, see Drew-Bear and Naour 1990, 1992–2013. 42  Waelkens 1986, no. 403, 3rd century AD. Cf. a funerary inscription from Kötü Uşak in Galatia (MAMA VII 479) finishing with the words Ζω/τικῷ τέκνῳ θεῷ μνήμην. For other evidence of the worship of the deceased, cf. Chiai 2010; de Hoz 2017, 139–44. 38

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inscriptions that could be interpreted in an exclusively poetic way, but that are much better understood in relationship to this religious particularity in this area of Phrygia. A funerary stele (SGO 16/31/02) is dedicated to individuals who are ‘virtuous in their wisdom and priests of the blessed gods, virtuous in their devoutness and prudent in their intellect’, and for that reason ‘it won’t be the place of the deceased the one to hold their souls, but the abode of the gods’ (εἰνάρετοι σοφιῆς | [ἄ]νδρες μακάρων τ’ ἱερῆες/ ἐσθλοί ἐπ’ εὐσεβίῃ κὲ φρένιμοι πραπίσ|ιν, ὧν διὰ χρησιμότητα κὲ οὐ φθιμέ[ν]ων [κατ]ὰ χῶρος /ἴσχησι ψυχὰς ἀλλ|ὰ θεῶν μέλαθρα). In another epitaph (SGO 16/31/17: Zemme [Appia] vv. 7–8) the god has saved the soul among those who live in the sky (σάρξ ἐν γῇ ἀ[π]όκειτη [ὅ]θεν κὲ ἐλήφθη/ ψυχὴν δὲ θεὸς σῶσεν οὐρανίοις ἐνὶ [ζ]ῶσιν). In Dorylaeum, the children of Attikos, who has lived unstained the hard life, dedicate the funerary stele to Zeus and his father (SGO 16/34/21 = MAMA V 20): Ζηνὶ τὰ μὲν πρώ/[τι]στα καὶ Ἀττικῶ / ἀγ[λ]αὰ τέκνα// Ἀφφη Μένανδρος Ἀσκλ/ηπᾶς καὶ Ἀττικὸ/ς //ζήσαντι ἀμέν/πτως τὸν ἐπιμ/όχθητον βίον. And also in Dorylaeum, or maybe Nacolea (SGO 16/34/33), Zeus has called Plution from the dead and has ordered not to look after his memorial as a grave, but as a propitious escort of Zeus in that same place: ὁ βροτὸ[ν] ἐκ φθι|μένων καλέσας | μακάρων ὕπατος | Ζεύς // Πλουτίωνος | δὲ τὲ σήμα κελήσα|το μηκέτι τύνβον |//θρησκεύειν αὐτῷ | δὲ τόπῳ Διὸς εἴλοα | πονπήν. Another local funerary version of this same idea is surely the custom of consecrating the deceased to the god, or the idea that the deceased is being honoured by the god. In an area of the high Tembris there is a special group of funerary inscriptions from the 3rd century AD where the deceased are said to have been honoured by the goddess Hecate Soteira.43 This idea of being honoured by the god seems to be especially Phrygian and comes from the same area where the Zeus Bronton’s dedications are found.44 The Neophrygian formula 43.1 ‘whoever damages the tomb shall be cursed alive and in death’, found also in the Greek version (Strubbe 1997, no. 269. Amorium, 3rd century AD: ζῶν δεινὰ πάθοιτο καὶ θανεὼν ἔτι δεινά; ὅσα εὖ ἐμοί, διπλᾶ σοι θεός), is surely not evidence of mortal deification, but it shows how present the idea of an afterlife was for the Phrygians.45 To be cursed in the Afterlife is probably a way of preventing the deceased from being ‘honoured by the god’.

43  See, for instance, SEG 40 1241: ---ἐτειμη/θέντας ὑπὸ Σωτείρης Ἑκάτη[ς] /κατε/ιέρωσαν--- Cf. de Hoz 2017 on this inscription and its iconography, and in general on this funerary and religious particularity, with further examples; also on the possibility that this special gift from the gods to mortals was particularly dedicated to priests. On the importance of Hecate in imprecations of the same area, see below, p. 380. For other evidence of deceased honoured by the goddess Hecate in the same area and also in the 3rd century AD, see Pfuhl and Möbius 1979, nos. 2090–2093, where the goddess is represented together with Hermes as intermediary (for evidence of both gods together in reliefs, see also Drew-Bear and Naour 1990, 1996, n. 319). 44  There are two pieces of evidence considered from Lydian Maeonia (TAM V1, 285; Varinlioğlu 1990, 74–75, no. 23), but the first one is dedicated to Zeus Ctesios, hence probably from Nacolea, where this god is attested; the second one is in Uşak museum and the provenience is unknown. It could easily be Phrygian. On the relation between Zeus Bronton and Hecate in Phrygia, see Drew-Bear and Naour 1990, 1996. I thank Bartomeu Obrador-Cursach for the information about the mention of the theonym Hecate in a Neophrygian inscription (Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 16.1, l. 6: κναικο Εκατηας), though probably referring to a woman’s name (knaiko = γυναικός). 45  MAMA I, p. 23, no. 33 (Calder); Waelkens 1986, 256–57, no. 664 (SEG 36 1191) = Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 43.1

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Though Helios was a major god in Roman times, its special presence in Roman Phrygia Epictetus could represent a survival of ancient religious believes, since there are traces of solar worship in the area in the 6th century BC. Helios appears in Phrygia Epictetus as the highest god, sometimes identified with Men or Zeus, and sometimes mentioned together with minor gods such as Hosios kai Dikaios or angeloi. Though not exclusive of Phrygia Epictetus, the evidence of minor gods or angeloi as intermediaries of a henotheistic god is especially common in this area.46 The cult of angeloi or intermediary gods could nevertheless be an ancient Hittite or Luwian borrowing, since they are known in Oriental religions. The Phrygian term bennos and his derivatives, attested in Roman Phrygia Epictetus and Nicea, and further to the south in the area of Pisidian Antioch and in the Galatian Axylon, is considered nowadays to mean ‘religious association’.47 Though this sense is not completely clear, what is certain is that the term has religious connotations and has an area of expansion that overlaps the area of the Neophrygian inscriptions.

DOORSTONES One of the most idiosyncratic cultural elements in Roman Phrygia is the (after Waelkens) so-called Türsteine, attested as funerary monuments all over Phrygian territory, but with a special focus in Phrygia Epictetus and central Phrygia Magna, and in clear decrease in south and south-western Phrygia, though with evidence in the bordering Mysia Abbaitis, north-eastern Lydia, western Galatia, northern Lycaonia and Pisidia.48 The phenomenon reveals, as Waelkens already demonstrated, a Phrygian element very Hellenised and, at the same time, completely adapted to a general Anatolian idea of the tomb as a house. Nevertheless, there are traces of its possible Phrygian origin in Phrygia Epictetus. In spite of Waelkens’s refutation of the interpretation of doorstones as symbolism of thoughts about the Afterlife, I think that their special density in Phrygia Epictetus and particular elements of the doorstones in this area could be related to this phenomenon, an idea already expressed by Ramsay – and not incompatible with Waelkens’s interpretation.49 The usual appearance of the lions of Cybele or the eagles of Zeus in the pediments over a figurative temple entrance can surely be explained in the same way as the funerary imprecations. The lions of Cybele are, like the sceptre of Men in Lydian inscriptions or the mention of gods in imprecations all over Anatolia, a way of putting the tomb under the protection of the god. But they could also stress the idea that the god is the owner of that house where the deceased is going to live. The grave and its area are consecrated to the divinity, as we can see in a bilingual Greek-Neophrygian inscription from Nacolea dedicated by Brogimaros, probably priest of Zeus.50 The depiction of the deceased, sometimes in the same place, could also appeal to the meaning of ownership, and the depictions of objects of the mortal life could strengthen the idea of the 46

 Cf. de Hoz 2017, 147–48, with further bibliography.  Cf. above n. 31. 48  Waelkens 1986, 1–20. 49  Ramsay 1895; 1897. Waelkens 1986, 17–19. Cf. Roosevelt 2016, 78–80, for these and other possible interpretations (with further bibliography). 50  Avram 2015; cf. de Hoz 2017, 141, 151–52. 47

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continuity of life in the divine world. It cannot be denied that these doorstones remind of the ancient cult rock façade.51 They both represent an entrance and reveal the link of the place to a god by way of the god’s representation or some of his attributes, such as the lion for Cybele or the eagle for Zeus. It is also significant that many of the Neophrygian inscriptions have been found in doorstones.52 Kelp considers a doorstone in the Tembris Valley with Cybele between two lions in the pediment as the only iconographic motif in Roman-period doorstones that can be regarded as a citation of older monuments, and concludes that it is consciously imitating the ancient monuments, and that funerary curses along with the motif of Cybele with lions hint towards a Phrygian selfconsciousness in the religious sphere. This is without doubt one of those cases where identity revival and natural survival are difficult to separate since doorstones appear quite a long time after the ancient Phrygian rock façades have stopped being built. On the other hand, is it just coincidence that ancient rock façades seem to have had a funerary significance, and that the figurative representation of temples in the doorstones evoke so much those ancient monuments still visible in the area of Phrygia Epictetus, where the doorstones are especially numerous? It is significant that Vassileva, through a comparison between rock-cut monuments from Phrygia, Paphlagonia and Thrace, highlights the hybrid character of Paphlagonian tombs that were decorated in the exterior as temple façade, and the presence, in the Paphlagonian rock-cut tombs, of the lion that appears in the Phrygian façade, associating this fact with a probable funerary function of the goddess.53 Another problem concerning the possibility of an ancient Phrygian origin of these grave stelae is the fact that they are already attested in the 6th to 4th centuries BC, but in an area that comprises central and eastern Lydia and the Lydo-Mysian borderlands, with one further item in Daskyleion and in northern Lycia respectively, but none in Phrygia.54 As Kelp states, doorstones are a mark of status, and that is why they expand especially in cities that are being urbanised by the beginning of Roman times. The cult of Cybele, her lions, and the Phrygian formula are, on the contrary, probable ancient elements that, as many other religious aspects, have simply remained through the centuries in such an isolated and rural territory, and that become much more visible in Roman times through the adoption of the epigraphic habit and the spread of certain types of funerary monuments.

FUNERARY IMPRECATIONS A well-known funerary phenomenon in Anatolia is indeed the addition of an imprecation to the epitaph. Some imprecations are mostly distributed all along the Anatolian territory, but there are some that appear in an area well delimited. The calque μνημείῳ κακὸν προσποιήσει = κνουμανει κακουν αδδακετ has already been mentioned.55 The Greek version is attested in Aizanitis (MAMA IX 103), Afyon (MAMA IV 23 = Waelkens 1986, 51

 Kelp 2013, 86.  Recently on doorstones, with bibliography, see Kelp 2013. 53  Vassileva 2012. 54  Roosevelt 2016, 65–68, who, on the other hand, remarks that they show a mixture of Phrygian, Persian and Greek art influence, as was common in Lydia at the time. 55 Above, p. 374. 52

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475), Prymnessos (MAMA IV 27 = Waelkens 1986, 492, cf. 493). This last inscription has an interesting apodosis in Phrygian: με δεως κὲ / ζεμελως κε τιτετικμενος ειτου (‘let him become accursed by Zeus among gods and men’), which is found in other Neophrygian imprecations, and has a probable Luwian origin.56 The Phrygian version of the protasis is attested in Obrador-Cursach 2020a, 4.1, 35.1, 63.2, 22.2.57 In the Epictetus region of Cadi, Aezani, Cotyaeum, Appia-Soa, Nacolea, Dorylaeum, there is a very well attested imprecation whose main elements are a protasis type τίς ἂν προσοίσει χεῖ[ρα] τὴν βαρύ[φ]θονον (‘whoever puts his evil hand’) and an apodosis such as τέκνων ἀώρων περιπέσοιτο συμφοραῖς (‘let the misfortunes of immature dead children fall upon him’). An especial variant of the apodosis is Ἑκ[ά]της μελαίνης περι[πέ]σοιτο δαίμοσιν (‘let the daimones of black Hecate fall upon him’) (Appia, Cotyaeum, Metropolis, Alii-Siocharax-Alistii).58 Also in the area of Cotyaeum-Appia-Soa, but especially further to the south and east, in the area of Amorium, Synnada, Prymnessus, the Galatian border, and Laodicea Catacecaumene and Iconium in Lycaonia, there is another curse formula whose protasis has different variants such as [τί]ς δέ κε τύμβω τῶδε βαρῖαν χῖρα θήσι (‘whoever puts his evil hand upon the tomb’) (MAMA IV 20), or ὃς δὲ ταύτη [τῆ] στ[ή]λη χεῖρα κακὴ[ν] προσοίει (‘whoever puts his evil hand upon this stele’) (MAMA VII 28), or τίς ἂν ταύτῃ τῇ ἰστήλῃ κακοηθία χεῖρα προσοίσει (MAMA VII 210); and the apodosis ὀρφανὰ τέκνα λίπη βίον ἔσχατον οἶκον ἔ[ρ]ημον | τὴν δ’ ἄλοχον χήραν ὀδυρομένην (‘let him leave behind orphan children, worst life, empty house, and a morning widow’) (MAMA IV 20), or ὀρφανὰ τέ[κνα] λίποιτο κῆρον βίο[ν] οἶκον ἔρημον (MAMA VII 28). An interesting variant is found in Holmoi (Türsteine 510): εἰ δέ τεις τούτῳ τ[ῷ μνη]/[μείῳ] κακοεργέα χεῖρα ποσοίσει, ὀρφανὰ τ[έκνα]/ [λ]ίπ[οι]το, χῆρον βίον, οἶκον ἔρημον, ἐν π[υρὶ]/ πάντα δράμοιτο, κακῶν οἱπὸ χῖρας/ ὄλοιτο (‘if somebody puts his harmful hand on this grave, shall he leave orphan children, a widow life, an empty house; let all his things run into fire and be destroyed by the hand of bad people’).59 The common element between the two former types is that the protasis includes the idea of the harmful hand. The importance of the symbolism of the hand is further attested in Phrygia Epictetus through the iconography, where main gods, especially Zeus Bronton, appear represented in busts with a big hand on the chest.60 Raised hands symbolising divine revenge against murder and tomb desecration is a symbol well known in other areas, but in Phrygia Epictetus the hand seems to play a special roll in a symmetric way: the harmful hand that violates tombs, and the both protective and vindictive hand of the god. Establishing the antiquity of these imprecations is difficult, but they 56

 Obrador-Cursach 2020b.  For another calque in Greek and Neophrygian, see above p. 374. 58  Cf. Robert (1978, especially n. 135) on Hecate as protector of tombs and as celestial goddess. For inscriptions with this formula, see Strubbe 1997, 285–88. 59  Cf. also Pisidian Antioch (Sterret 1888, 158, 144) and Iconium (Kaibel EG 406, funerary? honourific statue, with δάμοιτο instead of δράμοιτο; cf. SEG 28 1249, only the imprecation), and also in Thracian Perinthus Heraclea (4th century AD, Christian; Perinthos-Herakleia 180). For inscriptions with this formula, see Strubbe 1997, 289–91. Cf. the common expression in Cnidian lead plates with judicial prayers addressed to Demeter: ἀ[ν]αβαῖ μετὰ τῶν ἰδίων πάντων παρὰ [Δ]άματρα πεπρημένος (IKnidos I 150, cf. 147–159). For the interpretation, see Versnel 1994, with further parallels. 60  I thank Elisa Merisio for making me aware of this particularity. 57

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demonstrate a special connexion which is still alive in Roman times between Phrygia Epictetus, the centre of Phrygia Magna together with Phrygia Parorea and the north of Pisidia and Liaconia. The appearance in a Neophrygian imprecation of the formula ας ανανκαι οι παντα κενα ννου, which means ‘all his children shall be in necessity’ (ObradorCursach 2020a, 62.4 = Haas 35) could reveal the continuation of an ancient Phrygian formula in the Greek formula ὀρφανὰ τέκνα λίπη, or similar, seen above, since this formula is attested in Galatia, the Phrygian area we are dealing here with, and Lycaonia.61

CONCLUSIONS Elements attested through the epigraphy of Roman times that we can with certainty or high probability draw back to the ancient Phrygian ethnos during its greatest power and expansion in Asia Minor in the 8th–7th century, are concentrated in an area that includes Phrygia Epictetus, with isolated places in Bithynia and Galatia, the Phrygian Highlands and Phrygia Parorea in Phrygia Magna, and places in northern Pisidia and northern Lycaonia. We could trace a nucleus corresponding to Roman Phrygia Epictetus (with part of Bithynia and Galatia) from where Phrygian culture descended to the south. Though this wave that moves further south and east has lost some of the ancient Phrygian elements, the survival of Phrygian ethnicity is demonstrated through the linguistic evidence that attests the use of Phrygian in the whole area, and further through the survival of Phrygian onomastic, and religious and funerary customs and beliefs. As we have seen, there are many specific Phrygian traces that have parallels in the Balkans, some of them in Thracian culture. The relation between both territories is problematic, since it can go back to the first Phrygians to appear in Anatolia arriving from the Balkans, to the Macedonian conquest in the Hellenistic period, or even to later communication routes. The particular coincidences in the Afterlife beliefs of the Phrygians and peoples settled in the ancient Thracian area probably go back to Phrygian-Thracian proximity in the 2nd millennium, whereas the especial intensity of Macedonian names in eastern and central Phrygia are related to the Hellenistic Macedonian occupation. Persistence of ancient communication routes – not of common ancient cultural elements – in Roman times is probably the reason behind common elements such as the funerary formula ζῶν καὶ φρονῶν, which is mostly attested in a non-Anatolian area corresponding to Thracia-Moesia and Scythia Minor, but also belonging to Phrygia Epictetus together with Bithynia-Paphlagonia, the Phrygian East with Galatia, and further south in Pisidia, Lycaonia and Pamphylia. It seems to follow the ancient communication route from the Balkans into Bithynia that moves further towards northern Pisidia and Lycaonia through northern, central and eastern Phrygia. A different cultural route connects the same nucleus of Phrygia Epictetus with the north-west and mid-west Phrygian borderline including Mysia Abbaitis and Maeonia, an area where Strabo has great difficulties establishing frontiers between peoples (12. 4. 4, 13. 4. 11–12). Cultural and linguistic peculiarities in this area may not be due to Phrygian culture necessarily. Significantly, the Greek use of ποσ- instead of προσ-, considered by 61  In the database PHI 7 there is only one further instance in Thesalia, and a Christian one in PerinthusHeraclea (Marmara Ereğlisi): https://epigraphy.packhum.org/search?patt=ορφανα+τεκνα+λιπ

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Brixhe an important isogloss in Greek documents of the Phrygian areas, is especially extended in Lydian Maeonia and in Phrygian Dionysopolis and the surrounding area. It is in this same area where the common phenomenon of confession inscriptions is attested, which we can trace back to Hittite times, and is consequently not to be ascribed to a specific Phrygian culture. There are many other common traces between Maeonia and Phrygia Epictetus in Roman times, such as the cult of Hosios kai Dikaios, and of angeloi as intermediaries between a major god and mortals. These elements could again be ancient Hittite – and not Phrygian – survivals.62 The epigraphy of south-western Phrygia does not show any special Phrygian features. The loss of Phrygian elements and language in this area has been mostly attributed to the intense urbanisation since the 1st century BC. Hellenisation and urbanisation are of course one of the main reasons for disappearance of ancient indigenous features, but we may ask ourselves whether Phrygian culture and language were ever really intense in that area, or whether it was just a superficial influence during the short period when Phrygians dominated Asia Minor as far as the Cibyratis in the 7th century BC. Strabo (12. 8. 17, 13. 4. 14) speaks about Hierapolis after his description of Maeonia and the excursus about frontier problems between Lydia, Caria and Phrygia, but he never locates it explicitly in Phrygia, and its name does not appear in the list of Phrygian cities in 12. 8. 13. Laodicea does appear in this list, but Ptolemy (5. 2. 18) and Philostratus (The Lives of the Sophists 1. 25) consider it a town of Caria, and Stephanus of Byzantium (s.v.) a town of Lydia. It is significant that the indigenous cults in Hierapolis connect the city much more with Lydia and Caria than with Phrygia, even if there was a tradition that connected the Plutonion with an ancient cult of the goddess Cybele.63 This ancient origin and the existence of galloi and archigalloi related to the cult were probably a good strategy to acquire and maintain the asylia of the temple. Celaenae appears as a Phrygian city in Herodotus and Xenophon, its foundation hero is Midas, its urban structure is similar to that of Gordion, and it was even the capital of the Persian satrapy of Greater Phrygia. On the other hand, its Archaic ceramic and electrum coins, as well as a Lydian inscription dated to the 6th century BC, reveal a narrow connexion with Lydia.64 In Strabo’s statement (13. 4. 17) that the Cibyratai spoke four languages, Pisidian, Solymian, Greek and Lydian, Li Grotti Macrí thinks that ‘Lydian’ is an error for ‘Phrygian’, since Strabo confuses ‘Lydian’ with ‘Maeonian’ (cf. Herodotus 7. 77 for the difference), and Maeonia was probably the name of the area of origin of the Phrygians that occupied the Cibyratis.65 He bases this last argument in the idea that Cibyra is, according to ancient sources, Phrygian, that the desinence -υρα appears in Phrygian toponyms (an argument that cannot be proved since Phrygian toponymia is not yet studied), and that there are inscriptions attesting Pisidian, Phrygian and Lycian.66 The Phrygian evidence is reduced, nevertheless, to isolated personal names – with Ates being the most frequent – on bronze and silver bowls and cauldrons found in their entirety in the tumulus of Bayındır (HP 103–113). 62

 Cf. Ricl 2014.  Ritti 2017, 100–08. 64  von Kienlin et al. 2013. 65  Li Grotti Macrì 1975–76, 486–95. Cf. also Strabo, at the beginning of 13. 4. 17, where he says that the Cibyratai were descendants of the Lydians (probably, after Li Grotti Macrí, referring to Maeonians) that occupied the Cabalis, and also of the Pisidians that later moved to border areas. 66  Li Grotti Macrì 1975–76, 493–94, nn. 69 and 70. 63

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They are similar to those found in Tumulus MM from Gordion and from the same chronology (ca. 740 BC).67 Since this evidence is not really evidence of Phrygian occupation in the area, I think there is no reason to consider ‘Lydian’ a mistake for ‘Phrygian’ in Strabo’s text. The population of western and southern Phrygia, strongly urbanised and Hellenised, follows the common trend of Imperial West Asia Minor, where the Greek and the Hellenised cities boast their antiquity and their special identity resorting to ancient legends and history, and Phrygian history and culture are the most ancient Anatolian cases transmitted by Greek sources. As Strabo says (12. 8. 2; cf. 12. 8. 21, 14. 3. 3), already classical writers, especially tragedians, call Phrygia the area around Mt Sipylus, and that is why they call Tantalus, Niobe and Pelops Phrygians (cf. 12. 8. 7 on the term ‘Phrygians’ applied to the Trojans). There was no doubt in his times that Mt Sipylus was in Lydian territory, but it was much better for boasting antiquity to consider those heroes Phrygians. From the Phrygian evidence and its distribution in Roman times, we could conclude that there is no interest in showing Phrygian identity precisely in the area where Phrygian survival is attested; neither in onomastics, nor in the language, nor through myths or ancient Afterlife beliefs. In the areas where Phrygian language and culture was still alive there is no artificial aim at showing it, but quite the contrary. Phrygians adopted Greek language as a vehicular one, and the Greek epigraphic habit. They write Phrygian in the parts of the inscriptions where they think the use of their mother and ancestral language is most effective and beloved by the gods, but Greek in the rest. They preserve Phrygian funerary customs in some areas, but Hellenised funerary decoration and formulae spread almost everywhere. It is no coincidence that in most Phrygian areas all social levels try to make funerary and cult dedications, and it is in that area where we find most cult and funerary epigrams and iconography boasting Greek paideia, and mentions of foundation myths that connect Phrygia with Greece. Nowhere is this phenomenon so bright as in the area of the Upper Tembris and Appia, in Phrygian-speaking northern Lycaonia or in the area of the Axylon villages in the Phrygian-Galatian frontier.68 An exception to this general behaviour is the sanctuary of Pessinus, where, because of its importance as origin of the goddess Cybele that was brought to Rome, and the interest of the Romans in its administration, the local priests were especially eager to boast its ancient and Phrygian origin, especially as justification for being administered only by them, and also to revive it and to obtain privileges.69 The area of Phrygian survival seems to overlap the area where there is archaeological or linguistic evidence dating to the time of the ancient Phrygian domination in Asia Minor, excluding the Phrygian area around Daskyleion on the Hellespont, where there is clear evidence of Phrygian settlement until Alexander the Great. It also overlaps the area where Strabo situates reliable borders for the Phrygian people: Phrygia Epictetus, Phrygia Parorea, and an area in the centre of Phrygia Magna with cities such as Docymaeum, Synnada, Acmonia, Sebaste, Eumenea or Metropolis that are clearly considered Phrygians. Aside from that, there is in Phrygia Magna an accumulation of isolated cities in the south 67  Brixhe 2004, 108–18. I thank Bartomeu Obrador-Cursach for this information, and for the suggestion that these objects could be gifts from the Gordion elite to the elite in Bayındır. 68  Cf. de Hoz 2008; Thoneman 2014 for the Axylon area. 69  Brixhe 2002a, 250. For the desire of revival, see van Dongen 2014.

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and west that he situates on the border with Pisidia, Mysia, Lydia, Caria and Cybiratis, and ascribes to Phrygia in one passage, to Pisidia in another, or else identifies as Phrygian in one section but describes together with Carian or Lydian areas. The description of Pliny is interesting, who does not seem to be aware of a contemporaneous Phrygia and, though he distinguishes Phrygia and Galatia, includes Ancyra among the main Phrygian cites, together with Midaeum, Celaenae, Colossae, Cearine and Conium. He does not mention even one of the important ‘Phrygian’ cities of his time, such as Eumenea, Apamea, Laodicea or Hierapolis. He is just describing the Phrygia known by Herodotus and Xenophon. Whatever the extension of the real Phrygian population in the 8th–6th centuries BC was, what is clear is that, if Roman Phrygians wanted to have a koinon based on their common ethnic elements (which are not elements of a conscious Phrygian identity revival), this koinon should have included Phrygia Epictetus, the Highlands of Phrygia Magna with Phrygia Parorea, and north-east Pisidia with north-west Lycaonia.70 But, as Levick says, ‘it is unlikely that farmers halted their ploughs to ruminate on this, rather thinking of themselves simply as “us” and of anyone outside their community as various sorts of “them”.’71

ADDENDUM G.F. Chiai’s Phrygien und seine Götter: Historie und Religionsgeschichte einer anatolischen Region von der Zeit der Hethiter bis zur Ausbreitung des Christentums (Pharos 46) (Rahden 2020) was published after the present volume had gone to press. It deals with several of the aspects discussed in this article and would undoubtedly have been very useful to me when writing it.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Avram, A. 2015: ‘Ein Altar aus Nakoleia und seine griechisch-phrygischen Inschriften’. Gephyra 12, 199–229. —. 2020: ‘Phrygian Personal Names in Phrygian Inscriptions’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle if the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 305–49. Berndt-Ersöz, S. 2006: Phrygian Rock-Cut Shrines: Structure, Function, and Cult Practice (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 25) (Leiden/Boston). Brixhe, C. 1987a: Essai sur le grec anatolien au debut de notre ère (Travaux et mémoires, Université de Nancy II. Institut d’études anciennes 1) (Nancy). —. 1987b: ‘La langue comme critère d’acculturation: l’exemple du grec d’un district phrygien’. In Lebrun, R. (ed.), Acta Anatolica E. Laroche Oblata (Colloque anatolien, Paris, 1–5 juillet 1985) (Hethitica 8; Bibliothèque des Cahiers de l’Institut de linguistique de Louvain 37) (Leuven/Paris), 45–80. —. 2002a: ‘Interactions between Greek and Phrygian under the Roman Empire’. In Adams, J.N., Janse, M. and Swain, S. (eds.), Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word (Oxford), 246–66. —. 2002b: ‘Achéens et Phrygiens en Asie Mineure: approche comparative de quelques données lexicales’. In Fritz, M. and Zeilfelder, S. (eds.), Novalis Indogermanica. Festschrift für Günter Neumann, zum 80. Geburtstag (Grazer vergleichende Arbeiten 17) (Graz), 49–73. 70  On the especial relationship in political history between Phrygia Parorea and the north of Lycaonia and Pisidia, see Labarre et al. 2015; Bru 2017, 286–300. 71  Levick 2013, 49.

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—. 2004: ‘Corpus des inscriptions paléo-phrygiennes  : Supplément II’. Kadmos 43, 1–130. —. 2013: ‘The personal onomastics of Roman Phrygia’. In Thonemann 2013b, 55–69. Brixhe, C. and Lejeune, M. 1984: Corpus des inscriptions paléo-phrygiennes (Institut français d’études anatoliennes, Mémoire 45) (Paris). Bru, H. 2017: La Phrygie Parorée et la Pisidie septentrionale aux époques hellénistique et romaine (Mnemosyne Suppl. 401) (Leiden/Boston). Campanile, M.D. 2000: ‘La Frigia di Strabone’. In Biraschi, A.M. and Salmeri, G. (eds.), Strabone e l’Asia Minore (Incontro perugino di storia della storiografia antica e sul mondo antico 10) (Naples/Perugia), 485–507. Chiai, G.F. 2010: ‘Zeus Bronton und der Totenkult im kaiserzeitlichen Phrygien’. In Rüpke, J. and Scheid J.N (eds.), Bestattungsrituale und Totenkult in der römischen Kaiserzeit/Rites funéraires et culte des morts aux temps impériales (Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 27) (Stuttgart), 135–56. de Hoz, M.-P. 2017: ‘Prayer to the deceased? Relations between gods, dead and the living in Roman Phrygia Epiktetos’. Ancient West and East 16, 139–54. —. 2008: ‘Escritura y lectura en la Anatolia interior. Una forma de expresar etnicidad helénica’. In Fernández Álvarez, M.P., Fernández Vallina, E. and Martínez Manzano, T. (eds.), Est hic varia lectio. La lectura en el mundo antiguo (Salamanca), 89–107. DeVries, K. 2000: ‘The Nearly Other: The Attic Vision of Phrygian and Lydian’. In Cohen, B. (ed.), Not the Classical Ideal: Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art (Leiden/ Boston/Cologne), 338–63. Drew-Bear, T. and Naour, C. 1990: ‘Divinités de Phrygie’. ANRW II 18.3, 1907–2044. Ebert, J. 1985: ‘Ein alter Name des Mäander’. Philologus 129, 54–63. Genz, H. 2011: ‘The Iron Age in Central Anatolia’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Black Sea, Greece, Anatolia and Europe in the First Millennium BC (Colloquia Antiqua 1) (Leuven/Paris/ Walpole, MA), 331–68. Haspels, C.H.E. 1971: The Highlands of Phrygia: Sites and Monuments, 2 vols. (Princeton). Innocente, L. 1997: ‘Questioni di onomastica ‘frigia’’. In Gusmani, R., Salvani, M. and Vannicelli, P. (eds.), Frigi e Frigio (Atti del 1º Simposio Internazionale, Roma, 16–17 ottobre 1995) (Rome), 33–40. Kelp, U. 2013, ‘Grave monuments and local identities in Roman Phrygia’. In Thonemann 2013b, 70–94. —. 2015: Grabdenkmal und lokale Identität: Ein Bild der Landschaft Phrygien in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Asia Minor Studien 74) (Bonn). von Kienlin, A., Summerer, L. and Ivantchik, A. 2013: ‘Kelainai. A Phrygian City between East and West’. In Bru, H. and Labarre, G. (eds.), Anatolie des peuples, des cités et des cultures (IIe millénaire av. J.-C.–Ve siècle ap. J.-C.) 2: Approches locales et régionales (Colloque international de Besançon, 26–27 novembre 2010) (Besançon), 221–30. Labarre, G., Özsait, M., Güceren, I. and Çomak, Ö. 2015: ‘Colonisation et interculturalité en Pisidie et Phrygie Parorée’. Epigraphica Anatolica 48, 87–114. Lasserre, F. 1981: Strabon, Géographie IX (livre XII) (Paris). Levick, B. 2007: ‘Girdled by Hills: Culture and Religion in Phrygia Outside the Polis’. In Elton, H. and Reger, G. (eds.), Regionalism in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor (Acts of the Conference, Hartford, Connecticut, August 22–24, 1997) (Études 20) (Bordeaux/Paris), 107–16. —. 2013: ‘In the Phrygian mode: a region seen from without’. In Thonemann 2013b, 41–54. Lewis, D. 2018: Greek Slave Systems in their Eastern Mediterranean Context, c. 800–146 BC (Oxford). Li Grotti Macrì, M.V. 1975–76: ‘Καβηλέες δὲ οἱ Μηΐονες’. Helikon 15–16, 486–500. Lubotsky, A. 1998: ‘New Phrygian metrics and the δεως ζεμελως formula’. In Jasanoff, J., Melchert, H.C., and Olivier, L. (eds.), Mír Curad: Studies in Honor of Calvert Watkins (Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Sprachwissenschaft 92) (Innsbruck), 413–21. Mitchell, S. 1993: Anatolia: Land, Men and Gods in Asia Minor 2: The Rise of the Church (Oxford). —. 2000: ‘Ethnicity, acculturation and empire in Roman and late Roman Asia Minor’. In Mitchell, S. and Geatrex, G. (eds.), Ethnicity and Culture in Late Antiquity (London/Swansea), 117–51.

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Obrador-Cursach, B. 2020a: The Phrygian Language (Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1, Near and Middle East 139) (Leiden/Boston). —. 2020b: ‘The Luwian origin of the Phrygian imprecations’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 145–59. Pfuhl, E. and Möbius, H. 1979: Die ostgriechischen Grabreliefs (Mainz). Ramsay, W.M. 1895; 1897: The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia, 2 vols. (Oxford). Ricl, M. 2014: ‘Continuity and change in Anatolian cults: the case of Lydian confession-inscriptions’. Belgrade Historical Review 5, 7–21. Ritti, T. 2017: Hierapolis di Frigia 9: Storia e istituzioni di Hierapolis (Istanbul). Robert, L. 1978, ‘Malédictions funérarires grecques’. CRAI 122.2, 241–89. Roosevelt, C.H. 2016: ‘Symbolic Doors Stelae and Graveside Monuments in Western Anatolia’. AJA 110.1, 65–91. Sterrett, J.R.S. 1888: An Epigraphical Journey in Asia Minor (Papers of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens 2, 1883–84) (Boston). Strubbe, J. (ed.) 1997: Arai epitymbioi: Imprecations against Desecrators of the Grave in the Greek Epitaphs of Asia Minor. A Catalogue (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 52) (Bonn). Thonemann, P. 2011: The Maeander Valley: A Historical Geography from Antiquity to Byzantium (Cambridge). —. 2013a: ‘Phrygia: an anarchist history, 950 BC–AD 100’. In Thonemann 2013b, 1–40. —. (ed.) 2013b: Roman Phrygia: Culture and Society (Cambridge). —. 2014: ‘Poets of the Axylon’. Chiron 44, 191–232. van Dongen, E. 2014: ‘The Extent and Interaction of the Phrygian Kingdom’. In Gaspa, S., Greco, A., Morandi Bonacossi, D., Ponchia, S. and Rollinger, R. (eds.), From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond, Dedicated to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi on the occasion of his 65th birthday on June 23, 2014 (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 412) (Münster), 697–711. Varinlioğlu, E. 1990: ‘Die Inschriften aus dem Museum von Uşak (Fortsetzung von EA 13, 1989, 17–36)’. Epigraphica Anatolica 15, 73–105. Vassileva, M. 1998: ‘Thracian-Phrygian Cultural Zone’. In Tuna, N., Aktüre, Z. and Lynch, M. (eds.), Thracians and Phrygians: Problems of Parallelism (Proceedings of an International Symposium on the Archaeology, History and Ancient Languages of Thrace and Phrygia, Ankara, 3–4 June 1995) (Ankara), 13–18. —. 2012: ‘The rock-cut Monuments in Phrygia, Paphlagonia and Thrace: a comparative overview’. In Tsetskhladze G.R. (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford), 243–52. Versnel, H.S. 1994: ‘The Cnidian curse tablets and ordeal by fire’. In Hägg, R. (ed.), Ancient Greek Cult Practice from the Epigraphical Evidence (Proceedings of the Second International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult, organized by the Swedish Institute at Athens, 22–24 November 1991) (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska institutet i Athen, 8o, 13) (Stockholm), 145–54. Waelkens, M. 1986: Die Kleinasiatischen Türsteine: Typologische und epigraphische Untersuchungen der kleinasiatischen Grabreliefs mit Scheintür (Mainz). Zgusta, L. 1964: Kleinasiatische Personennamen (Československá akademie ved. Sekoe jazyka a literatury. Monografie Orientálního ústavu 19) (Prague).

DEFINING URBAN SPACE: THE ARCHAEOLOGY AND TOPOGRAPHY OF MTSKHETA Irina DEMETRADZE-RENZ

ABSTRACT Mtskheta was a capital city of the eastern Georgian kingdom of Kartli (Graeco-Roman Iberia) until the end of the 5th century AD. The date of the city’s establishment is unknown. Georgian scholars connected the origin of the city to the earliest stages of formation of the Iberian kingdom in the 3rd century BC. Their theories were based mainly on the two mediaeval Georgian chronicles, The Conversion of Kartli and The Life of the Georgian Kings, which provided the name of the first Iberian ruler from Alexander the Great’s time and a royal list of subsequent Iberian kings. The authors of both narratives wrote from the perspective of Christian statesmen. They highlighted the political and religious importance of Mtskheta from the very beginning of Iberia’s establishment emphasising the city’s reputation as the Christian capital. The archaeology of the city and its urban topography reveal an altogether different picture. In this paper I will reconsider archaeological discoveries of Mtskheta according to their location within the landscape. By interpreting them, I will track the development of Mtskheta settlement from the first evidence of human activities to its transformation into an urban centre.

INTRODUCTION No information was recorded about Mtskheta until the 2nd century AD, when it is thought that Mtskheta was first mentioned in Ptolemy’s Geography. Ptolemy provided the names of Iberian cities and assigned geographical coordinates to them. ‘Mestleta’ was one of those cities (Geography 10). In 1850 the Georgian scholar Platon Ioseliani associated Mestleta with Mtskheta.1 The second historical reference to the city was made by the Byzantine historian Agathias in the 6th century AD. He wrote that Mihr-Mihroe or Mermeroes died in Mtskheta (Μεσχιϑα) in AD 555 (Histories 2. 22. 5). The most information about Mtskheta is found in mediaeval Georgian chronicles. The unknown author of the 7th-century account of the Christianisation of Iberia, The Conversion of Kartli (moktsevai kartlisai in Georgian), first mentioned Mtskheta after he told about Alexander the Great’s fictional invasion of Kartli (Iberia) and his capture of Kartlian cities. The author claimed that Alexander gave the rulership of Mtskheta to Azob, the son of Arian Kartli. Azob settled in Mtskheta with his relatives and died there after sometime.2 Leonti Mroveli, the 11th-century Georgian author, adopted the information found in The Conversion of Kartli, combined it with earlier Armenian texts, and used them in his 1

 Ioseliani 1850, 53.  Abuladze 1963, 81–82.

2

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chronicle The Life of the Georgian Kings (tskhovreba kartuelta mepeta in Georgian).3 Around Mtskheta he set the most significant political and religious events that occurred from the establishment of Iberia until its Christianisation in the 4th century. Mroveli associated the name of Mtskheta with the legendary ethnarch Mtskhetos.4 Most Georgian scholars thought that the toponym Mtskheta derived from the southern Georgian Moskh tribes.5 This is not the only opinion, however. Mtskheta may mean the ‘city of chiefs’ (samtavro city in Georgian), derived from the old Georgian word mkhtse (chief, head) combined with the suffix -ta (of chiefs).6 I favour this version, because it explains the place and institution name of the mediaeval Samtavro church in the close vicinity of historical Mtskheta. Mtskheta has been a subject of field exploration and subsequent scholarly literature for more than two centuries. The first archaeological excavations took place in the Samtavro Valley. In 1871–77 the Austrian natural scientist and archaeologist Friedrich Bayern excavated cist graves that had been revealed by the construction activities of the Caucasian Military Road.7 In the 1930s excavations became more systematic and were carried on by the Mtskheta Archaeological Expedition. Nearly all archaeological excavations in Mtskheta were conducted after construction disturbances and were largely rescue excavations. The first principal investigators were I. Djavakhishvili and S. Djanashia.8 A. Apakidze was the principal investigator of the Mtskheta Archaeological Expedition from 1974 until his death in 2005. In 2008–10 a team from Melbourne was excavating in the Samtavro Valley under the leadership of A.G. Sagona.9 As a result, a large body of archaeological literature dedicated to Mtskheta has been generated. Most of the discoveries are published in a series of reports, Mtskheta – the Results of Archaeological Investigations,10 which are primary sources for archaeological studies of the city.

SITE DISTRIBUTION EXCAVATIONS

WITHIN

MTSKHETA

AS

REVEALED

BY

ARCHAEOLOGICAL

Long-standing field work revealed clusters of archaeological features in the modern city of Mtskheta. The Mtskheta Archaeological Expedition team demarcated twelve archaeological sites in the modern city centre of Mtskheta proper that included Svetitskhoveli Cathedral and its immediate vicinity (Svetitskhoveli I–XII).11 I reconsidered the archaeological finds within the modern city of Mtskheta and, based on their chronology and location within the landscape, identified four archaeological 3  Mroveli’s text was edited, annotated, and published by S. Qaukhchishvili in 1955 as Kartlis Tskhovreba part one. I will cite this text throughout as Kartlis Tskhovreba. 4  Kartlis Tskhovreba 9; Thomson 1996, 10. 5  Ioseliani 1871, 6; Apakidze 1959, 52; Melikishvili 1999, 378. 6  Bedoshvili 1983, 187. 7  Bayern 1872, 1–7. 8  Berdzenishvili 1964, 400. 9  Sagona et al. 2010. 10  Apakidze et al. 1978; 1980; 1981; 1982; 1989; 1995; Kalandadze 1980; 1981; 1982; Mandjgaladze 1985; Nikolaishvili et al. 1985; Nikolaishvili and Giunashvili 1995; Apakidze and Nikolaishvili 1996. For more detailed information, see Tsetskhladze 2008. 11 Apakidze et al. 1978, 137; 1981, 157; 1989, 45.

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sites: Samtavro, Svetitskhoveli, Bebristsikhe and Baiatkhevi (Fig. 1). All these sites are concentrated on one geological feature: the first upper floodplain terrace that is traversed by several small gorges, ridges and creeks. The archaeological sites are situated at different altitudes and are separated from each other by these natural features. The Samtavro site is located in the valley in the western part of the modern city of Mtskheta at 471–481 m above sea level. The head of the valley is the most elevated part (490 m). The valley is defined by east–west gorges to the north and south – Baiatkhevi and Monastriskhevi – and by the Aragvi river to the east. It encompasses approximately 16 ha (Fig. 1). The Samtavro site contains archaeological monuments that performed different functions. These range in time from the Middle Bronze Age to mediaeval times, including the 11th century episcopal Samtavro church.12 It has been claimed that the earliest archaeological chance finds at the Samtavro Valley were Early Bronze Age (Kura-Araxes) pottery sherds and stone artefacts.13 The most remarkable archaeological feature of the Samtavro site is a multi-layered cemetery. The earliest pit graves were dated to the Middle Bronze Age (2000 BC).14 A significant number of pit graves were dated to the Late Bronze and Iron Ages (1600–300 BC).15 They were located at the northern and southern parts of the valley. The Samtavro site also exposed Late Bronze Age (calibrated date 1440–1290 BC) occupational debris16 and Iron Age (ca. 800–700 BC) dwelling houses at the head of the Samtavro Valley. These one room houses, probably with flat roofs, were constructed with cobble stones and mud. The interior of the houses was plastered with clay. Bread-baking ovens were located in the left rear corners of the dwellings.17 Prehistoric graves were individual and collective. They exposed clay vessels, metal weapons and tools, personal belongings such as metal pins, ornamented bracelets and stone beads, together with domesticated animal and bird bones. A few cases of placing cowry into the graves are also attested. Pots with beautiful geometric ornaments and a small amount of bronze weapons are evidenced from the Late Bronze Age.18 Samtavro prehistoric society seems egalitarian. The Late Bronze Age graves were similar in construction and contained almost uniform items. The same can be said about dwelling houses and graves of the Iron Age people. The existence of chiefs within the prehistoric society of Samtavro can only be inferred from the metal weapons occasionally placed in the graves together with cowrie shells. The subsequent Hellenistic period (2nd–1st centuries. BC) was represented by a substantial number of jar burials, which came into use in Iberia in Hellenistic times. They were located in the southern, lowest part of the Samtavro Valley.19 Disturbed habitation debris also have been found at different but also lower places of the valley.20 A building (possibly a temple) (60 BC–AD 80) with a beaten mud floor and a circular clay hearth 12

 Samtavro church has been a convent since the 19th century.  Sadradze 1997, 9–11; Sadradze et al. 2007, 7-15. 14  Sadradze 1993, 4, 16–23; Sadradze et al. 2007, 7; Tsetskhladze 2008, 79; Sagona et al. 2010, 8. 15  Sadradze 1997, 4; Tsetskhladze 2006–07, 79; Sagona et al. 2010, 8. 16  Sagona et al. 2010, 53. 17  Apakidze et al. 1978, 109–19; 1981, 133–37. 18  Kalandadze 1980; 1981; 1982. 19  Tolordava 1980, 47–56. 20  Apakidze et al. 1981, 156–58; 1982, 192. 13

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Fig. 1. Map of the archaeological sites of Mtskheta.

in the centre was excavated in the central part of the valley. The building, before it burned, was roofed with clay tiles. Later cist graves further disturbed this building site.21 Evidence suggests that the Samtavro people in Hellenistic times were also relatively equal. They buried their dead mainly in re-used jars, sometimes individually, sometimes  Sagona et al. 2010, 51–53.

21

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collectively. They possessed similar items such as reddish and red painted clay vessels, stone beads, bronze and silver bracelets and, rarely, 1st-century BC drachmas of the Parthian kings of the Arsacid dynasty – Sinatruces, Phraates III and Orodes II.22 On the basis of these foreign coins, I would distinguish the Hellenistic period of Mtskheta area from the Prehistoric, although writing is not yet evidenced at the site. Roman-period (1st–3rd-century AD) burials and settlement layers were excavated at northern, southern, and south-western parts of the site. Different construction styles and techniques were evidenced in funerary practices during this period. Clay tile and brick graves appeared alongside pit and cist burials. People were buried in those graves individually and in pairs. Collective burials were rarely attested. Roman period burials contained the greatest variety of grave-goods but no weapons. Substantial number of artefacts were Roman imports and they had great value. Extremely expensive personal possessions such as exquisite golden jewellery, silver tableware (vase, spoon), toiletries (glass and stone unguentaria), Parthian drachmas and Roman denarii and aurei have been recovered (mainly from cist and rarely from clay tile graves) alongside less expensive grave-goods such as clay vessels, clay lamps, iron pins, bronze buckles, bronze coins, silver finger-rings and massive semi-precious stone finger-rings. Images of animals, birds, fish and crabs were cut into the finger-rings. Occasionally the rings exposed Greek letters or words.23 A bronze ink pot(?) with Latin inscription ex officina calpurni has been found at the cemetery.24 Poor pit graves also have been attested at Samtavro cemetery in Roman times. These mainly yielded solely clay vessels.25 Late Antique cist and pit graves and a few settlement deposits were found at the lower southern and eastern parts of the Samtavro Valley. The grave-goods from this period were limited to personal belongings such as pins and occasional glass bottles.26 Hebrew and Greek writings have been attested at Samtavro cemetery. A 5th–6th-century cist grave was made from two re-used sandstone slabs. On each of them was written an epitaph, in Hebrew and Greek respectively. The 4th–5th-century Hebrew inscription was an epitaph of Joseph Bar Hazan that presumably was made by his brother.27 The Greek epitaph was dedicated to the principal painter and architect Aurelios Acholis and his wife Bevrazuria. This epitaph contained a curse to protect the grave from damage or from burying other people in it.28 The second, Svetitskhoveli site, is located 1 km south of the Samtavro Valley, separated from it by a gorge. The Svetitskhoveli site encompasses the western and southern areas of the modern city, from the highest Mtskheta mound (510 m above sea level) to the lowest riverside (455 m). It also includes the Mtskheta Gate, the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral and the Antioch church (Fig. 2). The earliest human activities attested at Svetitskhoveli site were funerary in nature. Two Early Bronze Age stone piled pit graves have been excavated at the Mtskheta mound.29  Apakidze et al. 1980, 83.  Apakidze et al. 1978, 72; 2001, 27; Apakidze and Nikolaishvili 1996. 24  Apakidze et al. 1980, 206. 25  Apakidze et al. 1978, 121–37; 1980; Mandjgaladze 1985. 26  Apakidze et al. 1981, 131–33; 1982, 192–97; 1995, 7. 27  Apakidze et al. 1980, 206–08. 28  T. Qaukhchishvili 2009, 30. 29  Nikolaishvili et al. 1985, 132, 149–50. 22 23

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Fig. 2. The Svetitskhoveli site.

The next cultural period at the site proved to be Hellenistic. There was a lacuna between these two periods. The Hellenistic period was represented by a few jar graves and disturbed dwelling deposits.30 The stratigraphy of the Svetitskhoveli site exposed several overlaid layers, rarely Roman and Hellenistic, more frequently Late Antique and Roman, and Mediaeval and Late Antique.31 The Hellenistic features mainly were discovered beneath the Roman burials or settlement layers. The 1st–3rd-century settlement layers were discovered beneath the 4th–5th-century Mtskheta Gate.32 Three orders of pilasters were recovered from the yard and basement of mediaeval Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. They were found out of archaeological context at different times, years apart (Fig. 3). G. Kipiani thought that they were Corinthian orders and dated them back to the 2nd century.33 He did not, however, provide a basis for the date. The orders represent a Roman composite style, but it is hard to date them only on the basis of style. Roman-period clay water pipes were exposed beneath a Late Antique arched building in a yard of the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. The building was constructed with bricks and  Apakidze et al. 1978, 65; 1981, 156–58.  Apakidze et al. 1978, 64–77; 1981, 157; 1989, 9; 1995, 13, 15. 32  Kalandadze et al. 1966, 31. 33  Kipiani 1997, 61–63. 30 31

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Fig. 3a–c. The composite orders.

lime mortared rubble.34 The Mtskheta mound exposed two overlaid levels of 6th–7thcentury cist graves and such graves from the 4th–5th centuries.35 Late Antique cist graves were found in the foundation of the early mediaeval Antioch church.36 The threshold of the church was a re-used, carved slab of stone. The slab was inscribed with the name of the same Aurelios Acholis mentioned above. The inscription also cited names of the head(?) of builders Achileus and the donor(?) Arspakores. Both inscriptions of Aurelios Acholis have been translated from Greek into Georgian by T. Qaukhchishvili and dated to the 4th–5th centuries.37 Houses from Roman, Late Antique or Mediaeval times generally did not survive at the Svetitskhoveli site. Rare exceptions are the remains of houses inside and outside the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral enclosure. The outside row of houses were dated to the 3rd– 6th centuries38 (Fig. 4). Roman-period finds were more common and spread at lower elevations of the site. Burials at the Svetitskhoveli site, as at the Samtavro site, yielded the richest imported artefacts, coins39 and writing tools together with less expensive items. Three sets of writing tools have been found in Mtskheta. All of them were placed in rich cist and clay tile burials. One set of four silver and one bone styli and a bronze inkpot was recovered from the 1st–2nd-century clay tile burial of a noble woman.40 A pair of bone and silver styli were found in the 3rd-century cist grave.41 Another cist burial of a noble woman yielded three silver styli, silver inkpot and pen box among other luxurious items. The grave was dated to the 4th–5th centuries.42 Writing was attested to by a 5th–6th-century Jewish artefact. The inscribed golden plaque was rolled and stored in a jar and put in the foundation of a house. The plaque

34

 Mandjgaladze 1997, 11–12.  Nikolaishvili et al. 1985. 36  Mandjgaladze 1997, 11–12. 37  Qaukhchishvili 2009, 30–31. 38  Nikolaishvili 2004. 39  Nikolaishvili et al. 2006. 40  Apakidze et al. 1978, 70–75. 41  Kalandadze 1959, 15. 42  Apakidze et al. 2004. 35

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Fig. 4. Late Antique houses (photograph courtesy of Prof. Guram Kipiani).

was an amulet bearing a Hebrew inscription intended to protect the owner from evil.43 It was a Jewish tradition to store such amulets in the basement of a house or synagogue.44 Mediaeval (11th–13th-century) cist burials were scattered in the lowest parts of the site, including the yard of the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral.45 The third archaeological site on my list is Bebristsikhe. It was the northern stronghold of Mtskheta. Bebristsikhe is located 1.5 km north, upstream from Mtskheta, on a hill 480 m above sea level, on the west bank of the Aragvi, at the edge of the small gorge that runs north to the Samtavro Valley (Fig. 1). This fortress was first mentioned in the 12th-century Georgian chronicles.46 A second reference was found in the account of the 18th-century Georgian geographer V. Bagrationi’s account. He described the fortress and its location north of Mtskheta.47 Bebristsikhe was built in the shape of a triangle with three half-oval towers at each point. It suited the landscape well as the towers faced north, east and west, with a yard in the south. It was constructed using small sandstones and lime mortar (Fig. 5). Some Late Bronze and Early Iron Age pot sherds, fragments of Roman-period redpainted clay roof tiles and mediaeval pottery have been exposed on the hill outside the fortress. The trenches along its western wall revealed several courses of ashlar masonry overlaid by mud bricks, clay roof tiles and red-painted pottery.48 Mortared rubble and stone facing walls have been found beneath the north and west towers of the fortress.49 Thus, the hill where Bebristsikhe was constructed could have been occupied since the Late Bronze Age. The fortress itself employed at least three different construction styles – the 43

 Tsereteli 1996.  Noy et al. 2004. 45  Mandjgaladze 1997, 11–12. 46  Gamkrelidze et al. 2013, 101. 47  Bagrationi 1941, 62, 112. 48  Zakaraia 1973, 51; Nikolaishvili et al. 2009, 11–12; Gamkrelidze et al. 2013, 101. 49  Nikolaishvili et al. 2009, 11–13. 44

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Fig. 5. Bebristsikhe.

earliest, Hellenistic ashlar masonry overlaid by mud bricks; lime mortared rubble, used since Roman times (from the 1st century) in Iberia; and the mediaeval technique, a mixture of small sandstones and lime mortar. The fourth site, Baiatkhevi, is situated opposite Bebristsikhe, north of the Samtavro Valley at an altitude of 480 m (Fig. 1). Baiatkhevi and Samtavro are also separated by a gorge. The Baiatkhevi site exposed 1st–2nd-century settlement deposits overlaid by a 3rd–4th-century cemetery. Some graves were constructed with clay tiles.50

DISCUSSION Archaeological studies show that the earliest prehistoric sites and artefacts – the Bronze Age graves, the Iron Age settlement and few pottery fragments – were found at the highest elevations of the western and northern parts of modern Mtskheta: at Mtskheta mound, the uppermost western slope of the Samtavro Valley and Bebristsikhe hill. The later Hellenistic, Roman, Late Antique and Mediaeval burials and dwelling deposits were found mainly in the lower western and southern parts of the city. According to these finds we can recognise the Bronze Age (ca. 3000–1200 BC) population only from funerary practices that are evidenced at the higher places. By the early centuries of Iron Age (ca. 1100–900 BC) the population had grown. These people constructed dwellings at the higher locales and used the lowlands for burial grounds. In this 50

 Nikolaishvili and Giunashvili 1995.

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period the Samtavro Valley was the only settled place on the territory of what is modern Mtskheta. There was an occupational gap at the modern Mtskheta city centre (Svetitskhoveli site) until the Hellenistic period. Hellenistic people inhabited the lower parts of the area. They settled at Svetitskhoveli site and at the bottom of the Samtavro Valley, but continued to use the valley as a graveyard. We can observe population growth and territorial expansion southwards, down to the northern bank of the Kura river, throughout the Roman period and Late Antiquity. The Samtavro Valley, however, remained a cemetery in these periods. Development of the city to the south in the Roman period might be connected to growth in trade. The considerable number of seal/finger-rings found at the Samtavro cemetery probably belonged to local traders. Trade routes followed the Kura river gorge and the river itself would have been used for navigation. We know that the Kura was navigable in the 19th century from Platon Ioselliani’s account of his ferry trip from Gori to Tbilisi in 1851.51 The archaeological evidence showed weak traces of human activity in the Mtskheta area in the Early Bronze Age. The first signs of distinction among population can be observed in the Late Bronze Age. Dwellinghouses became solid from the Iron Age. Stratification of society is apparent from the Roman times. So the question is: when did this settled area become urban? Georgian scholars have had different opinions about the origin and development of Mtskheta. Some took the origin of the city to Hellenistic times,52 others to the Roman period.53 One scholar even questioned the location of Mtskheta.54 These topics became the subject of debate mainly because Roman and Georgian mediaeval records contained contradictory information about Mtskheta. Moreover, neither the defensive walls of the city nor noticeable urban architecture were attested archaeologically in Mtskheta, although we find them in Armazi, the former capital city located opposite Mtskheta on the southern bank of the Kura. Leon Melikset-Beg noted the controversies in the written records regarding the origin of the city. He relied on Greek and Latin sources of the 1st century BC–3rd century AD as opposed to Georgian mediaeval chronicles. He concluded that Mtskheta was established no earlier than the 2nd century AD. He emphasised the fact that Mtskheta was not mentioned at the end of the 1st century BC by Strabo, who did mention two cities of Iberia, Harmozice and Seusamora, described the social structure of the country and gave an account of Pompey’s invasion of Iberia (Strabo 9. 3. 5). Nor did Cassius Dio mention Mtskheta in his History of Rome when he described the details of Roman-Iberian relationships of the 1st century BC–2nd century AD (37. 3). According to both of them the stage for military and political activities was the city of Armazi (Strabo’s Harmozice and Dio’s Acropolis). Ptolemy, however, knew of the existence of Mtskheta in the 2nd century. Moreover, he assigned geographical coordinates to locate the city (Geography 10).55 Kipiani took up Melikset-Beg’s discussion in 2010.56 Roman geographers and historians 51

 Ioseliani 1893, 103.  Djavakhishvili 1960, 453–61; Apakidze 1959; 1963; Sanadze 2001, 55–59. 53  Melikset-Beg 1938; Kakabadze 1924; Melikishvili 1958, 156–60; Kipiani 2010. 54  Bokhochadze 1978. 55  Melikset-Beg 1938. 56  Kipiani 2010. 52

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described the lands and the cities that were within the Roman borders or in her political and military interests. Thus, we can say that in the middle of the 2nd century, when Ptolemy wrote his Geography, Mtskheta was already an urban settlement and it was known to the Romans. The archaeology of the city conflicts with the two primary Georgian sources – The Conversion of Kartli and The Life of the Georgian Kings, which connected Mtskheta to Alexander the Great’s activities in Kartli, even though Alexander never entered Kartli. Moreover, these two historical records contradict each other. This issue has been amply addressed in Georgian studies.57 But if we once again examine and compare the passages from these chronicles about Mtskheta, we will see the differences. The Conversion of Kartli starts with Alexander the Great’s fictional invasion of Iberia. Mtskheta is not listed among the cities that were conquered by Alexander. Nevertheless, the author claims that Alexander helped to establish the first ruler of Iberia, Azo, in Mtskheta. After Azo, Pharnavaz came to Iberia, but he founded city of Armazi, Kartli’s first known capital. Pharnavaz’s successors also were busy with Armazi’s construction. Only the eighth king of Iberia, Bratman, started construction activities in Mtskheta.58 G. Melikishvili and S. Rapp arrived at two different interpretations of the dates of Bratman’s rule: ca. 36 BC59 or ca. 63–30 BC.60 The ninth king of Iberia, Rok, left Mtskheta and moved to Armazi, ca. 1st century BC– 1st century AD61 or ca. AD 1–58.62 Thereafter, Iberia was governed by two rulers, who resided respectively in Mtskheta and Armazi. The last two were Rok and Mirdat (ca. AD 160s).63 After their reigns were over, Iberia’s royal office was united and Mtskheta remained the capital city (ca. 2nd–3rd centuries).64 The last pagan and the first Christian king, Mirian, also resided in Mtskheta, when he adopted Christianity in the AD 330s.65 The Life of the Georgian Kings offers a different version of events. Its author, Mroveli, had the ambition to write the entire history of Kartli. Therefore, he started with a cosmogonic myth, connecting Mtskheta to the creation of Kartli. Mroveli invented the names of the first king of Kartli and eponymous ancestor of the Georgians, Kartlos, and of his sons. The name of one of the sons was Mtskhetos, who established the city of Mtskheta at the confluence of Kura and Aragvi rivers and gave his name to it. After Mtskhetos’ death, his successors continued to reside in Mtskheta, not like a kings, but as fathers of households (mamasakhlisi in Georgian). However, they turned Mtskheta into the capital. Mroveli attributed further construction of Mtskheta to the Persian ruler, Ardam. According to him, Alexander’s invasion took place after Ardam’s rule. He claimed that Alexander

57  Djavakhishvili 1960; Melikishvili 1958; Toumanoff 1963; Sanadze 2001; Arakhamia 2002; Rapp 2003; Kipiani 2010. 58  Moktsevai Kartlisai 81. 59  Melikishvili 1958, 155. 60  Rapp 2014, 222. For a list of the Iberian kings grouped by dynasty, see Tsetskhladze 2006–07. 61  Moktsevai Kartlisai 82; Melikishvili 1958, 155. 62  Moktsevai Kartlisai 82; Rapp 2014, 223. 63  Moktsevai Kartlisai 83; Melikishvili 1958, 155. 64  Moktsevai Kartlisai 83; Melikishvili 1958, 162. 65  Melikishvili 1958, 161–62; Rapp 2009, 677; cf. Djavakhishvili 1979, 216–67. Djavakhishvili calculated the year of Kartli’s conversion as AD 337. He thought, however, that Christianity was adopted by the king Bakur.

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conquered Mtskheta and other cities of Kartli and left Azo as the ruler of Kartli. Azo reinforced Mtskheta. Pharnavaz, the first, legendary Iberian king, defeated Azo and replaced him. Differing from The Conversion of Kartli, Mroveli said that Pharnavaz first rebuilt and reinforced Mtskheta and thereafter erected the Armazi idol in Armazi. The five kings, who followed Pharnavaz, ruled Iberia from Mtskheta. The seventh king Bartom reinforced Mtskheta and other Iberian fortresses.66 During the rule of the tenth king, Aderki, Iberia was divided between his sons Bartom and Kartam (ca. AD 70s).67 Half of the kingdom was located north of Kura, and its capital was Mukhrani; the other half was south of the Kura; and its capital was Armazi.68 This dual reign lasted for some time, according to Mroveli. He credited Pharasmanes the Valiant with Iberia’s reunification. Melikishvili and C. Toumanoff offered two different dates for the reign of Parasmanes the Valiant: ca. AD 130s–150s and AD 116–132, respectively.69 Mroveli named eight more kings as Pharasmanes’ successors before speaking of Mirian, who adopted Christianity.70 As we see, information from the earlier Conversion of Kartli went through substantial contextual and factual changes in Mroveli’s narrative. A number of Georgian scholars explained these controversies. They wrote that Mroveli, who described Mtskheta’s earliest existence, found the later date of Mtskheta’s establishment unacceptable. He recast the information found in The Conversion of Kartli about the building of Mtskheta by Bratman into a tale of the reinforcement of Mtskheta’s existing city walls by Bartom. He substituted Mtskheta for Armazi. He changed the old toponyms, geographical location, and ethnic and personal names to the more common forms of his era.71 An additional explanation is that Mroveli had the special task of connecting Mtskheta to the creation of a unified, centralised state, because in his time the city was seen as a Christian royal capital.72 The special status and significance of Mtskheta had been described first by the author of The Conversion of Kartli. He referred to Mtskheta as a ‘great city’, the seat of divine and royal power, when St Nino came to Iberia to preach Christianity in the beginning of the 4th century.73 This implied that Mtskheta was Iberia’s political and religious centre. Mroveli repeated the idea. He also called Mtskheta a ‘great city’ and to emphasise its importance he assigned subordinate territories to it. He wrote: ‘the great city of Mtskheta and its districts: the great fortress of Sarkine and Zanavi, district of Jews and Rustavi, mother-castle of Samshvilde and Mtveri Castle, and the cities of Kakheti’.74 This idea was carried forward by Georgian Soviet historians and archaeologists but mainly with respect to the physical extent of the city. The term ‘Greater Mtskheta’ was coined in Georgian archaeology in the 1940s. Two cities, Armazi and Tsitsamuri,75 were

 Kartlis Tskhovreba 9–35; Thomson 1996 25–44.  Kartlis Tskovreba 56; Melikishvili 1958, 155. 68  Kartlis Tskovreba 56. 69  Melikishvili 1958, 155; Toumanoff 1969, 17. 70  Kartlis Tskhovreba 56–73; Thomson 1996, 49–77. 71  Melikishvili 1958, 43–44; Sanadze 2001, 11; Arakhamia 2002, 132–33. 72  Bedoshvili 1983, 187. 73  Abuladze 1963, 116. 74  Kartlis Tskhovreba 18; Thompson 1996, 24. 75  Melikset-Beg identified Strabo’s Seusamora as the toponym Tsitsamuri (Melikset-Beg 1917). Apakidze placed Seusamora on the mountain that overlooks the modern village of Tsitsamuri. He excavated the section of fortification there (Apakidze 1958). The city itself has not been proven archaeologically. 66 67

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described as districts of Mtskheta although they were located on the opposite banks of the Kura and Aragvi rivers. Prof. S. Djanashia’s explanation of Strabo’s description of Harmozice/Armazi and Seusamora/Tsitsamuri and the short distance between the three cities formed the basis for this theory. In a newspaper article in 1945, Djanashia wrote: ‘I have to think that this information refers to two districts of the same city, because the existence of two independent cities so close to each other is not convincing.’76 In the 1930s, however, Djanashia thought that Armazi preceded Mtskheta as the capital city of Iberia/Kartli.77 His later opinion was further developed by Domenti Mshvenieradze, who argued that Mtskheta consisted of three districts – Mtskheta, Armazi and Tsitsamuri.78 Apakidze introduced the concept of ‘Greater Mtskheta’ and its neighbourhoods that spread along both banks of the Kura and Aragvi rivers. He placed seven other settlements located in the vicinity within Mtskheta’s territorial boundaries.79 Mtskheta is located 2 km north of Armazi and 5 km west of Tsitsamuri (Fig. 6). The remaining settlements are located further from Mtskheta, about 7 km away. With such distances and diverse landscapes, neighbourhoods would not be combined within the limits of modern cities of Georgia. It is hard, therefore, to conceive them as falling within the limits of an ancient ‘Greater Mtskheta’. These authors could not reasonably rely upon the mediaeval chronicles’ use of the term ‘great’ in reference to Mtskheta, since this term stressed the supremacy of the city, not its territorial measurements.80 Mestleta (Mtskheta) and Harmastica (Armazi) were two cities on Ptolemy’s list. Ptolemy identified them with different geographical coordinates. Armazi and Mtskheta were thought to be two independent cities by earlier scholars Ioseliani, Natroev and Melikset-Beg.81 My research also showed that Mtskheta and Armazi were independent urban centres in the 1st–3rd centuries. Over time Mtskheta could have gained control of Armazi and Tsitsamuri. In Late Antiquity they may have become lands subordinate to Mtskheta,82 as mentioned by N. Berdzenishvili.83 The archaeology of the city is consistent with this conclusion. It shows that in earlier Hellenistic times population was smaller and was mainly concentrated in the small western part of modern Mtskheta. Territorial and population growth took place from the 1st–2nd centuries AD. Settlement subordination, however, does not necessarily mean territorial merger. The urban development of Mtskheta and the decline of Armazi and Tsitsamuri did not mean that the latter two became districts of Mtskheta. They simply lost their independent political status. Subordination is reflected in management and tax payments. We have no such evidence from Roman times or from Late Antiquity, but we do have mediaeval deeds that show the dominant position of Mtskheta over neighbouring settlements in

76

 Djanashia 1945.  Djanashia 1949, 10. 78  Mshvenieradze 1952, 23. 79  Apakidze 1959, 7; 1963, 178, 245. 80  Kipiani 2010, 105. 81  Ioseliani 1850, 53; Natroev 1900, 3–53; Melikset-Beg 1938, 58. 82  Demetradze and Kipiani 2010, 42; Demetradze 2014, 150–74. 83  Berdzenishvili 1964, 403–04. 77

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Fig. 6. Map of Mtskheta, Armazi and Tsitsamuri.

mediaeval times. Mtskheta owned and managed the fortresses, villages and trading centres in the neighbourhood. For instance, Armazi fortress, Nakulbakevi and Mukhatgverdi lands were owned by the Patriarch of Mtskheta in the 14th and 15th centuries.84 Archaeological finds revealed a well-stratified society within Mtskheta from the 1st to the 4th centuries. Artefacts that point to Roman influence and its higher, sophisticated standard of living confirm this. Local elites acquired considerable wealth, as demonstrated in their personal belongings, which included high quality golden jewellery, glass and stone unguentaria, and silver tableware. From this time writing was being employed by the citizens. To date, writing tools have been discovered only in Mtskheta. Apparently administration of urban structures and the writing that went with it became central to Mtskheta. Specific knowledge of literate people would have been used not only in administrative work but in social and religious actions and trade. Georgian mediaeval written records also described Mtskheta as the political and religious centre of Iberia at the beginning of the 4th century, before the spread of Christianity. They placed the king’s palace and royal garden within the city of Mtskheta. Some scholars identified the location of the king’s residence on the territory that is now Svetitskhoveli Cathedral.85 We lack sufficient archaeological materials to confirm or rebut this, but it is possible that the composite orders discovered in the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral foundation are the decorative details of a palace that existed in that very place before the cathedral’s construction. 84

 Zhordania 2018, 195–98, 239–40, 244.  Kakabadze 1928, 3–4; Grigolia 1954, 71; Apakidze 1959, 55.

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Urban systems reached maturity in Late Antiquity. The inscriptions from the 4th– 5th centuries reveal citizens’ social and professional status. People who mastered certain building skills were united in professional associations and these associations had their leaders. The building inscription from Mtskheta identifies Aurelios Acholis as archizographos (principal painter) and architektoi (architect). Probably Acholis was a member of the architects’ or builders’ association in Mtskheta. Such an organisational structure of craftsmen is similar to those of professional associations or guilds spread in the contemporaneous Roman East.86 Interestingly, the name Acholis is also mentioned in a Greek building inscription at Sardis. The inscription praised Acholis for his construction and organisational activities and he was honoured by the erection of his statue.87 The family name Aurelii is also well attested to in a different purpose inscriptions from Sardis, including one donor inscription of the synagogue. It appeared in combination with names of the members of the synagogue and citizens of Sardis, for instance, Aurelios Olympios, Aurelios Eulogius, Aurelios Polyhippos, Aurelios Alexandros and Aurelios Symeonios. One inscription identified Aurelios Hermogenes by profession. He was a jeweller or goldsmith.88 Some of them had a mark of abbreviation after Aur., which is exactly like an earlier inscription of Aurelios Acholis from Mtskheta’s Antioch church. The craft organisation, in my view, appeared in Mtskheta as a result of Roman-Iberian interactions. I cannot tell when it started, but there might be some connexions between the creation of craft organisation in Mtskheta and the institution of taxes on traders and craftsmen by Constantine. By the early fourth century, Roman tradesmen were required to belong to their appropriate guild. This was one way the government could locate practitioners and impose the dreaded collatio lustralis, a crushing tax imposed every four years on craftsmen among merchants and moneylenders.89 We do not possess sufficient materials to discuss how taxes were imposed, collected or paid in Iberia, but I can say that the epitaph of Aurelios Acholis shows a similar attitude by Roman associations or guilds towards their members. Professional guilds offered their members a set of social activities and ultimately a dignified funeral. In the case of Acholis it is seen that he and his wife were buried with such honours. Their grave stone was of impressive size, nicely cut, framed and inscribed. This kind of grave stones were rare in Iberia. The burial protection was secured by including a curse in the epitaph. Nevertheless, the curse did not work. Aurelios Acholis’ grave was damaged and the grave stone with its epitaph was re-used for construction of another burial. The practice of such grave protection is also attested by the epitaph of a chance find sandstone slab in the vicinity of Mtskheta Mogvtakari.90 Roman-Iberian relationships intensified in the 1st–3rd centuries and became even stronger from the beginning of the 4th century. This resulted in adoption of a new religion. 86

 van Nijf 1997; Verboven and Laes 2017.  Foss 1976, 115. 88  Hanfmann 1970, 39–40; Kroll 2001, 13–17, 43. 89  Ulrich 2007, 12. 90  Qaukhchishvili 2009, 31. 87

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Fig. 7. Distribution of archaeological features within historical Mtskheta.

The Iberian king and his family converted to Christianity at the beginning of the 4th century. Acceptance of Christianity was a political act and it meant that the pro-Roman parties of Iberia overcame the pro-Parthians:91 ‘In the polarity of Rome-Iran, the kings of Iberia gravitated towards the autocratic and bureaucratic Roman state, and this trend was now enhanced by the meta-political prestige of the Christian Emperors.’92 Mtskheta seems to have been a dynamic city since Roman times. Construction activities were intense throughout Late Antiquity. Higher population density can be observed in the Svetitskhoveli district (Fig. 7). This explains the existence of Roman and Late Antique overlaid deposits. Obviously construction of new buildings took place above older ones. This is one of the reasons why architecture did not survive in the city. Another reason is found in the fragile mud-brick architecture that was still widespread in Iberia. For example, as late as the 5th century the Mtskheta Gate was built with adobe on a stone socle, notwithstanding lime mortared rubble construction was introduced from the 1st century AD due to the Roman incursion. The relatively late urban development of Mtskheta can be explained by the geological and geographical situation. Modern Mtskheta is situated on the banks of the both the Kura and Aragvi rivers. The city is set on the first upper alluvial terrace of floodplain. Currently the height of the terrace is between 1.5 and 4 m above the river; 2500 years ago the terrace was probably lower and prone to flooding. The river banks were covered 91

 Lomouri 1975, 93–96.  Toumanoff 1963, 151.

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by floodplain forests,93 which are not evidenced today. Palynological analysis also attested to the existence of floodplain forests in the Kura-Aragvi basin. A relatively large amount of tree pollens (alnus, pinus) were found in the soil samples taken from the Romanperiod graves in the Samtavro Valley. Alder (alnus) is a wetland species that dominated the pollen spectrum.94 This is indicative of a floodplain ecosystem. If we compare 19th-century maps with those from the present, we can easily see frequent changes in the riverbeds and land forms. This is especially true for the southern part of Mtskheta. Population growth caused deforestation of the floodplain and entailed creation of lands suitable for habitation. City configuration and borders changed with the population growth over time. This process is clearly seen in the Samtavro Valley and Bebristsikhe examples. In Late Antiquity these locales were the outskirts of the city, because they were situated outside the 5th century Mtskheta Gate. As recently as 1871 Bayern described the Samtavro cemetery as outside Mtskheta.95 Obviously historical Mtskheta coincided with the limits of the Svetitskhoveli site. Today the Samtavro Valley and Bebristsikhe are located in the middle of the city. After the early 6th century Mtskheta lost its dominant position to Tbilisi, which became the capital of Kartli and eventually, in the 12th century, the capital of a centralised Georgian state. But before that, at the beginning of the 11th century, the central cathedral of united Georgia, Svetitskhoveli, was constructed in Mtskheta. This would have reflected the religious prestige of the city. It was claimed that the robe of Christ was brought to Mtskheta and was buried in the foundation of Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. This account was used wisely by Mroveli, who composed his work from the perspective of a mediaeval Christian statesman and promote a united Georgian Christian state ideology. Chart 1. Archaeological Features at the Samtavro Site.

Archaeological Features at the Samtavro Site 1800 1600 1400 1200 1000 800 600 400 200 0 Middle Bronze

93

Late Bronze

 Maruashvili 1971, 286–90.  Demetradze 2014, 143–44. 95  Bayern 1872, 1. 94

Iron Age

Hellenistic

Roman

Late Antiquity

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Chart 2. Archaeological Features at the Svetitskhoveli Site.

Archaeological Features at the Svetitskhoveli Site 450 400 350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0 Early Bronze Late Bronze

Iron Age

Hellenistic

Roman

Late Antiquity

CONCLUSIONS Studies of the archaeological finds within the landscape of the city and literary sources demonstrated phases in the development of Mtskheta settlement and its transformation into an urban centre. The first phase of settlement development took place during the Bronze and Iron Ages, when only the Samtavro Valley and Mtskheta mound evidenced the initial signs of human activities. Further progress and growth of the Iron Age population was attested only at Samtavro Valley. The Hellenistic and Roman periods can be conceived as the second phase, when population movement towards lowlands and the gradual habitation of the Svetitskhoveli site took place. Significant territorial and population growth together with the formation of local elites and literate people occurred in Roman times. These factors may serve as an index of Mtskheta’s gradual transformation into the urban settlement. Late Antiquity can be regarded as the third phase in the creation of the urban centre in Mtskheta. From the 4th century Mtskheta society was comprising different ethnic groups and developing a new structure of professional workers. The new religion, Christianity, was becoming established in this city. Taken together this meant that Mtskheta became the political and religious centre, and the capital of Kartli.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abuladze, I. (ed.) 1963: Dzveli kartuli agiograpiuli literaturis dzeglebi, vol. 1 (Tbilisi). Apakidze, A. 1958: ‘Antikuri tsqaroebis tsitsamuri – Σευσάμορα’. In Iv. Djavakhishvilis sakhelobis istoriis institutis shromebi, vol. 4.1 (Tbilisi), 119–40. —. 1959: Mtskheta kartlis samepos dzveli dedakalaki (Tbilisi). —. 1963: Kalakebi da sakalako tskhovreba dzvel sakartveloshi (Tbilisi). Apakidze, A., Abdushelishvili, M., Nikolaishvili, V., Sikharulidze, A., Sadradze, V., Mandjgaladze, G., Djgarkava, T., Giunashvili, G., Iremashvili, S., Gavasheli, E. and Melitauri, K. 1981: ‘1977–78 tslebis savele-arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 5 (Tbilisi), 119–52.

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Apakidze, A., Kalandadze, A., Nikolaishvili, V., Mandjgaladze, G., Sikharulidze, A., Sadradze, V., Khetsuriani, L., Djgarkava, T., Dzneladze, M., Davlianidze, R. and Giunashvili, G. 1978: Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 2 (Tbilisi). Apakidze, A., Kipiani, G. and Nikolaishvili, V. 2004: ‘A Rich Burial from Mtskheta (Caucasian Iberia)’. Ancient West and East 3.1, 104–23. Apakidze, A., Kipiani, G., Mandjgaladze, G., Giunashvili, G., Nikolaishvili, V. and Sikharulidze, A. 2001: ‘Arkeologiuri gatkhrebi samtavroze 2000 tsels’. In Sametsniero Sesia, Angarishebi, 2000 tslis savele-arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi (Tbilisi), 24–39. Apakidze, A. and Nikolaishvili, V. 1996: ‘Mtskhetis tsarchinebulta gansasvenebeli akh.ts. mesame saukunisa akldama 905’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 11 (Tbilisi), 7–42. Apakidze, A., Nikolaishvili, V., Giunashvili, G., Mandjgaladze, G., Sadradze, V., Dzneladze, M. and Davlianidze, R. 1995: Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 10 (Tbilisi). Apakidze, A., Nikolaishvili, V., Melitauri, K., Sikharulidze, A., Sadradze, V., Dzneladze, M., Mandjgaladze, G., Khetsuriani, L., Chanishvili, T., Giunashvili, G., Davlianidze, R., Gavasheli, E., Iremashvili, S., Bibiluri, T. and Glonti, N. 1982: Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 6 (Tbilisi). Apakidze, A., Nikolaishvili, V., Sikharulidze, A., Bibiluri, T., Giunashvili, G., Iremashvili, S., Mandjgaladze, G., Sadradze, V., Dzneladze, M. and Khetsuriani, L. 1989: Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 9 (Tbilisi). Arakhamia, G. 2002: „Kartlis tskhovrebis” pirveli matiane (Tbilisi). Bagrationi, V. 1941: Agtsera sameposa sakartvelosa (Tbilisi). Bayern, F. 1872: ‘Issledovanie drevnikh grobnits bliz d. Mtskheta, proizvedennoe g. Baernom letom 1871 goda’. Kavkaz 7–8, 1–7. Bedoshvili, G. 1983: ‘Mosazrebani termin mtskhetis tsarmoshobis shesakheb’. Saenatmetsniero dziebani, 187–95. Berdzenishvili, N. 1964: Sakartvelos istoriis sakitkhebi. Istoriuli geograpia, vol. 1 (Tbilisi). Bokhochadze, A. 1978: ‘“Dzueli mtskhetas” lokalizatsiis sakitkhebi’. Peodaluri sakartvelos arkeologiuri dzeglebi 3, 5–26. Demetradze, I. 2014: Cultural Landscapes of Iberia: Mtskheta Area Settlement Patterns in the 1st Century B.C.–3rd Century A.D. (Dissertation, Iliauni University) (in Georgian, abstract in English) (http://iliauni.edu.ge/uploads/other/13/13510.pdf ). Demetradze, I. and Kipiani, G. 2010: ‘Cultural Landscapes of Seusamora, East Georgia’. In Kluiving, S.J. and Guttmann-Bond, E.B. (eds.), Landscape Archaeology between Art and Science: From a Multi- to an Interdisciplinary Approach (Amsterdam), 33–44. Djanashia, S. 1945: ‘Sakartvelos dzveli dedakalaki’. In Akhalgazrda komunisti 19 (15 March), 3. —. 1949: ‘Feodaluri revolutsia sakartveloshi’. In Shromebi, vol. 1 (Tbilisi), 1–127. Djavakhishvili, I. 1979: Tkhzulebani, vol. 1 (Tbilisi). —. 1960: Kartveli eris istoria, vol. 1 (Tbilisi). Foss, C. 1976: Byzantine and Turkish Sardis (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis 4) (Cambridge, MA). Gamkrelidze, G., Mindorashvili, D., Bragvadze, Z. and Kvachadze, M. 2013: Kartlis tskhovrebis topoarkeologiuri leksikoni (Tbilisi). Grigolia, K. 1954: Akhali kartlis tskhovreba (Tbilisi). Hanfmann, G. 1970: ‘The Ancient Synagogue of Sardis’. In Proceedings of the Fourth World Congress of Jewish Studies, vol. 1 (Jerusalem), 32–42. Ioseliani, P. 1850: Goroda sushchestvovavshchie i sushchestvujushchie v Gruzii (Tiflis). —. 1871: Putevye Zapiski ot Tiflisa do Mtskhety (Tiflis). —. 1893: Tskhovreba mepe giorgi metsametisa da sakartvelos rusettan sheerteba (Tiflis). Kakabadze, S. 1924: ‘Kartuli sakhelmtsipoebriobis genezisis sakitkhi’. Saistorio moambe, vol. 1 (Tiflis). —. 1928: ‘Kalaki mtskheta – kalaki armazi’. Saistorio krebuli 3 (Tiflis), 1–9. Kalandadze, A. 1959: ‘Mtskhetis arkeologiuri ekspeditsiis 1958 ts. sezonis dziritadi shedegebisatvis’. In Sakartveloshi 1958 ts. tsarmoebuli savele-arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebisadmi midzgvnili sametsniero sesia, mokhsenebis tezisebi (Tbilisi), 14–17.

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—. 1980: Samtavro, tsinaantikuri khanis arkeologiuri dzeglebi. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 4 (Tbilisi), 22–173. —. 1981: ‘Samtavros samarovnis tsinaantikuri khanis arkeologiuri dzeglebi’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 5 (Tbilisi), 7–116. —. 1982: ‘Samtavros tsinaantikuri khanis arkeologiuri dzeglebi’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvlevadziebis shedegebi, vol. 6 (Tbilisi), 7–135. Kalandadze, A., Bokhochadze, A., Lezhava, G., Nasidze, G. and Amiranashvili, J. 1966: ‘Mtskhetis arkeologiuri ekspeditsiis mier 1965 ts. chatarebuli mushaobis shedegebi’. In XV sametsniero sesia midzgvnili 1965 tslis savele-arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebisadmi (Tbilisi), 29–31. Kipiani, G. 2010: ‘Mtskhetis tsarmoshobis sakitkhistvis’. Kadmosi 2, 92–110. —. 1997: ‘Kedlis burdjta korintuli kapitelebi svetitskhovlis ezodan’. Sakartvelos xelovnebis muzeumi, narkvevebi 3, 61–63. Kroll, J.H. 2001: ‘The Greek Inscriptions of the Sardis Synagogue’. The Harvard Theological Review 94.1, 5–55. Lomouri, N. 1975: Narkvevebi kartlis (iberiis) samepos istoriidan (mesame-meotkhe saukuneebi) (Tbilisi). Mandjgaladze, G. 1985: ‘Samtavros samarovnis gvianantikuri khanis samarkhebi. Katalogi’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 7 (Tbilisi), 43–108. —. 1997: ‘Arkeologiuri metvalqureobis shedegebi svetitskhovlis ezosa da antiokiis eklesiaze’. Mtskhetis arkeologiuri instituti, meore sametsniero sesia, 11–12. Maruashvili, L. 1964: Sakartvelos pizikuri geograpia (Tbilisi). Melikishvili, G. 1958: ‘Kartlis (iberiis) samepos istoriis kronologiis sakitxistvis’. In I. Djavakhishvilis saxelobis istoriis institutis shromebi, vol. 4.1 (Tbilisi), 141–70. —. 1999: Dziebani sakartvelos, kavkasiisa da akhlo agmosavletis dzveli istoriis dargshi (Tbilisi). Melikset-Beg, L. 1917: ‘V poiskakh Strabonovskoi Sevsamory’. Izvestia Kavkazskogo Otdela Ruskogo Geograpicheskogo Obshchestvo 3, 249–55. —. 1938: Armazni: Istorichesko-arkheologicheskoe issledovanie. Masalebi sakartvelos da kavkasiis istoriisatvis, vol. 2 (Tbilisi). Moktsevai Kartlisai [The Conversion of Kartli] – see Abuladze 1963. Mroveli, L., Kartlis Tskhovreba – see S. Qaukhchishvili 1955. Mshvenieradze, D. 1952: Stroitelnoe delo v drevnei Gruzii (Tbilisi). Natroev, G. 1900: Mtskhet i ego sobor Sveti-Tskhoveli (Tiflis). Nikolaishvili, V. 2004: ‘Kalaki mtskheta akh.ts. III–IV s.s. (arkeologiuri monatsemebis mixedvit)’. Kavkasiis matsne 3, 39–43. Nikolaishvili, V. and Giunashvili, G. 1995: ‘Baiatkhevi’. In Apakidze et al. 1995, 97–134. Nikolaishvili, V., Giunashvili, G. and Glonti, N. 1985: ‘Mtskhetisgoris samarovani, katalogi’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 7 (Tbilisi), 132–50. Nikolaishvili, V., Kipiani, G., Giunashvili, G., Sikharulidze, A. and Mandjgaladze, G. 2006: ‘Akhali arkeologiuri agmochena mtskhetashi’. Kamara 2 (5), 11–22. Nikolaishvili, V., Sikharulidze, A., Digmelashvili, K., Papidze, I. and Papidze, M. 2009: BeltistsikheBebristsikhe (Tbilisi). Noy, D., Panayotov, A. and Bloedhorn, H. 2004: Inscriptions Judaicae Orientis 1: Eastern Europe (Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum 99) (Tübingen). Qaukhchishvili, S. 1955: Kartlis Tskhovreba. Tskhovreba kartvelta mepeta, vol. 1 (Tbilisi). Qaukhchishvili, T. 2009: Sakartvelos berdznuli tsartserebis korpusi (Tbilisi). Rapp, S.H. 2003: Studies in Medieval Georgian Historiography: Early Texts and Eurasian Contexts (Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 601; Subsidia 113) (Leuven). —. 2009: ‘The Iranian Heritage of Georgia’. Iranica Antiqua 44, 645–92. —. 2014: The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes: Caucasia and the Iranian Commonwealth in Late Antique Georgian Literature (Farnham). Sadradze, V. 1993: Arkheologicheskie pamyatniki ‘Velikoi Mtskhety’ epokhi srednei bronzy (Tbilisi). —. 1997: Samtavros samarovnis brindjaos khanis dzeglebi (Tbilisi). Sadradze, V., Kakhiani, K., Gliglashvili, E. and Sadradze, T. 2007: Mtkvrisa da aragvis khertvisis eneolit-brindjaos khanis dzeglebi (Tbilisi).

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Sagona, A.G., Nikolaishvili, V., Sagona, C., Ogleby, C., Pilbrow, V., Briggs, C., Giunashvili, G. and Mandjgaladze, G. 2010: ‘Excavations at Samtavro, 2008–2009: An Interim Report’. Ancient Near Eastern Studies 47, 1–136. Sanadze, M. 2001: ‘Kartlis tskhovreba’ da sakartvelos istoriis udzvelesi periodi (Tbilisi). Thomson, R.W. 1996: Rewriting Caucasian History: The Medieval Armenian Adaptation of the Georgian Chronicles (Oxford). Tolordava, V. 1980: Dakrdzalvis tsesebi elinisturi khanis sakartveloshi (Tbilisi). Toumanoff, C. 1963: Studies in Christian Caucasian History (Washington, DC). —. 1969: ‘Chronology of the Early Kings of Iberia’. Traditio 25, 1–33. Tsereteli, K. 1996: ‘Mtskhetis arameuli amuleti’. In Mtskheta, arkeologiuri kvleva-dziebis shedegebi, vol. 11 (Tbilisi), 95–133. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2006–07: ‘Ancient West and East: Mtskheta, Capital of Caucasian Iberia’. Mediterranean Archaeology 19–20, 75–107. Ulrich, R.B. 2007: Roman Woodworking (New Haven, CT). van Nijf, O.M. 1997: The Civic World of Professional Associations in the Roman East (Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 17) (Amsterdam). Verboven, K. and Laes, C. (eds.) 2017: Work, Labour, and Professions in the Roman World (Impact of Empire 23) (Leiden/Boston). Zakaraia, P. 1973: Sakartvelos dzveli kalakebi da tsikheebi (Tbilisi). Zhordania, T. 2018: Kronikebi (Tbilisi).

ACHAEMENID-PERIOD SERPENTINE VESSELS FROM OLUZ HÖYÜK (KRITALIA) AND HARŞENA FORTRESS (AMASYA), NORTH-CENTRAL ANATOLIA Şevket DÖNMEZ and E. Emine NAZA-DÖNMEZ

ABSTRACT Oluz Höyük, located at the western edge of today’s fertile Geldingen plain, is 25 km from Amasya city centre and has a settlement history from the Chalcolithic to the Mediaeval. The largest settlement with the richest finds comes from architectural layers 2B and 2A, dated to the time of Achaemenid rule over Anatolia. With its location and the geopolitical situation on the route connecting Anatolia to Iran, Oluz Höyük can be localised as the settlement of Kritalla, mentioned by ancient sources as the mustering point of the Persian army under Xerxes in his Greek Campaign. Harşena Fortress, located on Mt Harşena in Amasya city centre was the main citadel of Amasya in the Seljuk and Ottoman periods. But the finds uncovered in the Maiden’s Palace on the outskirts of the fortress prove that there had been a settlement here under Achaemenid sovereignty and under Phrygian cultural influence. In this paper we examine three vessels made of serpentine common to Achaemenid-period settlements in both Oluz Höyük and Harşena. The material, production and the use of these highquality vessels and their similarities with the other Achaemenid-period groups produced for the use in the Royal Court will also be analysed.

OLUZ HÖYÜK Oluz Höyük1 (Fig. 1), located at the western edge of the fertile Geldingen plain, is 25 km from the centre of Amasya (Amaseia). Historical records and archaeological finds show that throughout its settlement history Oluz Höyük was located on the shores of a small lake, where the first settlement was established in the Chalcolithic period (4500–3500 BC). The traces of the flood levels found in the cross section of Trench B, which was excavated using the step-trench technique, and mollusc shells and bones2 belonging to water birds uncovered in almost every layer are evidence of a lake east of Oluz Höyük. The British geologist William John Hamilton, who undertook expeditions in Central Anatolia between 1835 and 1836, reached Amasya and spent three days in the city.3 Hamilton, who left the city towards Çorum on 15th August, had a chance to observe the Geldingen plain and the Çekerek river, which he named Çöterlek. As a result of his observation from the top of a hill which overlooks the villages of Bağlıca and Zara (Doğantepe), Hamilton 1

 For Oluz Höyük and its bibliography, see Dönmez 2010; 2017.  Onar 2010, 115. 3  Hamilton 1842, 362–73. 2

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Fig. 1. Oluz Höyük and the fertile Geldingen plain. General view.

mentioned that the Geldingen plain had been a lake bottom which left geological traces.4 Archaeo-geophysical work on the eastern part of Trench B on the plain confirms that today’s fertile plain was a lake at least since the Hittite period (1500 BC).5 We may suppose that the Achaemenid settlement found in architectural layers 2B and 2A (450– 200 BC) was established because of this lake. Thus we have here a typical and strongly characterised example of one of the Persian settlement- and basileia-building strategies,6 in which they showed a preference for wetlands such as marshes with rich ecosystems, wildlife with lakes and bird sanctuaries. Layer 2B (450–300 BC) (Fig. 2) reveals a noticeable settlement with unique, extraordinary finds in Anatolian Iron Age archaeology. Major architectural finds were located on the north and south of the stone road which constitutes the backbone of the settlement. On the northern side of the 28 m-long, 8.5 m-wide road, which has an open water channel and was built with a north–south inclination, there was an entrance, most probably belonging to a colonnaded entryway of a palace (basileia). Opposite the civil architecture on the northern side of the road, on the southern side a district with religious structures started to appear. An Atashkadeh, early Zoroastrian sanctuary, and a colonnaded hall point to a new architectural plan for Anatolian Late Iron Age archaeology. Layer 2B, which was designed for the empty spaces appeared, after the demolition of the structures of layer 3 (500–450 BC) and probably layer 4, has an innovative approach. The absence of any traces of Achaemenid settlement and paradeisoi in the other Late Iron Age settlements in the region (such as Maşat Höyük, Alaca Höyük, Eskiyapar, Boğazköy, Alişar Höyük, Çadır Höyük, Ovaören-Yassıhöyük, Kırşehir-Yassıhöyük, Kaman-Kalehöyük and 4

 Hamilton 1842, 374–75.  Dönmez 2010, 69. 6  Özkan 2014. 5

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Fig. 2. Oluz Höyük, architectural layer 2B (450–300 BC), Persian road, Zoroastrian sanctuary, Atashkadeh, colonnaded hall.

Hacıbektaş Höyük) proves that Oluz Höyük had the most suitable environment in NorthCentral Anatolia for paradeisos infrastructure. The Geldingen plain is on the ancient course of the Tosya–Amasya–Erzincan–Erzurum highway, also known as the Iran Road. The plain, located on the north–south route through Anatolia, is a region where basic crops such as grapes and wheat can easily be grown, birds, game and fish are plentiful, and there was no shortage of water thanks to the lake7 we know existed and the Çekerek (Skylax) river. The route preferred by Xerxes I (486–465 BC), who arrived at Kritalla in the autumn of 481 BC after visiting Van Fortress (Thosp),8 the capital of the Eastern Armenia satrapy, and Altıntepe (Akilisene), the capital of the Western Armenia satrapy, would have been via Sivas (Sebastea) and Zile (Zela) after his passing through Erzincan. Xerxes, who spent the winter in Kritalla, left for Kelainai in the spring of 480 BC. The position of Oluz Höyük and the Geldingen plain, which are in easy reach of the peoples living in Cappadocia and its immediate vicinity, is quite an important issue. This shows the significance of Kritalla (i.e. Oluz Höyük)9 in Anatolian military history and that it was the mustering point for the Persian army before Xerxes’ campaign against Greece in 481–480 BC. In Cappadocia, Kritalla came after Pteria as somewhere inhabited by people close to the Persians and their culture, and the peoples of the Kızılırmak (Halys) basin had completely turned their gaze towards the East. The army that departed Kritalla for Kelainai had been joined by Lydians, Mysians, Thracians and Pisidians. The geopolitical and geo-strategic importance of Oluz Höyük/ Kritalla was confirmed by archaeological finds of a military character: to date, 52 lead 7

 Dönmez 2010, 69; 2013, 109.  Kalkan 2008, 22. 9  Dönmez and Yurtsever-Beyazıt 2013, 178–79. 8

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Fig. 3. Oluz Höyük. Lead sling bullets (5th–4th centuries BC).

sling bullets10 (Fig. 3) and nine arrowheads.11 These lead finds prove the presence of a considerable amount of ammunition for the period in layers 2B and 2A at Oluz Höyük. Since there are far more unexcavated areas on the mound, the number of bullets will most probably increase. Oluz Höyük is understood to be an important settlement with large military potential for the Persian army.

HARŞENA FORTRESS Systematic archaeological investigation12 in Harşena Fortress (Fig. 4), located 25 km north-east of Oluz Höyük in Amasya (Amaseia) city centre, has enabled us to uncover important evidence regarding the protohistory of Amasya as well as its Seljuk and Ottoman periods. Some evidence, though recovered from Ottoman-era strata to which it did not belong during excavation in the Upper Fortress and the Maiden’s Palace, points towards settlement in Amasya before urbanisation. Since Amasya/Amaseia was unmentioned by Herodotus, this surely indicates that the settlement centred upon the Maiden’s Palace had no distinctive properties in his time. His silence is important. He meticulously recorded 10

 Dönmez 2012, res. 19a–b, 20a–b; Dönmez and Yurtsever-Beyazıt 2013, res. 8, 14; 2014, res. 12–13.  Dönmez and Yurtsever-Beyazıt 2013, res. 13; 2014, res. 11. 12  For Harşena Fortress and its bibliography, see Naza-Dönmez 2011; 2012; 2013: 2014. 11

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Fig. 4. Harşena Fortress and Yeşilırmak (Iris).

historical occurrences, people and geographical elements, thus the settlement, in which the magnificent fortress and rock-cut royal tombs had not yet been built, had an ordinariness that was beneath his gaze. The presence of sherds of painted ware13 and Scythian spurred bronze arrowheads,14 uncovered in excavations, prove that in the lifetime of Herodotus there was a settlement in the Maiden’s Palace under Achaemenid sovereignty and Phrygian cultural influence.

FINDS A group of similar finds from both Oluz Höyük and Harşena forms distinctive archaeological proof of the strong presence of Achaemenid culture in Amasya province. Serpentine vessel fragments, two from Oluz Höyük (Figs. 5–6) and one from Harşena (Fig. 7), are remarkable elements of the Persian culture in Amasya. The first vessel (Fig. 5) has a smooth rim and shallow body, narrowing to the bottom into a pedestal. It is 21.1 cm in diameter, 1 cm thick, and is dark green in colour. The other vessel from Oluz Höyük (Fig. 6) is a small rim fragment, 3 cm in length, which seems to be the part of a vessel 9 cm in diameter. The fragment, yellowish-green in colour, is 0.8 cm thick, round, and flat rimmed. The fragment (Fig. 7) found in the Maiden’s Palace area of Harşena belongs to a vessel 15 cm in diameter and 1 cm thick. The greyish-green fragment is wide and flat-rimmed, with a round narrowing body. The raw material of stone vessels from Oluz Höyük and Harşena is serpentine (serpentinus), which has a black-olive green mottled hue, is an easily processed type of stone found in abundance in Anatolia and Iran. The Çankırı–Amasya–Tokat–Erzincan belt is a wide zone with serpentine-rich rock beds.15 13

 Dönmez 2015, res. 13–19.  Dönmez 2015, res. 20–21. 15  Özdeniz et al. 2017, sek. 3. 14

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Fig. 5a–c. Oluz Höyük. Serpentine vessel, architectural layer 2B (450–300 BC).

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Fig. 6a–b. Oluz Höyük. Fragment of serpentine vessel, architectural layer 2B (450–300 BC).

CONCLUSION The production and use of vessels made of high quality material such as serpentine, jasper and alabaster can be found throughout the Achaemenid empire, most prominently in its political/governmental centre. The many stone vessels uncovered in the Persepolis Treasury show that such finds were a part of the life of the nobility. Such vessels, used by the king, royal family and the nobility, seem to have had a special place among objects of daily use. In several other settlements throughout the empire, Persepolis being uppermost, vessels made of several high-quality stones were discovered. The stone vessels16 in the Persepolis Treasury constitute the largest collection found to date. Those with a high pedestal17 are closer in form to the Oluz Höyük serpentine vessel (Fig. 5), which is thought to have had pedestal because of the protrusion at its 16

 Schmidt 1957, pls. 57.1–7, 58.1–8, 59.1–10, 60.1–2, 4, 61.1–9 and 62.1–11.  Schmidt 1957, pls. 58.1–8 and 59.1–3.

17

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Fig. 7a–c. Harşena Fortress. Fragment of serpentine vessel (5th century BC).

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bottom. The high number of serpentine stone vessels among the Treasury finds18 is another similarity with Oluz Höyük and Harşena. Among Anatolian examples, a jasper plate19 uncovered in the Uşak-İkiztepe tumulus20 and dated to the late 6th century/first decade of 5th century BC21 has been evaluated by some scholars as in the Lydian-Persian tradition of stone vessels characterised by a Persian primacy of identity within Lydian culture.22 On this subject, a workshop excavated in Sardis and dated before the 560 BC has been mentioned as evidence.23 But no connexion of production, technique and use has yet been established between the aforementioned workshop and the jasper vessels in Persia. Daskyleion (Hisartepe), located on the southern shore of Lake Manyas (Daskylitis Limne) in north-western Anatolia, was the capital of the satrapy of Hellespontine Phrygia. Stone vessels yielded by long-running excavations24 constitute the largest group found in Anatolia. The presence of jasper and hard jasper (chalcedony) deposits in the region25 is important since it underscores the importance and volume of production. More important finds with resemblances to the Oluz Höyük and Harşena vessels in their serpentine material and shallow bodies were discovered in the Iron Age settlements of Armenia. A serpentine plate found in Tsaghkahovit26 is dated to the reign of Xerxes I (486–465 BC). Another fragment of a serpentine vessel was found in Pokr Blur.27 It is important that the largest collection of stone vessels within the Achaemenid empire was uncovered in Persepolis, since this points to royal and noble use. That another numerous group was found in Daskyleion, capital of Hellespontine Phrygia, shows that the stone vessels should be evaluated under the concept of imitatio regis. It is natural that a satrap should imitate the king in his manner of government, behaviour and lifestyle, and in objects of daily use. The early Achaemenid jasper vessel found at Uşak-İkiztepe was produced in Sardis, the capital of the Sparda satrapy. Thus, satrapal capitals such as Daskyleion and Sardis were active in the production and use of stone vessels. Serpentine vessels found in the first settlements to undergo systematic archaeological excavation, Oluz Höyük (Kritalla) and Harşena Fortress (Amaseia), prove that the nobility and elite who lived in the region of Amasya and who followed Persian palace tradition also practised that of imitatio regis.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Dönmez, Ş. 2010: Amasya-Oluz Höyük. Kašku Ülkesi’nin Önemli Kenti. 2007 ve 2008 Dönemi Çalışmaları Genel Değerlendirmeler ve Ön Sonuçlar/ The Principal Site of Kašku Land. The Preliminary Reports of 2007 and 2008 Seasons General Evaluations and Results (Ankara).

18

 Schmidt 1957, pls. 57.2 (58.8) and 58.2, 5–6, 10.  Özgen 2010, 317–18, fig. 20. 20  Sevin and Arslan Sevin 2018, 42–66. 21  Sevin and Arslan Sevin 2018, 65–66. 22  Özdemir 2007, 33, 43–44. 23  Greenewalt et al. 1987, 80; Özdemir 2007, 43–44. 24  Özdemir 2007. 25  Özdemir 2007, 30–33. 26  Khatchadourian 2018, 192, fig. 5. 27  Herles 2017, 139, fig. 6. 19

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—. 2013: ‘Oluz Höyük: Kuzey-Orta Anadolu’nun Kralî Pers Merkezi’. In Dönmez, Ş. (ed.), Güneş Karadeniz’den Doğar. Sümer Atasoy Armağanı/ Lux ex Ponto Euxino: Studies Presented in Honour of Sumer Atasoy (Ankara), 103–40. —. 2015: ‘Öntarih ve Klasik Dönemlerde Amasya: Güncel Arkeolojik Bulgular’. TÜBA-AR 16, 21–56. —. 2017: Amasya-Oluz Höyük. Kuzey-Orta Anadolu’da Bir Akhaimenid (Pers) Yerleşmesi. 2009– 2013 Çalışmaları Genel Değerlendirmeler ve Önsonuçlar (Amasya). Dönmez, Ş. and Yurtsever-Beyazıt, A. 2013: ‘Oluz Höyük Kazısı Altıncı Dönem (2012) Çalışmaları: Değerlendirmeler ve Sonuçlar’. Colloquium Anatolicum 12, 165–92. —. 2014: ‘Oluz Höyük Kazısı Yedinci Dönem (2013) Çalışmaları: Değerlendirmeler ve Sonuçlar’. Colloquium Anatolicum 13, 103–30. Greenewalt, C.H., Rautman, M.L. and Cahill, N.D. 1987: ‘The Sardis Campaign of 1985’. In Rast, W.E. (ed.), Preliminary Reports of ASOR-Sponsored Excavations 1982–85 (BASOR Suppl. 25) (Baltimore), 55–92. Hamilton, W.J. 1842: Researches in Asia Minor, Pontus and Armenia; With Some Account Their Antiquities and Geologies, vol. 1 (London). Herles, M. 2017: ‘Achaemenids and the Southern Caucasus’. In Avetisyan, P.S. and Grekyan, Y.H. (eds.), Bridging Times and Spaces: Papers in Ancient Near Eastern, Mediterranean and Armenian Studies. Honouring Gregory E. Areshian on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday (Oxford), 133–53. Kalkan, H. 2008: MÖ 6–4. Yüzyıllarda Doğu Anadolu: Arkeolojik Veriler Işığında Tarihsel ve Kültürel Bir Değerlendirme (Dissertation, Ege University, Izmir). Khatchadourian, L. 2018: ‘Pottery Typology and Craft Learning in the Near Eastern Highlands’. Iranica Antiqua 53, 179–265. Naza-Dönmez, E.E. 2011: ‘Amasya – Harşena Kalesi ve Kızlar Sarayı Kazısı 2009 Yılı Sonuçları’. In 32. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 4 (Ankara), 111–20. — 2012: ‘Amasya – Harşena Kalesi ve Kızlar Sarayı Kazısı 2010 Dönemi Çalışmaları’. In 33. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 3 (Ankara), 267–81. —. 2013: ‘Amasya – Harşena Kalesi ve Kızlar Sarayı Kazısı 2011 Dönemi Çalışmaları’. In 34. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 3 (Ankara), 427–36. —. 2014: ‘Amasya – Harşena Kalesi ve Kızlar Sarayı Kazıları’. In Özden, F. (ed.), Amasya. Yar ile Gezdiğim Dağlar (Istanbul), 29–49. Onar, V. 2010: ‘Oluz Höyük Kazısı 2008 Dönemi Arkeozoolojik Sonuçları’. In Dönmez 2010, 111–20. Özdemir, H.F. 2007: ‘Daskyleion’da Taş Kaplar’. Olba 15, 13–58. Özdeniz, E., Özbey, B.G., Kurt, L. and Bölükbaşı, A. 2017: ‘Serpantin Ekolojisi ve Türkiye Serpantin Florası’na Katkılar’. Toprak Bilimi ve Bitki Besleme Dergisi 5.1, 22–33. Özgen, İ. 2010: ‘Lydia Hazinesi/Lydian Treasure’. In Cahill, N.D. (ed.), Lidyalılar ve Dünylaları/ The Lydians and Their World (Exhibition Catalogue) (Istanbul), 305–38. Özkan, K. 2014: Kentsel Araştırmalar Kapsamında Anadolu’da Akhaimenid Dönemi (Dissertation, Yüzüncü Yıl University, Van). Sagona, C. 2004: ‘Did Xenophon Take the Aras High Road? Observations on the Historical Geography of North-East Anatolia’. In Sagona, A.G. (ed.), A View from the Highlands: Archaeological Studies in Honour of Charles Burney (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Suppl. 12) (Leuven), 299–333. Schmidt, E.F. 1957: Persepolis II. Contents of the Treasury and Other Discoveries (University of Chicago Oriental Institute Publications 69) (Chicago). Sevin, V. and Arslan Sevin, N. 2018: Uşak Müzesi Lydia/Karun Hazineleri (Istanbul).

NEW FINDS OF SWORDS OF MAEOTIAN AND SARMATIAN TYPES IN THE NORTH CAUCASUS Sergey DUDAREV, Victoria BEREZHNAYA and Svetlana KOLKOVA

ABSTRACT This paper discusses a collection of ancient swords, chance finds by the residents of the stanitsas (Cossack villages) of Rodnikovskaya and Voznesenskaya (Russia, Krasnodar region) at different times in the vicinity of these settlements and beyond, and deposited in local cultural institutions. Most of these swords are of Maeotian type and date to the 5th–beginning of the 3rd century BC. Outstanding among them is a replica of a Scythian akinakes with a butterfly-like crosshair. A distinctive feature of some Maeotian-type swords is groups of nervures along the blade. A new feature is the fir-tree ornament on the blade of a sword with nervures. Like nervures, this ornament has its origins in the sword designs of eastern Georgia of the Late Bronze Age. One of the published images, with a straight long blade and a handle in the form of a pin, belongs to the Sarmatian type of sword that spread in the North Caucasus in the 1st century AD. Russian researchers date these swords, found in the Kuban region, to the 1st–2nd century AD, 2nd century AD, or even the second half of the 3rd century AD. The swords presented here define the geography and characteristics of these types of weapons more precisely.

The purpose of this paper is to publish new finds of ancient swords in the North Caucasus, specifically within the Krasnodar region, some of them discovered in the vicinity of Rodnikovskaya stanitsa in Kurganinsky district or acquired outside its territory by local residents, who then donated them to the museum of the local cultural and leisure centre, and another group found near Voznesenskaya stanitsa (Labinsky district) by local residents and historians and placed in storage in the local library/museum. It was in these two cultural institutions that the authors examined the examples presented here. Most of the swords belong to the Sindo-Meotian type, named so by K.F. Smirnov in the late 1950s.1 In the late 1970s, his article presenting the genesis, chronology and geography of swords of this type was published posthumously. In it he reviewed about 50 swords found in the North Caucasus as well as in the Sarmatian area, including among them those copies of this type of weapon which he considered to be SindoMaeotian prototypes and derivatives.2 In 1991, V.R. Erlikh published an article in which, relying on significantly increased material (the number of swords had increased six-fold by this time), he proposed a new classification. Based on the fact that their main area of distribution is in the Zakubanye (left bank of the Kuban river), he proposed to abandon

1 2

 Smirnov 1958.  Smirnov 1980.

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the term Sindo-Maeotian swords and call them simply Maeotian, since it was from the Zakubanye that this type of weapon appeared in Sindica.3 Let us turn first to the swords stored in the cultural and leisure centre of Rodnikovskaya stanitsa. 1. The sword is relatively well preserved; however, it has undergone severe corrosion, especially in the handle area, with a total length of 77.5 cm and has an elongated triangular blade, sharply pointed at the bottom, 0.5 cm thick. At the place of transition of the blade into the handle there are uneven shoulders ledges, located at an angle close to a straight line. At this point, the width of the sword is 5.2 cm and is at its greatest. The cross-section of the blade is lenticular. The 10.5 cmlong handle is a flat, rectangular, cross-sectional plate, 2.7 cm wide in the middle part. The pommel of the handle is 3.6 cm long and looks like a short, slightly curved bar, one edge of which is slightly curved upwards (Fig. 1.1). 2. Less corroded than the first. However, its blade is not preserved completely, the tip is broken, and there are deep notches in the blade, an apparent consequence of those who found it testing its ‘durability’. The total length of the sword is 59 cm. Its blade, 3 mm thick and of a lenticular cross-section, has an elongated lenticular shape 4.5 cm wide in the middle part. It has a fuller, stretching three-quarters of the blade’s length. At the point of transition to the handle there are sloping shoulders: the thickness of the sword at this place is 4.2 cm. The handle has the form of a sub-rectangular plate 10.7 cm long, 2.2 cm wide and ends with a short bar-shaped top 3.5 cm long. Barely noticeable, 3 cm below the handle, where the fuller begins, is a curved protrusion of semi-oval shape made by the ancient master, with a convex part facing the fuller. Perhaps it imitates the composite handle known from a number of Caucasian daggers of the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age. This protrusion cannot be traced on the opposite side of the sword, possibly because the finder(s) of the sword exposed its surface to a rough mechanical impact, to remove corrosion and give the product an initial metallic lustre (the latter to some extent succeeded) (Fig. 1.2). The item was given to the cultural and leisure centre of Rodnikovskaya by a local resident, to whom the object was brought from an unidentified area. 3. Has curved shoulders ledges (the width of the blade at this place is 5.2 cm), broken off handle with a total length of the preserved part 47 cm. The width of the handle is 1.8 cm. The thickness of the blade is 3 mm. The sword is bent at the top. The loss of the handle is possibly connected with mechanical action. However, this did not make the sword less interesting to study. This item is very rare among the collection of Maeotian swords due to the fact that on both sides of the blade there are three groups of nervures applied by the master in the course of manufacture. However, this fact itself is not uncommon for Maeotian swords.4 An interesting detail is that on one side of the blade, the nervures are united by a frame in the form of a roller. Below them on the left, between the first two rows of nervures, a fir-tree ornament is applied, directed with sharp corners downwards. Between the two last rows there is also a similar pattern, but in a much worse 3

 Erlikh 1991.  Erlikh 1991, 89, 94.

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4 3 2

1

0

10

5

Fig. 1. Iron swords of Maeotian and Sarmatian types from the cultural and leisure centre of Rodnikovskaya (photograph by S.L. Dudarev, computer processing by O.G. Polevich).

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1

2

3 Fig. 2. Details of iron akinakes-sword from Rodnikovskaya (photograph by S.L. Dudarev, computer processing by O.G. Polevich).

4

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state of preservation (Fig. 2.3). In this case, all three rows of nervures converge at an acute angle in approximately the middle of the blade. On the opposite side of the blade there is also a fir-tree ornament placed between the rows of nervures (Fig. 2.4). The nervures here also converge at an acute angle, but somewhat higher than on the opposite side. 4. (Fig. 1.4). This is a short sword 51.7 cm long, with a handle 8.7 cm long (its width in the middle part is 2.0 cm). On the blade there is a slightly protruding median edge. The cross-section of the blade is elongated-rhombic. Below the handle there is a crosshair (its span is 4.7 cm) which is its special feature: it has a butterfly shape, which gives grounds for considering this piece as an akinakes. However, it is very curious how exactly this crosshair is made. Its middle part, concave inward, is stamped directly on the blade, and the edges (one of them faded?) are forged by the master, like a continuation of the blade. This is very clearly seen on the example of the left blade (Fig. 2.1). On the opposite side of the sword, there are practically no traces of the crosshair (Fig. 2.2), and the sharp protrusion on the right looks like that of the crosshair on a number of Maeotian swords that are not classified as akinaki. It is well known that the crosshairs of Scythian swords in profile are very prominent, and this is not accidental. With the help of a series of technological studies, almost half a century ago B.A. Shramko, L.A. Solntsev and L.D. Fomin convincingly demonstrated that the blank of the Scythian akinakes crosshair was bent, put on a dagger (sword), and then welded by forging.5 In our case, none of this is observed. In other words, this example is, in our opinion, a kind of a replica, an imitation of an akinakes. In the upper part of the blade, three groups of nervures are weakly traced in places. 5. One of the published images, with a straight and long blade and a handle in the form of a rod. It comes from the Maikop area (Republic of Adygea), whence it was brought by a resident of Rodnikovskaya and presented to the museum of the local cultural and leisure centre. The state of preservation leaves much to be desired: the edges of its blade are badly damaged. The median face passes along the entire blade, width at the base 3.8 cm; its cross-section is rhombic-flattened. The length of the sword is 86.5 cm, the length of the handle rod, to which the pad was once fastened (indicated by the rivet almost at the very end of the rod), is 12.3 cm. The thickness of the rod is 1.2 cm (Fig. 1.5).6 We now turn to the swords that are in the library/museum of Voznesenskaya stanitsa, Labinsky district, Krasnodar region. 6. The second largest of the published swords, 76.5 cm long, with a handle 8.8 cm long, 2.7 cm wide and 0.5 cm thick which merges smoothly into a blade heavily damaged by corrosion, has a mushroom-like pommel with edges (1.2 cm thick, width 3.5 cm). On the blade, with a rhombic-like cross-section, there is a median edge. Somewhat curved in the upper part (Fig. 3.1). 7. A sword with a bar-shaped top, 56.5 cm long (Fig. 3.2), a handle with winding traces of a leather strap(?) (Fig. 3.3). The place of transition into the blade has the shape of shoulders located at an obtuse angle. The lenticular blade section is shaped as an  Shramko et al. 1971, 146.  Another similar sword is kept in the museum corner of Chamlyk stanitsa, Labinsk district, Krasnodar region. 5 6

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3 0

3

6 0

3

2

0

10

0

1

4

10

5

Fig. 3. Iron swords of Maeotian type, their details and fragments from the school museum of Voznesenskaya (photograph by S.L. Dudarev, computer processing by O.G. Polevich).

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elongated triangle and heavily damaged on one side at the base. The median edge is weakly traced on the blade. The object is bent below the handle. The handle is 9 cm long and 2.3 cm wide. 8. A large fragment of the lower part of the blade of a sword, 33.8 cm long, with a lenticular cross-section, rounded out at the top from two sides (Fig. 3.4). 9. The blade of a sword, 32.8 cm long, with a lenticular cross-section, greatly expanding upwards (Fig. 3.5). The end of the blade, the handle and the upper part of the blade are lost. 10. A fragment of a sword (dagger?) handle, with a mushroom-shaped topping 7.2 cm long, 2.0 cm wide. The examples of bladed weapons described above generally have good analogies among Maeotian-type swords. For classification we have used Erlikh’s typology, which we consider to work well on this material. Division I, subdivision I, type 1 (I.1.1) includes items from both Rodnikovskaya (Fig. 1.2) and Voznesenskaya (Fig. 3.1). According to Erlikh, this type of sword appeared in the second half of 5th century BC, with greatest distribution in the 4th century BC.7 This dating was then confirmed by materials found in the 1980s.8 However, recent field studies, for example in Burial 12, Kurgan 7 of Ulyap I necropolis, where a black-figure kylix of 470 BC was found, allow us to shift the dating of such swords, especially those similar to Fig. 3.1, to the first half of the 5th century BC.9 The sword from Rodnikovskaya shown in Fig. 1.1 belongs to Erlikh’s category I.1.2 (as, perhaps, does the item with a broken top from Fig. 1.3). Erlikh attributed items similar to this to the 4th–3rd centuries BC.10 Currently, he designates the chronological frame of types 1 and 2 of his first subdivision to the end of the 5th–beginning of the 3rd century BC.11 The sword in Fig. 1.4, as we suggested above, could be an imitation akinakes. This assumption is not unusual. As early as 1991, Erlikh believed that a number of Maeotian swords (his classification I.1.1) could be considered as a transitional variant from the Scythian sword.12 In other words, a close genetic connexion between certain types of Maeotian and Scythian swords has long been established. The date has to be determined. In our opinion, it is closest to the sword from Burial 28, Kurgan 7 of Ulyap I necropolis, which has a crosshair similar to the sword from Rodnikovskaya, indicative of the future line of development of the Maeotian swords, farther and farther from their Scythian prototypes. Kurgan 7, so its investigators believe, belongs to the second chronological period of the Ulyap necropolis: the end of the 5th–third quarter of the 4th century BC. This date is in accordance with the characteristics of the horse furnishings from the above-mentioned Burial 28 (iron S-cheek-pieces, with iron looped bits with cross-shaped nozzles, bent at right angle in the form of ‘thorns’). At the same time, they note that no 7

 Erlikh 1991, 80.  Akselrod 1985, 85, fig. 35. 9  Leskov et al. 2005, 116, fig. 50.2. 10  Erlikh 1991, 80, 101, fig. 2.2. 11  Erlikh 2011, 51, 171, fig. 92.4. 12  Erlikh 1991, 80. 8

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akinakes has been found in burials of this chronological group, which are in the previous, first chronological group of the Ulyap necropolis (middle of 6th–end of the 5th century BC); they were replaced by Maeotian swords.13 At the same time, some akinaki of the first chronological group in the shape of a butterfly-like crosshair strongly resemble the Rodnikovsky sword.14 This is an important observation, allowing the sword to be dated to approximately the end of the 5th century BC. It should be remembered that groups of nervures running along the blade were traced on the blades of two of the swords discussed above (Fig. 1.3, 1.4). This feature was previously known among the collection of Maeotian swords.15 A new feature is the fir-tree ornament on the blade of the sword with nervures (Fig. 3.1). As an element of decoration of the blade, this ornament, like nervures, has its origins in the design of the swords of eastern Georgia in the Late Bronze Age.16 Smirnov believed that nervures, the sharp edge and the valley on the blade were found only in the earliest, or vice versa, most recent copies of the swords, which he called Sindo-Maeotian. Our materials do not confirm this observation. The sword from Voznesenskaya (Fig. 3.2) can be classified as I.2.1.17 Erlikh previously dated swords of this type to the 4th–beginning of the 3rd century BC.18 Examples of such a sword were found in the Ulyap I necropolis (Kurgan 4, Burials 28, 29). The complexes with them are now classified as the end of the 5th–third quarter of the 4th century BC. A similar sword was also found in the sanctuary of Kurgan 5, dated to the first half of the 4th century BC, at Ulyap.19 This chronology is based on the finds of Mende and Solokha I ceramics in burials of sites with such swords.20 With regard to the strap marks on the handles of the sword (Fig. 3.3): this method, which is used the better to secure the weapon in the warrior’s hand, was traced among North Caucasian material even in pre-Scythian times (Klin-Yar III necropolis near Kislovodsk).21 A fragment of the blade of a sword from Voznesenskaya (Fig. 3.4) can be related to a pattern similar to swords of category I.2.2.22 The blade (Fig. 3.5) with a noticeable extension to the handle could belong to a sword similar to one of category I.2.1 from Ulyap I necropolis, which was found in Burial 17 of Kurgan 4, included in the above-mentioned chronological group of the end of the 5th–third quarter of 4th century BC.23 Finally, an item with a pin-handle (Fig. 1.5) belongs to a Sarmatian-type sword. According to A.V. Simonenko, these began to spread in the North Caucasus in the 1st century AD.24 Russian scholars date these swords, found in the Kuban, to the 1st–2nd century AD,25  Leskov et al. 2005, 26, 76, 122, fig. 62.1–2.  Leskov et al. 2005, 139, fig. 100.1, 148, fig. 126.2. 15  V.B. Vinogradov, referring to E.I. Krupnov, noted the connexion of a similar ornament on the edges of akinakes from Ciscaucasia with the bronze blades of Koban culture and swords of the Central Caucasus (Vinogradov 1972, 119). 16  Picchelauri 1997, Taf. 37.458–466; 41.536, 44.577; 47.631. 17  Erlikh 1991, 102, fig. 3.2. 18  Erlikh 1991, 81. 19  Leskov et al. 2013, 47, 56, 134, fig. 32.2. 20  Leskov et al. 2005, 76, 101, fig. 21.4. 21  Berezin and Dudarev 1999, 189, Abb. 7.2. 22  Erlikh 1991, 104, fig. 5.1. 23  Leskov et al. 2005, 93, fig. 10.1. 24  Simonenko 1984, 145. 25  Marchenko 1996, 58. 13 14

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2nd century AD (A.V. Ivanov),26 second half of the 2nd century AD,27 or even the 2nd– first half of the 3rd century AD.28 The materials presented here expand the geography of the finds, above all of Maeotian swords in the Zakubanye. They also shed some new light on the genesis of their forms, leading to the Scytho-Caucasian environment. The features of the design and decoration of the blades of these swords (presence of nervures, fuller, composite handle imitation, fir-tree ornament, etc.) that have roots in the cultures of the Caucasus of an earlier period (Late Bronze–Early Iron Age) are identified and specified.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Akselrod, C.V. (ed.) 1985: Sokrovishcha kurganov Adygei (Exhibition Catalogue) (Moscow). Berezin, Y.B. and Dudarev, S.L. 1999: N ̒ eue präskythische Funde aus der Umgebung von Pjatigorsk, Nordkaukasien’. Eurasia Antiqua 5, 179–216. Erlikh, V.R. 1991: ̒Meotskie mechi iz Zakubanya’. In Abramov, A., Gavrituhin, I., Paromov, Y. and Erlikh, V. (eds.), Drevnosti Severnogo Kavkaza i Prichernomor’ya (Moscow), 77–99. Leskov, A.M., Beglova, E.A., Ksenofontova, I.V. and Erlikh V.R. 2005: Meoty Zakubanya v seredine VI–nachale III veka do n.e. Nekropoli u aula Ulyap: pogrebalnye kompleksy (Moscow). —. 2013: Meoty Zakubanya IV–III vv. do n.e.: nekropoli u aula Ulyap. Svyatilishcha i ritualnye kompleksy (Moscow). Marchenko, I.I. 1996: Siraki Kubani (Krasnodar). Nechiporuk, A.A. 2018: ̒Gruntovyi mogilnik pervykh vekov na selishche Muhortova Polyana-2 v doline reki Ashe’. In Munchaev, R. (ed.), Istoriko-arheologicheskii almanakh 14 (Armavir/ Krasnodar/Moscow), 67–81. Picchelauri [Pitskhelauri] K. 1997: Waffen der Bronzezeit aus Ost-Georgien (Archäologie in Eurasien 4) (Espelkamp). Sazonov, A.A., Spasovskii, Y.N., Sahtarek, Z.N. and Tov, A.A. 1995: ̒Novye materialy mogil’nika pervykh vekov nashei ery bliz khutora Gorodskogo’. In Ditler, P.A. (ed.), Arheologiya Adygei (Maikop), 113–37. Shramko, B.A., Fomin, L.D. and Solntsev, L.A. 1971: ̒Novye issledovaniya tekhniki obrabotki zheleza v Skifii’. Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 4, 140–53. Simonenko, A.V. 1984: ‘Sarmatskie mechi i kinzhaly na territorii Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. In Chernenko, E.V. (ed.), Vooruzhenie skifov i sarmatov (Kiev), 129–47. Smirnov, K.F. 1958: ̒Meotskij mogilnik u stanitsy Pashkovskoi’. In Materialy i issledovaniya po arheologii SSSR 64, 304–05. —. 1980: ̒O mechah sindo-meotsko gotipa’. Kratkie soobshcheniya Instituta arheologii AN SSSR 162, 38–45. Vinogradov, V.B. 1972: Tsentralnii i Severo-Vostochnii Kavkaz v skifskoe vremya (Groznii).

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 Nechiporuk 2018, 67.  Sazonov et al. 1995, 127. 28  Nechiporuk 2018, 68. 27

A FASCINUM REPRESENTATION FROM THE ROMAN FORT AT RĂCARI, DOLJ COUNTY, ROUMANIA Gabriela FILIP

ABSTRACT This article focuses on a bronze object with a fascinum representation, discovered in the Roman fort at Răcari, Dolj County, Roumania, during the archaeological campaign of 2017. It is a seal box lid, which has attached riveted to its surface a fascinum-type symbol at the end of which there is a round cavity that contained enamel paste. Regarding the decoration, in Antiquity, the phallus was a commonly represented symbol, and it was depicted in a variety of contexts, due to its magical power to provide protection against the negative energies of the evil eye.

Although ubiquitous throughout the Roman empire, fascinum-type representations from southern Dacia are not very numerous, at least in terms of published data,1 though this may change with further research and publication. Thus, making people aware of the item discussed here will be of broader interest. The Roman fort from Răcari, Dolj county, represents a very important monument of the Roman period for the southern part of Dacia, being located on the eastern border of Dacia Superior, just 1.2 km west of the Jiu river2 (Fig. 1). The fort measures 170 × 141 m, making it the second largest in Oltenia, after the Roman fort from Slăveni, Olt county.3 To date, archaeological excavations have revealed four phases of construction and reconstruction of the fort.4 Phase Răcari 1: a small earthen fort, dating from the Dacians wars; Răcari 2: a large earthen fort, which overlapped the construction from the previous phase, but which expanded outwards, dated to the 2nd century AD; Răcari 3: a stonebuilt fort, from the first half of the 3rd century; Răcari 4: the rebuilding of the fort, during the middle of the 3rd century. The military unit permanently stationed in the Roman fort at Răcari was Numerus Maurorum, attested by a military diploma5 and also by numerous tiles and bricks stamped with its initials.6 The rich archaeological material from the Răcari fort consists of local and imported pottery, weapons and pieces of military equipment from bronze or iron, various objects made of glass and bone, coins, brooches, epigraphic and sculptural pieces, etc.7 1

 Bondoc 2000, 56–58, nos. 46–48; 2005, 50, no. 39.  Bondoc and Gudea 2017, 8. 3  For the Roman Fort from Slăveni, see Tudor 1978, 301–07; see also Tudor et al. 2011. 4  Bondoc and Gudea 2017, 8–24. 5  IDR I, 162, fig. 73; Bondoc and Gudea 2009, 73; 2017, 9, fig. 57. 6  Petolescu 2002, 134, no. 69; Bondoc and Gudea 2009, pls. XIIIa–XIX; 2017, fig. 63, pls. I–III. 7  See Bondoc and Gudea 2009; 2017. 2

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Fig. 1. Map of Roman Oltenia, with the location of the Roman fort at Răcari marked with an arrow in the central area of the Oltenia plain (after D. Tudor).

Fig. 2. The Roman auxiliary fort at Răcari (acc. D. Bondoc, N. Gudea). The place of discovery is marked by an arrow.

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The archaeological campaign of 2017 conducted research in several sectors, reopening some older sections, in order to verify and to identify the distribution of the barracks. In the following, I will bring to attention an object with a fascinum-type representation, discovered in the raetentura dextra sector (Fig. 2).

DESCRIPTION

AND THE CONTEXT OF DISCOVERY

Seal box lid (Fig. 3). The piece is heart-shaped, slightly elongated, with a rounded protrusion at the upper end. At the other end there is a sliding link. On the surface, attached with a rivet, a fascinum-type symbol, at the end of which there is a round cavity that contained an enamel paste. The reverse of the lid is flat, and in its centre can be seen the end of the rivet with which the phallic decoration was applied. The piece was discovered as two separate fragments, the upper part of the lid being detached from the rest of the piece. It is currently restored. Material: bronze, enamel. Dimensions: 3.2 × 2 × 0.1 cm. Weight: 3.37 g.

Fig. 3a–d. Seal box lid, with a fascinum decoration: a. before restoration, b and c. after restoration (photographs by D. Bondoc); d. drawing (by author).

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GABRIELA FILIP

Context of discovery: excavations, Roman fort from Răcari, 2017, Sector: Raetentura Dextra, Section: SI/1991, Square: 10, Depth: –0.65 m. Dating: end of the 2nd century–beginning of the 3rd century. Typological classification: Bajusz type VII f.8 Bibliography: unpublished. Stored at Museum of Oltenia, Craiova, without an inventory number. * * * Found in all provinces of the Roman empire, seal boxes were used to ensure the protection of a seal through which various papers or documents, personal or official, were authenticated. Made of bronze and having various shapes and sizes, these objects were decorated with extremely varied motifs.9 Seal boxes consisted of two parts, a box that was provided with several holes, and a lid which was attached to the box with a clamping ring.10 For the piece under discussion, analogies were plentiful. In terms of shape, similar variants in Roman Dacia come from Porolissum,11 Locusteni12 and Apulum.13 As for the phallic decoration applied to the surface of the lid, almost identical lids are found at Viminacium in Serbia,14 in France15 and in Great Britain.16 Decorating seal capsules with an image of a phallus may seem unusual. In Graeco-Roman Antiquity, the phallus was a commonly represented symbol, which was thought to perform a variety of functions. It was a sign of fertility and prosperity, and could also, by its appearance, divert attention and therefore protect against the evil eye. Above all, this symbol was considered the mark of the divine spirit of the phallus, Fascinus, and the use of his emblem was meant to invoke his divine protection against the fascination.17 Images of phalluses were depicted in a variety of contexts: at crossroads, at the entryway of private houses, even as decorations on war chariots, on mosaics and frescoes, on ceramic moulds or attached to various bronze representations, applied on lamps and pottery, but also in the form of amulets, worn by women and children, due to their magical power to provide protection against the negative energies of the evil eye. Therefore, a fascinum representation on a seal box lid can lead us to the user’s desire to protect the contents of the document, not only physically, but also spiritually, by using a decoration meant (designed), by its appearance, to remove the harmful influences of the envious eyes, known as oculus malignus.18 8

 Bajusz 1995, iv.10–12.  There are several proposals for the typology and dating of seal capsules in specialist literature, for example: Bateson 1981; Crummy 1983; Andrews 2012. For the piece presented here I have used the classification determined by Bajusz 1995. 10  Benea et al. 2006, 137. 11  Bajusz 1995, iv.10–12. 12  Benea et al. 2006, 149, pl. XXVIII.2. 13  Ciugudea 1997, fig. 1.2. 14  Milovanović and Raičković Savić 2013, pl. I.6. 15  Boucher and Feugère 2009, fig. 2.14. 16  Mill and Payne 2000, ref. RB29. 17  Elworthy 1895, https://archive.org/details/evileyeaccountof00elwo/page/n10 (consulted 29.03.2019). 18  Wright 1865, https://archive.org/stream/OnTheWorshipOfTheGenerativePowersDuringTheMiddleAgesOf WesternEurope/On+the+worship+of+the+generative+powers+during+the+Middle+Ages+of+Western+Europe_ djvu.txt (consulted 29.03.2019). 9

A FASCINUM REPRESENTATION FROM THE ROMAN FORT AT RĂCARI

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Last but not least, the presence in the Roman fort at Răcari of a seal capsule lid attests the existence of a postal correspondence carried by one of the soldiers or garrison officers from here.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Andrews, C. 2012: Roman Seal Boxes in Britain (Oxford). Bajusz, I. 1995: ‘Capsule de sigilii romane de la Porolissum’. Acta Musei Porolissensis 19, 61–72. Bateson, J.D. 1981: Enamel-working in Iron Age, Roman and Sub-Roman Britain: The Products and Techniques (BAR British Series 93) (Oxford). Benea, D., Crînguș, M., Regep-Vlascici, S. and Ștefănescu, A. 2006: Arta și tehnica emailului în Dacia Romană/ The Art and Technique of the Enamel in Roman Dacia (Timișoara). Bondoc, D. 2000: Bronzuri figurate romane. Muzeul Olteniei Craiova (Craiova). —. 2005: Tipare şi figurine ceramice romane. Muzeul Romanaţiului Caracal (Figurine ceramice romane de la Romula)/ Roman Moulds and Figurines of Ceramic. The Museum from Caracal (Roman Figurines of Ceramic from Romula) (Craiova). Bondoc, D. and Gudea, N. 2009: Castrul roman de la Răcari: Încercare de monografie (Cluj-Napoca). —. 2017: Castrul roman de la Răcari. II. Clădirea comandamentului (Principia). Statuile de bronz și bronz aurit (Craiova). Boucher, T. and Feugère, M. 2009: ‘Les boîtes à sceau romaines du Musée de Montagnac’. Revue archéologique, Instrumentum 29, 9–12. Ciugudean, D. 1997: ‘Capsule de sigilii romane de la Apulum’. In Civilizația romană în Dacia (Cluj-Napoca), 130–37. Crummy, N. 1983: ‘Report 2: The Roman small finds from excavations in Colchester 1971–9’. In Crummy, P. (ed.), Colchester Archaeological Reports (Colchester), 185–447. Elworthy, F.T. 1895: The Evil Eye: An Account of this Ancient and Widespread Superstition (London). Milovanović, B. and Raičković Savić, A. 2013: ‘Seal boxes from the Viminacium site’. Starinar Institut Archéologique Belgrade, 219–36. Mills, N. and Payne, G. 2000: Celtic and Roman Artefacts (Witham). Petolescu, C.C. 2002: Auxilia Daciae (Bucharest). Tudor, D. 1978: Oltenia romană (Bucharest). Tudor, D., Popilian, G., Gudea, N. and Bondoc, D. 2011: Castrul roman de la Slăveni: Încercare de monografie arheologică (Cluj-Napoca). Wright, T. 1865: On The Worship Of The Generative Powers (London).

VARKANA – THE COUNTRY OF WOLVES Iulon GAGOSHIDZE

ABSTRACT The Achaemenids who came to the Caucasus encountered a politically organised state – Colchis. The Persians gave it the name Varkana (wolves, i.e. the country of wolves). Georgia has maintained this ancient Iranian name with regular phonetic alterations.

A large trilingual inscription in Middle Persian, Parthian and Greek is carved into the wall of Ka’ba-ye-Zartosht, a tower erected in front of the rock Naqsh-e Rostam near Persepolis. The inscription was carved in AD 262 on the orders of a Shapur I of Iran (reigned AD 240/2–272). It is an important historical written source for the study of the history of Sasanian Iran and the countries related to it.1 The Ka’ba-ye-Zartosht trilingual inscription (ŠKZ) became known to the Georgian scholarly community in February 1957, when Giorgi Tsereteli presented his report ‘Iveria in the 3rd century AD’ to a session of the Georgian Academy of Sciences. The report was based on the data gained from the inscriptions of Shapur, Kartir and Narse found in Iran and Manichaean texts of the same period (AD 260–270) found in Central Asia. Regrettably, the report was never published; however, Tsereteli published two articles dedicated to Shapur’s inscriptions in which he demonstrated that ‘I’nn TR’ mentioned in ŠKZ, refered to the Darial Pass, but not to Derbent,2 and ‘kpy TWR’ referred to the Caucasus Mountains.3 His third work ‘On the History of Iranian Names of Georgia’ (written in 1963, but published posthumously in 1993) concerned ŠKZ as well.4 The present note is inspired by and builds on Tsereteli’s works – in particular, the linguistic analysis of Iranian terms. ŠKZ is the earliest known Iranian (Parthian and Middle Persian) written source to mention Georgia. Georgia (the kingdom of Kartli) is mentioned twice in each of the three versions – Middle Persian, Parthian and Greek – of the trilingual inscription. First, at the beginning of the text where those countries subordinated to the Sasanian Great King Shapur are listed; second, at the end of the text and cites persons who were entitled to make offerings to the fire temple. Line 30 of the Middle Persian version of Shapur’s inscription reads ‘mespy Wlwč ‘n MLK’, the corresponding Parthian version says ‘Hmz’sp wyršn MLK’ (Hamazasp Virshan Shah) – king Hamazasp of Virshan (Virchan), while the Greek reads Αμασασπου του 1

 Sprengling 1953; Lukonin 1979; Tsereteli 1993.  Tsereteli 1969. 3  Tsereteli 1973. 4  Tsereteli 1993. 2

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βασιλεως της Ιβηριας.5 Thus, it becomes clear that Hamazasp was the king of Iveria (kingdom of Kartli). The upper part of the ŠKZ Middle Persian inscription is badly damaged. Therefore it is not possible to discern the name of Georgia in it. In the corresponding place of the Parthian version, however, Georgia is discernible. In line 1 Atrupatakan (Greek Adiabene) and Armenia are followed by Virshn (Greek Iveria), then by Sikn (Greek Makheledonia), then by Ardan (Greek Albania) and Balasak, ‘reaching the Kap Mountains [Caucasus Mountains: I.G.]6 and the Alans’ Gate’ (i.e. Darialan).7 A nearly identical order of countries is represented in the inscription of Kartir Magupat of Iran during the reign of Shapur and his successors. That inscription was carved on the same wall of Ka̓ ba-yeZartosht after Shapur’s death: ‘and Armenia and Varuchan and Aran and Balasakan, up to the Alans’ Gate (Darial)’.8 As Tsereteli reports, Kartir’s inscription ultimately confirms that ‘in the 3rd century AD Iveria was referred to as Virshan (pronounced as Virchan) in Parthian, and V.ruchan in Middle Persian’.9 The same Hamazasp, Varuchan Shah, must have been mentioned in the fragment of a Manichaean document discovered in Middle Asia and dated to the same years of AD 260–270.10 After the first consonant (‘v’) of the Middle Persian name of Iveria, according to Tsereteli, there must be the vowel ‘a’; however, he also suggests that it would have been more natural to receive vir from the ancient Persian complex ‘vr’.11 The Middle Persian name of Iveria natually produced the new Persian names for Georgia and the Georgians: gurčan, gurgān, gurg, from which derived the Arabic, Syrian, Russian, etc. names of Georgia and the Georgians.12 It must be emphasised that the above-mentioned New Persian names were used by the Persians to refer to not only eastern Georgia, but western Georgia as well, in other words to the whole country of Georgia west to the Black Sea. For instance, the 11thcentury AD Persian poet and traveller Naser Khosrow refers to Georgian kings (whose titles, as is known, started from Abkhazia and the kings were often referred to as those of the Abkhazs) as Fadeshahane Gorj.13 Hodud Al-Lam (Boundaries of the Countries, in Arabic) by an unknown Persian author of the late 10th century AD repeats the accounts of the work by Al-Istakhr, who was a Persian author of the first half of the same century, entitled Masalek va Mamalek (Routes of Kingdoms), and written in Arabic and promptly translated into Persian. In this narrative the Black Sea is referred to as the sea of the Georgians (the plural form of Georgians is in the form of gorzian). It is accompanied by an explanation: ‘this sea is also referred to as Pontus’.14 Evidently, the Arabs of the time 5

 Tsereteli 1993, 98.  Tsereteli 1973. 7  Tsereteli 1969. 8  Tsereteli 1993, 98. 9  Tsereteli 1993, 98. 10  Tsereteli 1993, 99. 11  Tsereteli 1993, 104. 12  Tsereteli 1993, 1. 13  Tabatadze 1993, 217. 14  Tabatadze 1993, 215. 6

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perceived both parts of Georgia – eastern and western – as one country, although a united kingdom of Georgia had not existed by then. As mentioned above, the Arabic name for Georgia, Jurzan, stems from Persian. It appears in Habib Ibn-Maslama’s Charter of Protection, which was created in the AD 650s.15 Gocha Djaparidze believes that the Arabs could have adopted the name of Georgia, which sounds like Gurzan, as early as their presence in Syria. The Syrian gurzan stems from the Middle Persian waručan, which means the country of wolves, according to Djaparidze.16 In my opinion, the question of why the Iranians called Georgia the country of wolves arises here. T. Chkheidze tried to answer this. She cites the translation of the ŠKZ and remarks that in the inscription, Hamazasp of Kartli (Iveria) occupies the honourable fourth place on the list of those privileged in their close relationship with the Sasanian royal court. They, on Shapur’s order, were entitled to a share of offerings to the fire temple. Finally, she cites Hamazasp’s title in the way it is represented in the Greek, Middle Persian and Parthian versions of ŠKZ.17 This is how the texts read: Greek: Αμασασπου του βασιλεως της Ἰβηριας Middle Persian: mĉspy wlwĉ’n MLK (amazasp i warūĉan šah) Parthian: hmz’sp wyršn MLK (hamazasp wiršn šah). Chkeidze next cites the part of the inscription of the great Mobed Kartir, in which Georgia is mentioned in the same form – wlwč’n < warūĉan, which means the country of wolves. The Parthian term indicating Georgia has a similar meaning as well.18 Further, the article provides a lengthy discussion of the significance of the wolf in the folklore and beliefs of the native speakers of Indo-European languages (Hittites, Ancient Greeks, Indo-Iranians, Germans, Baltics, Slavs, etc.). It shows that the toponyms and anthroponyms associated with the word wolf are common in Europe and in the Near East, including Georgia. The author stresses that the wolf and the man in the wolf skin were considered to be omniscient, i.e. the wolf was perceived as a symbol of wisdom.19 In the final paragraph T. Chkheidze states: Thus, as it becomes obvious from this brief review, political and cultural relations between the countries of Transcaucasia and Iran have centuries-old history. In Parthian and Middle Persian languages Kartli (Iveria) is referred to as warūčān, i.e. the country of wolves, and the wolf, being a symbol of heroism and strength, is widely known in Iranian tradition.20 Hence, Chkheidze concludes that the Iranians named Kartli the country of wolves because of the outstanding heroism and strength of its inhabitants, the characteristic that 15

 Djaparidze 1993, 123.  Djaparidze 1993, 122. 17  Chkheidze 1993. 18  Chkheidze 1993, 111–13. 19  Chkheidze 1993, 113. 20  Chkheidze 1993, 117. 16

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distinguished them from other peoples of Transcaucasia. I think that this claim is weak and absolutely groundless. Tsereteli stated in the concluding part of his work: As we can see, the above-mentioned forms and versions of the Armenian-Iranian names of Iveria have repeatedly been the subject of special research, but it has never occurred to any of the scholars to link these names with other analogous or identical ones that do not indicate Iveria, but a completely different country, namely Gurgan, which was located south-east of the Caspian Sea. This circumstance can be explained by the fact that the Gurgan situated on the other side of the Caspian Sea has nothing to do with Iveria-Kartli and, therefore, the similarity of the names did not attract attention, as it was considered a coincidental occurrence.21 Afterwards, Tsereteli compares Iveria with Iranian, Armenian and Greek terms related to Gurgan and concludes that similar forms are used to indicate Iveria and Gurgan. It is impossible to regard all these similarities as accidental. There cannot be such a coincidence: there is Hirkan of two different origins, Vrkan of two different origins, two Varčans, two Varučans, two Jurjans and Gurgans, two Gurzians, etc. It is absolutely inconceivable for both sets of these terms to be of different origin. The etymology of Gurgan is known. It is the ancient Persian Varkana, Middle and Modern Persian gurgan – wolves. It is hard to believe that v.rkana Iveria has a different origin.22 Tsereteli made linguistic analysis of the name Iveria, but, surprisingly, he never raised the question why Iveria was called ‘the country of wolves’. The answer to the question, however, was easy to get. In my opinion, the reason could be the only common feature that Gurgan and Caucasia share with respect to Iran: both of these regions are located to the north of it. The southern civilised people of Persia perceived northern nomads as wild and their lands as a dark and strange place, in other words, as a country of wolves (gurgan in Persian). The same was true in ancient Greece. For Peloponnesian Greeks the north was cold, obscure, strange and forbidding place or the land of bears (άρκτίκός in old Greek).23 This is why the north is called Arctica and this is why the Great Bear and the Little Bear (Ursa Major and Ursa Minor) constellations are connected to the North Star. In my opinion, the understanding of the Greeks and Persians was similar. They associated the obscure north with wild animals – the Greeks with bears and the Persians with wolves. We can also think of the beliefs of the Indo-European peoples, who had special connexion with the wolf. Some men in their folklore had the ability to physically transform themselves into a man-wolf. Let us recall the German lycanthrope or werewolf and Slavic оборотень or вурдалак. A wolf had a dual nature in Indo-Europeans perception as well. It represented wisdom and evil.24

21

 Tsereteli 1993, 102.  Tsereteli 1993, 102–03. 23  Dvoretskii 1958, 235–36. 24  Ivanov 1980, 242. 22

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I suppose that the Persians named Georgia (Iveria) the country of wolves because it was situated north of Persia. On the other hand, many peoples alongside the Georgians lived north of Persia. So, why were only Georgia (Kartli) and the Georgians thus named? And the terms varjan, varchan and varuchan that are attested at different locations never described a kingdom or ethnos, except Kartli. It was the only kingdom defined by the term Varjan-Varuchan.25 I believe that it is not be hard to answer this question. The Persians named the Georgian state the country of wolves and the Georgians wolves in the Achaemenid period, when they first appeared in the Caucasus. This was a remote northern region for Persia, where they established consistent relations with a single country, the country that Greeks called Kolkhida (Herodotus 3. 97). This country controlled the passes through the Caucasus Mountains, including the most important one, ‘the gate of Georgia’ (Darialan in later periods). This was the main pass from the civilised south into the wild steppes of the north. The name given to Colchis by Persians in the Achaemenid period was hereditarily passed onward. Later, the Sasanians called the contemporary country of Iveria or Kartli, Gurgan. The name was used in the following mediaeval times in relation to the kingdom of a united Georgia, and finally, it is still used to refer to modern-day Georgia. All foreign ancient and modern terms indicating Georgia and Georgians stem from Old Persian names (from Parthian wyršn), including ancient Greek Iveria not Iberia. In those times Greeks could only record the sound ‘v’ with a grapheme ‘β’.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Chkheidze, T. 1993: ‘Sakartvelosa da kartvelebis agmnishvneli terminebi sashualo sparsul da partul enebshi’. In Sakartvelosa da kartvelebis agmnishvneli utskhouri da kartuli terminologia (Tbilisi), 107–20. Djaparidze, G. 1993: ‘Kartvelebisa da sakartvelos arabuli sakheltsodebebi’. In Sakartvelosa da kartvelebis agmnishvneli utskhouri da kartuli terminologia (Tbilisi), 121–45. Dvoretskii, I. 1958: Drevnegrecheskii-russkii slovar’ (Moscow). Ivanov, V. 1980: Volk. Mufy narodov mira, vol. 1 (Moscow). Lukonin, V. 1979: Iran v III veke (Moscow). Sprengling, M. 1953: Third Century Iran: Sapor and Kartir (Chicago). Tabatadze, K. 1993: ‘Sakartvelosa da kartvelta agmnishvneli terminebi X–XVs.s. Sparsuli tsqaroebis mikhedvit’. In Sakartvelosa da kartvelebis agmnishvneli utskhouri da kartuli terminologia (Tbilisi), 210–54. Tsereteli. G. 1969: ‘Shapuris Tsartsera l’nn TR’. Tbilisis universiteti, 327–37. —. 1973: ‘Shapuris tsartsera kpy TWR’. Agmosavluri pilologia 3, 47–56. —. 1993: ‘Sakartvelos iranul sakheltsodebata istoriisatvis’. In Sakartvelosa da kartvelebis agmnishvneli utskhouri da kartuli terminologia (Tbilisi), 92–106. Vashakidze, V. 1993: ‘Termini “iveria” da “iberebi” antikur tskaroebshi’. In Sakartvelosa da kartvelebis agmnishvneli utskhouri da kartuli terminologia (Tbilisi), 56–72.

25

 Tsereteli 1993, 99.

GREEK-SINDIAN INTERACTIONS IN THE TERRITORY OF THE CIMMERIAN BOSPORUS IN THE 6TH–4TH CENTURIES BC* Vladimir GORONCHAROVSKY

ABSTRACT When Greek colonies appeared in the Asiatic Bosporus there was either no local population or it was sparse. Flourishing Graeco-barbarian interactions, especially with the Sindians, belong to the middle of the 5th–early 4th centuries BC. Good examples of them are the burial complexes of the Seven Brothers barrows of representatives of the ruling dynasty of the Sindians. These barrows demonstrate the early use of mud-brick tombs on the natural ground surface with accompanying horse burials. Noteworthy is the presence of mud-brick tombs in the barrow cemeteries of the 6th–first half of the 5th century BC in the Volga-Ural steppes. Part of one groups of local nomads moved westwards about 530 BC under the pressure of new nomadic waves from the East. Subsequent Graeco-Sindian contacts led to the foundation of the city of Labrys in the heart of Sindica. That close proximity could not fail to influence the funeral rites of the Sindian elite. By the beginning of the last quarter of the 5th century BC there is a transition to stone tombs added in the corner of mud-brick crypts. Under the latest Seven Brothers barrow (no. 1: ca. 380 BC) there was a large stone plastered tomb which was influenced by Bosporan architecture. The burial complexes of the Sindian aristocracy are characterised by grave-goods in which weapons and objects of Animal Style are combined with the products of Greek masters. Their analysis fully reflects the process of development of Graeco-Sindian relations, which culminated in the inclusion of Sindica in the Bosporan kingdom.

As is well known, according to ancient authors, the territory of Sindica included not only the modern Taman Peninsula but also the lower reaches of the Kuban river (Fig. 1). In the early period of the existence of Greek colonies the local population of this area was either exiguous or non-existent. The Sindian expedition led by Vladimir Blavatskii did not reveal here the rural settlements of Sindians of the 6th–4th centuries BC. On the other hand, the remains of temporary cattle-breeding sites on the hills were discovered relatively far from the shore.1 During the last decade new materials regarding the early history of Sindica have been obtained as a result of surveys and excavations in the Anapa district of Krasnodar region, conducted by the Eastern Bosporan Archaeological Expedition of the Institute of Archaeology (Moscow) under Nikolai Sudarev. He believes that the beginning of development of this * This study was conducted for project 0184-2018-0007: ‘Culture of Classical States of the Northern Black Sea Coast. Subcultures of the ruling elite and ordinary population’. 1  Blavatskii 1959, 47–48.

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Fig. 1. Map of the Cimmerian Bosporus (by Vladimir Goroncharovsky).

territory by the Greeks occurred at the end of 7th century BC. It was connected with the emergence of an emporion on the place of modern Anapa for trade with the locals.2 However, the cultural layer which can be correlated with the proposed emporion is absent, and the so-called Alekseevskoe settlement, 3.5 km from Anapa, has given only one fragment of a kylix with the image of a bird of the late 7th–early 6th century BC. The rest of the finds date to the 6th–early 5th century BC. There is no reason to speak of active Greek trading activity in Sindica before the second half of the 6th century BC, nor about the development of an agricultural area which produced ‘a large amount of grain’ since the second half of the 6th century BC.3 In this case it is unclear why the Greek settlements were located either near the banks of the estuary and the ancient channel of the Kuban, or in the foothills at a distance from it, and vast areas of fertile soil remained undeveloped for a long time. Doubt must exist about the assertion of the massive Hellenisation of the local population since the middle of the 5th century BC. In this respect it is significant that even the settlement Vestnik 1, where a monumental temple building was revealed, demonstrates the prevalence of handmade pottery ‘over all kinds of ceramics, except amphorae’.4 The attribution as Sindian of all the early settlements and necropolises of the western Lower Kuban region is also too straightforward. In this situation there is no place for other tribes inhabiting this territory. In fact, according to the Ps.-Skylax 72–74, the area of the Kerketai began beyond Sindian harbour, and then the Toretai settled on the eastern border of Syndica. Many scholars have associated the Sindians with the Maeotian archaeological culture, in which Igor Kamenetskii singled out a special Sindian local group. But he noted in it 2

 Sudarev and Garbuzov 2015.  Sudarev and Garbuzov 2015, 162. 4  Sudarev and Garbuzov 2015, 162. 3

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Fig. 2. Excavations of the Seven Brothers barrows. View from the south (drawing by Fedor Gross, 1875).

only one archaeological site – the famous Seven Brothers barrows.5 Meanwhile, if we consider the possibility of classifying the Sindians as a Maeotian tribe, one essential fact should be borne in mind: that the ethnonym Maeotians in the works of ancient authors was collective and it should be perceived more as a designation of the peoples who inhabited the eastern coast of Lake Maeotis (Sea of Azov). Recently, Andrei Novichikhin offered the most developed version of the origin of Sindians. He believes that the Sindians were a syncretic ethnic entity which arose as a result of the mixing of the local and an alien Caucasian population. This concept is justified by a consistent picture of the evolution of barbarian burial constructions of the 6th–5th centuries BC in the area of modern Anapa. In Novichikhin’s opinion, this process ended in the formation of a new ethnic and cultural community and the emergence of the practice of the construction of stone boxes within a rounded cromlech.6 Another position, according to which the bearers of this tradition are the nearest neighbours of the Sindians – Kerketai and Toretai – is more constructive.7 But we should pay attention to the ordinary nature of the burials in the ‘stone necropolises’, which by their constructive features and the composition of the grave-goods are strikingly different from the other group of burials definitely related to the Sindians, or at least to the elite of Sindian society. Above all it applies to the aforementioned Seven Brothers barrows. They occupy an upland of about 300 m in length on the left bank of the Kuban 3 km from the ancient city of Labrys (Seven Brothers town site) (Fig. 2). There are burials of representatives of the ruling dynasty of the Sindians here. Under the mounds of the earliest 5

 Kamenetskii 1989, 216.  Novichikhin 2014, 116–17. 7  Alekseeva 1991, 35; 2000, 162. 6

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Fig. 3. Plan of mud-brick tomb in the Seven Brothers barrow 2 (drawing by Vladimir Tizengauzen, 1875).

complexes (2, 4, 5 about 450–420 BC) were crypts of mud-brick with a wooden ceiling. They were erected on the virgin soil and were accompanied by burials of horses, the number of which could reach 13 (Fig. 3). Not long ago Novichikhin proposed that the tradition of using mud-brick structures was brought to the Asiatic Bosporus by the Greek colonists and subsequently borrowed by the Sindian aristocracy.8 This opinion cannot be upheld since, in Olbia as well as in Panticapaeum, there are no mud-brick crypts of the 6th–5th centuries BC.9 In Nymphaeum there is one barrow with a mud-brick crypt of the middle of 5th century BC,10 but its Greek identity is questionable. As to the mud-brick crypts near Phanagoria, all of them are connected with barrow mounds of the second half of the 5th century BC,11 i.e. synchronous with the formation of the Seven Brothers barrow group. Among them Phanagorian barrow 6 attracts attention. The height of the mound, which reached 15.6 m, 8

 Novichikhin 2006, 23; 2014, 115.  Kastanayan 1959, 258, 276. 10  It is a completely robbed rectangular mud-brick tomb no. 14 in barrow no. 32, which was about 6 m in height. On all sides of the tomb are horse burials with sets of bronze ornamental harnesses of the 5th century BC. 11  Kobylina 1956, 19. 9

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allows us rightly to place it in the category of ‘royal’. In the centre of the mound, on virgin soil, was a mud-brick crypt with a fallen wooden ceiling. It measured 11.5 m2 at a height of 1.8 m, and the accompanying inventory is quite modest. At the bottom of the crypt were two poorly preserved skeletons in simple wooden sarcophagi. One of them belonged to a man dressed in iron armour. To the left were fragments of a sword, spears, and more than 140 bronze and iron arrowheads. In the neighbouring female burial more than a dozen stamped gold plaques, possibly adorning a headband, were found. A pair of massive spiral pendants with pyramids of grain at the ends deserves attention also. They are considered products of Bosporan workshops and associated with variant IIa (the third quarter of the 5th century BC) according to the classification of Lyudmila Silanteva.12 Nearby was a horse grave of mud-brick, about 6 m2 in extent, with four horse skeletons and bronze bridle sets. Taking into account all the finds, it is possible to attribute the construction of this burial complex to about 450–440 BC. In the 5th century BC there are no equals to this barrow either in Scythia or the Bosporus.13 Its appearance in the vicinity of Phanagoria suggests that this city had the most intensive contacts with the Sindians at a time when the system that provided the tribal elite with prestigious goods was just beginning to take shape. In this case the highest social status was emphasised not by the wealth placed in the grave but by the amount of labour spent to perpetuate the memory of the deceased. Apparently the entombed was the barbarian ruler of Sindica. In connexion with Sindian elite burials, another complex of interest is a barrow with a mud-brick tomb that was investigated in 1880 near the ancient city of Kepoi.14 It dates to about 440–430 BC. Thus, the barrows of Sindian aristocracy are located near those cities of the Asiatic Bosporus (Phanagoria, Kepoi) that Ps.-Skylax mentions as existing in the land of the Sindians. One of the main roads of the Taman Peninsula passed through them, from Phanagoria along the line of barrows in a south-easterly direction to the settlement of Strelka 2, then through the old channel to the left bank of the Kuban and to Labrys.15 Nina Sorokina, who studied the Tuzla necropolis, noted that the spread of mud-brick structures on the Taman Peninsula can be explained only in part by the lack of good building stone.16 Above all this applies to the area of the Seven Brothers, because only 5 km distant lie stone quarries. It is natural to assume that the construction of mudbrick crypts on the territory of Bosporus was caused by some peculiar features of the funerary cult of the inhabitants of Sindica. Consequently the origin of this tradition has no local roots under Greek influence but needs to be sought elsewhere: in another cultural environment and region. In Scythian barrows between the Danube and the Don there are no mud-brick burial chambers.17 The same can be said about the ‘royal’ barrows of the Eastern Kuban region of the 6th century BC. On the other hand, the custom of burials in a spacious chamber 12

 Silanteva 1976, 125–26, fig. 3A.  Terenozhkin and Mozolevskii 1988, 247; Silantieva 1959, 83. 14  Otchet Arkheologicheskoi komissii 1880, XII. 15  Paromov 1998, 217–18, fig. 2. 16  Sorokina 1957, 14. 17  Olkhovskii 1991, 17. 13

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Fig. 4. Plan of Labrys with data of geomagnetic survey 2006–09 (by Tatiana Smekalova).

built of mud-brick was widespread in the Aral Sea region in the 10th–8th centuries BC.18 Later, the use of wooden-roofed crypts of mud-brick was recorded in the barrow groups of the 6th–first half of the 5th century BC in the South Ural steppes and the Middle Volga region, where this tradition was fast disappearing after the middle of the 5th century BC.19 In a number of cases these crypts are accompanied by burials of bridled horses. But in the subculture of the local nomadic elite such crypts do not predominate, amounting to about 12%. The presence of five types of elite burial monuments in the Volga-Ural region may indicate the existence of several ethnic groups of nomads in this territory. Some of one of these might have moved westwards ca. 530 BC or a little earlier under the pressure of a new nomadic wave from the East (‘Royal Scythians’), which 18

 Itina 1992.  Myshkin and Skarbovenko 2010, 93; Gutsalov 2007, 78, 80.

19

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447

Fig. 5. Silver coin with legend ΣΙΝΔΩΝ (photograph by Andrey Tereshchenko).

initiated the beginning of Middle Scythian culture.20 It is interesting to note that the earliest mention of the name Sindica comes from the last quarter of the 6th century BC (Hipponax 68A; Hecataeus of Miletus fr. 166). Apparently the Sindians should be seen as a relatively small group of Asian nomads, different from the Scythians, but at some stage under their strong political and cultural influence. If we accept this point of view, the Iranian version of the ethnogenesis of the Sindians is the most preferable. By the end of the 6th century BC it is clear that they occupied firmly a geographical niche along the Lower Kuban and then gained a dominant position among the local sedentary and semi-sedentary tribes. If we examine the titulature of the Bosporan king Leucon I (389–349 BC), which he adopted immediately after the annexation of Sindica, he gained power not only over the Sindians but also over the Dandarioi, Psessoi and Toretai. Obviously they were part of the military and political union which was formed during the confrontation with Scythian expansion at the beginning of the 5th century BC.21 Yuri A. Vinogradov, considering the problem of barbarian migrations in the history of the Cimmerian Bosporus, noted that the period of destabilisation in the steppes of the northern Black Sea region usually ‘as we can assume, covered about 25–30 years’.22 A similar period of time separates the proposed date of the appearance of the Sindians in the Lower Kuban region from the beginning of contacts with the Bosporan Greeks, when the city Labrys was founded no earlier than the early 5th century BC in the centre of Sindica (Fig. 4). At first it most probably had the status of an emporion under a barbarian protectorate,23 where representatives of Greek merchants lived more or less permanently.24 The development of local trade is quite clearly evidenced by the appearance of coins with the legend ΣΙΝΔΩΝ (most likely in Labrys) somewhere at the turn of the third and last quarters of the 5th century BC (Fig. 5). Obviously there was a royal residence, visited periodically by Sindian rulers.25 Of course, such close proximity could have had an impact on the funeral rites of the Sindian elite, but it did not manifest itself immediately. 20

 Vinogradov 2001, 124–25; Maslennikov 2001, 315; Alekseev 2003, 208–10, 397, fig. 24.  Goroncharovsky 2014, 581. 22  Vinogradov 2014, 70. 23  Cf. Hansen 1997, 29; Tsetskhladze 1999, 198–99. 24  Cf. Marchenko et al. 2000, 248–52. 25  Cf. Khazanov 2008, 420–21. An example of this kind of contacts is the situation in the relationship of the Scythian king Skylos and Olbia (Herodotus 4. 78–79). 21

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As a result of Greek influence, we can see a gradual transition in the Seven Brothers barrows from the construction of mud-brick crypts on virgin soil to stone tombs let into a corner of them, and further to stone tombs let into the virgin soil. The greatest influence on Bosporan architecture can be seen in the later and largest Seven Brothers barrow – 1, where the earliest plastered crypt at the Bosporus was discovered. Its dimensions are 6.4 × 3.6 m. Perhaps the last Sindian king, Hecateus, was buried there. His name probably reflects the connexion of the Sindian royal family with the worship of the Great Goddess in her underground incarnation – apparently, the image of the Gorgon Medusa with snakes in her hair or the goddess Hecate, who patronised hunting, herding, breeding horses and granted victory in war (Hesiod Theogony 421–452). The appearance of the horse’s head on Sindian coins is probably no accident, since the chthonic female deity of the Iranians, as a rule, was combined with horse images (see Herodotus 4. 9). It is also possible to trace gradual changes in the sets of prestigious objects in the grave-goods of the barrow complexes of the Sindian elite, which clearly show the relationship of several individuals to the power structures. The most interesting for the analysis of these objects are barrows 2, 4 and 6, because the others were robbed almost completely. The earliest of them is barrow 2 (about 450–440 BC), which belonged to a member of the royal family and demonstrates the sharply increased wealth of the ruling elite. Along with ceremonial weapons and jewellery (plaques, a massive torque and necklace), the funeral inventory contained items related to feasting. There were silver vessels (a kylix with a depiction of Bellerophon and a phiale with the heads of Silens), a silver horn with a tip in the form of a lion’s head and a set of bronze ware (basin, two kiafoi, strainer) (Fig. 6). The concentration of prestigious objects as symbols of power allows us to speak with confidence about the beginning of the separation of the royal clan from other aristocratic families. Barrow 4 (about 440–430 BC), partially robbed, contained not only armour decorated with a bronze plate with the head of Medusa, but also plate greaves. In addition, there are an Achaemenid silver rhyton with a tip in the form of a winged goat, two horns for wine drinking with gold details by Greek masters and a gold anklet with snake terminals (Fig. 7). At some point such vessels turned into a kind of standard of luxury for the Sindians, as they did for many other peoples (Persians, Scythians, Thracians). Of course, they were very prestigious things in the eyes of the local aristocracy and were used in communication between people of high social rank.26 An illustration of the further enrichment of Sindian elite is provided by a barrow of the end of the 5th century BC. There are some changes in the structure of the prestige items of the funerary inventory. Horns for drinking wine fall in number, while weapons, silver Greek vessels and artistic bronze goods still retain their status. An unconditional innovation is the wearing of gold rings: on the finger bones of the deceased were three such, one with a smooth horizontal band, the second with the image of a leopard torturing a deer, the third a chalcedony seal-ring with a carved image of a pig (Fig. 8). Three ivory plates with images of mythological subjects and ornamental motifs from boxes of Mediterranean origin and the chiselled legs of a typical Greek kline attract the attention.

26

 Rostovtsev 1913, 138; Bessonova 1983, 116; Vlasova 2000, 56.

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1

3

4

2

Fig. 6. Some finds from the Seven Brothers barrow 2 (by Nikita Anfimov): 1–2. Silver objects (phiale and gilded plate of a gorytos); 3–4. Golden objects (torque and necklace).

Burials of the Sindian nobility without a direct relationship to the royal family are scattered over quite a large area to the west and south-west of Labrys. These are two large barrows to the south of the present-day village of Dzhiginka, the stone tomb of barrow A from the so-called Small Seven Brothers barrows, the funeral complex from Massono and a mud-brick tomb near the village of Utash.27 Overall, a certain set of grave-goods characterised all funeral complexes of the Sindian aristocracy. It necessarily includes weapons and items in Animal Style, combined with the artistic production of Greek masters. The number of buried horses, as can be seen from the example of the Seven Brothers, gradually decreases. In barrow 1, the latest, there are only two horses. The role of pottery was very minor in the everyday life of the Sindian nobility. It seems that artistic merits mattered little. In this respect the only interesting item is a red-figure pelike with Dionysiac personages from barrow 1 (Fig. 9). A few other red-figure vessels 27

 Goroncharovsky 2017, 244–45.

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2

1

4

3

Fig. 7. Some finds from the Seven Brothers barrow 4 (by Nikita Anfimov): 1. Silver rhyton; 2–4. Gold details of rhytons; 5. Gold anklet.

Fig. 8. Some finds from the Seven Brothers barrow 6 (by Nikita Anfimov): 1–2. Gold rings.

5

GREEK-SINDIAN INTERACTIONS IN THE TERRITORY OF THE CIMMERIAN BOSPORUS

Fig. 9. Fragments of red-figure pelike from the Seven Brothers barrow 1 (by Elena Vlasova).

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are quite ordinary work. There are no vessels for drinking wine; the set of forms of black lacquer and painted ceramics is limited to small cups, lekythoi, alabastrons and askoi. Red-clay domestic pottery is represented by only two examples: a louterion from barrow 4 and a pot with a strainer on the sink from barrow 6, where the largest number of ceramics (six specimens) was found. Such finds from Seven Brothers barrows (18 specimens) are distributed as: red-clay ceramics, 11.1 % (two); simple black-lacquer ceramics, 55.6 % (ten); red-figure pottery, 33.3 % (six). This contrasts with materials from Labrys. Definitely this city existed as a Greek centre in Sindica since the beginning of the 5th century BC. It is not by accident that Kamenetskii noted a ‘specifically Classical set of ceramics’ for Labrys.28 Irina Vdovichenko, who studied the collection of Attic painted ceramics from the excavations of the Seven Brothers town site, drew attention to the fact that ‘the main part of the finds refers to the second half of the 5th century BC’. In their composition one can find ‘a very sophisticated pottery, painted by the best Attic masters’, and typologically examples close to the characteristic ceramics of the urban centres of the Bosporan kingdom.29 Even if Labrys eventually acquired the status of a polis, it remained under the control of the Sindians in the person of representatives of the ruling family.30 After death they were awarded burial under the barrow mounds located in the uplands, visible from any point of the city’s territory. Obviously these circumstances led to a special role for Labrys in the formation of elements of early statehood in Sindica, and also in the development of Graeco-barbarian relations on the eastern border of the Bosporan state. This process was ended by the transition of Sindica under the rule of Leucon I.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alekseev, F.Y. 2003: Chronografiya Evropeiskoi Skifii VII–IV v.v. do n.e. (St Petersburg). Alekseeva, E.M. 1991: Grecheskaya kolonizatsiya Severo-Zapadnogo Kavkaza (Moscow). —. 2000: ‘Mestnaya sreda rannei Gorgippii’. Problemy Istorii, Filologii, Kul’tury 8, 160–69. Bessonova, S.S. 1983: Religioznye predstavleniya skifov (Kiev). Blavatskii, V.D. 1959: ‘Pyatyi god rabot v Sindike’. Kratkie soobshcheniya Instituta istorii material’noi kul’tury 74, 41–48. Goroncharovsky, V.A. 2014: ‘Semibratnie kurgany v kontekste istorii i drevnostei Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 30, 553–618. —. 2017: ‘Tsari i aristokratiya Sindiki V- nachala IV v.v. do n.e. (po pis’mennym i arkheologicheskim istochnikam)’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 34, 224–60. Gutsalov, S.Y. 2007: ‘Pogrebal’nye pamyatniki kochevoi elity Yuzhnogo Priural’ya serediny I tysyacheletiya do n.e.’. Arkheologiya, etnografiya i antropologiya Evrazii 2, 75–92. Hansen, M.H. 1997: ‘A Typology of Dependent Poleis’. In Hansen, M.H. and Raaflaub, K. (eds.), Yet More Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis (Papers from the Copenhagen Polis Centre 4) (Historia Einzelschriften 117) (Stuttgart), 29–37. Itina, M.I. 1992: ‘Rannie saki Priaral’ya’. In Rybakov, B.A. (ed.), Stepnaya polosa aziatskoi chasti SSSR v skifo-sarmatskoe vremya (Moscow), 31–37. Kamenetskii, I.S. 1989: ‘Meoty i drugie plemena Severo-Zapadnogo Kavkaza’. In Rybakov, B.A. (ed.), Stepi evropeiskoi chasti SSSR v skifo-sarmatskoe vremya (Moscow), 224–51.

28

 Kamenetskii 2003, 71.  Vdovichenko 2006, 35. 30  Cf. Hansen 1997, 30. 29

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—. 2003: ‘K datirovke Semibratnego gorodishcha’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii Kavkaza 3, 67–76. Kastanayan, E.G. 1959: ‘Gruntovye nekropoli bosporskikh gorodov VI–IV v.v. do n.e. i mestnye ikh osobennosti’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii SSSR 69, 257–95. Khazanov, A.M. 2008: Kochevniki i vneshnii mir (St Petersburg). Kobylina, M.M. 1956: ‘Phanagoriya’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii SSSR 57, 5–104. Marchenko, K.K., Zhitnikov, V.G. and Kopylov, V.P. 2000. Elizavetovskoe gorodishche na Donu (Moscow). Maslennikov, A.A. 2001: ‘Varvary, greki i Bospor Kimmeriiskii do Gerodota i pri nem’. Drevnosti Bospora 4, 291–323. Myshkin, V.N. and Skarbovenko, V.A. 2010: ‘Rannie kochevniki Samarskogo Povolzh’ya: istoriya i itogi izucheniya’. Kraevedcheskie zapiski 15, 87–100. Novichikhin, A.M. 2006: Naselenie Zapadnogo Zakuban’ya v pervoi polovine I tysyacheletiya do n.e. (Anapa). —. 2014: ‘Ob etnogeneze sindov’. In Bgazhnokov, B.K. and Fomenko, V.A. (eds.), Drevnyaya i srednevekovaya kul’tura adygov (Nal’chik), 110–21. Olkhovskii, V.S. 1991: Pogrebal’no-pominal’naya obryadnost’ naseleniya stepnoi Skifii (VII–III v.v. do n.e.) (Moscow). Rostovtsev, M.I. 1913: Antichnaya dekorativnaya zhivopis’ na yuge Rossii (St Petersburg). Silantieva, L.F. 1959: ‘Nekropol’ Nimfeya’. Materialy i issledovaniya po arkheologii SSSR 69, 5–107. —. 1976: ‘Spiralevidnye podveski Bospora’. Trudy Gosudarsnvennogo Ermitazha 18, 123–37. Sorokina, N.P. 1957: Tuzlinskii nekropol (Moscow). Sudarev, N.I. and Garbuzov, G.P. 2015: ‘K voprosu o kolonizatsii Bospora’. Tavricheskie studii. Istoricheskie nauki 7, 156–64. Terenozhkin, A.I. and Mozolevskii, B.N. 1988: Melitopol’skii kurgan (Kiev). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 1999: ‘O polisnom statuse gorodov antichnogo Bospora’. In Podossinov, A.V. (ed.), Drevneishie gosudarstva Vostochnoi Evropy, 1996–1997 (Moscow), 193–200. Vdovichenko, I.I. 2006: ‘Raspisnaya keramika Semibratnego gorodishcha’. In Solovev, S.L. (ed.), Greki i varvary na Bospore Kimmeriiskom VII–I v.v. do n.e. (St Petersburg), 32–35. Vinogradov, Y.A. 2001: ‘Dve Skifii i skify tsarskie’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Kolonizatsiya regiona, formirovanie polisov, obrazovanie gosudarstva, vol. 2 (St Petersburg), 124–27. —. 2014: ‘Varvarskie migratsii v istorii Bospora Kimmeriiskogo’. In Podossinov, A.V. and Gabelko, O.L. (eds.), Drevneishie gosudarstva Vostochnoi Evropy, 2012 god: Problemy ellinizma I obrazovaniya Bosporskogo tsarstva (Moscow), 64–75. Vlasova, E.V. 2000: ‘Skifskii rog’. In Solovev, S.L. (ed.), Antichnoe Prichernomor’e (St Petersburg), 56–60.

CAN GORDION ROOF TILES HELP DATE THE MIDAS MONUMENT? Cecily GRACE

ABSTRACT The date the Midas Monument was carved remains uncertain.1 This chapter aims to take a small step towards determining this date by considering the chronological implications of the fact that the Midas Monument appears to represent a Phrygian building with a tiled roof. The date of the first Phrygian building with a tiled roof is re-examined. This re-examination questions the accepted belief that Phrygian tiled roofs post-date those in Lydia. The possibility that roof tiles spread from east to west, rather than vice versa, is raised and the implications of this for determining the date the Midas Monument was carved are assessed. It is hoped that by considering the movement of roof tiles from east to west, this chapter is a fitting way to honour Gocha’s exceptional academic contribution since his own move in that direction 30 years ago.

INTRODUCTION The Midas Monument has been variously dated between the 8th and 6th centuries BC.2 Archaeological evidence does not assist with narrowing this time frame.3 Excavations at the Midas Monument have demonstrated a lack of stratigraphic evidence.4 A medley of small finds dating between the Middle Phrygian and Byzantine periods were discovered during these excavations, but determining the original locations of these finds and whether they were directly connected with the Midas Monument has proven difficult.5 Elsewhere I have argued that the texts inscribed on the monument suggest it was actively used as a place of elite pilgrimage from the 8th to 6th centuries BC at least, although the date it was carved remains difficult to pinpoint.6 This contribution does not aim to determine this date. Rather, its purpose is to re-evaluate whether it remains acceptable 1  Note that this date is distinct from the dates the various inscriptions and graffiti were etched on the monument. 2  See DeVries 1988, 54; Ateşlier 2006, 145. Those who have dated the monument to the 8th century BC, include Haspels (1971, 104) and Mellink (1993–97, 154). Roller (1999, 102; 2012, 217) has preferred a date in the early to mid-7th century BC. Those who have dated the Monument to the 6th century BC include Borgeaud (2004, 4), Munn (2006, 77, n. 87), Akurgal (1961, 110), Sams (1995, 1156), BerndtErsöz (2006, 233) and Prayon (1987, 71–79). Note that several of these dates are based on the old chronology of Gordion and the old date for the Gordion tumuli (particularly Tumulus MM) and now need to be raised. 3  These excavations were conducted by Haspels and Gabriel between 1936 and 1937. See Haspels 1971, 75–76; Sivas 2012, 141; Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 92–94. 4  This problem exists for all the façade monuments. For discussion, see Özarslan 2010, 3; Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 89, 93. 5  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 92–93. 6  Grace 2019.

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to use Lydian and Greek art and architecture, which has been securely dated, to provide a terminus post quem for the Midas Monument.7 The raising of the Gordion chronology by a century has proven that the Phrygians were innovators, pioneering developments in art and architecture.8 Despite this, scholars attempting to date the Midas Monument have still assumed that some of its carved architectural features must have been adopted from the west.9 It is time to consider that these features instead spread from Phrygia to the west, or at least that Phrygia played an innovative role in their development.10 It is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss the origins of, and influences upon, each of the architectural features on the Midas Monument. Instead, focus is placed on the fact that the Midas Monument seems to represent a building with a tiled roof, and whether that means it must post-date Western tiled roofs.

THE MIDAS MONUMENT REPRESENTS

A

BUILDING

WITH A

TILED ROOF

Berndt-Ersöz has proposed that the Midas Monument represents a building with a tiled roof.11 The implication of this is that the monument must post-date the first tiled roof building at Gordion.12 Berndt-Ersöz’s proposal is based on the low incline of the carved Midas Monument roof, as low inclines were necessary on tiled roofs due to their weight.13 She has also noted that many of the façades with low pitched roofs feature thick side posts, which would have provided extra support for the heavy tiles.14 Ateşlier and BerndtErsöz have highlighted the lack of overhanging eaves on some façade monuments as further evidence that they replicated tiled roofs.15 While buildings with clay and reed roofs needed overhanging eaves to keep water off the walls, tiled roofs at Gordion had spout-eaved, or lateral sima tiles, with spouts for directing water well beyond the walls.16 This argument is convincing, since aspects of Gordion buildings are often faithfully represented on the façade monuments.17

7  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 110–11; Munn 2006, 77, n. 87; Akurgal 1961, 110. On this dating method, see the comments of Roller 1999, 99, n. 132. 8  For discussion of Phrygian innovations, see Rose 2012a, 5; Sams 2012a, 64; 2012b, 65–66; Roller 2009, 4; Ballard 2012, 165–70; Ballard et al. 2010; Grace 2019, 64, n. 38. 9  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 105–14; Akurgal 1961, 110; Munn 2006, 77, n. 87. 10  See the comments of Sams 2012b, 65–66. 11  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 108–09. 12  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 108–09. Also see Ateşlier 2006, 138; Roller 2012, 216. 13  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 108. Berndt-Ersöz concluded that all Phrygian façade monuments with roof inclines of 30 degrees or less (including the Midas Monument) can be considered representations of buildings with tiled roofs. However, Glendinning (1996a, 177 and n. 37) has observed that inclines ‘26–28 degrees’ were a ‘bit steep by ancient standards’. Berndt-Ersöz (2006, 108) also suggested that the low incline of the roof was to prevent the tiles from slipping, as they ‘are flat underneath’. However, according to Glendinning’s (1996a, 219–20; 2005, 86) studies of Gordion tiles, those which covered the slopes of the roof (pan tiles), had carved rabbet flanges underneath and did not slip. 14  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 108–09. Also see Henrickson and Blackman 1999, 318. 15  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 108; Ateşlier 2006, 138. 16  Glendinning 2005, 88; Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 108 and n. 167. For a useful table showing the incline of the façade monument roofs and the presence of overhanging eaves, see Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 31, table 7. 17  For example, the Areyastis façade monument has carved windows in the pediment like those required for ventilation in Phrygian buildings with open hearths. See Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 347, fig. 47; Roller 2009, 30.

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Less convincing is the proposal that the four-lozenge motifs on the tie beam of the Midas Monument were designed ‘as an imitation of separate architectural terracottas’, since they are divided by vertically placed lines.18 The use of vertical lines to divide motifs is attested at Gordion from an early date, such as on the serving stands from the 8thcentury BC Tumuli MM and P, and need not be an indication that tiles are represented.19 Scholars have also observed that the lozenge patterns on the Midas Monument are similar to those on some Gordion roof tiles.20 The relative chronology of these lozenge patterns is, however, debatable. It has also been proposed that the lozenge motifs on the façade monuments imitated an earlier tradition of using textiles for architectural adornment.21 Despite this detail, Berndt-Ersöz’s proposal that the Midas Monument represents a building with a tiled roof is plausible. Therefore, determining the date of the first tiled roof building at Gordion could assist with providing a terminus post quem for the Midas Monument. The question is: when did the Phrygians first use tiled roofs?

THE FIRST PHRYGIAN ROOF TILES

AND THEIR INFLUENCES

Several scholars have contended that roof tiles arrived in Gordion from the west, at a fairly late date.22 It has been argued that ‘Phrygian tiles were most certainly a product of direct Lydian influence’.23 However, close examination of the provenances of Gordion tiles calls this perspective into question. Such examination is facilitated by the preliminary reports and discussions of Gordion excavators, including Young and Burke.24 No roof tiles have been found in the Early Phrygian citadel at Gordion, which now dates ca. 900–800 BC.25 When Young excavated Gordion, he noted that ‘not a single tile’ was found ‘below the clay’ which was used to cover the burnt Early Phrygian citadel.26 However, he observed that in the Middle Phrygian citadel, ‘roof tiles abound from the lowest stratum’.27 Likewise, in his definitive study of Gordion roof tiles, Glendinning argued that ‘evidence is lacking to suggest that tiles were not an original part of the rebuilt citadel’.28 Hence it is possible that tiled roofs belonged to the earliest phase of the Middle Phrygian citadel, planned as early as the 9th century BC and built during the early 8th century BC.29 However, specific contextual information is lacking for the Gordion tiles due to the absence of detailed excavation records and the heavily looted state of the Middle Phrygian citadel.30 18

 Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 110. Also see the similar comments of Roller 1999, 100–01.  For the design on the serving stands, see Simpson 2012b, 154–56; 2012a, 341–49. 20  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 109; DeVries 1988, 54–55. 21  Glendinning 1996a, 204 and 212, n. 127; 2005, 92. Lozenge patterns are also found on Phrygian furniture dating to the 8th century BC. For this furniture, see Simpson 2012a; 2012b. For discussion of the lozenge pattern, see Simpson 2010, 52–56. 22  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 111; Glendinning 2005, 97; 2007, 181–82; Summers 2006, 684; Rose 2012a, 16. 23  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 111. 24  Young 1964, 284; Burke 2012. 25  Young 1964, 284; Glendinning 1996a, 12. 26  Young 1964, 284. 27  Young 1964, 284. 28  Glendinning 1996a, 14 (his emphasis). 29  Glendinning 1996a, 14; Sapirstein 2008, 347. For discussion of evidence suggesting the Middle Phrygian citadel was planned prior to the destruction of Gordion in ca. 800 BC, see Voigt 2007, 324; 2012. 30  Glendinning 1996a, 6–7; Sapirstein 2008, 346; Voigt 1994, 273–74. The buildings of the Middle Phrygian period had been plundered for their building materials to such an extent that, in many cases, walls were ‘robbed down to their foundations, foundations themselves robbed out’ (Sams 2005, 15). 19

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Prior to the redating of the Gordion chronology, Glendinning studied the tiles for which stratigraphic contexts were known.31 The earliest tiles may have adorned the roof of Building A.32 The first phase of Building A is now dated to ca. 819 BC by dendrochronology; approximating the date of ca. 800 BC accepted for the beginning of the Middle Phrygian period.33 According to Glendinning’s examination of the Gordion excavation notebooks, roof tiles may have been discovered in the rubble fill between the original floor of Building A and a new floor which marks a rebuild during the 5th century BC.34 Thus Glendinning tentatively proposed that Building A had a tiled roof during its original phase, which he called ‘Roof 6’.35 As part of the 5th-century BC rebuilding process, Building A was given a new tiled roof, Glendinning’s ‘Roof 7’.36 Roof 6 appears to have been a model for Roof 7; indeed some Roof 6 tiles were re-used in the creation of Roof 7.37 Additional support for Glendinning’s proposal can be found in the unusually thick walls of Building A, which were perhaps designed to support a heavy tiled roof.38 Burke has noted that the first phase of Building A was ‘continually modified’ over time.39 Hence Building A may have been given a tiled roof at any point during its first phase: ca. 800550 BC. At the time of Glendinning’s study, the old Gordion chronology was in use, according to which the Middle Phrygian period dated ca. 700–550 BC. This placed the earliest Phrygian roof tiles after 700 BC. The earliest roof tiles at Sardis date to the late 7th or early 6th century BC.40 In light of strong parallels between the Phrygian and Lydian tiles, Glendinning accepted that the Phrygians developed roof tile technology under auspices of the Lydians.41 However, he emphasised that there was nothing in the design or forming methods of the Gordion tiles to suggest they imitated, or developed from, Lydian models.42 Rather, some technological advances such as the spout-eaved tile were developed by the Phrygians.43 Furthermore, Glendinning suggested that the Phrygians ought to be seen as ‘trendsetters’ within a West-Central Anatolian koine of tiled roof development, noting that the ‘Gordion tile tradition was creative, original and influential within its Anatolian context’.44 Up until now, scholars have continued to propose that the Phrygian roof tile 31

 Glendinning 1996a, 15–28.  Glendinning 1996a, 175. 33  Glendinning 1996a, 172; 2005, 98. For the date of the first phase of Building A, see Burke 2012, 210; Kuniholm et al. 2011, 113. 34  Glendinning 1996a, 22, 172. The date of this rebuild has remained unchanged since the redating of Gordion. See Burke 2012, 210. 35  Glendinning 1996a, 175. 36  Glendinning 1996a, 175. 37  Glendinning 1996a, 175. That tiles from the Early Phrygian citadel at Gordion were re-used in the Middle Phrygian citadel seems highly likely. As a comparative example, the substantial cost of roof tiles in the Greek world often led to their being re-used. For discussion, see Pettegrew 2001, 197. 38  Burke 2012, 205. 39  Burke 2012, 208. 40  Ramage (1978, 39–40) has suggested a date of 600 BC for tiles on Lydian houses. Billot (1980, 292–93) has argued for a mid-6th-century BC date. A similar date has been accepted for tiles from Sector ByzFort by Ratté (1994, 384). Also see Sapirstein 2008, 345; Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 111. 41  Glendinning 1996a, 191. 42  Glendinning argued (1996a, 217) that the ‘Gordion tiles appear to be as early as any in Anatolia and are related (typologically and decoratively) above all to examples at Sardis, Düver, Akalan and Pazarli’. 43  Glendinning 1996a, 197; 1996b, 117; 2007, 187. 44  Glendinning 1996a, 181, 197–99; 1996b, 118. 32

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tradition was formulated under the auspices of the Lydians.45 However, in light of the New Chronology for Gordion, it seems logical to ask: could the lines of influence have extended in the opposite direction? First of all, it is entirely possible that the earliest Phrygian roof tiles pre-date the Lydian, and are instead contemporary with Ionian and mainland Greek tiles. In Ionia, the earliest tiled roof adorned the Artemision at Ephesus, dating to the early 7th century BC.46 On the Greek mainland, the first two complete tiled roof systems belong to the temple of Apollo in Corinth, dating ca. 680 BC, and contemporary Archaic Isthmian temple.47 However, these tiled roofs are believed to have had antecedents in tiles discovered at Olympia and Delphi, as well as tiles dating to the 8th century BC discovered in Etruscan tombs.48 After these first roofs were built, tiled roof technology spread very quickly, and hence a reasonably early date within the Middle Phrygian period is possible for the first Gordion roof tiles.49 Furthermore, it is even possible that tiles were invented in Anatolia and spread westwards. It has been recognised that the ashlar masonry walls of the Isthmian and Corinthian temples may have been developed from Eastern models; so why not the roofs?50 It is here necessary to acknowledge Glendinning’s claim that the tiles excavated at Gordion show ‘no recognisable development in shape or style’ and hence must have been developed from a model.51 However, replications of the manufacturing process for tiles from the Corinth temple have demonstrated that the techniques required to manufacture roof tiles were well-known to potters. In fact, scholars have been divided as to whether or not the Corinthian temple roof did, in fact, have a model.52

CONCLUSION In summary, it is time to re-evaluate the date of the earliest Phrygian tiled roof, free of assumptions about Western influences.53 Pending such a re-evaluation, the advent of tiled roofs at Gordion cannot be used to date the Midas Monument. It is important to question the conclusion that first Gordion tiled roofs post-date Lydian examples and that the carving of the Midas Monument, which represents a tiled roof building, thus postdates the mid-6th century BC.54 Moreover, where similarities can be observed between Greek, Lydian and Phrygian art and architecture, the New Chronology for Gordion challenges the assumption that the Phrygian examples are of lesser antiquity. 45  Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 110–11; Glendinning 2005, 97; 2007, 181–82, 184; Summers 2006, 684; Rose 2012a, 16. It is noteworthy that the tiles possibly found under the floor of the rebuilt Building A are not mentioned in these publications. 46  Sapirstein 2008, 342–43. 47  Rhodes 1984, 105; Wikander 1990, 285; Summers 2006, 684; Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 111; Glendinning 2005, 97; Winter 2002, 227; Sapirstein 2008, 33–34, 336–42; 2009, 198, 226; Gebhard 2001; Hemans 1989, 251. 48  Sapirstein 2008, 33–34, 336–42; 2009, 198, 226; Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 110, n. 182; Gebhard 2001. 49  Wikander 1990, 285; Glendinning 1996a, 185. 50  For the influences on Greek ashlar masonry, see Wright 2009, 151; Morris 1992, 128; Gebhard 2001. 51  Glendinning 1996a, 41. 52  The debate is discussed by Sapirstein (2008, 331–34). Wikander (1990, 289) has suggested tiled roofs could have developed from wooden shingles. 53  Simpson 2010, 97, n. 207. 54  See, for example, Berndt-Ersöz 2006, 111.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Akurgal, E. 1961: Die Kunst Anatoliens von Homer bis Alexander (Berlin). Ateşlier, S. 2006: ‘A Phrygian Temple Model from Daskyleion’. Anadolu Arkeolojisine Katkılar 65, 132–54. Ballard, M.W. 2012: ‘King Midas’ Textiles and His Golden Touch’. In Rose 2012b, 165–70. Ballard, M.W., Alden, H., Cunningham, R.H., Hopwood, W., Koles, J. and Dussubieux, L. 2010: ‘Preliminary Analyses of Textiles Associated with the Wooden Furniture from Tumulus MM’. In Simpson 2010, 203–24. Berndt-Ersöz, S. 2006: Phrygian Rock-Cut Shrines: Structure, Function, and Cult Practice (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 25) (Leiden/Boston). Billot, M.-F. 1980: ‘Style et chronologie des terres cuites architecturales de Sardes’. RA n.s. 2, 263–94. Borgeaud, P. 2004: Mother of the Gods: From Cybele to the Virgin Mary, translation L. Hochroth (Baltimore/London). Burke, B. 2012: ‘The Rebuilt Citadel at Gordion: Building A and the Mosaic Building Complex’. In Rose 2012b, 202–18. DeVries, K. 1988: ‘Gordion and Phrygia in the 6th century BC’. Source 7.3, 51–59. Gebhard, E.R. 2001: ‘The Archaic Temple at Isthmia: Techniques of Construction’. In Bietak, M. (ed.), Archaische Griechische Tempel und Altägypten (Untersuchungen der Zweigstelle Kairo des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes 18; Denkschriften der Gesamtakademie 21) (Vienna), 41–61. Glendinning, M.R. 1996a: Phrygian Architectural Terracottas at Gordion (Dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill). —. 1996b: ‘A Mid-Sixth-Century Roof Tile System at Gordion’. Hesperia 65.1, 99–119. —. 2005: ‘A Decorated Roof at Gordion: What Tiles are Revealing about the Phrygian Past’. In Kealhofer, L. (ed.), The Archaeology of Midas and the Phrygians: Recent Work at Gordion (Philadelphia), 82–100. —. 2007: ‘Phrygian Architectural Terracottas’. In Sivas, H. and Sivas, T. Tüfekçi (eds.), The Mysterious Civilization of the Phrygians (Istanbul), 181–88. Grace, C. 2019: ‘Midas and Matar: The Intertwining of Phrygian Politics and Cult’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period (Proceedings of an International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November, 2015 (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 57–92. Haspels, C.H.E. 1971: The Highlands of Phrygia: Sites and Monuments, vol. 1 (Princeton). Hemans, F. 1989: ‘The Archaic Roof Tiles at Isthmia, a Re-examination’. Hesperia 58, 251–66. Henrickson, R.C. and Blackman, M.J. 1999: ‘Hellenistic Production of Terracotta Roof Tiles Among the Ceramic Industries at Gordion’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 18.3, 307–26. Kuniholm, P.I., Newton, M.W. and Liebhart, R.F. 2011: ‘Dendrochronology at Gordion’. In Rose, C.B. and Darbyshire, G. (eds.), The New Chronology of Iron Age Gordion (University Museum Monograph 133; Gordion Special Studies 6) (Philadelphia), 79–123. Mellink, M.J. 1993–97: ‘Midas-Stadt’. In Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie, vol. 8 (Berlin/Leipzig), 153–56. Morris, S.P. 1992: Daidalos and the Origins of Greek Art (Princeton). Munn, M. 2006: The Mother of the Gods, Athens, and the Tyranny of Asia (Berkeley/Los Angeles/ London). Özarslan, Y. 2010: The Cultic Landscapes of Phrygia (Dissertation, Middle East Technical University, Ankara) (http://etd.lib.metu.edu.tr/upload/12612840/index.pdf ). Pettegrew, D.K. 2001: ‘Chasing the Classical Farmstead: Assessing the Formation and Signature of Rural Settlement in Greek Landscape Archaeology’. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 14.2, 189–209. Prayon, F. 1987: Phrygische Plastik: Die Früheisenzeitliche Bildkunst Zentral-Anatoliens und ihre Beziehungen zu Griechenland und zum Alten Orient (Tübinger Studien zur Archäologie und Kunstgeschichte 7) (Tübingen).

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Ramage, A. 1978: Lydian Houses and Architectural Terracottas (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis 5) (Cambridge, MA/London). Ratté, C. 1994: ‘Archaic Architectural Terracottas from Sector ByzFort at Sardis’. Hesperia 63.3, 361–90. Rhodes, R.F. 1984: The Beginnings of Monumental Architecture in Corinthia (Dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill). Roller, L.E. 1999: In Search of God the Mother: The Cult of Anatolian Cybele (Berkeley/Los Angeles/ London). —. 2009: The Incised Drawings from Early Phrygian Gordion (University Museum Monograph 130; Gordion Special Studies 4) (Philadelphia). —. 2012: ‘Phrygian Religion and Cult Practise’. In Sivas and Sivas 2012, 202–33. Rose, C.B. 2012a: ‘Introduction: The Archaeology of Phrygian Gordion’. In Rose 2012b, 1–20. —. (ed.) 2012b: The Archaeology of Phrygian Gordion: Royal City of Midas (University Museum Monograph 136; Gordion Special Studies 7) (Philadelphia) Sams, G.K. 2005: ‘Gordion: Explorations Over a Century’. In Kealhofer, L. (ed.), The Archaeology of Midas and the Phrygians: Recent Work at Gordion (Philadelphia), 10–21. —. 2012a: ‘Gordion, the Capital City of the Phrygians and its Buildings’. In Sivas and Sivas 2012, 52–77. —. 2012b: ‘The New Chronology for Gordion and Phrygian Pottery’. In Rose 2012b, 55–66. Sapirstein, P. 2008: The Emergence of Ceramic Roof Tiles in Archaic Greek Architecture (Dissertation, Cornell University). —. 2009: ‘How the Corinthians Manufactured their First Roof Tiles’. Hesperia 78, 195–229. Simpson, E. 2010: The Furniture from Tumulus MM, vol. 1 (The Gordion Wooden Objects 1) (Leiden/Boston). —. 2012a: ‘Gordion Furniture and Wooden Artefacts’. In Sivas and Sivas 2012, 334–60. —. 2012b: ‘Royal Phrygian Furniture and Fine Wooden Artifacts from Gordion’. In Rose 2012b, 149–64. Sivas, T. Tüfekçi 2012: ‘Phrygian Valleys and Sacred Yazılıkaya-Midas City’. In Sivas and Sivas, 112–61. Sivas, T. Tüfekçi and Sivas, H. (eds.) 2012: Phrygians: In the Land of Midas, In the Shadow of the Monuments (Istanbul), Summers, G. 2006: ‘Architectural Terracottas in Greater Phrygia: Problems of Chronology and Distribution’. In Erkanal-Öktü, A., Özgen, A.E., Günel, S., Ökse, A.T., Hüryılmaz, H., Tekin, H., Çınardalı-Karaaslan, N., Uysal, B., Karaduman, F.A., Engin, E., Spiess, R., Aykurt, A., Tuncel, R., Deniz, U. and Rennie, A. (eds.), Hayat Erkanal’a armağan: kültürlerin yansıması/ Studies in Honour of Hayat Erkanal: Cultural Reflections (Istanbul), 684–88. Voigt, M.M. 1994: ‘Excavations at Gordion 1988-89: The Yassihöyük Stratigraphic Sequence’. In Çilingiroğlu, A. and French, D.H. (eds.), Anatolian Iron Ages 3 (The Proceedings of the Third Anatolian Iron Ages Colloquium held at Van, 6–12 August 1990) (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph 16) (London/Ankara), 265–89. —. 2007: ‘The Middle Phrygian Occupation at Gordion’. In Çilingiroğlu, A. and Sagona, A.G. (eds.), Anatolian Iron Ages 6 (The Proceedings of the Sixth Anatolian Iron Ages Colloquium held at Eskişehir, 16–20 August 2004) (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Suppl. 20) (Leuven/Paris/ Dudley, MA), 311–34. —. 2012: ‘The Unfinished Project of the Gordion Early Phrygian Destruction Level’. In Rose 2012b, 67–100. Wikander, Ö. 1990: ‘Archaic Roof Tiles: The First Generations’. Hesperia 59.1, 285–90. Winter, N.A. 2002: ‘Commerce in Exile: Terracotta Roofing in Etruria, Corfu and Sicily, a Bacchiad Family Enterprise’. Etruscan Studies 9, 227–36. Wright, G.R.H. 2009: Ancient Building Technology 2: Construction (Leiden/Boston). Young, R.S. 1964: ‘The 1963 Campaign at Gordion’. AJA 68.3, 279–92.

THE EARLIEST BRONZE METALLURGY ON THE GEORGIAN SIDE OF THE SOUTH-EASTERN BLACK SEA LITTORAL Amiran KAKHIDZE

ABSTRACT Georgia is counted among the ancient metallurgical centres of the world. Here have been discovered quite a number of mining and processing sites, mines and quarries, and interesting and varied artefacts. The finds made between 2014 and 2018 in Ajara allow us to address the technological processing of extracted material site by site: about 50 sites were discovered, which differed greatly from those previously known archaeologically both in terms of their geographical location and the use of innovative practices, including flotation and crushing. A special methodology has been devised for their study. The latest finds show that the people of south-western Georgia of the Bronze Age contributed to the advancement of mining, and of the metallurgical and metal-processing industries.

Based on studies started as early as the 1890s, Georgia is one of the oldest metallurgical centres of the ancient world. Various open-cut workings and mines were discovered and remarkable and versatile artefacts were obtained in Abkhazia, Svaneti, Racha, Kakheti, Kvemo Kartli, Guria and Ajara.1 It is widely believed that Murgul, located in the Chorokhi basin in north-eastern Turkey, very close to Ajara, is a significant prehistoric centre of copper production. According to research findings, representatives of Neolithic and Aeneolithic society inhabiting the territory of historical Georgia were part of the system of development of Near East cultures. The mining of ores began simultaneously. It is also important to note that contact with ancient Anatolian and Mesopotamian civilisations was favoured by geographical factors, namely the rivers Tigris, Euphrates, Chorokhi and Araxes originating in the same mountain massif. The majority of scholars believe that migrations contributed to the development of the Maikop culture in the North and the Kura-Araxes culture in the South.2 Before recent discoveries, most research was focused on issues relating to metal mining. The finds made between 2014 and 2018 in Ajara allow us to address the technology of processing the extracted material by site. Some 50 sites in Ajara were discovered (Fig. 1), differing greatly from hitherto known archaeological sites both in terms of their location and the use of innovative practices, including flotation and crushing. A special methodology has been devised to study the unique sites at Sarpi, Charnalis Murvaneti II, 1

 Chartolani 1971a; 1971b; 1977; Bzhaniya 1981; Khomeriki and Zhordaniya 1988.  Iessen 1935; Gobejishvili 1952; 1966; 1970; Gobejishvili et al. 1983; Maisuradze and Inanishvili 1984; Chartolani 1989; 1996; Inanishvili et al. 1998; Inanishvili 2016; Pitskhelauri 2012; Djaparidze 2013; Gambashidze et al. 2010; Gambashidze 2016. 2

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Tkhilnari, Kapnistavi, Skurdidi, Kveda Chkhuneti (Khelvachauri municipality), Kvirike, Dagva II (Kobuleti municipality) and Gogadzeebi (Shuakhevi municipality). In addition, an expedition of Batumi Archaeological Museum conducted a large-scale exploration to reveal sites in the coastal areas, as well as in the foothills and in a mountain range. Significant results have been achieved. About 40 new sites were discovered. Preliminary descriptions were made, photographs were taken and different artefacts were collected. Newly discovered metallurgical sites include: Murvaneti I, Tkhilnari (four sites), Tkhilnaris Agara (two), Simoneti (two), Maradidi (two), Dzablaveti (two), Tskhemlara (Khelvachauri municipality), Chakvi, Chakvistavi, Chakvis Chaisubani, Dagva I, Bobokvati, Kvirike II, Achkvistavi, Legva (two), Achi (two), Chakhati (Kobuleti municipality), Sagoreti (officially Pirveli Maisi), Namlisevi, Bzubzu (two), Makhuntseti, Kedis Agara (three), Tskhemna, Dzentsmani, Ortsva, Koromkheti (Keda municipality), Khabelashviebi, Tselati, Shubani, Chirukhi (Shuakhevi municipality), Tetrobi, Janjghari (two) and Mekeidzeebi (Khulo municipality). Excavation will be conducted at some of these sites as they may yield important evidence. The latest finds show that the Bronze Age people of south-western Georgia contributed to the advancement of mining as well as to that of the metallurgical and metalprocessing industries. It is beyond doubt that the Chorokhi basin was one of the most important metallurgical centres of the ancient world. In the 5th and 4th millennia BC, raw material extracted from mines and opencasts for smelting in furnaces was crushed in specially produced stone pans (Figs. 2–4). In this regard, of interest are the artefacts discovered near Nasakdrali Hill in Chakvis Chaisubani featuring cultural layers from the Neolithic and Aeneolithic. A stone chisel made from an elongated basal flint, a triangular flint arrowhead with broad facets, and fragments of plain and ornamented earthenware discovered here are from the developed Neolithic Age (7th–6th millennia BC). From the same site is earthenware attributed to the Aeneolithic and Early Bronze Ages (5th– 4th millennia BC). Some of the items are adorned with ornament or knobs.3 A pan was also found here in situ (Fig. 2.1), which finds parallels with some of the objects discovered accidentally in the surroundings of Zaargashi in Svaneti.4 It can be assumed that the prevalent types of mining and metallurgy did not involve hard work, but were rather aimed at meeting local needs. A dramatic change is obvious in the second half of the 4th millennium and the 3rd–2nd millennia BC, when Neolithic traditions gradually give way to metal production. It was also the time when advanced class societies and urban civilisations began to emerge, leading to an increased demand for polymetals. Rich in such material, Ajara and whole south-eastern Black Sea were not isolated from these historical processes. According to the available evidence, the people hereabouts made a valuable contribution to the Mesopotamian, Anatolian and apparently Aegean civilisations. This is indicated by the innovative approaches used by ancient miners and metallurgists. Below there is a brief overview of these as evidenced by the archaeological material uncovered during 2014 and 2018. It appears that a variety of approaches was used to increase productivity: the application of water energy to challenging, time-consuming processes and of a simple mechanism locally created. 3

 Surmanidze 2005.  Gambashidze et al. 2010, 35, fig. 3.

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The dressing by flotation of the material extracted from ore deposits should be considered one of the greatest novelties. Metalworkers realised that earlier, less productive techniques (i.e. using fire and water) failed to meet the increased demand for metal and began to seek new methods. The scope of imagination of skilled metalworkers is surprising. Strangely enough, they chose small, sometimes large, river valleys for their activities: most of the sites discovered during our expeditions are located in such areas. It cannot be accidental that the new centres of production were established on steep escarpments. In the age of pyramids, the local metalworkers appear to have quarried a huge amount of stone. Very often metalworkers levelled sites to form platforms right at the beginning of the industrial sites in rocky massifs. The traces left by the large amount of quarrying work are still evident. Platforms are usually followed by cliff inclines, on which several channels of different width, depth and length were cut to increase water flow and form a fountain (Figs. 5–9). What was the purpose of stone extraction using these practices? I have tried to provide all possible explanations. The water flowed down cliffs into specially hewn deep stone reservoirs. The dimensions of these are impressive, being anything from 3 to 26 m long, 2 to 7 m wide and 1.5 to 3 m deep. The fountains of water flowed into them, forming whirlpools in the basins. A series of observations and analysis of the recently obtained evidence allowed us to assume that ancient metallurgists placed primary raw material here in order to ensure the separation from waste rock under the impact of the fountain flows falling from above. In basins with more sluggish flows, where fountains would be less effective, wooden sticks might have been used (Figs. 8–9). Many of the rock-hewn water basins can be reached by paths of different sizes also cut into cliffs or stone steps (Fig. 6.3–6). Possessing empirical knowledge, ancient metallurgists were aware of the need for dressing ore before smelting in metal furnaces and of the importance of increasing the concentration of valuable materials and removing light fractions (gravel, earth, lava remnants, etc.). The stiffness of the metal that remained in the stone reservoirs exceeded twice or thrice that of the waste rock. Waste rocks were transported by river. In many cases a 15–20 cm channel was made at a high passage of a reservoir. The loss of useful rocks was thus minimized and productivity was increased to almost industrial levels. As mentioned above, at an early stage ore was crushed in pans made of solid stone. Metalworkers had exhausting work to do, which did not yield the desired results. According to the available artefacts, pans would often get holed in the bottom with use (Fig. 2.2), or split (Fig. 2.3–4). New, more rational techniques were to be found. Troughs of different form and size hewn on both sides of the stone basins mentioned above were discovered. Their number exceeded several hundred. In 2016 alone, 100 troughs were found in the course of field work at Tkhilnari, Skurdidi, Sarpi and Agara. They are carved either in the rocks of river banks (Figs. 9–10.1) or within river basins. In one case, it is apparent that carving of a trough began, but at some depth mineral veins were found and the work ceased. In Tkhilnari, a semicircle made by a pecker was found. The initial traces of the use of the pecker is visible. Here too, however, the work appears to have ceased due to the unfavourable settings (Fig. 9.5). There are other details that require attention. The particular location of stone basins in the hydrographic network represents one of the varieties of megalithic culture. I have been lucky to identify and study this:

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a long process, since rock-hewn basins were first noticed 40 years ago, but at the time we could not make credible assumptions based on a single above-ground structure. Nor were any artefacts found. The situation changed in 2014 when I received information from Givi Chkhartishvili, a member of our expedition, on the presence of a carved stone slab in a courtyard of one of the restaurants located in the valley of the Kinkisha, Kobuleti municipality. The slab we inspected had been recently carved for use in grilling. By chance, 10 m distant, we noticed a water basin carved in the cliff, which was a direct equivalent to the Tkhilnari basin. The owner of the restaurant said that more such carvings could be found along the river. Having walked 100–150 m, we found a multitude of troughs, stone basins and channels. The discovery was preceded by the discovery of six stone pans during field work conducted by the spring 2014 expedition in the village of Maradidi, on the right bank of the Chorokhi.5 After Maradidi, field work continued on a modest scale in the valley of the small Mrvaneti river in the village of Charnali, on the left bank of the Chorokhi, where stone hammers were found (Fig. 11.4). It was apparent that the recent finds were related to bronze metallurgy.6 The megalithic site at Kinkisha further reinforced this assumption. Following this, the Batumi Archaeological Museum undertook an expedition to explore various parts of Ajara with a view to finding similar sites of megalithic culture. Having established the function of the stone reservoirs, we sought an answer to another question: why were troughs hewn in inaccessible, rocky valleys? Technical and ethnographic evidence was examined to explain the innovation introduced by highly skilled ancient metallurgists. The search for innovative techniques was motivated by the increased demand for metals on the international market from the Early Bronze Age. It was necessary to increase productivity and involve more members of the community in this process. After dressing, ore was to be crushed before it could be smelted in special furnaces. It is also known that similar work using specially crafted small-size stone troughs had been undertaken earlier, but this was supplanted by innovative solutions to respond to the challenges of the time.7 The recently discovered sites preserve troughs carved into rock and designed for permanent use. It was quite possible in the huge rocky massifs where the sites are located to carve basins of any size after doing some quarrying work. This was the case in all the sites discovered. The troughs, both small and large, reveal the hand of highly knowledgeable and skilled masters. As mentioned above, metalworkers searched for useful, stiff rocks. Yet the main novelty of the time was the creation of stone troughs of different sizes around the basins carved in rocky massifs. It appears that dressed ore was crushed and fragmented using water power in these numerous troughs. The use of water for ore processing has been described above. The study of newly discovered sites showed that the local metalworkers designed a new, simple mechanism to maximise the effect of the use of water. A rod of the requisite length that would be placed horizontally on stone pillars. A light, waterproof woven wood container would be hung on one end of it and a hammer would be fixed to the other. Water funnelled via  Kakhidze et al. 2014; Kakhidze, Surmanidze and Nagervadze 2016, 26–29, cat. 21–27.  Kakhidze and Nagervadze 2014. 7  Kakhidze 2017a; 2017b; 2017c. 5 6

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a gutter would flow slowly into the container, raised due to the weight of the stone. The weight of water would cause the hammer to rise upwards. Upon reaching the critical point, the container would be emptied and the stone hammer would fall onto the ore fragments placed on the stone trough. The water container would then return to its original position. This cycle, performed under the supervision of metalworkers, continued without interruption until the ore was finally crushed. This naturally increased productivity. Like flotation, this stage of metalworking was developed to an industrial level. It was a new page in metallurgy. Our assumptions of the presence of such a mechanism were further reinforced by the discoveries made in Sarpi (Fig. 10.2–4): in stone trough no. 6 a stone hammer weighing 99 kg was found in the upper position, and ore fragments were seen below it. Physicist Shota Bolkvadze of the Batumi Shota Rustaveli State University has manufactured a modern model that is now installed in the courtyard of Batumi Archaeological Museum (Fig. 12). Apart from the artificially made fountains and medium- and large-size stone pans, a multitude of narrow channels and small troughs connected with them were found. The size of some of the troughs may be measured in centimetres. A number of sites (Charnalis Murvaneti, Dzablaveti) contain only such artefacts. Initially, their purpose was unclear. However, examination of the application of sheepskin for gold recovery in connexion with the newly discovered sites allowed us to assume that apart from large-scale interventions, ancient metalworkers also practised collection of tiny placers sedimented from mountain streams into narrow troughs and canals. The recent discoveries also permit further assumptions to be made. The use of these techniques enabled metalworkers to obtain formidable yields. It is without doubt that the megalithic structures, i.e. stone basins and troughs, including those carved in river basins and designed by creative metalworkers, also served as reservoirs for collecting placers during rains in upstream and downstream sections of rivers. This was more possible when the site was not used for flotation or fragmentation and crushing. It is natural that crystals that were heavier than the water flow would sink deep into large and deeply curved basins and troughs. The new findings revealed that Ajara was not the only region where the collection of placers was practised. There are some preliminary indications of the presence of similar sites in other regions of Georgia, including Abkhazia. Our expedition also conducted some exploratory work in the south, including in the border regions of Turkey. It appears that almost all of the coastal and hilly areas lying along southern part of the Black Sea up to Samsun–Amasya–Tokat (areas beyond have not yet been studied) were part of the same cultural context. It can be asserted that this huge reservoir was exploited by ancient metal-seekers of the time. The growing demand for non-ferrous metals on the international market had an effect on the mining and metallurgical practices on the sites we discovered, where these developed into large-scale manufacturing and production. This can best be illustrated by one of the 50 sites we examined, that in the village of Dagva, Kobuleti municipality. Dagva lies in the rocky section of the Tsiaka, which originates in the Dagva Mountains and forms a tributary of the Dekhva river. The village of Dagva and the site of so-called Lazistan stretched along the riverbank. It is evident that large-scale stone work was undertaken here. The area to be studied was first recorded and then cleaned of vegetation. Working in cliff areas was extremely

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challenging. Large-scale field work was required. The site uncovered measured 55 m in length, 12.5 m in width at the initial point and 18 m at the end of the platform; at the second reservoir 28.5 m; at the third reservoir 24 m; and at the final point 15.5 m – which means that the upper section was levelled (Fig. 13). It measures 28 m in length and 12.5 m in width. A path, 7.5 m in length and 1.2–1.6 m in width, providing access to the production site, was also found. Near the end of the path are steps leading down to a straight path, 2.4 m long and 0.5–0.8 m wide. Parallel to the road, near the stream, is the first hewn channel (Fig. 14.2), which flows into the first reservoir (length 8 m, width 0.5–1.5 m at different sections, depth 25 cm). Archaeological artefacts were also uncovered. A neatly carved oval stone hammer (Fig. 15.3–4) was discovered on one of the sections of the road and a pentagonal hammer was found where the first reservoir starts. What is even more noteworthy is the recovery of a hemispherical stone form used for making bronze bars. In addition to making a path, other types of stonework were conducted on the left side of the platform. An oval cavity measuring 3.6 m in length and 0.8 m in width, 0.9 m at the middle and 0.6 m at the end, and 0.5–0.45 m deep, was made in sectors SW 1–11. It is connected to a second narrow channel (2.5 m long, 0.4 m wide at the head, 0.6 m in the middle and 0.7 m at the mouth, and 5–25 cm deep). In the central section of NW 1 a third hewn channel was found (length 1.1 m; width 25 cm). From the sloping section the channel discharges into the first reservoir. On the right bank, in the central section, are three slightly elevated channels divided from each other (height 11–13 cm). An immense slab of stone (length 4.4 m; height 2.2 m) lies further away. Rounded stones lie densely near the rounded head. One of them might also be a hammer. Close by is a large polished stone, one end of which is incised at several points. It is hard to say anything about its function. In the same sector, SW 11, another hemispherical mould for casting bronze bars was discovered. Especially remarkable is a drainage channel (no. 5) running up to the modern mills along the right bank. It appears to have been used by modern dwellers, as indicated by the presence of concrete layers on one of its sections. The height of the cut section at the edge of the rock is 2.5 m and the length is 44 m. Near the mill the channel descends to form a circle (Fig. 14.5). This section, which is 10.8 m long, 1.2 m wide and 7–10 cm deep, could have been used as a path. The platform runs into the first reservoir. Above it alder trees grew. In the gravel, a heap of large stones was noticed. After taking photographs and making drawings of the site, we undertook the study of the following layers. By now we had reached a depth of 1.8 m in the south section, 0.7 m in the west, 1.1 m in the east and 0.6 m at the north wall, i.e. at the passage. The rock of the wall is inclined to form a 12o corner. The reservoir itself (Fig. 14.3–4) is 6.5 m long and 5.3 m wide. The hewn walls form a slope tapering towards the end. The first reservoir was filled with huge blocks of stone and river gravel. We used a hoist to remove stones, while the large slabs lying deeper were crushed by steel stakes. Among the lifted stones a stone hammer with hewn facets was found. Another notable discovery was a large hemispherical stone mould for bronzecasting (Fig. 16.1). A mould of such shape was the first of its kind discovered by us. Its diameter is 60–64 cm, at the base 55–60 cm, and the height is 32 cm. It is evident that large bronze bars were cast in nearby furnace-workshops. Another large, hemispherical mould was also found. Neatly crafted, its diameter is 43–45 cm at the base and the

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height is 31 cm. The walls of the stone reservoir are rough. The cleaning of the reservoir has not been completed. Below the first reservoir are steep inclines (Fig. 14.6). From the mill-side canal to the left bank is 13 m, while the height difference between the first reservoir and the second is 6 m. This section yielded highly interesting evidence. A second rock-hewn reservoirtrough was found in the central part. Inclined from east to west, its length is 9.3 m, width 2.2 m, depth at the south wall of 3.1 m, at the passage 1.5 m, at the west side 0.9 m, at the east 0.7 m (Fig. 13.1). The reservoir is also notable for containing an additional trough. A fairly large, neatly processed trough (no. 1) is cut into its wall. The width of it is 3 m, the diameter is 50 cm and the depth 12 cm. This is an interesting detail. It is evident that the combined reservoir-trough no. 2 was used both for flotation and fragmentation/crushing of ore separated from waste rocks by using a simple mechanism designed by ingenious metalworkers at a later stage. About 0.9 m to the west of the reservoir were found isolated rock-hewn troughs (Fig. 13.2). First, a large stone trough (no. 3) was made. The diameter is 2.2–2.5 m, almost circular; the height is 1.8 m. Another trough was hewn in the north part of the earlier stone trough (no. 4). Its diameter is 1.05 m and the depth to the bottom of the trough is 1.03 m. From this level can be seen greenish rocks. Slightly lower, at a distance of 1.6 m, the largest trough (no. 3) was hewn along the whole length of the river basin (Fig. 17.2). Hard violet rocks were seen here. The trough appears to be double-levelled. The west section is 17.5 m long; the width at the starting point is 4.7 m, at the middle 4.5 m and at the end (eastern extension) 3.2 m. Its depth at different locations is 1.5–1.9 m. The second, deeper level is 8.7 m long. The total length of the reservoir is 26.2 m, while its width between 2.1 and 3.7 m at different sections. The exact depth cannot be given. It is to be cleaned from stone and gravel. Local workers broke large slabs of stone using iron wedges (Fig. 16.1). The measured depth at some points reaches 1.9 m. Two water channels (Fig. 16.2) were found carved between the second and third reservoirs. These sections appear to be neatly polished. The presence of two levels in the reservoir cannot be accidental. The flow of water containing metal ores followed an incline from west to east. Fragments of heavy ore, when falling into a deep reservoir, would sink. The edge of the third reservoir is provided with a specially made water conduit, 6.3 m long, 0.7 m wide and 12 cm deep. The flow discharges into the fifth crusher, which is located on the left bank of the river. The trough has a diameter of 1.7 m, and its height reaches 1.9 m. It is hemispherical in shape, open in front. The section between the third and fifth troughs, 11–12 m wide, is levelled. Drainage pipe water flows only from below the mill. Next to the fifth trough a seventh channel begins, 1.4 m long, 0.6–0.7 m wide and 0.3–0.4 m deep. This is followed by a stone reservoir (no. 4) blocking the flow. It measures 3.2 m in length, 2.2 m in width and 0.4 m in depth. We conducted further observations in this section. The water flow carrying ore waste first reached the west wall of the fifth trough and continued slowly towards the fourth. Another channel (no. 8) was found along the same section; it measures 2.4 m in length, 0.2–0.5 m in width and 0.1–0.14 m in depth. It carried water from the fourth reservoir. One more channel (no. 9) was excavated in the final section of the left bank. It is 6.2 m long, 0.12 m wide and 0.5 m deep.

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The presence of artefacts cannot be observed. The areas beyond the site are relatively even, almost without exception. Dagva appears to have been one of the advanced centres of non-ferrous metallurgy. This is attested by artefacts excavated at other sites in Ajara, of which particular note must be made of stone hammers of different shape and size (Fig. 15.3–4). Implements were discovered weighing from 15 up to even 300 kg and more, that corresponded with the dimensions of respective stone troughs. The majority of them are neatly hewn and bear carefully made marks that allow us to assume that they were to be attached to a perch by means of strips. Stone moulds intended for casting bronze bars are important in several ways. They are increasingly represented in recent finds. Early bronze bars can be found frequently in typical Colchian hoards and appear to be an element of Colchian tribal culture. Recent finds reveal that stone artefacts of this type were covered from the outside with a clay layer of a certain thickness, fired and then used as moulds for casting bronze bars. I will confine myself to noting that large stone moulds were discovered during the excavation of an industrial site at Dagva, while smaller artefacts were found at other sites as well. Most of the moulds are hemispherical, only a few being square, with rounded corners. Similar square moulds are displayed in the Bodrum Museum of Underwater Archaeology, Turkey. Evidently, bronze bars were transported to an international market via land, river and sea routes. The River Dekhva must have been the only way to carry large bars from Dagva to a Black Sea coast, whence they could be shipped in any direction. Smaller bars were evidently transported via land routes. The artefacts attest to a large-scale import of semi-finished bronze goods. Batumi Archaeological Museum teams recovered remarkable evidence (Fig. 18) dated to different millennia at the settlement sites of Janjgnari, Ispaani, Kolotauri, Kokotauri, Kirtani and Pichvnari contemporary with the aforementioned metalworking practices. It is worth noting that artefacts representing the newly discovered culture were manufactured locally, by the inhabitants of this area, which highlights the contribution of local craftsmen to the development of human civilisation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bzhaniya, V. 1981: ‘Drevnie Bashkapsarskie rudniki’. Priroda 1, 55–59. Chartolani, S. 1971a: ‘Pamyatniki drevnego gruzinskogo gorno-rudnogo proizvodstva v gornoi Abkhazii’. Tezisi dokladov, posvyashennikh polevim arkheologicheskim issledovaniyam v SSSR for 1970, 91–97. —. 1971b: ‘Spilendzis dzveli samtamadno gamonamushevrebi md. bzipisa da kodoris sataveebshi’. In Peikrishvili, R. (ed.), Arkeologiuri kvleva-dzieba sakartveloshi 1969 tsels (Tbilisi), 49–61. —. 1977: Svanetis brinjaos khanis arkeologiuri dzeglebi (Tbilisi). —. 1989: K istorii nagorya Zapadnoi Gruzii doklassovoi epokhi (Tbilisi). —. 1996: Dzveli svaneti (Tbilisi). Djaparidze, O. 2013: Brinjaos industriis istoriisatvis udzveles sakartveloshi (Tbilisi). Gambashidze, I. 2016: Saqdrisis okro – katsobriobis pirveli okros samto tsarmoeba (Tbilisi). Gambashidze, I., Mindiashvili, B., Gogochuri, G., Kakhiani, K. and Djaparidze, I. 2010: Uzvelesi metalurgia da samto sakme sakartveloshi (Tbilisi). Gobejishvili, G. 1952: ‘Pamyatniki drevnegruzinskogo gornogo dela i metallurgii v okrestnostyakh s. Gebi’. Sakartvelos metsnierebata akademiis moambe 13, 183–90. —. 1966: ‘Dzveli samtamadno tsarmoebis dzeglebi rachashi’. Dzeglis Megobari 6, 16–20.

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—. 1970: ‘Samtamadno da metalurgiuli tsarmoeba’. In Melikishvili, G. (ed.), Studies on the History of Georgia, vol. 2 (Tbilisi), 278–82. Gobejishvili, G., Mujiri, T., Inanishvili, G. and Maisuradze, B. 1983: ‘Mtiani rachis udzvelesi brinjaos tsarmoebis istoriisatvis’. Sakartvelos metsnierebata akademiis moambe 111, 441–42. Iessen, A.A. 1935: ‘K voprosu o drevneishei metallurgii medi na Kavkaze’. Izvestiya Gosudarstvennoi Akademii istorii material’noi kul’turi 120, 72–137. Inanishvili, G. 2016: Kartuli metalurgiis sataveebtan (dzv.ts. IV–I atastsleulebi) (Tbilisi). Inanishvili, G., Chartolani, S., Maisuradze, B., Gobejishvili, G. and Mujiri, T. 1998: ‘Sakartvelos udzvelesi samtamadno tsarmoebis dzeglebi’. Dziebani 2, 52–62. Kakhidze, A. 2017a: ‘Brinjaos metalurgiis udzvelesi kerebi acharashi (2014–2015 tsts. Agmochenebis mikhedvit)’. Batumis arkeologiuri muzeumis shromebi 7, 4–15. —. 2017b: ‘Brinjaos metalurgiastan dakavshirebuli megalituri kulturis dzeglebi acharashi’. In Papunidze, V. (ed.), Transactions of the Ajarian Autonomous Republic Regional Scientific Centre of the Georgian National Academy of Sciences, vol. 2 (Batumi), 181–90. —. 2017c: ‘Brinjaos metalurgiastan dakavshirebuli megalituri kulturis dzeglebi acharashi’. In Ivanishvili, M. and Putkaradze, T. (eds.), Materials of the International Scientific Conference: South-West Georgia (History, Archaeology, Ethnology) 7, 5–6 October 2017, Batumi (Tbilisi), 280–94. Kakhidze, A. and Nagervadze, M. 2014: ‘Brinjaos metalurgiis nashtebi chorokhis auzidan (charnalis murvaneti)’. In Ivanishvili, M. and Putkaradze, T. (eds.), Materials of the International Scientific Conference: South-West Georgia (History, Archaeology, Eethnology) 4, 18–19 September 2014, Batumi (Tbilisi), 194–200. Kakhidze, A., Surmanidze, N. and Nagervadze, M. 2016: Ajara in Chalcolitic, Bronze and Early Iron Ages (Exhibition Catalogue) (Batumi). Kakhidze, A., Surmanidze, N., Shalikadze, T. and Dzneladze, N. 2014: ‘Akhali arkeologiuri agmochenebi sopel maradidshi’. In Diasamidze, B. (ed.), Proceedings of the International Scientific Conference: The Fundamentals of our Spirituality 6, 2–3 May 2014, Batumi (Tbilisi), 32–38. Khomeriki, G. and Zhordaniya, V. 1988: Medno-polimetallicheskie rudoproyavleniya Zapadnogo Kavkaza (Manuscript preserved at the Geological Service of the Environment Protection and Natural Resources Department of Ajara, Batumi). Maisuradze, B. and Inanishvili, G. 1984: ‘Brinjaos tsarmoebis dzeglebi kakhetis spilendzis gamadnebis zolshi’. Matsne 3, 86–89. Pitskhelauri, K. 2012: ‘Samkhret kavkasia, tsina azia, chrdilo shavizgvispireti da evropa eneolitbrinjaos khanashi’. arkeologiur kulturata kontekstebis dinamika’. In Kipiani, G. (ed.), Issues of the History and Archaeology of Georgia and Caucasus (Tbilisi), 64–89. Surmanidze, N. 2005: ‘Neolitisa da eneolitis khanis masalebi chakvisqlis kheobidan’. Batumis arkeologiuri muzeumis shromebi 3, 14–16.

Fig. 1. Map of the earliest bronze metallurgical sites in Ajara (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 2. Stone pans from Chaisubani, Gantiadi, Ombolo and Maradidi (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 3. Stone pans from Maradidi (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 4. Stone pans from Maradidi (Anzor Javelidze, Batumi Archaeological Museum).

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Fig. 5. Chirukhi, Kapnistavi, Sarpi, Tkhilnaris Agara, Simoneti and Kveda Chkhutuneti waterfalls (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 6. Kveda Chkhutuneti, Simoneti, Maradidi and Kapnistavi waterfalls (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 7. Gogadzeebi and Kinkisha waterfalls (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 8. Tkhilnari, Sagoreti, Tetrobi and Simoneti waterfalls (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 9. Tkhilnari waterfall (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 10. Artefacts found at Sarpi waterfall (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 11. Bronze Age artefacts found during the archaeological excavations in Ajara (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 12. Model of mechanism to maximise the effect of the use of water energy (Merab Uzunadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum).

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Fig. 13. Dagva waterfall (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 14. Dagva waterfall (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 15. Artefacts found at Dagva waterfall (Anzor Javelidze, Batumi Archaeological Museum).

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Fig. 16. Artefacts found at Dagva waterfall (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 17. Dagva waterfall (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 18. Bronze Age artefacts found by chance in Ajara (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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TOMBES À BOUCLIER AU NORD ET À L’EST DE LA MER NOIRE À L’ÉPOQUE ROMAINE: ORIGINES Michel KAZANSKI

RÉSUMÉ Quelques tombes à mobilier contenant un bouclier à éléments métalliques sont connues depuis le Ier siècle jusque dans la première moitié du IIIe siècle ap. J.-C. au nord et à l’est de la mer Noire (à savoir en Crimée et en Abkhazie). Le dépôt des boucliers dans des tombes est largement attesté à cette époque du La Tène tardif et au début de l’époque romaine dans les civilisations celtes et germaniques en Europe centrale et de l’ouest. Par conséquent, l’apparition des boucliers dans les tombes pontiques est considérée comme un témoignage des contacts militaires entre les populations de la mer Noire et les peuples germaniques. Cependant, à en analyser les plus anciennes tombes pontiques contenant des boucliers, trois origines possibles de cet usage funéraire peuvent être prises en considération: influence des pratiques funéraires germaniques, contribution des troupes auxiliaires thraces et diffusion d’une mode ‘aristocratique’ venue de l’est méditerranéen hellénisé. ABSTRACT Several tombs whose furnishings include a shield with metal elements are known from the 1st century to the first half of the 3rd century AD in the north and the east of the Black Sea (i.e. the Crimea and Abkhazia). Depositing a shield in tombs is well attested in Late La Tène and Early Roman times in the Celtic and Germanic civilisations of Central and Western Europe. Thus, the appearance of a shield in Pontic tombs is considered as testimony of the military contacts between the populations of the Black Sea and the Germans. However, by examining the oldest Pontic tombs containing a shield, three possible origins for this funerary custom can be considered: the influence of Germanic funerary practices, the contribution of Thracian auxiliary troops, and the spread of an ‘aristocratic’ funerary fashion from the Hellenised eastern Mediterranean area.

Une série de tombes contenant dans leur mobilier un bouclier avec des éléments métalliques (umbo, manipules, etc.) apparait du Ier jusque vers le milieu du IIIe siècle ap. J.-C. au nord et à l’est de le la mer Noire. Citons à titre d’exemple les tumuli de Sadovyi, Vysochino ou Tanaïs dans le bassin du Don inférieur, le tombeau de Kallisthénès à Panticapée (Kertch d’aujourd’hui) en Crimée orientale, deux tombes de la nécropole de Neizats en Crimée du sud-ouest et une tombe dans la nécropole de Shaumyanovka en Abkhazie. Aux IIIe et IVe siècles, le dépôt d’un bouclier dans les sépultures est assez fréquent en Crimée et en Abkhazie et est connu, dans une moindre mesure, au nord-ouest de la mer Noire dans le contexte funéraire de la civilisation de Tchernyakhov. Notre propos consiste à identifier les origines possibles de cette coutume. Le dépôt d’un bouclier dans les tombes à l’époque de La Tène tardive et au début de l’époque romaine est bien attesté dans les civilisations celtiques et germaniques d’Europe

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Fig. 1. Umbos provenant de tombes sarmates du Don inférieur. 1: Sadovyi; 2: Vysochino (d’après Shchukin 1993, fig. 1).

centrale et occidentale. À l’époque romaine, cette pratique funéraire se diffuse, avec d’autres éléments de la « civilisation militaire » (panoplie, usage des éperons, destruction rituelle d’armes lors des rites funéraires, etc.), des milieux celtique et germanique vers les autres peuples du Barbaricum, tels que les Thraces, les Baltes ou les Finnois de la mer Baltique. Ainsi, l’apparition d’un bouclier dans les tombes pontiques est considérée comme un témoignage des contacts militaires des populations de la mer Noire avec les Germains. La présence d’umbos de bouclier dans les tumuli « princiers » sarmates du milieu ou de la deuxième moitié du Ier siècle à Sadovyi ou Vysochino n° 28 (Fig. 1) dans le bassin du Don inférieur a été mise en rapport par M.B. Shchukin soit avec des butins militaires, soit avec des cadeaux diplomatiques d’origine germanique, d’autant plus qu’à cette époque, les sources écrites parlent justement de contacts militaires entre les Sarmates et les Germains en Europe centrale.1 Parmi d’autres tombes somptueuses du Don inférieur, il faut citer l’inhumation 1 du tumulus 2.1964 de Tanaïs (Fig. 2), qui contenait un umbo du type Ilkjaer 3c,2 daté de la période C1a (170/180–210/220 ap. J.-C.) selon la chronologie du Barbaricum européen. Cet umbo appartient à un groupe d’objets plus tardifs découverts dans cette tombe (restes d’une action commémorative?), de la fin du IIe ou du début du IIIe siècle. Il n’est pas exclu que ce groupe d’objets ait été déposé dans la sépulture bien après les funérailles.3 Cependant, les origines germaniques de cette pratiques funéraire pour la région pontique posent un problème: il n’existe aucun témoignage direct ou indirect dans les  Shchukin 1993; Shchukin et al. 2006, 4, 5.  Cf. Ilkjaer 1990, 282–85, Abb. 199. 3  Tolochko et Sharov 2016, 309, 310. 1 2

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Fig. 2. Tanaïs, tumulus 2. 1964 (d’après Tolochko et Sharov 2016, fig. 1).

sources écrites d’une présence germanique dans la région de la mer Noire entre la fin du IIIe–début du IIe siècle av. J.-C.4 (les Scires du décret de Protogène) et le milieu du IIIe siècle ap. J.-C. (l’invasion des Goths et des Borani au nord de la mer Noire). Les archéologues reconstituent souvent une vague de migration germanique venant d’Europe centrale au IIe siècle ap. J.-C.5 Ces migrations ne sont pas attestées par les auteurs anciens, 4 5

 Voir Shchukin 1989, 34, 35; 1994, 97.  Vasiliev 2005; Sharov 2010; 2013.

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mais ont laissé des traces archéologiques, comme par exemple les découvertes de garnitures de ceinture, de harnachement, de torques en plaques métalliques ou encore de parures du style des émaux «  barbares  ».6 Cependant, les mêmes chercheurs soulignent à juste titre que ces garnitures, torques et émaux sont avant tout baltes, et non germaniques, et proviennent de la zone forestière de l’Europe de l’Est. Bien entendu, on ne peut pas exclure la possibilité de l’apparition au nord de la mer Noire de groupes de migrants (germaniques ou mélangés) avant le milieu du IIIe siècle. Cependant, il me parait peu probable que ces migrants puissent à eux seuls être à l’origine du dépôt d’un bouclier dans les tombes de la population locale, comme le montrent certaines découvertes en Abkhazie et en Crimée. En ce qui concerne la côte est de la mer Noire, il faut rappeler que les boucliers à umbos et manipules métalliques n’ont pas de parallèle dans d’autres régions du Caucase.7 Les types d’umbos et de manipules présents dans les tombes abkhazes sont aussi répandus chez les Germains que dans l’Empire romain.8 La découverte la plus précoce, parmi les sites publiés uniquement, appartient à la phase I/1 (170/200–260/270) de la civilisation locale dite de Tsebelda.9 C’est une incinération à Shaumyanovka (Fig. 3), qui contenait, à part un umbo, une épée.10 Il est significatif que l’umbo provenant de cette tombe soit du type Zieling M ou R1,11 appartenant à la tradition militaire romaine.12 Il faut noter que, pour les sites de la civilisation de Tsebelda appartenant à la phase I/1, aucun élément culturel germanique n’est attesté. Les influences provenant de la civilisation germanique y apparaissent plus tard, durant la phase I/2 (260/270–330/340).13 Ainsi, le porteur d’épée enterré à Shaumyanovka a très vraisemblablement obtenu son bouclier à umbo sans intermédiaire germanique. Dans le Bosphore Cimmérien, à Panticapée (Kertch d’aujourd’hui), un umbo de bouclier d’apparat portant un riche décor en relief (Fig. 4) a été mis au jour en 1894 dans le tombeau d’Iulius Kallisthénès, sur la pente nord du Mont Mithridate. Cette sépulture contenait un riche mobilier du IIe siècle (Fig. 5), typique des tombes de la noblesse locale.14 On peut dire sans le moindre doute qu’Iulius Kallisthénès n’avait aucun rapport avec les Germains et que, très probablement, il ne soupçonnait même pas leur existence. En ce qui concerne l’umbo, sa forme, reconstituée par O. Sharov, est comparable avec les riches pièces du type Herpály, connus en Europe centrale et septentrionale15 et appartenant, d’après leur décor, à la tradition romaine.16 Pour la Crimée du Sud-Ouest, il faut évoquer les découvertes à Neizats. La première (tombe n° 152), appartenant à la première moitié du IIIe siècle, contenait un umbo

6  À propos des émaux, voir en particulier: Korzukhina 1978; Oblomskii et Terpilovskii 2007; BitnerWróblewska 2011. 7  Voronov et Shenkao 1982. 8  Pour plus de détails, cf. Kazanski 1994. 9  Cf. Kazanski et Mastykova 2007, 21, 22. 10  Gunba 1978, 60, 61, tabl. 48.8. 11  Cf . Zieling 1989, 127–30, 139, 140, Taf. 15.1–2, 17.1–2. 12  Kazanski 1994, 437. 13  Cf. Kazanski 2015a, 54. 14  Sharov 2011, 220, fig. 8; Sharov et Choref 2015. 15  Sharov et Choref 2015, fig. 10. 16  Kazanski 2015b, 281–83; Masyakin 2018, avec la bibliographie.

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Fig. 3. Tombe de Shaumyanovka (d’après Gunba 1978, tabl. 48).

comparable à celui de la tombe thrace de Karaagach (Fig. 7.1), que nous allons examiner un peu plus tard. L’autre tombe (n° 306) a livré un umbo à épine (Fig. 7.2) et un manipule de bouclier. Ces pièces, d’après leurs parallèles scandinaves, appartiennent à la phase B2b-C1 (160/180–250/270) selon la chronologie du Barbaricum européen.17 Ainsi, les exemples des découvertes les plus précoces d’umbos pontiques montrent que leur origine n’est pas forcement liée à l’arrivée présumée des Germains au IIe siècle. Il faut 17

 Khrapunov 2011, 32–34, fig. 29.

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Fig. 4. Umbo de la tombe d’Iulius Kallisthénès (d’après Sharov et Choref 2015, fig. 7).

donc examiner d’autres hypothèses possibles. De plus, comme nous l’avons vu, le dépôt d’un bouclier dans les tombes n’est pas une coutume exclusivement germanique: elle a également pu se diffuser sous une influence celtique.18 Les découvertes d’umbos dans des tombes de l’aristocratie thrace romanisée du Ier jusque dans la première moitié du IIIe siècle en Mésie attirent spécialement notre attention.19 Soulignons que ces umbos ont été déjà considérés comme la preuve d’une influence ou même d’une présence celtique.20 À titre d’exemple, on peut citer la découverte à Dimitrievo. 18

 Voir à ce propos: Shchukin 1989, 16; 1994, 18.  Wozniak 1975; Zieling 1989, 1000, 1001, Kat. 2016, 2017, 2020–2022; Kazanski 1994, 436; Masyakin 2018. 20  Wozniak 1975. 19

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Fig. 5. Mobilier du tombeau d’Iulius Kallisthénès (d’après Shchukin et al. 2006, fig. 6).

C’est une tombe à char qui contenait un umbo du type Zieling N-a, typique de la période B1 (10/20–70/80) (Fig. 6.1).21 Une autre tombe a été mise au jour dans le tumulus de Karaagach.22 Elle a livré un umbo en bronze du type Zieling I-4 (Fig. 6.3), caractéristique de la période B2 (70/80– 160/170).23 Il faut noter qu’un umbo identique, déjà cité (Fig. 6.1), a été découvert en Crimée du Sud-Ouest, dans la tombe 152, déjà citée, de la nécropole de Neizats. La tombe est datée de la première moitié du IIIe siècle.24 Un autre umbo de ce type provient de la 21

 Velkov 1943, 196; Zieling 1989, 132, 1000, Kat. 2016.  Velkov 1928–29, 24. 23  Zieling 1989, 119, 120, 1000, Kat. 2017; Masyakin 2018, fig. 1.6. 24  Khrapunov 2011, 32–34, fig. 29.1. 22

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Fig. 6. Umbos de tombes de chefs militaires de Mésie. 1: Dimitrievo; 2: Sadovo; 3: Karaagach (1 – reconstitution d’après Velkov 1943, fig. 274; 2 – d’après Zhuglev, Kaludova 1963, fig. 12; 3 – d’après Velkov 1928–29, fig. 24).

Fig. 7. Umbos de la nécropole de Neizats. 1: tombe 152; 2: tombe 306 (d’après Khrapunov 2011, fig. 25).

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Fig. 8. Umbo d’Hauran (d’après Kazanski 1994, pl. 17).

ville syrienne d’Hauran (Fig. 8). Cette pièce se trouve aujourd’hui au Musée national archéologique à Damas.25 L’umbo syrien montre que ce type d’armes n’est pas lié uniquement avec le monde celtique ou germanique. Parmi les tombes somptueuses de Mésie contenant des boucliers à umbo, citons également le tumulus 1 de Sadovo, daté du Ier siècle.26 Un umbo du type Zieling E-1 y a été mis au jour (Fig. 6.2). Ce type d’umbo est daté de la période B1-C2 (donc entre 10/20 et 250/270).27 D’autre part, une tombe « de guerrier » à Serdica (Fig. 9), datable du Ier ou de la première moitié du IIe siècle, contenait un bouclier à umbo, une épée et une lance.28 Enfin, il faut mentionner la découverte de deux boucliers à umbo dans la tombe célèbre (tumulus 2) de Tchatalka « Rashchava Dragana ». La sépulture la plus ancienne de ce tumulus est attribuée à la fin du Ier ou au début du IIe siècle. La présence d’un apport culturel sarmate y est reconnue.29 À mon avis, la présence d’un bouclier dans ces tombes de la noblesse thrace pourrait expliquer l’apparition du dépôt de cette arme dans les tombes en Crimée. Il est bien possible qu’il s’agisse d’un témoignage de l’influence des coutumes miliaires romanothraces sur les pratiques funéraires du nord de la mer Noire.30 De plus, on sait qu’à cette époque, des troupes auxiliaires thraces étaient cantonnées à Chersonèse.31 Cependant, la piste « thrace » est seulement une des explications possibles de la diffusion de cette coutume funéraire dans le Pont. Une autre hypothèse est l’influence de la civilisation aristocratique de l’Orient romain hellénisé. En effet, la présence d’un bouclier dans un contexte funéraire est connue pour les deux premiers siècles de l’ère chrétienne à l’autre bout du monde gréco-romain, à Homs, en Syrie. Il faut rappeler que la ville 25

 Kazanski 1994, pl. 17.  Zhuglev et Kaludova 1963. 27  Zieling 1989, 79, 80, 1001, Kat. 2021. 28  Pisarova 1995, fig. 16. 29  Buyukliev 1976; 1995; Negin et Kamisheva 2016; Masyakin 2018, fig. 1.2. 30  Kazanski 1991, 501, 502. 31  Voir par exemple Kadeev 1981, 96, 97. 26

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Fig. 9. Tombe de Serdica (d’après Pisarova 1995, fig. 16).

faisait partie de l’Empire romain, mais était gouvernée jusqu’au milieu du Ier siècle par une dynastie locale, à l’instar du Bosphore Cimmérien au nord de la mer Noire ou de Palmyre voisine. À Homs, le dépôt d’un bouclier dans une sépulture aristocratique est attesté dans la tombe n° 11, qui contenait un sarcophage à garniture en argent (Fig. 10.3).32 La tombe a été pillée, les restes ont été étudiés par les archéologues et une partie du mobilier a été retrouvée chez des marchands locaux – un torque en or à charnières (Fig. 10.5), un objet fusiforme en cornaline, orné de têtes de lions en or (Fig. 10.4), des 32

 Seyrig 1953, 16–21.

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Fig. 10. Mobilier de la tombe 11 d’Homs (d’après Seyrig 1953, pl. 7.8 A).

appliques en tôle d’or (Fig. 10.1), une bulla en or (Fig. 10.2), un miroir en bronze doré, des chaînes en or (Fig. 10.6, 7), un umbo à calotte sphéroïdo-conique en bronze doré (Fig. 10.9) et, probablement, des garnitures de bord de bouclier en argent (Fig. 10.8): ce dernier était posé sur le sarcophage. Cette mode aristocratique est bien connue au nord de la mer Noire à l’époque antique. Les éléments hellénistiques des rites funéraires prestigieux, tels que les masques et les diadèmes funéraires en or, attestés dans les tombes de l’aristocratie bosporaine, ont été apportés de la Méditerranée orientale hellénisée. Ainsi, il est bien possible que le tombeau prestigieux d’Homs, les sépultures de la noblesse thrace en Mésie, la sépulture de Iulius

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Kallisthénès et l’incinération du porteur d’épée à Shaumyanovka soient les manifestations de la même mode funéraire. La mode funéraire, grâce au phénomène d’imitation bien connu dans les sociétés anciennes,33 se diffuse des élites vers d’autres couches sociales, en premier lieu vers la partie la plus aisée de la « classe moyenne ». On peut citer comme exemple de cette imitation de la mode « aristocratique » par la « classe moyenne » les tombes de Neizats en la Crimée du Sud-Ouest, ou encore la sépulture à porteur d’épée à Shaumyanovka en Abkhazie contenant des boucliers à umbo. Ainsi, en examinant les tombes pontiques les plus anciennes contenant des boucliers à umbo, on peut envisager trois origines pour cette coutume funéraire: les influences des pratiques funéraires germaniques, les apports des troupes auxiliaires thraces et enfin la diffusion de la mode funéraire aristocratiques venant de la Méditerranée orientale hellénisée.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE Bitner-Wróblewska, A. 2011: ‘East European Enamelled Ornaments and the Character of Contacts between the Baltic Sea and Black Sea’. Dans Khrapunov, I. et Stylegard, F.-A. (éd.), Inter Ambo Maria: Contacts between Scandinavia and the Crimea in the Roman Period (Cultural-Historical Report 10) (Kristiansand/Simferopol), 11–24. Buyukliev, K. 1976: ‘Za nilichieto na tezhko vorzheni konici v rimska Trakiya’. Muzei i pametnitsi na kulturata 2, 18–22. —. 1995: ‘K voprosu o frakiisko-sarmatskikh otnosheniyakh v I–nachale II veka n.é.’. Rossiiskaya Arkheologiya 1, 37–46. Gunba, M.M. 1978: Novye pamyatniki tsebeldinskoi kul’tury (Tbilissi). Ilkjaer, J. 1990: Illerup Adal 1: Die Lanzen und Speere (Jutland Archaeological Society Publications 25) (Aarhus). Kadeev, V. 1982: Khersones Tavricheskii v pervykh vekakh nashei ery (Kharkov). Kazanski, M. 1991: ‘Contribution à l’histoire de la défense de la frontière pontique au Bas-Empire’. Travaux et Mémoires 11, 487–526. —. 1993: ‘The Sedentary Elite in the “Empire” of the Huns and its Impact on Material Civilisation in Southern Russia during the Early Middle Ages (5th–7th Centuries AD)’. Dans Chapman, J. et Dolukhanov, P. (éd.), Cultural Transformations in Eastern Europe (Aldershot), 211–35. —. 1994: ‘Les éperons, les umbos, les manipules de boucliers et les haches de l’époque romaine tardive dans la région pontique: origine et diffusion’. Dans von Carnap-Bornheim, C. (éd.), Beiträge zu römischer und barbarischer Bewaffnung in den ersten vier nachchristlichen Jahrhunderten (Akten des 2. Internationalen Kolloquiums in Marburg a. d. Lahn, 20. bis 24. Februar 1994) (Veröffentlichung des Vorgeschichtlichen Seminars Marburg, Sonderbd. 8) (Lublin/ Marburg), 429–85. —. 2015a: ‘Germanskie elementy v material’noi kul’ture Abkhazii v pozdnerimskoe vremja i v epokhu pereseleniya narodov’. Scripta Antiqua 4, 33–60. —. 2015b: ‘O proishozhdenii vostochnobaltskikh umbonov s “zhemchuzhnym” dekorom’. Barbaricum 11, 277–89. Kazanski, M. et Mastykova, A. 2007: Tsibilium: La nécropole apsile de Tsibilium (VIIe av. J.-C.– VIIe ap. J.-C.) (Abkhazie, Caucase). L’étude du site, vol. 2 (BAR International Series 1721) (Oxford).

33

 Voir à ce propos: Kazanski 1993; Périn 1993.

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Khrapunov, I. 2011: ‘Nekotorye itogi issledovanii mogilnika Neizats’. Dans Khrapunov, I. (éd.), Issledovaniya mogilnika Neizats (Simferopol), 60–114. Korzukhina, G. 1978: Predmety ubora s vyemchatymi emalyami V–pervoi poloviny VI v. n.e. v Srednem Podneprovie (Leningrad). Masyakin, V. 2018: ‘Umbon shchita iz sklepa Iuliya Kallisfena’. Dans Zinko, V.N. et Zinko, E.A. (éd.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekovya. Traditsii i innovatsii (Bosporskie Chteniya 19) (Simferopol/Kerch), 299–308. Negin, A. et Kamisheva, M. 2016: ‘Dospekh katafraktariya iz pogrebeniya v kurgane “Roshava Dragana”’. Stratum Plus 4, 91–119. Oblomskii, A. et Terpilovskii, R. 2007: ‘Predmety ubora s vyemchatymi emalyami na territorii lesostepnoi zony Vostochnoi Evropy (dopolnenie svodov G.F. Korzukhinoi, I.K. Frolova i E.L. Gorokhovskogo)’. Dans Oblomskii, A. (éd.), Pamyatniki kievskoi kul’tury v lesostepnoi zone Rossii (III–nachalo V v. n.e.) (Moscou), 113–41. Périn, P. 1993: ‘L’armée de Vidimer et la question des dépôts funéraires chez les Wisigoths en Gaule et en Espagne (Ve–VIe siècles)’. Dans Vallet, F. et Kazanski, M. (éd.), L’armée romaine et les barbares du IIIe au VIIe siècle (Mémoires de l’Association française d’archéologie mérovingienne 5) (Saint-Germain-en-Laye/Rouen), 411–24. Pisarova, V. 1995: ‘Mogilen grob na voin ot pokrainite na rimska Serdika’. Arkheologia 37.3, 18–28. Seyrig, H. 1953: ‘Antiquités syriennes. 53. Antiquités de la nécropole d’Émèse’. Syria 30, 12–24. Sharov, O. 2010: ‘Dannye pismennykh i arkheologicheskikh istochnikov o poyavlenii germancev na Bospore (problema vydeleniya “germanskikh drevnosteii” na Bospore)’. Stratum Plus 4, 251–85. —–. 2011: ‘K voprosu o “sarmatskoi znati” na Bospore v pozdnerimskuyu epokhu’. In Matishov, G.G., Yablonskii, L.T. et Lukyashko, S.I. (éd.), Pogrebal’nyi obryad rannikh kochevnikov Evrazii (Materialy VII Mezhdunarodnoi nauchnoi konferentsii) (Rostov-sur-le-Don), 217–33. —. 2013: ‘V poiskakh strany “Oium”: epos ili realnost?’. Drevnosti Zapadnogo Kavkaza 1, 118–55. Sharov, O. et Choref, M. 2015: ‘K voprosu o datirovke tabula ansata s imenem Yuliya Kallisfena’. Stratum Plus 4, 357–78. Shchukin, M. 1989: Rome and the Barbarians in Central and Eastern Europe, 1st Century B.C.– 1st Century A.D. (BAR International Series 542) (Oxford). —. 1993: ‘À propos des contacts militaires entre les Sarmates et les Germains à l’époque romaine (d’après l’armement et spécialement les umbos de boucliers et les lances)’. Dans Vallet, F. et Kazanski, M. (éd.), L’armée romaine et les barbares du IIIe au VIIe siècle (Mémoires de l’Association française d’archéologie mérovingienne 5) (Saint-Germain-en-Laye/Rouen), 323–34. —. 1994: Na rubezhe ery. Opyt istoriko-arkheologicheskoi rekonstruktsii politicheskikh sobytii III v. do n.e.–I v. n.e. v Vostochnoi i Tsentralnoi Evrope (Saint-Pétersbourg). Shchukin, M., Kazanski, M. et Sharov, O. 2006: Des Goths aux Huns: Le Nord de la Mer Noire au Bas-Empire et à l’époque des Grandes Migrations (BAR International Series 1535) (Oxford). Tolochko, I. et Sharov, O. 2016: ‘Tanais. Kurgan N° 2 rimskoi epokhi’. Dans Zuev, V. et Khrshanovskii, V. (éd.), Elita Bospora i bosporskaya elitarnaya kul’tura (Saint-Pétersbourg), 304–13. Vasiliev, A.A. 2005: ‘O vremeni poyavleniya germanskikh druzhin na Bospore’. Dans Bosporskii Fenomen: Problema sootnosheniya pis’mennykh i arkheologicheskikh istochnikov (Saint-Pétersbourg), 343–49. Velkov, I. 1928–29: ‘Novi mogilni nakhodki’. Izvestiya na Balgarskiya arhheologicheski institut 5, 13–55. —. 1943: ‘Pogrebenie sa kolesnitsi’. Izvestiya na Balgarskiya arkheologicheski institut 14, 189–207. Voronov, Y. et Shenkao, N. 1982: ‘Vooruzhenie voinov Abkhazii IV–VII v.’. Dans Ambroz, A. et Erdeli, I. (éd.), Drevnosti epokhi velikogo pereseleniya narodov V–VIII vekov (Moscou), 121–65. Wozniak, Z. 1975: ‘Die Kelten und die Latènekultur auf den thrakischen Gebieten’. Alba Regia 14, 177–83. Zhuglev, K. et Kaludova, I. 1963: ‘Mogilni nakhodki ot s. Sadovo, Asenovgradsko’. Arkheologia 5.4, 33–39. Zieling, N. 1989: Studien zu germanischen Schilden der Spätlatène- und der römischen Kaiserzeit im freien Germanien (BAR International Series 505) (Oxford).

THE MOUTH OF THE TANAIS AND ITS ROLE IN COLCHIAN-SCYTHIAN TRADE IN THE 5TH–FIRST QUARTER OF THE 3RD CENTURY BC Viktor KOPYLOV (†)

ABSTRACT Trade connexions between Colchis and Scythia in the 5th and the first half of the 4th century BC can be seen most clearly around Nymphaeum and the Elizavetovskoe settlement in the Don Delta. Nymphaeum–Colchis connexions were the most active when the former was autonomous of the Scythians. Grain was the main commodity imported from Nymphaeum because of the lack of suitable agricultural lands in Colchis. When Nymphaeum was added to the Bosporan kingdom the Elizavetovskoe settlement kept exporting grain. Its palaeobotanical spectrum proves it. But in 340s BC the Elizavetovskoe settlement lost its political independence and its trade connexions with Colchis became very weak. At the end of the 4th century BC the Bosporan kingdom took control over the mouth of the Tanais and founded its colony at the place of the Elizavetovskoe settlement. Right until its destruction in 270s BC this colony was one of the main Colchian trade partners. This is shown by the increase of common wheat in its palaeobotanical spectrum, as well as by the number of Colchian amphorae and pithoi in the materials of the colony.

My friend Gocha Tsetskhladze has always been interested in international relations in the Black Sea region in Antiquity. Hence I have chosen to discuss connexions between Colchis and Scythia, a matter of great interest, yet little known. Though some issues concerning trade relations between them have already been raised,1 there is still much work to be done. Written sources give us no information on the time of the first contacts between the Colchians and the Scythians. Some scholars attribute them to the developing of the Circumpontic metallurgical province and trace the movement of Caucasian metals and metal products from the Bronze Age onward. Well-known Georgian archaeologists believed that Colchis in the 7th–4th centuries BC had all the necessary conditions for ironworking including rich iron ore deposits and, above all, magnetite sands. Colchis exported metals (iron, silver and gold), timber, wax, honey and resin; in the time of Herodotus and Xenophon it was famous for its linen fabrics.2 The intense development of viticulture and wine-making contributed to the production of vessels made for storage and transport of wine – pithoi and, since the 4th century BC, trade amphorae. 1

 Kopylov and Andrianova 2011, 110–17; Kopylov 2015, 103–07.  Lordkipanidze and Mikeladze 1988, 124–26.

2

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Speaking of economic relations between Colchis and Scythia in 5th–4th centuries BC, it is difficult to say how intensive they were or what goods were imported or exported, for some kinds of goods cannot be discovered in archaeological excavations. At least we can say that Colchian pithoi and amphorae are found in some sites in the layers dated to the 5th–4th centuries BC. It is the peculiarity of their spread within the territory of European Scythia that allows us to draw some interesting conclusions. First of all, Colchian amphorae and pithoi are not found in Scythian kurgans or steppe-Scythian sites dated to the 5th–4th centuries BC.3 They are also absent from the materials of Maeotian burial grounds in the Kuban and in most Greek centres of the northern Black Sea region.4 Colchian amphorae started appearing there no earlier than in the first third of the 3rd century BC. The earliest types of Colchian ceramic ware are concentrated in Nympharum.5 Thus, Colchian pithoi found there date back to the 5th century BC. The same date is given by Colchian coins (kolkhidki).6 The find of a Nymphaeum silver diobol in a grave of the Pichvnari necropolis dated to the last quarter of the 5th century BC is another proof of trade connexions between the two regions.7 It must be mentioned that during the 5th–the first half of the 4th century BC Nymphaeum had strong relations with Scythia, too. Another centre where Colchian pithoi and amphorae are often found is the Elizavetovskoe settlement in the mouth of the Tanais. This area, situated at the intersection of main water and land transport communications, became in the 5th–first half of the 4th centuries BC an important Scythian centre and a zone of political and economic activity of the Greeks. M.I. Rostovtsev stated the paramount role of the region in the development of international relations. He stressed that the products of the Crimea, Kuban and Taman regions were less important for trade with the Greeks than fish from the Sea of Azov and the Don, as well as the products of steppe herders and the goods that travelled along the Great Caravan Route to the mouth of the Don and came in touch with the Mediterranean water route.8 Numerous archaeological sources allow us to identify the stages of international relations and the place of the Tanais/Don Delta as one of the main areas of the northern Black Sea region where international contacts can be traced throughout the time of cohabitation between the Greeks and the Scythians.9 In the 5th and 4th centuries BC the development of the international relations at the mouth of the Tanais was associated with the Elizavetovskoe settlement. It was founded by the Scythians in the insular part of the delta in the first quarter of the 5th century BC 3

 I am sincerely grateful to Ukrainian Scythologists S.V. Polin and N.A. Gavrylyuk for detailed information.  My special thanks go to S.Y. Monakhov, the leading Russian expert in Greek amphorae, for his valuable advice and observations. 5  I would like to express my gratitude to O.Y. Sokolova, the head of the Nymphaeum expedition, V.D. Kuznetsov, the head of the Phanagoria expedition, A.V. Buiskikh, the head of the Olbia expedition, and N.I. Sudarev, the head of the Taman expedition. 6  Grach 1985, 338. 7  Kakhidze 1974, 91; Varshalomidze 2016, 8. 8  Rostovtsev 2003, 69. 9  Kopylov 2009b, 225–30. 4

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and lasted until the end of the 4th century BC. At some point the settlement became one of the largest centres of steppe Scythia dealing with the international wholesale trade and different handicraft industries and being the residence of the ruler of eastern Scythia.10 I. Brashinskii was the first to notice the considerable quantity of Colchian amphorae among the finds of the Elizavetovskoe settlement.11 He stressed that these amphorae belonged to the earliest types found outside Colchis.12 Today it is safe to assume that Colchian amphorae had been reaching the settlement since the middle or the third quarter of the 4th century BC, proved by finds of them in some closed complexes: in 2018, for example, fragments of Colchian amphorae were found in building complex 32, which ceased to exist no later than in the 340s BC. What could Don Scythians export to Colchis during the 5th and the first half of the 4th century BC? We are pretty sure that, beside valuable species of fish, it was wheat. The point is that the palaeobotanical spectrum of the Scythian layers of the Elizavetovskoe settlement differs from the spectra from other Scythian settlements (such as the Kamenskoe settlement or Mastishche).13 The main palaeobotanical feature of Elizavetovskoe is the presence of common wheat (Triticum aestivum s.l.) and flax seeds (Linum isitatissimum). Trade between Scythia and Colchis in the 5th–4th centuries BC peaked when Nymphaeum enjoyed autonomy and, unlike other Greek centres, good relations with the Scythians. At the time it had vast arable lands and therefore was able to provide Colchian traders with grain. This is why the 5th-century burials in the Pichvnari cemetery contained coins from Nymphaeum, Panticapaeum and Theodosia,14 the Greek cities that had sufficient grain for trade. After Panticapaeum subdued Nymphaeum and Theodosia, it became the only provider of grain in the Crimea. The Scythian Elizavetovskoe settlement did not submit to the Bosporan state and continued to supply other regions with Scythian goods: Colchis with grain, for example. It is no coincidence that in the 5th century BC Herodotus knew the exact distance from Lake Maeotis to the River Phasis and to the land of Colchians (1. 104) and used the farthest point of the lake to measure distances in Scythia (Herodotus 1. 116), nor any wonder that the Colchians sent their goods to the Elizavetovskoe settlement that kept on trading independently up to its submission to the Bosporan kingdom in the third quarter of the 4th century BC.15 At the end of the 4th century BC the Bosporan rulers finally managed to drive the Scythians out of the settlement and founded there their own colony that became the main supplier of Bosporan goods. Since that time the Spartocid dynasty had full control over the trade that the Scythian settlement used to carry out. These data confirm Rostovtsev’s opinion that in South Russia the leading role in all respects went from Scythia to the Bosporan kingdom.16

10

 Kopylov and Kovalenko 2015, 159.  Brashinskii 1976, 70. 12  Brashinskii 1980, 32. 13  Lebedeva 2002, 154–55. 14  Kakhidze 1974, 91; Tsetskhladze 2018, 471, table 4. 15  Kopylov and Kopylov 2017, 139. 16  Rostovtsev 2003, 47. 11

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It is important that the main components of the palaeobotanical spectrum of this new Bosporan colony are common wheat Triticum aestivum s.l. (46.7%) and barley Hordeum vulgare, vulgare (30%). Both cultures are typical for sites in the 4th and 3rd centuries BC.17 According to the recent data from excavations of sites around the mouth of the Tanais, the Bosporan colony founded on the place of the Elizavetovskoe settlement was the central settlement of the region and the main centre for brokering wholesale trade and handicrafts.18 Analysis of amphora stamps shows that in the 340s–300 BC the import to the Elizavetovskoe settlement declined sharply, while in 300–270 – the lifetime of the Bosporan colony – it almost doubled.19 The latter period is also marked by an increase in import of Colchian vine and other products in ceramic ware (trade amphorae and pithoi).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Brashinskii, I.B. 1976: ‘Zametki o torgovle Elizavetovskogo poseleniya na Donu’. Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Arkheologii Akademii Nauk SSSR 145, 68–71. —. 1980: Grecheskii keramicheskii import na Nizhnem Donu v V–III vv. do n.e. (Leningrad). Grach, N.L. 1985: ‘Nimfei v IV–I vekakh do n.e.’. In Lordkipanidze, O.D. (ed.), The Black Sea Littoral in the Hellenistic Times (Matieraly III Vsesoyuznogo simpoziuma po drevnei istorii Prichernomor’ya, Tskhaltubo 1982) (Tbilisi), 333–41. Kakhidze, A.Y. 1974: ‘Privoznye monety iz mogil’nika Pichvnari’. VDI 3, 88–92. Kats, V.I. 2007: ‘Metodika analizov vyborok kleim, zafiksirovannykh na odnom pamyatnike (po materialam Elizavetovskogo gorodishcha)’. In Kopylov, V.P. (ed.), International Relations in the Black Sea Region in Ancient and Medieval Times (Rostov-on-Don), 51–55. Kopylov, V.P. 2009a: ‘Nizhne-Donskoi kul’turno-istoricheskii raion v sisteme mezhdunarodnykh otnoshenii (7–pervaya tret’ 3 v. do n.e.)’. In Kopylov, V.P. (ed.), International Relations in the Black Sea Region in the Scythian-Antique and Khazar Time (Rostov-on-Don), 28–38. —. 2009b: ‘Etapi razvitiya greeko-varvarian sviazi na niznom Done kul’turo-istorichetkom regione Skifo-antichnom periode’. In Zinko, V.N. (ed.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekov’ya. Aktual’nye problemy (Bosporskie Chteniya 10) (Kerch), 224–32. —. 2015: ‘New data on the dynamics of relations between Greeks and Barbarians at the mouth of the Tanais river in the final stage Scythian history (5th–3rd centuries BC)’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th century BC–10th century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 103–07. Kopylov, V.P. and Andrianova, N.V. 2011: ‘O vremeni ustanovleniya kontaktov Kolkhidy s Nizhnim Podon’em’. In Skakov, A. (ed.), Problemy arkheologii Kavkaza (Sukhum), 110–17. Kopylov, V.P. and Kovalenko, A.N. 2015: ‘Obraz ust’ya Tanaisa kak territorial’nogo tsentra Skifii v predstavlenii antichnykh avtorov’. In Dzhakson [Jackson], T., Konovalova, I. and Podossinov, A.V. (eds.), Skifiya: obraz i istoriko-kul’turnoe nasledie (Moscow), 55–61. Kopylov, V.P. and Kopylov, A.V. 2017: ‘Zakrytye arkheologicheskie kompleksy katastrof v materialah Elizavetovskogo gorodishcha na Donu’. In Matera, M. and Karasiewicz-Szczyporski, R. (eds.), The Crimea and the Northern Black Sea Coast in Archaeological Research 1956–2013 (Światowit Suppl. Series C, Pontica et Caucasica 1) (Warsaw), 139–48.

17

 Lebedeva 2002, 156.  Kopylov 2009a, 34. 19  Kats 2007, 54. 18

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Lebedeva, E.Y. 2002: ‘Preliminary results in investigation of paleobotanical samples from Elizavetinsk settlement’. Istoriko-arkheologicheskie issledovaniya v Azove i na Nizhnem Donu 18, 149–59. Lordkipanidze, O.D. and Mikeladze, T.K. 1988: ‘Kolkhida v 7–4 vv. do n.e.’. In Lordkipanidze, O.D. (ed.), Local Ethno-Political Entities of the Black Sea Area in the 7th–4th Centuries BC (Matieraly IV Vsesoyuznogo simpoziuma po drevnei istorii Prichernomor’ya, Tskhaltubo-Vani 1985) (Tbilisi), 109–49. Rostovtsev, M.I. 2003: Ellinstvo i iranstvo na yuge Rossii (Moscow). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2018: ‘The Colchian Black Sea Coast: Recent Discoveries and Studies’. In Manoledakis, M., Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Xydopoulos, I. (eds.), Essays on the Archaeology and Ancient History of the Black Sea Littoral (Colloquia Antiqua 18) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 425–546. Varshalomidze, I. 2016: Numismatic Treasury of Batumi Archaeological Museum (Batumi).

SOME RARE COINS FROM THE VASILII ROZANOV COLLECTION Sergei KOVALENKO

ABSTRACT This paper deals with the discussion of some rare coins from the former numismatic collection of the Russian philosopher and writer Vasilii Rozanov (1856–1919). Approximately a quarter of this collection is kept now in the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow. The bulk of the preserved collection comprises issues of mints situated in Asia Minor and the eastern Mediterranean. Publication of the numismatic material under consideration could be relevant for modern numismatic studies as it allows us both to supplement the history of certain ancient mints and to add some important traits to the aggregate picture of the evolution of coinage in Antiquity.

I first met Gocha more than 30 years ago, in the mid-1980s, when we were both postgraduates of the same age, regular participants in the All-Union Archaeological Student Conferences (VASC), where young archaeologists from the whole of the Soviet Union got together. History has shown that this product of Soviet times was a very useful tool for facilitating scientific exchange, making new acquaintances and friendships. Later, in 1994–95, when I was a trainee curator in the Coins and Medals Department of the British Museum, I met Gocha in London and our old friendship received new impetus. I will never forget our meetings in his small flat in Balham, where we spent hours discussing various problems from recent archaeological and numismatic discoveries and hypotheses to the advantages of Georgian wine over Italian. Gocha has helped me many times during my life and this small note is only a modest sign of my gratitude and respect. The collection of ancient coins, which formerly belonged to the well-known Russian philosopher, writer and publicist Vasilii V. Rozanov (1856–1919) and is stored now in the Coins and Medals Department of the State Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts, comprises about 1500 specimens. The background of the major part of this collection as well as its initial size and content have hitherto been to a considerable extent unknown. Rozanov himself wrote in 1911 that there were 4500 Greek and 1300 Roman coins in his collection.1 Therefore, only a quarter of the whole collection is in the Pushkin Museum, which it entered in 1924, after the disestablishment of the Museum-Institute of the Classical Orient. That institution had resided in the building of the Historical Museum and acquired this part of Rozanov’s collection along with some numismatic literature from his elder daughter, Tatyana, after his death in 1919. According to documents kept in the Department of Manuscripts of the Pushkin Museum, in 1939 his younger daughter, 1

 Zavorotnaya 2006, 18.

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Nadezhda Vereshchagina, offered to sell the Museum 3470 ancient coins from her father’s collection, but for unknown reasons this acquisition fell through.2 Tatyana Rozanova mentions that later, in 1947, these very coins were sold to some unidentified person and their subsequent fate remains unknown to us.3 Analysis of the Rozanov coins kept in the Pushkin Museum, as already noted,4 unfortunately cannot help us to reconstruct the initial content and structure of the entire collection, because they do not represent a random sample. They were deliberately picked out for sale to the Museum-Institute of the Classical Orient as the dramatic irregularity in allocation of the coins to the various mints and historical regions testifies. Most of the Greek coins, for example, are represented by the issues struck in the eastern Mediterranean and Asia Minor, and there is an almost complete absence of coins produced in Mainland and Aegean Greece; the presence of the several dozen Sicilian coins is in sharp contrast to the absence of coins of Magna Graecia; and 90% of the Roman coins belong to the Republican period. Such imbalances could not be explained by the tastes of the owner, who, according to his own recognition and memoirs of contemporaries, was forming a universal collection of ancient coins. In doing so, Rozanov was driven not by the preservation of the pieces or by other criteria typical of collectors, but by the mere fact of their inhering to the world of the ancient Greeks and Romans. One can say that, in this respect, Rozanov was omnivorous and it appears that this very appetite, in his own words ‘veneration of ancient stuff’,5 led to the emerging in his collection of coins which were unimpressive in appearance, but in fact belonged to the rarest examples of ancient coinage. It seems to me that publication of such coins could be relevant for modern numismatic studies as it allows us both to supplement history of certain ancient mints and to add some important traits to the aggregate picture of the evolution of coinage in Antiquity. The coin issues of Asia Minor poleis are of special interest among the coins of the Rozanov collection. The imbalance of the mints represented is again noteworthy: for example, the specimens of the coinage struck by the Greek cities situated in the northern part of the region are represented only by sporadic issues of very few poleis. Among them the bronze coin of Bythinian city of Calchedon from the time of the emperor Valerian I (AD 253–259) deserves special attention (Fig. 1). Ancient Calchedon, a colony of Megara, was situated on the Asian coast of the Bosporus, just opposite Byzantium, which was also founded by colonists from Megara. The two poleis had the closest connexions throughout the course of their entire history. This displayed itself repeatedly in their coinage as well, in the use of the same types of obverse and reverse by both mints. The coin in question represents a case in point. A laureate, diademed and cuirassed bust of Valerian I occupies its obverse and on the reverse one can see the agonal prize, the ornamented urn with two palm branches and legend KALCA-D-ONIWN. Coins of this very type were minted in Byzantium, being distinct only in the reverse legend, BVZANTIWN.6 Comparison of the obverse and reverse dies with which these coins were 2

 Kovalenko 2006, 31; 2017, 442.  Zavorotnaya 2006, 23. 4  Kovalenko 2006, 32. 5  Lepekhina 2005, 224. 6  Schönert-Geiss 1972, 119, nos. 1815–1816. 3

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struck allows us to suggest that they were engraved by the same die-cutter and this gives pause for thought as the extent to which coin production in these cities could have been centralised during the 3rd century AD. It is noteworthy that the coin of Calchedon from the Rozanov collection is so far the only known specimen of this kind, in contrast with Byzantium. An important supplement to the coinage of the city of Amastris in Paphlagonia, on the northern coast of Asia Minor, is an assarion struck there under Domitian (AD 81–96) (Fig. 2). The radiate and diademed head of Domitian is depicted on its obverse; reverse type is represented by the figure of Dionysos, holding a kantharos in his right hand and leaning on a thyrsus with his left hand. Amastris did not strike her own coins from the end of the 1st century BC to the 2nd century AD,7 except in the time of Domitian. Under this emperor extremely rare issues of bronze coins of two denominations, oneand four assaria, were struck. Until recently each denomination was represented just by two specimens. The correct attribution of these coins became a problem because of their poor preservation and difficulties in reading the reverse legend containing the mint name. They were considered either as issues of Tium/Tios in Bithynia or Dionysopolis in Phrygia.8 The reverse legend on our coin can be clearly read as DIONVcOc AMAcTJIANWN (‘Dionysos of the people of Amastris’) and testifies to the existence of the local cult of this popular Greek deity in Amastris in the Imperial period. It is the third known coin of this type. Another is kept in the collection of the Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris) and one more, formerly published by Hans von Aulock as a unique coin of Dionysopolis in Phrygia, belonged to the collection of B.F. Bennet.9 A small bronze coin of the city of Blaundus in Lydia is apparently unique (Fig. 3). I have failed to find analogies in museum collections and numismatic catalogues. The obverse is represented by the laureate and diademed head of Zeus; the reverse is occupied by images of bow and quiver along with the legend MLAUNDeWN (‘[coin] of the people of Blaundus’). Such obverse and reverse types are known on the various civic issues of the Hellenistic period, but in this very combination, they appeared for the first time.10 This variation of the legend is also characteristic of Hellenistic times as in the Imperial period it was replaced by BLAUNDeWN.11 Blaundus was founded as one of the Seleucid forts in Lydia where only soldiers of Macedonian descent undertook military service. This fact was obviously of great importance for the city-folk as on the numerous issues of Imperial times the legend BLAUNDeWN on the reverse was accompanied with the addition MAKEDONWN (‘Macedonian’).12 Issues of the Greek poleis of Phrygia struck in the Imperial era belong to one of the most numerous groups of coins from the Rozanov collection. There are quite remarkable rarities among them as well. A bronze coin of the city of Kotyaion dating from the time of Philip I/Philip the Arab (AD 244–249) is one of such coins. A radiate and cuirassed bust of the emperor is on the obverse and on the reverse the image of the goddess Cybele  Burnett et al. 1999, 113.  Burnett et al. 1999, 113. 9  Burnett et al. 1999, 113, no. 713. 10  Head 1901, 44–45, nos. 18–23, 24–25; SNG Danish Lydia, no. 71. 11  Head 1901, xli. 12  Burnett et al. 1992, 496. 7 8

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seated on a chariot drawn by two lions. Above their heads one can see a table with agonal prizes (Fig. 4). Various representations of Cybele played an important role in the typology of coin issues struck by the mints of Phrygia, where her cult originated and where the main centre of her worship, the city of Pessinus, was situated. At the end of the 3rd century BC the Romans embraced the cult and the goddess was included in the Roman pantheon. In our case, however, the image of deity is of less interest than the accompanying legend: EPI AVR MENANDROV ARC (‘under Aurelius Menander, archon’). The name of the magistrate Aurelius Menander was hitherto unknown on coins of such type and appeared only on the pseudo-autonomous coinage of the reign of Philip I. In abbreviated form, without praenomen, it occurred as well on coins of this emperor with the reverse type of Cybele seated on a throne and on the coin issues of Philip’s wife, Otacilia Severa.13 The practice of putting on coins the names of civic magistrates, like archontes or epimeleteis as well as high priests, was a characteristic feature of the coinage of Kotyaion during the whole Imperial period from the reign of Tiberius (AD 14–37) to the time of Gallienus (AD 253–268).14 The lists of such names, which were normally accompanied by the designation of the offices held, are an important source of information on the organisation and structure of the local administration in this Greek provincial city of the Roman empire, as well as a helpful addition to the studies of the regional prosopography. The coin issues of the small city of Sibidunda in the mountainous part of south-eastern Phrygia were quite modest by size and normally are absent from museum collections or represented with singular specimens. The only coin of this mint in the Pushkin Museum comes from the Rozanov collection. It has on the obverse a bust of Julia Domna, wife of Septimius Severus (AD 193–211), and Tyche with rudder and cornucopia on the reverse (Fig. 5). As far as I know, it is unique. The image of Tyche, the Greek goddess of fate and fortune, identified during the Imperial period with the Roman Fortuna, enriches quite a modest typological stock of the coinage of Sibidunda, where, along with representations of Dionysos, the image of Artemis as goddess of hunting held a dominant position. The city of Tyana was situated in south-eastern Cappadocia at the foot of the Taurus Mountains, near the so-called ‘Cilician Gates’, a pass leading through mountain ridges to Cilicia and Syria (Strabo 12. 2. 7). Tyana started issuing her own coinage quite late, in the Imperial period. One bronze coin of this centre originating from the Rozanov collection is kept in the Pushkin. It belongs to the reign of Nero (AD 54–58) and has the emperor’s portrait on the obverse and figures of Tyche and the river-god Lamos on the reverse (Fig. 6). The image of Tyche was the main civic coin-type. Dating of issues by the regnal years of the Roman emperors was a characteristic feature of Tyanean coinage. Our specimen, apart from the city’s name, has on the reverse the date ‰T ΙΒ (‘12th year’ [of Nero’s reign] or AD 66). This is only the fourth known exemple from this very year. The other three coins are stored in the collections of the Berlin Münzkabinett, Bibliothèque Nationale and the British Museum.15 Noteworthy is the coin struck in the city of Mopsuestia, situated in eastern Cilicia on the banks of the Pyramos river, 12 km from the coast. According to the legend, the  Head 1906, 159, no. 6; 175, no. 86; SNG Danish Lydia, no. 333.  Head 1906, li. 15  Burnett et al. 1992, 559. 13 14

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famous Greek seer Mopsos, who gave to the city his own name, founded Mopsuestia. Only one coin of this centre, representing the numismatic rarity of the Rozanov collection, is in the museum (Fig. 7). Its obverse is occupied by the bust of Caecilia Paulina, wife of the emperor Maximinus Thrax (AD 235–238). On the reverse, one can see a standing female figure leaning on a sceptre. Most probably it is Aphrodite, as she holds some round object, perhaps an apple, in her extended right hand. Beginning from the reign of Domitian (AD 81–96), the coins of Mopsuestia had been dated by the years of the era of Pompey the Great, which was adopted in the Cilician cities in 68 BC.16 There is such a date on this coin as well. However, because the Greek numeral indication of the year when this coin was struck (‰t or ‘305th year’, which means AD 237–238) coincided with the beginning of the Greek word ‘year’ (ετουσ), normally added to the date itself in order to avoid confusion, the latter was reproduced on our coin with only one letter ‰ instead of the usual abbreviation ‰t. Such labelling and dating on the coins of Mopsus of the Imperial period, as too the coin-type with the image of Aphrodite, were hitherto unknown and therefore the coin might be considered as unique. A bronze coin of the city of Medaba in the Roman province of Arabia concludes our small assemblage of numismatic rarities from the Rozanov collection (Fig. 8). Medaba is well known in the first place owing to the mosaic panel, created in the 6th century and discovered in one of the city’s Byzantine churches in 1896. It represents the oldest map of the Holy Land with a schematic plan of Jerusalem. The coinage of Medaba was short-lived and modest in size, dating from the first quarter of the 3rd century AD, the time of Septimius Severus and his sons and of Elagabalus. Coins of this city are rare in museum and private collections and only from time to time appear at auction. The repertoire of images used on the reverse of Medaban coins is limited just to three types: Helios driving a quadriga, Tyche and a four-columned temple. The figure of standing or seated Tyche is the most popular. A. Decloedt published a coin of Medaba with Helios for the first time in 1910, in a special note where he gave only a traced drawing of the coin and mentioned one more specimen stored in the German Benedictine monastery in Jerusalem.17 The coin of Medaba from the Rozanov collection belongs to this very type. There is a laureate, diademed and cuirassed bust of Septimius Severus on the obverse. On the reverse, one can see Helios in a quadriga en face driving horses and traces of the explanatory inscription around him H]-L-I-w[c. Below, to both sides of the chariot wheels there are letters R]-‰, and MH]DAB[HNWN in the exergue. Therefore, the coin is dated to the 105th year (R]-‰ =105), according to the era, introduced after the creation of the Roman province of Arabia by Trajan in AD 105, which means AD 210–211. It is noteworthy that the same date appears on the coins of Medaba struck in the name of Caracalla.18 Over the course of time since the publication by Decloedt, despite intensive archaeological investigations of the Holy Land and adjacent areas by Israeli and Western scholars, the number of known specimens of this type comprises today fewer than a dozen pieces.19

16

 Ziegler 1993, 204.  Decloedt 1910, 532–33; cf. Hill 1922, xxxvi. 18  Hill 1922, 33, nos. 1–2. 19  Spijkerman 1978, 182, no. 1f; Meshorer 1985; Meshorer et al. 2013. 17

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CATALOGUE

OF THE RARE COINS

FROM THE COLLECTION OF

VASILII ROZANOV

Bythinia Calchedon Valerian I (AD 253–268) 1. Obv. Laureate, cuirassed bust of Valerian I right; around, P LIK] OVALERIANOc cE; dotted border. Rev. Ornamented urn with two palm branches; around, KALCA-D-ONIWN. Bronze. Inventory no. 1395. 7.41 g, 26 mm, die-axis 12.

Fig. 1. Bythinia. Calchedon. Valerian I (AD 253–268).

Paphlagonia Amastris Domitian (AD 81–96) 2. Obv. Radiated, diademed head of Domitian right; around, AVT DOMITIANOcKAIcAR [cEB G]E; dotted border. Rev. Staying Dionysos left, holds in right hand cantharus, leaning with left hand on thyrsus; around, DIONVcOc AMA-cTRIAN[WN; dotted border. Bronze. Inventory no. 632. 6.01 g, 21 mm, die-axis 7.

Fig. 2. Paphlagonia. Amastris. Domitian (AD 81–96).

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Lydia Blaundus 2nd–1st centuries BC 3. Obv. Laureate, diademed head of Zeus right. Rev. Quiver and bow; above and below, MLAUN /D‰–WN; linear border. Bronze. Inventory no. 1411. 1.85 g, 15 mm, die-axis 12.

Fig. 3. Lydia. Blaundus. 2nd–1st centuries BC.

Phrygia Cotiaeum Philip I (AD 244–249) 4. Obv. Laureate, cuirassed bust of Philip I right; around, M IOVLIOc FILIPPOc AVG. Rev. Cybele seated right on the chariot drawn by two lions; above lions’ heads, table with agonal prizes; around, EPI AVR MENANDROV ARC; in front of Cybele, K … (?); in exergue, KOTIAE/WN; dotted border. Bronze. Inventory no. 635. 9.49 g, 27 mm, die-axis 12.

Fig. 4. Phrygia. Cotiaeum. Philip I (AD 244–249).

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Sibidunda Julia Domna (AD 193–217) 5. Obv. Draped bust of Julia Domna right; around, IOULIA-DOMNA [c‰; dotted border. Rev. Tyche staying in half-turn to left holds rudder in right hand and cornucopia in left hand; around, cIBIDOV-N-D‰WN; dotted border. Bronze. Inventory no. 598. 8.07 g, 24 mm, die-axis 6.

Fig. 5. Phrygia. Sibidunda. Julia Domna (AD 193–217).

Cappadocia Tyana Nero (AD 54–68) AD 66 6. Obv. Laureate, diademed head of Nero right; around, N‰RwN KAIcAR. Rev. Tyche seated on rock right, holds in right hand ears; below, river-god Lamos en face; around, TVA]N‰w-N ‰/T IB; dotted border. Bronze. Inventory no. 1345. 11.99 g, 24 mm, die-axis 12.

Fig. 6. Cappadocia. Tyana. Nero (AD 54–68).

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Cilicia Mopsuestia Maximinus I (AD 235–238) AD 237–238 (?) 7. Obv. Draped bust of Caecilia Paulina right, wearing stephane; around, cA … PAVL‰[INA]- c‰BAcT. Rev. Aphrodite (?) staying in half-turn to left, holds in right hand apple (?) and in left hand, scepter; on sides, ‰T-‰; around, ADRIANWN [MOY]-‰ATWN; dotted border. Bronze. Inventory no. 1350. 16.97 g, 28 mm, die-axis 7.

Fig. 7. Cilicia. Mopsuestia. Maximinus I (AD 235–238).

Arabia Medaba Septimius Severus (AD 193–211) AD 210–211 8. Obv. Laureate, diademed, cuirassed bust of Septimius Severus right; around, AVT] KA c‰PT-c‰OV[HROc; dotted border. Rev. Helios en face, driving a quadriga, head turned to left, right hand raised, in left hand, torch; around, H]-L-I-w[c; below, on sides, R]-‰  ; in exergue, MH]DAB[HNWN; dotted border. Bronze. Inventory no. 902. 14.05 g, 29 mm, die-axis 12.

Fig. 8. Arabia. Medaba. Septimius Severus (AD 193–211).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Burnett, A., Amandry, M. and Carradice, I. 1999: Roman Provincial Coinage 2: From Vespasian to Domitian (AD 69–96) (London/Paris). Burnett, A., Amandry, M. and Ripollès, I. 1992: Roman Provincial Coinage 1: From the Death of Caesar to the Death of Vitellius (44 BC–AD 69) (London/Paris). Decloedt, A. 1910: ‘Une nouvelle monnaie de Medaba en Moabitide (Arabie)’. Revue numismatique 14, 532–33. Head, B.V. 1901: Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Lydia (London). —. 1906: Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Phrygia (London). Hill, G.F. 1922: Catalogue of the Greek Coins of Arabia, Mesopotamia and Persia (London). Kovalenko, S.A. 2006: ‘Antichnye monety iz kollektsii V.V. Rozanova v numizmaticheskom sobranii GMII im. A.S. Pushkina’. In Tkachenko, A.V. (ed.), Vasilii Vasilevich Rozanov – kollektsioner-numizmat 1856–1919 (k 150-letiyu so dnya rozhdeniya) (Exhibition Catalogue) (Moscow), 27–44. Kovalenko, S.A. 2017: ‘Vasilii Rozanov’s collection of ancient coins’. In Boteva, D. (ed.), Ex nummis lux: Studies in Ancient Numismatics in Honour of Dimitar Draganov (Sofia/Ruse), 441–48. Lepekhina, E.V. 2005: ‘Ocherk V.V. Rozanova ‘Ob antichnykh monetakh’. In Ivochkina, N.V. (ed.), Materialy i issledovaniya Otdela numizmatiki Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha (St Petersburg), 211–25. Meshorer, Y. 1985: City-Coins of Eretz Israel and the Decapolis in the Roman Period (Jerusalem). Meshorer, Y., Bijovsky, G. and Fischer-Bossert, W. 2013: Coins of the Holy Land: The Abraham and Marian Sofaer Collection at the American Numismatic Society and the Israel Museum (Ancient Coins in North American Collections 8) (New York). Schönert-Geiss, E. 1972: Griechischer Münzwerk: Die Münzprägung von Byzantion. 2: Kaiserzeit (Amsterdam). Spijkerman, A. 1978: The Coins of the Decapolis and Provincia Arabia (Jerusalem). Zavorotnaya, L.A. 2006: ‘V.V. Rozanov kollektsioner-numizmat. Istoriya kollektsii’. In Tkachenko, A.V. (ed.), Vasilii Vasilevich Rozanov – kollektsioner-numizmat 1856–1919 (k 150-letiyu so dnya rozhdeniya). Katalog vystavki (Moscow), 5–26. Ziegler, R. 1993: ‘Ären kilikischer Städte und Politik des Pompeius in Südostkleinasien’. Tyche 8, 203–19.

PHANAGORIA IN ARCHAIC TIMES Vladimir KUZNETSOV

ABSTRACT Phanagoria is one of the largest ancient Greek poleis in the northern Black Sea region. The area of the city at its peak reached 60–65 ha. Phanagoria was founded by colonists from Teos (probably through Abdera) shortly after the middle of the 6th century BC. In the past 25 years, the city-site has been subjected to intensive archaeological investigation. This work made it possible to carry out a large-scale study of the Archaic layers (total examined area about 3000 m², with the cultural deposits extending to a depth of 5 m). The excavations brought to light urban blocks of the 6th century BC built up with private houses, public buildings, temples and unusual constructions (presumably connected with chthonic cults), as well as the city’s defensive structures. All the buildings of the Archaic period are made of mud-brick. As the research has revealed, the newly founded city was laid out according to a regular plan. Amongst the numerous archaeological material of the Archaic periods one artefact clearly stands out: a fragment of a marble stele inscribed in Old Persian cuneiform. This unique discovery sheds light on the little-known relations between the Persian empire and the northern coast of the Black Sea. Judging by the archaeological context of the find, it seems obviously connected with evidence from Diodorus (12. 31) about certain Archaeanactidae, who began to rule in the Cimmerian Bosporus in 480 BC. To all appearance, the Persians assisted in the rise of this dynasty to gain control over the region and thus advance in their struggle with the Greek poleis.

Phanagoria is one of the largest ancient Greek cities in Russia. It is located on the coast of the Taman Gulf, in its south-east corner (Fig. 1). The city existed from about the middle of the 6th century BC till the late 9th century AD, when it fell to an unknown enemy. This destruction sent Phanagoria into terminal decline. Life barely glimmered amidst its ruins in the 10th and 11th centuries. The maximum area occupied by Phanagoria at its peak did not exceed 65 ha, one third of which (since the first centuries AD) has been submerged by the sea (Figs. 2–3). Underwater investigations conducted at Phanagoria since 1999 reveal that when the Greek colonists set foot on Taman land the coastal part of the future city was also covered with water. The sea must have regressed only in the 4th century BC: excavations in the breaker zone have shown that the cultural layer immediately overlying the virgin soil dates from that particular time. It is commonly believed that Phanagoria was an apoikia of Teos. The evidence for this comes from several ancient authors. However, a point worthy of attention is that both Herodotus and Strabo – while recounting the relocation of the Teians to Abdera in the wake of the Persian invasion – make no mention of Phanagoria whatsoever. In my article devoted to Phanagoria’s metropolis I suggested that the apoikia on the Pontic coast was not established by Teos directly, at the same time as Abdera, but rather sent out from Abdera a short while later. This conclusion does not contradict the evidence

Fig. 1. Location of Phanagoria on the Taman Peninsula (satellite image).

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Fig. 2. Aerial view of Phanagoria (Acropolis in the centre).

Fig. 3. 3D landscape model and the boundaries of the Phanagoria city-site.

provided by Eustathius,1 Ps.-Scymnus and Ps.-Arrian2 (GGM II, 549, p. 324.36–41 = Arrian Bith. fr. 55 (Roos); GGM I, 886–887, p. 232 = GGM I, 47, p. 412). According to them, Phanagoria was founded by the Teians under Phanagoras. It should not be 1  Ὅτι ἐντὸς τῆς Μαιώτιδος νήσος ἀπειρεσίη ἐστρίκται, ἥν καλοῦσι Ταυρικήν, ἐν ᾗ Φαιναγόρα καὶ Ἑρμώνασσα, Ἰώνων ἄποικοι πόλεις, ὧν ἡγήσατο Φαιναγόρας τις καὶ Ἕρμων ἀφ’ ὧν οἱ τόποι καλοῦνται. Ἀρριανὸς δὲ οὕτω φησί «Φαιναγόρεια, ἥν ἔκτισε Φαναγόρας ὁ Τήϊος, φεύγων τὴν τῶν Περσῶν ὕβριν...» (GGM II, 549, p. 324.36–41 = Arrian Bith. fr. 55 [Roos]). 2  Εἶτ’ ἔστιν Ἑρμώνασσα Φαναγόρεία τε, ἕν Τηίους λέγουσιν οἰκίσαι ποτέ (GGM I, 886–887, p. 233 = GGM I, 47, p. 412). See Diller 1952, 102–17, 165; Skrzhinskaya 1980.

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neglected, however, that Herodotus (1. 168) refers to the citizens of Abdera – his contemporaries – as ‘the Teians in Abdera’ (νῦν ὑπὸ Τηΐων τῶν ἐν Ἀβδήροισι).3 So, the first inhabitants of Phanagoria may have called themselves Teians as well. There are also other cases when the Greeks of a new apoikia opted for the autonym derived from the name of their mother city.4 D. Braund has voiced some caution concerning such an interpretation. In his opinion, the silence of written sources on the foundation of Phanagoria through Abdera is a decisive argument for the traditional point of view, i.e. that both apoikiai were sent out from Teos, though in very different ways. Given that the majority of the Teians had fled to Abdera, located nearby, Herodotus and Strabo may have simply left Phanagoria out of consideration, especially since we know that Herodotus took very little interest in the Bosporus.5 There is, however, one piece of evidence that casts doubt on the traditional hypothesis. As Braund himself acknowledges, it is hard to imagine that in the extreme conditions of the Persian siege, when the warriors of Harpagos had already climbed the city walls, the Teians managed not just to flee to Thrace but also to choose an oikistes and a group of colonists to sail all the way to distant lands on the north coast of the Black Sea. As is well known, sending out an apoikia under an oikistes required certain preliminary actions, including the consultation of the Oracle at Delphi.6 Logic dictates that in the moment of such grave danger the Teians barely had time to embark aboard ships (ἐσβάντες πάντες ἐς τὰ πλοῖα: Herodotus 1. 168) and escape to the place that was for some reason familiar to them – to Abdera. It was not until later that they got a chance to send out the colony to the northern coast of the Black Sea according to the established rules. The Teians may have decided to relocate for the second time, now from Abdera, due to the hardships they encountered in Thrace, particularly the necessity to fight long bloody wars with the local tribes (Pindar Paenes 2. 59–70).7 When it comes to the foundation of an apoikia at Abdera, modern scholars hardly ever say anything about Phanagoria.8 I. Malkin is one of the few to have given this issue special attention. In his opinion, Teos sent out two apoikiai: Abdera and Phanagoria. The difference between them was that at Abdera the Greek settlement had begun earlier as a colony from Clazomenae, so the newcomers from Teos naturally adopted its previous name and the accorded heroic time to its former oikistes, Timesias. As to Phanagoras, the oikistes of the apoikia on the northern coast of the Black Sea, he managed to enhance his power to such a degree that the colony was named after him.9

3

 Herrmann 1981, 29; Graham 1992, 57.  Graham 1964, 103–05. For example: οἱ δὲ Βορυσθενεῖται οὗτοι λέγουσι σφέας αὐτοὺς εἶναι Μιλησίους ‘… the city of the Borysthenithes (who say that they are Milesians)’ (Herodotus 4. 78). 5  Braund 2014, 55, 70. 6  Leschhorn 1984, 105–09; Malkin 1987, 27–30; 2011, 112–17; Dougherty 1993, 15–27. 7  Graham 1991. 8  Isaac 1986, 80–81; Graham 1992, 48; Rubinstein 2004, 1101. Cf. Avram, Hind and Tsetskhladze 2004, 950–51. 9  Malkin 1985, 122–23. This view on the origin of the name Phanagoria was called into question by I.E. Surikov (2012). He suggested that Phanagoras be regarded as the epiklesis of the god Apollo. However, his opinion came under strong criticism from other specialists (Charalampakis 2013; Kuznetsov 2016, 251–52). 4

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Before the Teian colonists arrived in the Taman Peninsula, a number of Greek settlements had already existed there. Most of these sites have never undergone any archaeological investigation, which is why the population density of the region in the 6th century BC remains largely unknown. Sporadic excavations in different parts of the peninsula have revealed the presence of Archaic settlements, some of which appear to have been founded as early as the first half of the 6th century BC.10 However, we still have no clues about the names of these settlements and often cannot determine the exact dates of their foundation. Phanagoras selected the place for his city between two apoikiai already in existence: Kepoi and Hermonassa. Both of them are located on the coast of the Taman Gulf. They were founded in the second quarter of the 6th century BC, i.e. 20–25 years earlier than Phanagoria.11 Hence the question arises: how did the Teian colonists manage to settle there, between the apoikiai of Miletus and Mytilene separated by a distance of just 27–28 km? Most likely, all the surrounding lands had already been divided between these poleis. The presence of other Greek settlements on the coastline suggests that by the time of the Teians’ arrival there was little vacant land on the Taman Peninsula suitable for a city to be built on. Does it mean that Phanagoras and his people first had to win the territory for their apoikia? As Braund rightly believes, prior to their departure to the northern Pontic coast the Teians must have acquired some information about the region. In his opinion, before the foundation of Phanagoria the Teians had already been present on the Taman Peninsula, one way or another. In particular, they may have taken part in establishing Milesian colonies, which dominated the area.12 This does not imply, however, that the foundation of the Teian apoikia went smoothly. The excavations at Kepoi – located 5 km away from Phanagoria – yielded traces of a huge fire that apparently destroyed the whole city.13 The disaster dates from the early third quarter of the 6th century BC and thus chronologically coincides with the foundation of Phanagoria. It would be too soon to claim that the settlement was burnt down by the Teian colonists eager to establish themselves in a new place. Yet, given the geographical proximity of the two cities, it may well be no accident that the fire at Kepoi and the appearance of the new apoikia date from the same time. An issue worthy of consideration here is the relationship between Teos and its apoikiai, i.e. between the metropolis and its colonies. Close bonds between Teos and Abdera are well attested in both written and numismatic sources. The evidence from the fragmentary inscription of Teian Imprecations, which was published and thoroughly examined by P. Herrmann,14 has even allowed some scholars to raise doubts as to the autonomy of the two cities. Indeed, the document reveals that both poleis had identical political and religious institutions.15 Moreover, they started minting their coins almost concurrently16

10

 Shelov 1953, 160–61; Sorokina 1957; Zhuravlev and Schlotzhauer 2011, 278–83, ills. 19–20.  Kuznetsov 1991, 34. 12  Braund 2014, 58–62. 13  Kuznetsov 1992, 42–43. 14  Herrmann 1981; Lewis 1982; ML 30. 15  Loukopoulou and Parissaki 2004, 306–07; Youni 2007; van Alfen 2014, 638. 16  Kraay 1976, 35. 11

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and with very similar obverse types, only in Teos the griffin was always facing right, while in Abdera left.17 Can the absence of evidence for the same level of contact between Teos and Phanagoria be considered as proof that the Pontic apoikia did not have any links with its metropolis? Written sources relevant to this are indeed missing, but they may simply not have survived. As for the archaeological data, it does not offer decisive arguments. Ionian imports such as amphorae or painted pottery in the Wild Goat style, cannot be attributed to a particular city and thus indicate only that the northern Pontus had economic ties with Ionia in general. Slightly more promising is the numismatic material. Several types of so-called ‘Sindian’ coins feature a griffin seated right, with a grain of corn in front of it – the image clearly borrowed from Teian coinage. I have already examined the controversy surrounding the issuer of the ‘Sindian’ coins.18 To my mind, the relationships between Teos and Abdera and Teos and Phanagoria were different in nature. As follows from the inscription of Public Imprecations, Teos and Abdera are likely to have been united in a sympoliteia, whereas in the latter case a tight union is out of question. The apoikiai were founded in two very different ways. Due to exceptional circumstances, the whole population (πάντες – Herodotus 1. 168) of Teos fled to Abdera. As a result, Archaic Abdera was already a large city with a total area of about 40 ha.19 Shortly after the relocation, a most extraordinary event occurred: the apoikia re-founded its metropolis.20 All of this could do no other than foster a special relationship between Teos and Abdera – one that surpassed the usual patterns of interaction between mother-city and colony.21 Not so with Phanagoria. It was founded according to the standard practice of sending out apoikiai.22 This alone is reason enough for Phanagoria to have had various bonds, including family and religious ones,23 with its metropolis. Traditional relations implied that an apoikia was politically independent of its mother-city, with the cult of the oikistes being one of the key indicators of such independence.24 It should be noted here that the excavations at the very centre of Archaic Phanagoria brought to light a graffito with the name of Phanagoras, which may suggest both the cult of the oikistes and the place of his worship (Fig. 4).25 The number of Teian colonists that reached the Pontic shore must not have been big: compared with Abdera, nascent Phanagoria was a much smaller city. Let us now turn to the archaeological study of Phanagoria. The site is located on two plateaux (upper and lower) in the south-east corner of the Taman Gulf. At its peak, the city covered an area of 60–65 ha. It was founded on one of the hills of the upper plateau, which later became the city’s Acropolis. The total area of the hill does not exceed 2 ha. 17

 May 1966, 49–52; Chryssanthaki-Nagle 2007, 93–96.  Kuznetsov 2018. 19  Tuna 2000, 121–23. 20  Huxley 1984; Graham 1991, 176–77. 21  van Alfen 2014, 632. 22  Graham 1964, 25–27. 23  We have grounds to believe that the cult of Dionysos – the main god of Teos – was also important in Phanagoria (see Zavoikin 2011), just as, perhaps, the cult of Aphrodite Ourania (Ustinova 1999, 29–53; contra, see Braund 2018, 223). 24  Malkin 1987, 134, 203. 25  Zavoikina 2018; Saprykin 2019. 18

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Fig. 4. Graffito with the name of Phanagoras.

Whether the newly founded apoikia spread beyond these limits is as yet unclear. The current state of research enables us to say only that the earliest cultural layers have not been discovered on the lower plateau. The excavations on the southern outskirts of Phanagoria, 150–170 m distant from the historical core of the city, revealed no layers of the 6th century BC either. In those times this area was occupied by a necropolis. The Archaic graves here are overlain by a layer dating from the late first–early second quarter of the 5th century BC. The earliest cultural deposits uncovered to the east of the city’s nucleus date from about the middle of the 5th century BC.26 Therefore, it is reasonable to presume that initially the apoikia was rather small and did not extend beyond the territory of the hill (perhaps only slightly southwards). Whatever the case, the area of the original settlement was hardly more than 2 ha, probably even less.27 The architecture and planning of Greek cities in Archaic times have always attracted scholarly attention: the fundamental study by A. von Gerkan was published almost a century ago.28 Since then, archaeological investigations have produced a wealth of new 26

 Kuznetsov and Zavoikin 2014, 29–33.  For comparison: the city of Siris in southern Italy was founded on a hill with an area of 5 ha; later the hill was turned into the Acropolis (Tréziny 2006, 232). 28  von Gerkan 1924. 27

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data on the urbanism of the ancient Mediterranean and the Black Sea region. However, the evidence relating to the Archaic period is still scarce. This is largely because the earliest cultural levels are grossly understudied. As a result, the initial stages in the architectural history of Greek apoikiai remain vague. With regard to the cities of northern Pontus, we often have no clues whatsoever about their architecture and layout, which sometimes leads scholars to rather exotic assumptions, for example that Pontic apoikiai were ‘barbarous’ settlements.29 The prevailing opinion is that the oldest ‘historical’ cities were built up in an irregular manner, following their natural, haphazard development.30 Newly established apoikiai were a different matter: the colonists had plenty of opportunity to lay out their city according to a single overall plan. Upon their arrival in a new place, the settlers, supervised by an architect, divided the territory of the future city into residential blocks and zones for public use.31 Megara Hyblaea in Sicily is often cited as a good example in this respect.32 As to written sources, such a principle of urban planning is described by Homer in the Odyssey (6. 7–10): Thence the godlike Nausithous made them depart, and he carried them away, and planted them in Scheria, far off from men that live by bread. And he drew a wall around the town, and builded houses and made temples for the gods and meted out the fields. (translation S.H. Butcher and A. Lang). F. de Polignac identified three clear functional distinctions between different types of polis space – those between exterior and urban, private and public, living and specialised working spaces.33 According to E. Owens, ‘the policy of zoning and the laying out of a regular grid of streets were the two most important features of early Greek planning. Land was specifically reserved for public, private and sacred use.’34 This did not mean, however, that from the very beginning every city had a rigid grid plan. In the absence of a strictly orthogonal layout, it was the main road traversing the site that became the key element of town planning. This road, not necessarily straight, conditioned the arrangement of urban space (other streets, domestic insulae, etc.). As Owens emphasises, ‘the geography of the locations was one determining factor in the development of these towns’.35 This idea resonates with what H. Tréziny has written in relation to Megara Hyblaea: he points out that its plan was both regular and irregular due to the differences in the layout of the city districts; and he attributes this to the fact that the settlers had ingeniously adapted the pre-colonial network of streets (‘un réseau de voies de circulation’). A parallel can be found in Naxos (Sicily).36

29

 Y.A. Vinogradov 2009, 8.  Lang 1996, 72; 2002, 14–19. See Gounaris 2009. 31  Martin 1974, 40. 32  For more information, see Gras, Tréziny and Broise 2004, 523–46. 33  de Polignac 2005, 45. 34  Owens 1992, 48. 35  Owens 1992, 37. 36  Tréziny 2002, 271–73. 30

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Returning to the cities of the northern Black Sea, we cannot speak about the presence of an orthogonal grid (the so-called Hippodamian plan) in the Archaic period – this type of urban planning appeared later.37 However, it seems that even in the earliest times regular layouts were not uncommon. Unfortunately, the evidence that may have bearing on the question comes from a very few settlements where only small-scale investigations of the Archaic layers have been conducted. Thus, with reference to the layout of Tyritake, V.N. Zinko writes that ‘… recently exposed remains of city blocks give some ground to assume the existence of a single plan and certain elements of ancient Greek urbanism’.38 The same is true of Archaic Hermonassa.39 There are also other examples, yet the data is insufficient to warrant any definite conclusions regarding the type of city structure. To some degree, Phanagoria is an exception in this respect. The earliest cultural layers in the historical core of Phanagoria have been under archaeological examination for more than two decades (the ‘Upper City’ excavation site, its total area about 3000 m²) (Figs. 5–6). This work has brought to light urban blocks with variously preserved remains of mud-brick houses and public buildings (over 20 constructions altogether). Virgin soil is yet to be reached in some parts of the excavation site. The majority of the buildings were private dwellings with areas ranging from 20 to 40 m². Some of the constructions are above average in size. For example, the uncovered portion of house no. 20540 has an area of 65 m² (together with a courtyard). Another house (no. 836) consisted of four rooms with a total area of over 50 m² (part of the building is located outside the excavation site). The status of the main room was emphasised with the floor made of mud bricks instead of ordinary rammed earth. This must have been a residence of quite a wealthy man, judging not only by the size of the house but also by the letter on a lead plaque found in its courtyard in 1992. The letter mentions a slave named Phaülles, who was exported from Borysthenes and brought to Phanagoria.41 After the house had been severely damaged by a fire in the late first–early second quarter of the 5th century (supposedly in 480 BC), two of its southern rooms were restored and continued as a dwelling (no. 677) until another fire swept through it right after the middle of the 5th century BC. The excavations revealed remains of a street paved with pebbles, whence one could enter the house through a doorway with a wooden threshold. Right behind the threshold there was a rounded clay platform which apparently served as a hearth-hestia.42 The area of this house did not exceed 25–27 m². Apart from relatively large houses, some very small dwellings have also been uncovered. For example, house no. 687 – built of mud bricks on a stone foundation – consisted of just one room (inside dimensions 3.05 × 2.6 m = 7.9 m2), but with a hearthhestia in the centre. It was made of flatly laid pottery sherds covered with a 2–3-cm-thick clay coating. The surface of the clay was burnt and black in colour. It is unlikely that 37

 For more information, see Shipley 2004.  Zinko 2009, 243. 39  Finogenova 2005, 148. 40  The numbering of building complexes exposed at the excavation site was started in 1995. 41  Y.G. Vinogradov 1998, 160–63; SEG 48, 1024. 42  See Yavis 1949, 59–62. 38

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Fig. 5. ‘Upper City’ excavation site at the Acropolis.

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Fig. 7. Building no. 294 (altar?).

such a small place could house a family. Most probably, it was designed for a single person.43 Public buildings are distinguished by a fairly diversified plan or the presence of some other features uncharacteristic of private homes. I shall begin with two constructions built at an angle to each other (nos. 294 and 464). Their partially preserved remains have been exposed in the south-west part of the ‘Upper City’ excavation site. Building no. 294 occupied an area of over 120 m²; the area of the other one – located partly beyond the southern and western walls of the excavation site – far exceeded 100 m². Let us take a closer look at building no. 294. It had two construction periods. Initially, during the early years of the city’s existence, the building consisted of one room with an area of no more than 50 m². A walkway paved with stone led to the building from the west, across the square. It ended with steps leading to the entrance, which was situated right in the middle of the western wall of the building. Along the wall there ran a pavement made of stones placed over a layer of bedding sand. A small rectangular clay platform (62 × 42 cm) raised to a height of only 6–8 cm above the floor level was uncovered in the centre of the room (Fig. 7). Beside there lay a painted protome of a goddess (Fig. 8). Since no traces of fire are present on the surface of the platform, it cannot be interpreted as a hearth. Supposedly it was an altar. During the second construction period, the interior space of the building was divided with a partition wall into two sections, and two more rooms, each with a hearth-hestia behind the threshold, were added on its southern side. Interestingly, the stone foundation for the eastern wall of building no. 294 43

 For the description of another house, see Kuznetsov 1999, 543, 552–53.

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Fig. 8. Protome found inside building no. 294 near the altar(?).

Fig. 9. Building no. 300, thymiaterion.

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was found to be very wide (1.2 m). It seems that in the second construction period the whole complex of the public buildings described herein was additionally protected on the eastern side with a thick wall that was erected on this foundation. Both buildings (nos. 294 and 464) perished in a huge fire that can be dated to the late first–early second quarter of the 5th century BC (this fire will be dealt with later). The destruction layer also yielded some arrowheads. These buildings had been constructed in the 6th century BC, most likely as early as its third quarter. The space between them was occupied by a square. All four rooms of building no. 294 opened up into it. Presumably, this used to be the main square of the original apoikia. Another building (no. 300) that can be identified as a public (administrative or religious) one44 was almost adjacent to the north-west side of building no. 294 (separated from it only with a narrow lane). The building had an area of more than 75 m² and consisted of one room, in which fragments of three terracotta figurines and a thymiaterion were discovered (Fig. 9).45 Two clay figurines of dogs found among the stones of the building’s base were evidently foundation deposits.46 Judging by its overall appearance and the associated artefacts, the construction may have served as a cult building. It was erected in the third quarter of the 6th century BC, i.e. immediately after the establishment of the apoikia. Across the street from building no. 300 there once stood a small temple in antis dedicated to an uncertain deity. Built in the 5th century BC, it had at least two construction periods. The earlier temple was made of mud bricks laid directly on the ground, whereas the later one had a stone foundation (Fig. 10). In the summer of 2018, completely unexpectedly, quite an unusual construction was discovered beneath the temple (no. 835). It is a cellar made of mud bricks without any foundation (Figs. 11–12). Only its northern wall rests on a high stone support. The entrance has not been preserved, though it is clear that the complex was oriented to the north. A partition wall with an opening in the middle divides the construction into two spaces (northern and southern). This wall is 1.5 m in height; it is lower than the walls of the cellar (1.75 m). The main (southern) compartment has an area of 8.4 m², the northern one 2.1 m². The cellar had been destroyed by a massive fire, yet quite a few artefacts survived inside. The excavation yielded a pile of amphorae, a terracotta figurine, some painted Ionian pottery, a seal ring with an image of a young male holding a wreath in each hand,47 and other things (Fig. 13). All the finds date from the second half of the 6th–early 5th century BC. The nature of the complex and its location under the temple of a later date lead to the assumption that it had relation to chthonic cults.48 The cellar also contained a fragment of a marble louterion handle and two rims of ceramic louteria. The latter may have been used as escharai.49 Unfortunately, the process of constructing the cellar severely damaged an earlier complex, perhaps also of a religious character. Whatever is left of it has yet to be excavated and studied. 44

 Zavoikin and Kuznetsov 2011.  Cf. Gercke 1998. 46  Zavoikin 2007. 47  Boardman 2001, 156–57, fig. 198 N (Late Archaic). 48  See van Straten 1995, 166–67. 49  For the use of louteria in temples see Ginouvès 1962, 77–80. 45

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Fig. 11. Cellar no. 835 with traces of fire.

Fig. 12. Reconstruction of cellar no. 835 (axonometric projection).

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Fig. 13. Finds from cellar no. 835: 1. Terracotta figurine; 2. Rim of a louterion; 3. Lamp; 4. Marble louterion handle; 5. Ionian bowl; 6. Golden finger ring.

Thus, at the time of the city’s foundation a small plot of land was specially set aside for the temple. Over a century and a half at least four sanctuaries were built there, one after another. On the whole, it can be concluded that the central part of the hill was reserved for administrative and public buildings, which flanked the main square of the apoikia. Another interesting complex is located at a distance of 25 m to the north-east of the structure just described. It is also a cellar, rectangular in plan and built of mud bricks without a stone foundation (no. 783). This structure measures 5.0–5.2 × 3.8–4.1 m

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Fig. 14. Cellar no. 783.

Fig. 15. Basin standing at the edge of the altar (at the time of discovery).

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(about 20 m²); its bottom is at a depth of 2 m below the surface of the virgin sand. The front of the cellar faces the north. Its eastern and western walls continue in the north direction, only they lie at a much shallower depth outside the cellar (Figs. 14–17). It is here, between these walls, that an altar made of mud bricks was uncovered. A mudbrick platform flanked with a pit-bothros on the north adjoins the altar on its eastern side. On the surface of the altar, close to its western edge, there stood a deep basin (80 cm in diameter, 42 cm deep). Its function remains unclear. One could view it as a chernips – a vessel for washing hands before sacrifice. However, on the evidence of vase-painting, such bowls were fairly small in size.50 Hence, this supposition should be rejected. Another possibility is that the basin was used for collecting the blood of sacrificed animals.51 In the north-east corner of the cellar there is a stairway leading to the platform in front of the altar. Traces of ash on the altar’s surface and at the edge of the adjoining pit-bothros imply that whatever had been burnt on the altar was then disposed of in the pit. The artefacts found in the cellar, particularly two black-figure Attic vessels (a krater and a kylix: Figs. 18–19), give grounds to date its construction to the third quarter of the 6th century BC. As is the case with the partially underground cult complex described previously, nothing has remained of the above-ground building. The location of the entrance to the cellar is also unknown. One of the most remarkable achievements at the ‘Upper City’ excavation site is the discovery of Phanagoria’s defensive structures. The question as to when fortification became a common phenomenon in Greek cities has been under discussion in scholarly literature for several decades. Until recently, the majority of specialists believed that in the Archaic period defensive works were the exception rather than the rule.52 However, advances in archaeological research offer more and more evidence to the contrary. In his book devoted to Archaic city walls, R. Frederiksen assembled all the data then available for the period under study: throughout the 6th century BC the number of defensive structures kept growing. He reports the existence of 67 fortified poleis in 600–480 BC.53 Naturally, this is not grounds for speaking about the wide spread of fortifications in the Archaic period but, at the same time, Frederiksen rightly points out a lot of obstacles to obtaining new evidence on early city walls, including their destruction through many centuries of human activity: expansion or reconstruction, disrepair, warrelated operations, etc.54 As to the northern Black Sea region, the Cimmerian Bosporus in particular, scholars today increasingly agree that the local apoikiai must have had defensive walls from the very beginning.55 Personally, I am convinced of it. Protection was obviously an issue: it is no accident that the Pontic apoikiai were all founded in naturally fortified places such as islands, peninsulae, hills and other elevated areas. 50

 van Straten 1995, 31–40; Zografou 2005, 208–10.  Burkert 1985, 56; van Straten 1995, 114, fig. 119. 52  Ducrey 1995, 248; Fischer-Hansen 1996, 319–20; Hansen 1997, 52. 53  Frederiksen 2011, 111. 54  Frederiksen 2011, 41–49. 55  Vakhtina and Vinogradov 2001, 42; see also Tolstikov 2017, 259–60. 51

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b

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Fig. 16. Plan of cellar no. 783.

Fig. 17. Cellar no. 783, axonometric projection.

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Fig. 18. Athenian black-figure cup.

Fig. 19. Athenian black-figure krater.

The walls of Phanagoria were built at the edge of the hill – the city’s historical centre (Figs. 20–22). Their ruins are best preserved near the hill slope, as the cultural layer here has not been destroyed by subsequent building activity. Still, it suffered serious damage from household pits dug in the Roman and Byzantine times. The exposed portion of the defensive wall is 21 m long. It ends abruptly on the north-west, perhaps as a result of the hillside collapse that occurred in Antiquity. On the south-east the wall extends beyond the limits of the excavation site. The fortifications (no. 679) look somewhat unusual. They consist of several adjacent rooms made of mud bricks measuring 0.5 × 0.42 m. Four such partitioned sections have been unearthed so far. Their walls are 1.1 m thick; the maximum preserved height is 1.8 m (26–28 courses of bricks). The areas of the rooms are as follows: no. 1 – 17.5 m2, no. 2 – 18 m2, no. 3 – 11.1 m2, no. 4 – 15 m². To the north of room no. 4 the defensive structures are missing; only the retaining walls built at the very edge of the hill have survived. Hundreds of thousands of mud bricks must have been used to construct this line of defence around the hill where Phanagoria had been founded.

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Fig. 20. View of the city wall (from the south-east).

Fig. 21. View of the city wall (from the north-east).

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Fig. 22. Altar and basin in room no. 4 of the city fortifications.

Fig. 23. Stones under of the wall of the earliest fortifications.

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Room no. 4 is special in that it had two construction periods. The first one coincides with the building of the whole fortification system. Later, for some reason, the floor of the room was covered with a 0.6-m-thick layer of loam mixed with fragments of mud bricks, coals and burnt soil. The immediate conclusion is that the room (just as the fortifications in general?) had been exposed to fire. On the surface of this new layer, right in the middle of the room, a hearth-altar was situated (Fig. 23). It is made of a rounded sheet of clay, 4–5 cm thick and 0.8 m in diameter. Small mud bricks laid on edge encircle the construction. The burnt surface of the hearth is orange in colour. A bowl was found nearby. Underneath room no. 4 there are brick courses of an earlier structure (they will be cleaned and thoroughly studied once the examination of the walls has been completed). It is most likely that these are the remains of a defensive construction built of mud bricks on a stone foundation. Another fragment of the city walls (no. 793) has been uncovered at a distance of about 20 m to the west of the fortifications just described. It is a corner of two mud-brick walls, each with a thickness of 1.1 m. Built not at the edge of the hill but close to its centre, they may have been intended for additional protection of some important part of the city. The fortifications of Archaic Phanagoria are of an uncommon type. First of all, their layout: they consist of a row of adjacent rooms, which is fairly uncharacteristic of the defensive works dating from the 6th century BC (though parallels can be found in earlier structures56). Such a system of fortifications allowed not only the fledgling city, as Phanagoria then was, to be protected but also to make the most of the limited space. These constructions may have served multiple purposes: housing soldiers, storing goods, producing and repairing weapons, etc. Obviously, Phanagoria’s mud-brick walls, not very high (4–5 m at most), and not very thick, could not resist a well-organised enemy attack.57 Building defensive structures of mud bricks was a widespread practice in the Archaic period.58 The traditional method was to lay bricks on a stone foundation so as to prevent the wall from being washed away.59 The fortifications of Phanagoria are made without such support. This may be due to the shortage of stone on the Taman Peninsula, which forced the Greek settlers to use it very sparingly. An important task is to determine when Phanagoria’s defensive works were constructed and destroyed. Judging by the Chian white-slipped amphorae, Ionian bowls and cups and Attic black-figure pottery – the earliest artefacts found in the same context – the uncovered fortifications were built in the second half of the 6th century BC. Moreover, the pit under room no. 3 yielded an Ionian oinochoe (Fig. 24) which dates from the time of the city’s foundation. This indicates that the walls were erected shortly after the arrival of the first colonists. The destruction caused by a large fire occurred in the late first or early second quarter of the 5th century BC. The ‘Central’ street running east–north-east to west–south-west forms the main axis of the area under study. It stretches over a distance of 45–50 m from the defensive walls

56

 Hellmann 2010, 305–07.  Lang 2002, 14–16. 58  Winter 1971, 69–73; Frederiksen 2011, 54–55. 59  See, for example, Alexandrescu 2005, 65. 57

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Fig. 24. Ionian oinochoe found beneath the city walls.

to the city square mentioned above. The street is lined with the remains of private houses, the construction of which started at the same time as the apoikia came into being. Almost all the dwellings are separated from each other with narrow lanes. Variously preserved Archaic buildings have been uncovered all over the examined space, except at the western end of the excavation site and a large rectangle in the centre of its southern half. In the first case, virgin soil has yet to be reached; in the second, the Archaic layer was destroyed by the construction of a public building in the 4th century BC. I shall now summarise the main preliminary findings emerging from the study of Phanagoria’s cultural layers of the Archaic period. The original city was built according to a certain plan.60 Most probably, the settlers marked the layout of the urban blocks directly on the ground. All the uncovered constructions are uniformly oriented north– north-west to south–south-east. However, the building line was not observed: some houses were placed closer to the street than others. Therefore, the layout of Archaic Phanagoria, though regular, cannot be identified as a rigid orthogonal grid. It is reasonable to presume that while planning the city blocks61 the colonists first laid out the network of streets, along which the houses and public buildings were to be constructed. The east end of the ‘Central’ street must have led to a small square in front of the eastern gate of the city (room no. 3 of the fortifications). 60

 See Tsetskhladze 2009, 145.  In fact, each of these ‘blocks’ consisted of just one building, its front part facing the ‘Central’ street, the other three side narrow lanes. 61

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Fig. 25. Ionian, Athenian and Clazomenian pottery.

Whether the early apoikia extended beyond the area of the aforementioned hill is as yet unclear. A negative answer will mean that the number of the colonists who came to Phanagoria was not great (perhaps, a few hundreds). This may additionally confirm that the majority of the people of Teos fled from the Persians to Abdera, not to Phanagoria. The second – Pontic – colonisation effort of the Teians, led by a specially designated oikistes (Phanagoras), probably took place a short while later, after the establishment of an apoikia at Abdera. However, the earliest materials from the excavations at Phanagoria suggest that the Teian colony in Pontus was founded in the early third quarter of the 6th century, ca. 540 BC (Fig. 25).62 During the first stage of the city’s existence, the majority of the houses were quite modest in size. The small dwellings were most likely to have been occupied by one or two people, whereas others (such as house no. 205) could have more inhabitants. 62

 Kuznetsov 2010.

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Fig. 26. Furnace made of Chian amphora fragments.

A relatively large residence (house no. 836) must be an indicator of personal wealth. Anyway, living in a tiny house with an area of only 10–15 m² was not very easy, and the absence of a yard definitely made matters worse. It stands to reason, therefore, that the population of the newly founded apoikia spent most of their time tilling their land plots located within walking distance (an hour at most) from the urban centre.63 Each citizen would normally receive his portion of agricultural land by lot at the time of the colony’s foundation. In this case, a house in the centre could, among other things, provide shelter behind the city walls when danger arose. Some of the houses yielded evidence of craft activity. For example, a peculiar furnace made of amphora fragments (Fig. 26) was unearthed in the courtyard of house no. 205. This construction consisted of an upper part of an amphora, turned upside down and dug into the ground, with a small clay dome over it. A pipe made of four Chian amphora necks (third quarter of the 6th century BC) was attached to the furnace and evidently served for air injection.64 Analysis of the soil taken from around the furnace revealed a high concentration of silver. To all appearance, the owner of the house practised the craft of jewellerymaking. His wealth is attested to by a unique hoard of silver coins (most probably not minted in Panticapaeum) which was buried in one of the mud-brick walls of the dwelling. Altogether three furnaces of the aforementioned type have been found at Phanagoria so far. One more workshop was situated in the courtyard of another dwelling (the so-called ‘Sculptor’s House’ uncovered during the 1978 field season). Among the finds there were 63

 Hansen 1997, 46.  Kuznetsov and Zavoikin 2010.

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Fig. 27. Fragment of a clay mold for a hand of a bronze statue.

crucibles, the remains of a bronze-melting furnace and a clay mould for a hand of a lifesize bronze statue (Fig. 27) and as small fragments of a marble kore figurine. These examples confirm that in the initial period crafts, including those which entailed the use of fire, were practised within residential quarters rather than in specialised workshops on the outskirts of the city.65 The evidence from other Ionian apoikiai demonstrates that the colonists stuck to construction methods and techniques typical of their metropolises.66 For the most part they used the same materials and erected houses of the familiar type.67 Given the serious shortage of stone on the Asian side of the Cimmerian Bosporus, there was nothing for it but to rely on an old form of building material: bricks made of mud. The construction of a mud-brick house was fast (requiring a maximum of several weeks). Much more time and labour were necessary to build the city’s defensive structures. Those hundreds of thousands of bricks produced for the fortification of Phanagoria were definitely a joint effort of the entire population of the apoikia.68 The accomplishment of such an arduous task testifies to the level of economic development and considerable skill of the colonists: their qualification and the ability to co-operate.69 Throughout the Archaic and Early Classical periods Phanagoria was continuously rebuilt, often as a result of some tragic events. However, the overall appearance of the city did not change much: its layout remained the same and buildings were still constructed of mud bricks. As was the case with other Greek cities, major changes in the architecture and urbanism of Phanagoria started to take place later, in the 4th century BC.70

65

 Morgan and Coulton 1997, 99.  Buiskikh 2002, 87. 67  Cicala 2000. 68  For example, Thucydides thus describes the building of the walls by all the inhabitants of the city: ‘… and the Argives with all their people (πανδημεί), women and slaves not excepted, addressed themselves to the work…’ (Thucydides 5. 82, trans. R. Crawley). 69  See Danner 1997, 158. 70  Hansen 1997, 55. 66

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Fig. 28. Old Persian cuneiform inscription.

The ending of the Archaic era in Phanagoria coincides exactly with the conventional end date of this period in Greek history: 480 BC. Plentiful archaeological data obtained by the excavation of the city’s earliest cultural layers indicate that in the late first–early second quarter of the 5th century BC Phanagoria perished in a huge fire. Its traces have been found all over the excavation site: the fire destroyed houses, public buildings, religious structures, defensive works, the cellar with several dozen Chian amphorae; a hoard of 162 silver coins was buried in one of the dwellings. The cause of such massive devastation became clear after the unique discovery of an Old Persian cuneiform inscription, which was found overlying the ruins of the city’s fortifications (Fig. 28). Unfortunately, the recovered fragment is very small and does not allow any meaningful interpretation of the text. Yet the document seems obviously connected with the evidence from Diodorus (12. 31) about certain Archaeanactidae, who rose to power in the Cimmerian Bosporus in 480 BC.71 To all appearance, Phanagoria, together with the other cities of the Cimmerian Bosporus, was captured by the Persians and came under the rule of their appointees. Forty-two years later the Bosporan cities were freed from Persian domination during the Pontic expedition of Pericles (Plutarch Per. 20).72 Phanagoria was one of the largest poleis in the northern Black Sea region. A small settlement at the beginning, it started to grow rapidly in the first half of the 5th century BC and soon reached its maximum size. At its peak, the polis of Phanagoria may have occupied an area of 50 to 100 km². It was definitely no accident that Strabo (11. 2. 10) referred to Phanagoria as the metropolis of the Asiatic Bosporans. Before it became part of the Bosporan kingdom, Phanagoria most probably led the alliance of the Ionian Greeks on the Taman Peninsula, who had united around the sanctuary of Aphrodite Ourania, the Mistress of Apatouros.73 71  Κατὰ δὲ τὴν Ἀσίαν οἱ τοῦ Κιμμερίου Βοσπόρου βασιλεύσαντες, ὀνομασθέντες δὲ Ἀρχαιανακτίδαι, ἦρξαν ἔτη δύο πρὸς τοῖς τετταράκοντα διεδέξατο δὲ τὴν ἀρχὴν Σπάρτακος, καὶ ἦρξεν ἔτη ἑπτα. For more information see Kuznetsov and Nikitin 2017; Kuznetsov 2017. 72  Tsetskhladze 2008, 442. 73  Kuznetsov 2016, 271–72.

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Gounaris, A. 2009: ‘City-Polis in the Late Geometric and the Archaic Period’. In Lagopoulos, A.P. (ed.), A History of the Greek City (BAR International Series 2050) (Oxford), 127–42. Graham, A.J. 1991: ‘Adopted Teians: A Passage in the New Inscription of Public Imprecation from Teos’. JHS 111, 176–78 (= Collected Papers on Greek Colonization [Mnemosyne Suppl. 214] [Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2001], 263–68). —. 1992: ‘Abdera and Teos’. JHS 112, 44–73 (= Collected Papers on Greek Colonization [Mnemosyne Suppl. 214] [Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2001], 269–314). —. 1964: Colony and Mother City in Ancient Greece (Manchester). Gras, M., Tréziny, H. and Broise, H. 2004: Mégara Hyblaea 5: La ville archaïque. L’espace urbain d’une cité grecque de Sicile Orientale (Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire Suppl. 1) (Rome). Hansen, M.H. 1997: ‘The Polis as an Urban Centre. The Literary and Epigraphical Evidence’. In Hansen, M.H. (ed.), The Polis as an Urban Centre and as a Political Community (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre 4) (Copenhagen), 9–86. Hellmann, M.-C. 2010: L’architecture grecque 3: Habitat, urbanisme et fortifications (Paris). Herrmann, P. 1981: ‘Teos und Abdera im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Ein neues Fragment der Teiorum Dirae’. Chiron 11, 1–30. Huxley, G. 1984: ‘Teos in Pindar’. In Studies Presented to Sterling Dow on His Eightieth Birthday (Durham, NC), 149–52. Isaac, B. 1986: The Greek Settlements in the Thrace until the Macedonian Conquest (Studies of the Dutch Archaeological and Historical Society 10) (Leiden). Kraay, C.M. 1976: Archaic and Classical Greek Coins (London/New York). Kuznetsov, V.D. 1991: ‘Rannie apoikii Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Archeologii 204, 31–37. —. 1992: ‘Raskopki v Kepakh’. In Ocherki archeologii i istorii Bospora (Moscow), 28–45. —. 1999: ‘Early Types of Greek Dwelling Houses in the North Black Sea’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Mnemosyne Suppl. 196) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 531–64. —. 2010: ‘O vremeni osnovaniya Fanagorii’. Drevnosti Bospora 14, 313–21. —. 2016: ‘Fanagoriya i Sindika: nekotorye zametki’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. (ed.), Fanagoriya: Rezul’taty arkheologicheskikh issledovanii, vol. 4 (Materialy po arkheologii i istorii Fanagorii 2) (Moscow), 250–78. —. 2017: ‘Bospor Kimmeriiskii v 5 v. do n.e. (drevnepersidskaya nadpis’ iz Fanagorii)’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. (ed.), Fanagoriya: Rezul’taty arkheologicheskikh issledovanii, vol. 6 (Materialy po arkheologii i istorii Fanagorii 3) (Moscow), 160–85 (= ‘The Kimmerian Bosporos in the 5th Century BC [an Old Persian Inscription from Phanagoria]’. Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 25.1, 8–43). —. 2018: ‘“Sindian” coins: Some Remarks’. In Avram, A., Buzoianu, L. and Lungu, V. (eds.), Koinè et mobilité artisanale entre la Méditerranée et la Mer Noire dans l’Antiquité: Hommage à Pierre Dupont à son 70e anniversaire (Pontica 51, Suppl. 5) (Constanţa), 123–39. Kuznetsov, V.D. and Nikitin, A.B. 2017: ‘Drevepersidskaya nadpis’ iz Fanagorii’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. (ed.), Fanagoriya: Rezul’taty arkheologicheskikh issledovanii, vol. 6 (Materialy po arkheologii i istorii Fanagorii 3) (Moscow), 154–59 (= ‘An Old Persian Inscription from Phanagoria’. Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 25.1, 1–7). Kuznetsov, V.D. and Zavoikin, A.A. 2010: ‘O masterskikh fanagoriiskikh yuvelirov vtoroi poloviny VI v. do n.e.’. In Zinko, V.N. (ed.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekov’ya. Remesla i promysly (Bosporskie Chteniya 11) (Kerch), 256–65. —. 2014: ‘On the Archaeological Topography of Phanagoria’. In Povalahev, H. (ed.), Phanagoreia und darüber hinaus… Festschrift für Vladimir Kuznetsov (Altertümer Phanagoreias 3) (Göttingen), 29–52. Lang, F. 1996: Archaische Siedlungen in Griechenland. Struktur und Entwicklung (Berlin). —. 2002: ‘Housing and Settlement in Archaic Greece’. In Habitat et urbanisme dans le monde grec de la fin des palais mycéniens à la prise de Milet (494 av. J.-C.) (Table ronde internationale, Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, 9–10 mars 2001) (= Pallas 58) (Toulouse), 13–32. Leschhorn, W. 1984: ‘Gründer der Stadt’: Studien zu einem politisch-religiösen Phänomen der griechischen Geschichte (Pallingenesia 20) (Stuttgart).

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Lewis, D.M. 1982: ‘On the New Text of Teos’. ZPE 47, 71–72. Loukopoulou, L. and Parissaki, M.-G. 2004: ‘Teos and Abdera: The Epigraphic Evidence’. In Moustaka, A., Skarlatidou, E., Tzannes, V.-C. and Ersoy, Y. (eds.), Klazomenai, Teos and Abdera: Metropoleis and Colony (Proceedings of the international symposium held at the Archaeological Museum of Abdera, 20–21 October 2001) (Thessalonica), 305–10. Malkin, I. 1985: ‘What’s in a Name? The Eponymous Founders of Greek Colonies’. Athenaeum 63, 114–30. —. 1987: Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece (Studies in Greek and Roman Religion 3) (Leiden). —. 2011: A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean (Oxford). Martin, R. 1974: L’urbanisme dans la Grèce antique, 2nd ed. (Paris). May, J.M.F. 1966: The Coinage of Abdera (540–345 B.C.) (Royal Numismatic Society Special Publication 3) (London). Morgan, C. and Coulton, J.J. 1997: ‘The Polis as a Physical Entity’. In Hansen, M.H. (ed.), The Polis as an Urban Centre and as a Political Community (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre 4) (Copenhagen), 87–144. Owens, E.J. 1992: The City in the Greek and Roman World (London/New York). Rubinstein, L. 2004: ‘Ionia’. In Hansen, M.H. and Nielsen, T.H. (eds.), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis: An Investigation Conducted by The Copenhagen Polis Centre for the Danish National Research Foundation (Oxford), 1053–107. Saprykin, S.Y. 2019: ‘K prochteniyu i interpretatsii nekotorykh bosporskikh graffiti’. Drevnosti Bospora 24, 473–87. Shelov, D.B. 1953: ‘Raskopki Zapadno-Tsukurskogo poseleniya na Tamani’. Kratkie Soobscheniya Instituta Istorii Material’noi Kul’tury 51, 159–65. Shipley, G. 2004: ‘Little Boxes on the Hillside: Greek Town Planning, Hippodamos, and Polis Ideology’. In Hansen, M.H. (ed.), The Imaginary Polis (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre 2) (Copenhagen), 335–403. Skrzhinskaya, M.V. 1980: ‘“Peripl Ponta Evksinskogo” anonimnogo avtora’. In Issledovaniya po arkheologii Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (Kiev), 115–125. Sorokina, N.P. 1957: Tuzlinskii nekropol’ (Trudy Gosudarstvennogo istoricheskogo muzeya. Pamyatniki kulʹtury 26) (Moscow). Surikov, I.E. 2012: ‘Ob etimologii nazvanii Fanagorii i Germonassy (k postanovke problemy)’. Drevnosti Bospora 16, 440–69. Tolstikov, V.P. 2017: ‘O vremeni osnovaniya i arkhitekturnoi srede rannego Pantikapeya po materialam noveishikh raskopok’. In Peripl: ot Borisfena do Bospora (St Petersburg), 259–69. Tréziny, H. 2002: ‘Urbanisme et voirie dans les colonies grecques archaïques de Sicile Orientale’. In Habitat et urbanisme dans le monde grec de la fin des palais mycéniens à la prise de Milet (494 av. J.-C.) (Table ronde internationale, Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, 9–10 mars 2001) (= Pallas 58) (Toulouse), 267–82. —. 2006: ‘L’urbanisme archaïque des villes ioniennes: un point de vue occidental’. Revue des études anciennes 108.1, 225–47. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2008: ‘The Pontic Poleis and the Achaemenid Empire: Some Thoughts on Their Experiences’. In Lombardo, M. and Frisone, F. (eds.), Forme sovrapoleiche e interpoleiche di organizzazione nel mondo greco antico (Atti del Convegno internazionale Lecce, 17–20 Settembre 2008) (Galatina), 438–46. —. 2009: ‘The City in the Greek Colonial World’. In Lagopoulos, A.P. (ed.), A History of the Greek City (BAR International Series 2050) (Oxford), 143–67. Tuna, N. 2000: ‘Archaic Teos: Preliminary Survey Results’. In Greki i varvary na Bospore Kimmeriiskom (VII–I vv. do n.e.) (Tamanskaya Starina 3) (St Petersburg), 121–23. Ustinova, Y. 1999: The Supreme Gods of the Bosporan Kingdom: Celestial Aphrodite and the Most High God (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 135) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). Vakhtina, M.Y. and Vinogradov, Y.A. 2001: ‘Eshche raz o rannei fortifikatsii Bospora Kimmeriiskogo’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Kolonizatsiya regiona, formirovanie polisov, obrazovanie gosudarstva, vol. 1 (St Petersburg), 41–45.

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THE MAIN RESULTS OF THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL EXCAVATIONS CONDUCTED AT THE FORT OF GONIO-APSARUS IN 2015 Shota MAMULADZE and Emzar KAKHIDZE

ABSTRACT Excavations conducted in 2015 at Gonio-Apsarus, close to Batumi, Georgia, gave additional materials to separate and date two construction layers of the Roman cultural levels: 1. Upper (50–60 cm), with its buildings and archaeological evidence dated to the period from the second half of the 2nd to the end of the 3rd century AD; and 2. Lower (80 cm–1 m), also with building ruins and archaeological materials, belonging to period from the first half of the 1st century to the second half of the 2nd century AD. Simultaneously, excavations were conducted on the ancient church in the village of Akhalsopeli, site of Avgia, close to Gonio. The monument is a hall-type church, the basilica of Early Christian period, with transverse north and south wings. Together with the wings the structure’s plan looks like a crux immissa. According to its construction style, planning and the archaeological evidence uncovered during the excavations, the church can well be dated to the 5th century AD.

The study of the Roman fort of Apsarus, situated in the south-western part of Georgia close to the border with Turkey, started in 1904 and 1917 when Russian licenses were issued to the well-known scholars Nikolai Marr and Teodor Uspenskiy to conduct archaeological excavations on the territory of the fort. However, neither of these projects was carried out for political reasons. It was only after the opening of the Niko Berdzenishvili Scientific Research Institute of the Georgian Academy of Sciences in Batumi that small-scale exploratory work became possible on this site in the 1960s. A new stage in the study of the fort is linked with the foundation of the Museum and Sanctuary of Gonio-Apsarus in 1994. Since 1995, the Gonio-Apsarus Standing Archaeological Expedition has carried out large-scale systematic studies. Joint archaeological excavations have been conducted with Jena, Warsaw and Ferrara universities from 1999 to the present.1 1  Khakhutaishvili, Kakhidze et al. 1999; 2000; Mamuladze 1999; 2000; A. Kakhidze and Mamuladze 1999; 2004; A. Kakhidze, Mamuladze, Inaishvili et al. 2002; Djaparidze 2002; A. Kakhidze, Mamuladze and Ebralidze 2002; Khalvashi 2002a; G. Lortkipanidze and Noneshvili 2002; Plontke-Lüning, Fellmuth and Geyer 2002; Plontke-Lüning 2003; 2005; Plontke-Lüning and Geyer 2003; Fellmuth 2003; E. Kakhidze 2007; 2008; Sulava 2009; Mindorashvili and Mamuladze 2009; Tavamaishvili and Inaishvili 2013; Mamuladze and Vardmanidze 2013; Mamuladze, Shalikadze and Aslanishvili 2013; Mamuladze, KarasiewiczSzczypiorski et al. 2016; Mamuladze, Shalikadze and Kamadadze 2017; Mamuladze, Shalikadze, Surmanidze and Kamadadze 2017; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Kakhidze 2015; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski, Mamuladze, Jaworski and Wagner 2016; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski 2016; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Mamuladze 2017; Mamuladze, Kamadadze and Kipiani 2019.

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Here we present the results of excavations at the south-eastern part of the fort, sectors SO 12 and 13 (Figs. 1–2), and those at the ruins of the Avgia early mediaeval church (Fig. 8), conducted in July–August 2015, will be introduced.2 Field work was resumed in the interior south-eastern part of the fort (sectors SO 12 and 13) in 2015 to identify the plan and purposes of the Roman-period building found in previous years. Therefore, the trench was widened in the easterly, westerly and southerly directions. Squares 65–70, 75 and 76 were added eastwards, squares 5–9 westwards, and squares 19, 29, 39, 49, 50, 59 and 60; a total of 19 squares (Fig. 1.1). First the humus was removed, differing in thickness from square to square – almost equal on the western and southern sides, reaching 20–30 cm, and 25–30 cm on the east. Various types of household and construction ceramics were found in the humus: Square 5: fragments of side-unfolded tiles, wall fragments of a yellow- and greenglazed bowl, amphora handle pieces, with similar finds in squares 6 and 7; Square 8: iron nail (seven pieces, including one longer piece), a pipe fragment, the foot and wall fragments of green-glazed bowls; there are also fragments of local pithos handles and walls; Square 19: fragments of side-unfolded tiles, nails, formless fragments of green-glazed vessels; Square 29: foot/wall and handle fragments of amphorae, wall fragments of greenglazed bowls with spiral scratches on the surface, mouth/wall fragments of faience pottery with convex mouth painted in blue on both sides; Square 39: together with formless fragments of local pottery, fragments of a sideunfolded tile, bottom of yellowish glassware and the bottom of a bronze vessel; Square 49: mainly bottom and wall fragments of side-raised tile; there are also wall fragments of an orange-clay body-grooved amphora; Square 59: formless fragments of glazed pottery prevail with a few pieces of a bodygrooved amphora wall; fragments of similar amphorae are present in square 68 too; Square 67: bottom pieces of greenish glassware, wall fragments of faience as well as formless fragments of various vessels; in squares 66 and 67 there are mostly big and medium stones, while ceramics are represented by side-unfolded tiles. After removing the humus, stonework was found across almost the entire territory, undoubtedly the continuation of the layer found in 2012. However, the stone layer is relatively less intense on the newly excavated area. It is present mostly in eastern (65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 75, 76) and southern (39, 49, 59, 60) squares. Medium-sized (20 × 25 cm) and smaller (8 × 15 cm) shabby stones were used, placed in succession. On the same level the foundations of a Roman construction were uncovered; these are the continuation of a structure identified in previous years (Fig. 1.2). In square 65, bigger (55 × 40 cm) stones marked the continuation of the main wall from east to west. Part of it again appeared in the unexcavated area, so eastwards of square 65 was added a half-square 75; the stones, which end in a relatively bigger one (60 × 85 cm), were cleaned. The continuation of 2

 The results of these archaeological works are already published in Georgian (Mamuladze, Shalikadze and Kamadadze 2017), while the results of excavations at north-western part of the fort, sector NO 11, also conducted in 2015, are published in English (Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Mamuladze 2017, 264–68).

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this wall was identified in the western trench as well, square 5. The remains of the stones were cleaned in square 7, which is the continuation of the dividing wall uncovered in previous years. A stone course was found also in squares 39 and 49 of the southern trench. Square 49 yielded a small faience piece, a foot/heel fragment of a green-yellowish glazed bowl and a mouth-wall fragment of bluish glass. At the stone course in the western part of the square some fragments of side-unfolded tiles were found. The mouth/neck and handle fragment of an orange-clay amphora were also recovered. Square 68 is represented mostly by fragments of glazed ceramics as well as formless pieces of amphorae produced by various centres. A bronze ring was found in the northeastern part of the square (55 cm from humus); it lacks a small fragment of the circle; it is plain, has a longish-oval discus, and circles in several rows on the surface. In squares 5 and 6: a handle of a brown-clay amphora, mouth/neck and wall fragment of an orange-clay amphora with horizontal grooves on the neck. There are two pieces of the bottom of a bluish glass drinking vessel, with double-wall heel and slightly concave foot; a foot of a Colchian amphora with a rosette inside; and a mouth/neck and body fragment of a so-called Romanised cauldron/pot. There is one sling-stone and a ball. Fragments of charcoal were found here and there. In the central part of square 19 a mouth/neck fragment of blue-greenish glass perfume container was cleaned. After photographing and recording the existing situation, we removed the Ottomanperiod stone layer to reveal a brownish layer leading down to the floor of construction level 1 of the Roman period. In this section, in squares 5–8 of the western trench, the remains of the foundation level of the same period were uncovered. They mostly join the foundation remains of the level excavated in previous years. In the northern section of the trench the outer support wall continued westwards. It seems to continue in the unexcavated area. In these squares, in the central parts of the trench made this year, relatively wide (90 cm) remains of a foundation wall have been identified, running from the north southwards. In the north it joins the outer support wall; in the south it continues to the middle section of square 7 and joins the mid-separating wall. The walls supposedly continue into square 8 as well. It measures 160 × 90 cm; it is destroyed at the south end where a pit for a wooden post has been identified and cleaned: the pit’s sides are constructed with side-polished stones (Figs. 1.2, 2). In this section it had been impossible to formulate a compete plan of the ruins of the existing construction in 2015. The trench supposedly needed to be widened westwards. As for the foundation structure, here are mostly bigger lateral façade stones with the spaces between them filled in with the mixture of smaller stones and clay. In the north-eastern section of the trench, it seems to join the floor identified last year, in the south-east. A quite interesting picture has been revealed in the eastern part of the trench (squares 55, 56, 65, 66, 75 and 76). Here again, after removing the Ottoman-period layer, the foundation structures of construction level 1 of the Roman period have been identified. On this level the most remarkable are the remains of the building in the southern part of square 70, running from east to west. It is quite wide (85 × 90 cm) and supposedly represents the foundation remains of the outer support wall in the south. It passes the boundaries of the square on the eastern and western sides and enters the unexcavated area

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from both side. For a complete view we went 1 m deep southwards in this section. The wall remains of the construction seem to be connected eastwards to the outer support wall identified here. The trench in this direction needs to be widened to see a relatively complete configuration. On this level, the floors are constructed traditionally as in the other parts of the trench. Different types of ceramics have been identified. In square 68 the materials are still mixed: there is a mouth fragment of a green-glazed bowl with easily distinguishable convex fringe decorated with a wavy ornament; a long-pitcher wall decorated with a finger-like notch; the bottom of an Italic amphora with a high heel with a small tussock in the centre, the clay pinkish-beige with an admixture of mica; formless pieces of different amphorae; and a mouth/neck fragment of a yellow-coloured glass perfume container. In square 69 there are fragments of side-unfolded tiles with higher or lower ridges; of a so-called Romanised cauldron/pot; the handle fragment of an ovalsection red-clay amphora; and a piece of a thin-walled red-glaze bowl. Hand-ground pieces have also been identified in this square. The central part of square 59 yielded a bronze bird-like image with a roundish head: the beak is broken, the neck is high, the breast is roundish and the tail is narrowed to the end. There is a hole in the middle of the body with a bronze piece in it, apparently the image used initially to be fixed to a support. The excavations conducted in squares 65 and 75 and 66 and 76 in the north-eastern section of the trench are very interesting. Here the stones (30–40 cm) of a so-far-unidentified construction, laid in the Ottoman period, have been preserved on purpose. The surface of the floor is made with a mixture of mud, sand and ceramics here and there. In the Ottoman period a ditch was cut in the construction floor down to the (generally) well-preserved Roman-period floor of construction level 1. (That floor is 8–10 cm thick and its southern section is damaged.) The Ottoman stones were laid directly over that floor; we have preserved the northern section of the Ottoman-period floor along its entire length. In the northern section of square 66 we excavated down to construction level 2. The incision shows that different sizes of stone were used for the construction level 1 floor and that it was covered with clay-layer hydraulic-solution mixture. Construction level 2 was widened partially to square 56. Here, foundation remains were revealed that enter the unexcavated areas both eastwards and westwards, under construction level 1 structures. The distance between the floors of the two construction levels is 55–60 cm. In square 66, there are again construction ceramics for level 1 in the form of sideunfolded tiles; fragments of Colchian amphorae covered with horizontal grooves and finger-like notches; mouth/wall and handle fragments of the so-called Romanised cauldron/pot with brown-clay pyroxene mixtures; and bottom fragments of a small orangeclay vessel of similar composition. Among imported ware, wall- and handle fragments of Sinopean amphorae predominate as well as mouth pieces of louteria. Also a fragment of the bottom and wall of a thin-walled clearly deposited bowl. In square 67 we find fragments of side-unfolded tiles, two pieces of the bottom of a blue glass vessel, wall fragments of a thin-walled clearly deposited bowl, the handle of a Sinopean amphora and a supporting heel of an Italic amphora. Different types of pottery have also been found in squares 66 and 76: fragments of long-pitcher walls, wall fragments of various vessels of reddish-brownish clay, the bottom of an engobed amphora, oval-incised handle, the bottom of an Italic amphora, and a glass drinking-vessel bottom. Also corroded iron nails.

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As for the incised layer of construction level 2, in one part of the structure (squares 55 and 56) larger rectangular clay slabs have been cleaned (30 × 45 cm). We obtained various types of artefact, the majority of them construction ceramics. The leading position is taken by side-unfolded tiles, fragments of a so-called Romanised cauldron/pot, bottom/ walls of a Colchian amphora, mouth-tube of a Sinopean louterion, and neck and wall fragments of another amphora. In square 55, again tiles were unearthed. One of them has quadrangular notches on the surface. There are fragments of Colchian and Sinopean amphorae. In square 56, apart from tiles there are fragments of a Colchian amphora and a red-glazed vessel; also, the pieces of blue glass bowl with vertical rib. In 2015 we decided to begin simultaneous deepening of those sections of the trench where it might be possible to study construction level 2 of the Roman period (squares 15–18, 25 and 26), principally to separate the materials of the two construction levels and determine the stratigraphy of the Roman cultural layer. Eastwards of the structure revealed in square 16 part of a quite large stone slab (70 × 80 × 30 cm) was cleaned that enters the wall structure of the construction level 1 building and goes under the floor. This time we were able to reveal only the western part of it. The middle part is carved out to a depth of 7–10 cm. At this stage it is not possible to make a complete image of the whole. It might have been used for a toilet. Here as well various types of ceramic ware were identified. Square 16 yielded Solen-type tiles made from reddish clay, fragments of a Colchian amphora and a cauldron/pot, the bottom of a Sinopean amphora, walls of a pink-clay clearly deposited amphora, the conical/concave bottom of a blue glass drinking vessel and a mouth/neck fragment of a decanter. We have dug deeper in squares 25 and 26, down to the floor of construction level 2. The remains of the buildings of construction level 1 impede the widening of the trench. Garbage pits of the Ottoman period in squares 15 and 25 were completely cleaned in 2015. A pit revealed in square 15 is large: 2.20 m. It is 3.60 m deep from the general surface and reaches the dune layer. The floors of both construction levels of the Roman period are well seen in the pit walls. The distance between them is 60–70 cm; the material is certainly mixed. More or less the same picture was revealed in the pit cut into square 25 (diameter 90 cm, depth 3.30 m). It too presents mixed material. In 2015 we cut a trench along the entire length in the western section of squares 17, 18 and 19 from 10.50 m zero point to 4.45 m deep, 2.40 m from the general surface. Floors of both Roman-period levels have been revealed in this test trench. The distance between them is 40–45 cm. In square 17 various material from construction level 1 is encountered: bottom and walls of Colchian amphorae, mouth/wall pieces of cauldron/ pot, mouth and wall of a louterion, bigger pieces of a red-glazed bowl mouth and an oil lamp, the bottom of a glass drinking vessel. From the sandy layer in construction level 2 in square 18 there are mostly mouth/wall and bottom fragments of Colchian amphorae as well as the wall fragments of Sinopean amphorae. Three rows of unpolished stones of larger size (50 × 30 × 50 cm, 55 × 30 × 55 cm, 60 × 40 × 35 cm), revealed 70 cm deep from construction level 2, are of particular significance. They were at dune level along the entire length (2.2 m), running from east to west. At this stage it is not possible to create a complete image of the plan and purpose of the building. We suppose the space between the structures in the northern section

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might have been used for the sewerage system of construction level 2. The deposited layer between them resembles silt and is rather sticky. It reveals fragments of a stand made of reddish clay, formless fragments of glassware, bottom pieces of a cauldron/pot and a Colchian amphora, and mouth/neck fragments of a red-clay jug. Southwards from this is a row of the same type stones. It can be considered as the kerb of a street sidewalk. It is impossible to form a clear picture of it without removing the remains and a floor of construction level 1. A 5–10-cm charcoal layer has been identified along the entire length between the floors of construction levels 1 and 2 in the southern and eastern sections of the trench. For reasons unknown, the Roman-period constructions were destroyed in the second half of the 2nd century AD, the surface levelled and later rebuilt with new constructions. Here, like elsewhere, Ottoman garbage pits were revealed. We were unable to study them at this time. Here we will briefly describe the finds of 2015. Archaeological research over many years has shown that the oldest cultural layer of the fort is represented by local common tribal places of the 8th–7th centuries BC, the so-called dune settlements, where a ritual connected to a bull cult or a Sea God was performed annually at a certain season. 3 The number of stands confirms this supposition. In 2015 their number was enlarged with a fragment of a red-clay stand, obtained in the identified dune layer (Fig. 6.1). Among finds of household ceramics we meet a wall fragment of a pithos of the Roman period made from reddish-brownish clay (Figs. 4.1, 6.2). It has relief stripes on the surface. On another example, finger-like notches are seen between the horizontal ranges (G.A. 2015/1272, 1348). Larger pieces of similar pitcher bodies have been found in the central section of the fort and on the territory of the southern gate.4 Amphorae form the majority of household transport ware (grouped in accordance with the classification of amphorae found in Gonio-Apsarus). From local production there are a mouth/neck and body fragment of a brown-clay amphora of relatively small size (Fig. 6.3). It has a slightly convex roundish mouth rib and cylindrical low neck. Flat-incised handles protruded slightly on the surface. Small brown-clay amphorae found in Apsarus represent the evolutional development of one of the versions of Colchian amphorae of the Late Hellenistic period. From fragments found amidst the waste of the neck-rib amphorae production workshop, Merab Khalvashi assumes that this type was produced locally in Apsarus. According to stratigraphic data, the type began to spread, if not from the end of the 1st century AD then at least from the beginning of the 2nd century, and existed through to the first half of the 3rd century AD.5 The bottoms of brown-clay amphorae are cone-shaped, with roundish support; some have distinct and others slight rosettes inside the surface (Figs. 4.2, 6.4). There are also low grooved bottoms unnoticeably separated from the body (G.A.2015/1339, 1170). There is a graffito on the wall of one of the amphora below the handle (G.A. 2014/1000). 3  A. Kakhidze and Mamuladze 2004, 35–36; 2016, 137, pls. 24.5, 27.2, 4–5, 28.1–5; A. Kakhidze, Tavamaishvili and Chavleishvili 2013. 4  Kakhidze and Mamuladze 2004, 51–52. 5  Khalvashi 2002b, 19–20, fig. 12. On the classification and chronology of neck-rib amphorae, see Khalvashi 2000, 35–46.

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Among imported amphorae can be distinguished the bottom fragments of fringeprotruding amphorae from Italy (Figs. 4.3, 6.5); a mouth and other pieces of amphorae of Sinopean production dated to the 2nd–3rd centuries AD (G.A. 2015/1119, 1165); and Byzantine examples (Figs 4.4, 6.6–7) of the 6th century AD. Quite common are kitchen and table utensils of the Roman period: pots, cauldrons/ pots, jugs and trays. They are made from brown, reddish and orange clay, with admixtures of lime and pyroxene. They are unified into the so-called Romanised group. The pots have unfolded profiled mouth. Some have a relief stripe or groove on the outer lip, while the inner lip is concave, apparently to fit the lid (Figs, 4.5, 6.8); others have a straight mouth (G.A. 2015/1316), a low neck, their large-capacity body rounded. The bottoms of most are flat; they have flat and quite high round-cut handles, the upper end of which is modelled to the mouth and the lower one to the body (Fig. 4.6). The great majority of the Romanised vessels are plain. Apart from the mouth, ornament is made on the neck area as well as the entire body. Below the mouth some have a finger-like notch (G.A. 2014/477). The Romanised kitchenware has been enriched with new finds. These indicate that such items produced for use by the fort’s defenders were high-value commodities,6 likewise a jug handle and bottom. Clay covers of brownish-reddish colour catch the attention too. They have a disc-like widened lip and a button-like handle in the centre (Fig. 6.9). They repeat the shapes uncovered earlier in Gonio-Apsarus.7 Construction ceramics form a great part of the finds (Fig. 7.4–6). The majority are Solen-type tiles made of brownish-reddish clay. The sizes of unfolded sides vary. Welldeposited and rough admixture clay examples are distinguished (G.A. 2015/1389, 1386, 1331). There are horizontal stripes or relief ridges on some specimens (G.A. 2015/1452). Sinopean examples (G.A. 2015/1015) are also met. Red-glazed pottery is present as fragments. There is a bowl fragment (Figs. 5.2, 6.12). It has a high slightly roundish mouth with one horizontal line at the beginning and at the end. The clay is beige, sandy; here and there red glaze is preserved. Similar bowls are widespread in the red-glazed ceramics of the 1st century AD. They appear as early as the end of the 1st century BC in Pergamum as well as among Samian pottery production. In the 1st–3rd centuries AD they are found in different technical variations.8 A second bowl is relatively well preserved (Figs. 5.3, 6.11): high capacity, wide mouth, roundish body and elaborated heel. Similar types of bowl had been uncovered earlier in GonioApsarus. They belong to type 9 red-glazed pottery and are dated to the 3rd century AD.9 There are also wall- and handle fragments of an oil lamp (Figs. 5.1, 6.10). So far we cannot say anything about shapes and analogues. Louteria are relatively more numerous. Sinopean examples discovered in 2015 are represented by mouth, wall and bottom fragments. They are of different sizes; the clay (whitish-lilac, rough admixture of pyroxene and limestone) and shape are mostly similar; variations exist in the shape of the inner lip of the mouth. The horizontally unfolded 6

 Asatiani 1977, 191–93; A. Kakhidze and Mamuladze 2004, 53–55.  A. Kakhidze and Mamuladze 2004, 55–56; Sulava 2009, 66; Mamuladze, Shalikadze and Aslanishvili 2013, 194. 8  Ebralidze 2005, 35, fig. 10. 9  Ebralidze 2005, 41, fig. 17. 7

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mouth of one of the fragments is roundish (Figs. 5.4, 7.1–2). The inner lip is separated from the body by a groove made with a sharp instrument (Figs. 5.4, 7.2). Louteria with similar shapes found in Apsarus are dated to the end of the 1st century and the 2nd century AD.10 There is a relief rib modelled to the junction of mouth and body on the inside surface (G.A. 2015/1500). Such types of louterion are dated to the 2nd– 3rd centuries AD.11 Besides the Sinopean ones, we have obtained mouth/wall fragments of Heraclean type (Figs. 5.5, 7.3): this has a triangular incised convex mouth, the inside lip separated by a slight groove; there is a small disc-like clay mass modelled on the mouth. The clay is reddish-brown, with rough admixtures characteristic of Heraclean production. The date is also the 2nd–3rd centuries AD.12 Glass items are numerous. They are represented by the fragments of mouths of drinking vessels, the bottom of a vertical-rib bowl, perfume containers and decanter-like vessels. The fragments of vessels produced by casting-pressing and dated to the second half of the 1st century AD were added to items made in western Mediterranean workshops. They comprise one of the numerous groups of glassware in Apsarus. There are many variations.13 In 2015 we found only the fragments of the bottom of a vertical-rib bowl (G.A. 2015/1300). The glass is pure light blue. On the outer surface there are the endings of the vertical rib. We also found blown glassware: mouth fragments of a perfume container (Figs. 5.6, 7.7) and fragments of the mouth/neck and handle of decanter-like vessel (Figs. 5.8, 7.9). Decanters take an important place among the items of the 1st–2nd centuries AD. They are considered as western Mediterranean production.14 Relatively profiled samples are represented mostly by the bottom/heels of vessels. The heel of one of them is double-walled, tallish, creating a spherical relief on the surface (Figs. 5.7, 7.8). There was a horizontal glass thread at the beginning of the body. The height of the preserved fragment is 5.5 cm; wall width 0.2 cm. The glass is light blue in colour, with bubbles. The bottom of the second light-blue glass vessel is similar (G.A. 2015/1137); diameter 3.8 cm. The bottoms of drinking vessels can be arranged according to the typology of bottoms present in Apsarus. Type 1 vessels have a disc-like bottom with a relief on the surface (G.A. 2015/1137, 1399), diameter 3.5 cm; the inside surface of the doublewalled heel of some of them is spherically concave (G.A. 2015/1137). Flat-bottom drinking vessels are widespread in the ancient world.15 The examples belong to the western Mediterranean group and are dated to the 1st–3rd centuries AD. There are bottoms with different size diameters that have a double-walled groove heel and cone-like deepening (G.A. 2015/1401, 1404). The glass is pure light blue; diameter: 2.8, 3.8 and 3.4 cm. Similar bottoms are included in type 4 and are dated to the 3rd century AD.16

10

 Ebralidze 2002, 90, fig. 1; 2005, 70, fig. 50.  Ebralidze 2005, 70–71, fig. 51. 12  Ebralidze 2002, 91, fig. 3; 2005, 71–72, fig. 52. 13  Shalikadze 2000, 56–61, figs. 1–5; 2004a, 17–20; A. Kakhidze and Shalikadze 2009, 93, pl. 17.59. 14  Shalikadze 2004a, 31–33, figs. 21–24; 2004b, 122–24, figs. 1–6. 15  Isings 1957, 48, form 34; Sorokina 1962, 223, fig. 9.2, 6; 1963, 158, fig. 6.55; Kunina and Sorokina 1972; Kunina 1997, 158, cat. 6, 55. 16  Shalikadze 2004a, 44, fig. 44; 2004b, 131, fig. 19. 11

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Among the metal items were formless bronze specimens: plates (G.A. 2015/1101), pigeon-like detail (G.A. 2015/1265), various tools (Fig. 7.10) and a bronze ring (Figs. 5.9, 7.11). The latter is relatively well preserved, covered with a greenish patina; a finger circle, flat, thickened at the top; oval bezel with small sharp circular images on it, a dot in the middle. This is the first time such an item has appeared at Gonio-Apsarus. It has a typical Classical shape. Generally, it was a popular type of Greek ring from the 4th century BC onward.17 Such are the main results of the excavation conducted in this section in 2015. As we have shown, the artefacts in construction level 1 of the Roman period mostly correspond to the period of Roman presence in the fort – from the second half of the 2nd century to the end of the 3rd century AD; and the archaeological evidence from construction level 2 corresponds to the period from the second half of the 1st century to the second half of the 2nd century AD. * * * Another subject of investigation by the expedition is the church ruins at Avgia (Fig. 8), located near the village of Akhalsopeli (Khelvachauri municipality), very close to the fort.18 The church itself was discovered 1.5 km away from the road from the centre to Avgia, on its right side, in the yard of Tamaz Sharadze. The site was covered with old plants and thorn bushes. The monument is a hall-type church of Early Christian period, with transverse north and south wings. According to its construction style, planning and the archaeological evidence (Fig. 9) uncovered during excavation, the basilica can be dated to the 5th century AD. Churches of this type were widespread in the peripheries of the Byzantine empire, for example in Abkhazia or the northern Black Sea area.19 The plan of the structure together with its wings resembles a crux immissa. Its full length is 23.85 m; the width including the wings 19 m. It contains a semi-circular protruding apse with a radius of 6.05 m. The main space of the church has three parts: a transverse hall, presumably functioning as narthex as well, a hall and an altar apse. According to all the signs, the floor of the construction was levelled uniformly with a pink lime solution, with an admixture of pebbles and ceramic powder. The church had only one entrance, from the west. The relation between the exit doors from the north and south wings is very interesting. In the northern annexe the door is set in the northwestern corner, whereas in the southern it is set in the south-eastern corner. The northern annexe measures 5.50 × 4.75 m wide; the southern is 5.50 × 4.50 m. The construction itself is made with broken stones, bound by a mortar of clay earth in the lower structure and, above 50–60 cm, limestone, medium pebbles and ceramic powder. In the corners and in the wing door-openings the use of quite new and different, specially elaborated squares and slabs is identified. The nature of the outer structure of the altar apse should be noted: relatively small (20 × 20 cm or 25 × 25 cm) broken stones are used but more or less approximated to prisms. The total width of the walls averages 17

 M. Lortkipanidze 1975, 68.  In the opinion of Emzar Kakhidze, the toponym Avgia has to be linked with Greek word άγιος, saint. 19  For detail, see Mamuladze, Kamadadze and Kipiani 2019. 18

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75–85 cm, in the apse 75 cm, and in the annexes fluctuates between 65 and 75 cm. The maximum height of the preserved walls reaches 2–2.5 m. The horizontality of the rows is strictly observed in all the cases. The interior structure contains no signs belonging to an arched roofing system. The hall space contain no traces of pilasters or semi-pillars. We suppose that the edifice was roofed with dual-pitched roofing.

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—. 2004a: Gvianantikuri da adreshuasaukuneebis minis natsarmi samkhret-dasavlet sakartvelos shavizgvispiretidan (Batumi). —. 2004b: ‘Minis natsarmi’. In Mamuladze, S. (ed.), Gonio-Apsarus 4 (Batumi), 120–40. Sorokina, N.P. 1962: ‘Steklo iz raskopok Pantikapeya 1945–1959 gg.’. Materiali i isledovania po arkheologii SSSR 103, 210–36. —. 1963: ‘Pozdneantichnoe i rannesrednevekovoe steklo s Tamanskogo gorodishcha’. In Ribakov, B. (ed.), Keramika i steklo drevney Tmutarakani (Moscow), 134–69. Sulava, N. 2009: ‘Gonio-apsarosis mudmivmokmedi arkeologiuri ekspeditsiis 2004–2005 tslebis kvleva-dziebis shedegebi SW V sektorshi (“abanotubani”)’. In Mamuladze, S. (ed.), GonioApsarus 8 (Batumi), 59–89. Tavamaishvili, G. and Inaishvili, N. 2013: ‘Gonio-apsarosis arkeologiuri ekspeditsiis tsentraluri ubnis (SW I sektoris) razmis mushaobis angarishi (2011–2012 tslebi)’. In Tavamaishvili, G., Apkhazava B., Mamuladze, S. et al. (eds.), Ajara: Past and Modernity 1 (Batumi), 164–86.

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Fig. 1. 1. General plan of the fort of Apsarus (David Chkonia); 2. General view of the fort of Apsarus (Mirza Tsimnaridze).

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Fig. 2. 1. Plan of sectors 12 and 13; 2. South-west view of sectors 12 and 13 (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 3. 1. North-west view of sectors 12 and 13; 2. North-east view of sectors 12 and 13 (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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SHOTA MAMULADZE – EMZAR KAKHIDZE

Fig. 4. 1. Fragments of pithos body; 2. Fragments of Colchian amphora foot; 3. Feet of Italic amphora; 4. Fragments of amphora handle; 5–6. Fragments of Romanised pot (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 5. 1. Fragments of terra sigillata lamp; 2–3. Fragments of terra sigillata cup; 4–5. Fragments of louterion mouth and body; 6. Fragment of perfume vessel; 7. Fragment of glass cup; 8. Fragments of glass jug mouth and body; 9. Bronze ring (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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SHOTA MAMULADZE – EMZAR KAKHIDZE

Fig. 6. 1. Fragment of foot of horn-like stand; 2. Fragments of pithos body; 3. Fragments of amphora mouth and handle; 4. Fragments of amphora foot; 5. Fragments of Italic amphora foot; 6. Fragments of amphora mouth and handle; 7. Fragments of amphora mouth and body; 8. Fragments of pot mouth and handle; 9. Cover; 10. Fragment of terra sigillata lamp; 11–12. Fragment of terra sigillata cup (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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Fig. 7. 1–3. Fragments of louterion mouth and body; 4–6. Fragments of folded tile; 7. Fragment of glass perfume vessel; 8. Foot of glass cup; 9. Fragments of glass jug mouth and handle; 10. Bronze items; 11. Bronze ring (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

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SHOTA MAMULADZE – EMZAR KAKHIDZE

Fig. 8. Avgia church. Plan (Guram Kipiani) and photograph (Giorgi Dumbadze, Batumi Archaeological Museum and Gonio-Apsarus Museum and Sanctuary).

EXCAVATIONS CONDUCTED AT THE FORT OF GONIO-APSARUS IN 2015

Fig. 9. Artefacts found at Avgia church: 1. Large vessel (dergi) fragment; 2. Pot fragment; 3. Cross; 4. Amphora handle; 5. Glass lamp-handle; 6. Tile fragment; 7. Cross stone adornment.

573

PAPHLAGONIANS AND PHRYGIANS Manolis MANOLEDAKIS

ABSTRACT This paper deals with the relation between the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians. Some references of the ancient sources have led to the suggestion that the two peoples may have had things in common. A suggestion that, in the modern literature, became sometimes certainty about an ethnic kinship between them, strengthened by archaeological evidence, such as grave monuments of similar types in both Inner Paphlagonia and Phrygia in the Late Archaic and Classical as well as the Early Imperial periods. The question is ‘does all this textual and archaeological evidence actually mean an ethnic kinship between Paphlagonians and Phrygians?’ It would be rather impetuous to give a definitive answer, but there are some comments that are worth being made on the issue.

INTRODUCTION1 One of the significant particularities of northern Anatolia in Antiquity is the distinction between the peoples that inhabited the coast of the southern Black Sea and those dwelling the hinterland, which was cut off from the former, due to the existence of large and steep mountain ranges in between. In the Late Bronze Age it was the Kashka and the Hittites respectively. In the early historical ages, the Phrygians dominated the biggest part of the hinterland, while the coast was inhabited by many minor peoples.2 It seems, from several references in the written sources, that one of them, the Paphlagonians were, culturally, among the most significant ones on the coast.3 For some reasons, which will be presented here, the Paphlagonians have sometimes been connected to the Phrygians in the modern literature. Nevertheless, there is a considerable difference between them: apart from their politically important kingdom, the Phrygians developed a noteworthy culture, significant remnants of which have been preserved. These belong to specific categories of both material and mental culture that can be identified as Phrygian, such as pottery, architecture and religion, not to mention the very important as well as rare (for these times) language with a script. Today we have several Old- and New Phrygian inscriptions, as well as references of later sources to specific Phrygian words, so that linguistics has drawn considerable conclusions regarding the Phrygian dialect.4 On the contrary, no such evidence is left concerning the Paphlagonians, or any of the nations – more than 20 – that are mentioned 1  It is with great pleasure that I dedicate this piece to Gocha Tsetskhladze, a scholar who has devoted his life to the study of the archaeology and history of the Black Sea region, and a good friend. 2  On which, see Manoledakis 2018. 3  Manoledakis 2021. 4  See more recently Manoledakis 2016, with all the relevant bibliography.

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to have been dwelling the southern Black Sea littoral. Not a single archaeological find or text can securely be attributed to them – most probably their language did not have a script. Consequently, almost all of our knowledge on the Paphlagonians is derived from Greek written sources, and very few Latin ones, which do not add anything crucial to the former. However, some references of the ancient sources led to the suggestion that the two peoples may have had things in common. A suggestion that seems to have become certainty in one of the most important monographs that has been written on the Phrygian language, O. Haas’s Die Phrygischen Sprachdenkmäler of 1966.

THE THEORY OF HAAS ABOUT THE KINSHIP BETWEEN THE PHRYGIANS AND THE PAPHLAGONIANS The theory of Haas5 about the kinship between the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians is initially based on the references to the two peoples by Homer and Herodotus. Already from the very beginning, Haas draws a conclusion of geographic character, which proves to be of decisive significance for the continuance of his work: he thinks that Phrygia as mentioned in the Iliad ’s Trojan Catalogue (2. 862) is to be placed near Lake Ascania, in the Black Sea littoral, close to the River Sangarios.6 He continues quoting the passage of Herodotus, according to which the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians belonged to the third province (satrapy) that Darius established, together with the Hellespontians of the right coast as one enters the straits, the Asiatic Thracians (namely the Bithynians), the Mariandynians and the Syrians (the Cappadocians) (Herodotus 3. 90. 2; cf. Xenophon Cyropaedia 8. 6. 8). Haas thinks that this passage also indicates that the Phrygians mentioned by Herodotus lived ‘sicher am Schwarzen Meer’.7 In his book, Haas distinguishes between those Phrygians of the ‘Black Sea coast’ (mentioned by Herodotus as those who came from the Balkans), whom he calls ‘North-East Phrygians’, and those of the hinterland, who were earlier, in the so-called ‘Großphrygien’ (Greater Phrygia) – based also on linguistic differences in their dialects.8 The view that the land between Heraclea and Bithynia was Phrygian had also been expressed earlier, by other scholars.9 But this geographic position of the Phrygians is not the only conclusion drawn by Haas from these passages. The other, even more important one, is that there was a kinship between the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians. Haas is led to this conclusion by Herodotus’ passage (7. 73), in which we read that the dress of the Phrygians closely resembled the Paphlagonian one, only slightly differing from it.10 To this Herodotean passage Haas adds the presence of the rock-cut tombs (Felsgräber), which are often encountered in the Phrygian as well as the Paphlagonian landscapes; to the latter this type of monument was 5

 Which is only a part of his influential work on the Phrygian language, but the part that concerns us here. 6  Haas 1966, 9–11, 241. 7  Haas 1966, 9–11, 242. 8  Haas 1966, 11–12, 16–17. He even calls the territory of the former ‘Das Nord-Ost-Phrygische Reich’ (established in the 8th century BC), a convention that is not supported by the sources. 9  Meyer 1925, 12, 149; Ruge 1941, 788, 796–97. 10  Haas 1966, 10, 242.

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transferred from ‘North-East Phrygia’.11 In several parts of his book, and in a rather ambiguous way, Haas expresses his belief that Phrygians and Paphlagonians were initially proximate neighbours, and that the former inhabited gradually part of what is called Paphlagonia, and concludes that the population of Paphlagonia, at least in the 8th century BC, must have belonged to the same ‘folk’ (Volkstum) as the elder group of the Phrygians, who lived in Greater Phrygia. This image changed later, in the 6th–4th centuries BC, when Paphlagonia was partially inhabited by ‘North-East Phrygians’. Haas invokes here the view of Akurgal12 that Paphlagonia belonged to the Phrygian cultural sphere in the 6th–4th centuries BC, interpreting the Phrygians of Akurgal as his ‘NorthEast Phrygians’.13 He then states that this view is reinforced by the presence of Phrygian pottery (which he attributes to the ‘North-East Phrygians’) in many areas of Paphlagonia, Sinope included, and of course, of Old Phrygian inscriptions, like the one mentioning the Paphlagonian ruler Otys and his Persian wife.14 However, he seems to fall into a contradiction here, since he himself attributes elsewhere in his book the specific inscription to the language of Greater Phrygia and not to the language of ‘North-East Phrygia’,15 as we would expect given his view on the ‘North-East Phrygian’ expansion to Paphlagonia from the 6th century BC on. Indeed, he goes so far as to say that ‘die Sprache von Paphlagonien ist gleich der großphrygischen’,16 and that Paphlagonia used the (Greater) Phrygian tongue, at least as a second language, until the 4th century BC, judging by Strabo’s testimony (12. 3. 25) about the two languages spoken in Cappadocia and Paphlagonia near Halys.17 Although Strabo’s passage does not clearly state that the second language spoken in this region was Phrygian (the first must have been Paphlagonian), Haas deduces it from the fact that one of the nine names that Strabo cites as Paphlagonian is a typical Phrygian one (Μάνης), as the geographer himself states elsewhere (7. 3. 12).18

CRITICISM

OF

HAAS’S

ARGUMENTS

However, the resemblance of the two languages noticed by Haas is not based on solid evidence, since it is well known that the Paphlagonian language is totally unknown to us, apart from the names mentioned by Strabo or in inscriptions. Indeed, as already mentioned, it may even be doubted that this language had a script, unlike the Phrygian one. But even the geographic positioning of the Phrygians mentioned in Herodotus’ Histories on the Black Sea coast by Haas is problematic. The fact that most of the rest of the peoples mentioned by Herodotus as belonging to the same (third) satrapy lived in the  Haas 1966, 14–15. Cf. Leonhard 1903; von Gall 1966.  Akurgal 1955, 93, 126; 1956, 57, where he talks about Phrygian settlements in Paphlagonia, even Phrygian habitation in Sinope. Cf. also Leonhard 1915, 298; Saprykin 1991, 249. 13  Haas 1966, 17, 173, 231. 14  Concerning this inscription, Haas went as far as considering the early-4th-century BC Paphlagonian ruler Otys the beneficiary who may have taken advantage from the collapse of the Phrygian kingdom (Haas 1966, 16–18, 179–84). 15  Haas 1966, 18, 61, 181, 231. 16  Haas 1966, 181. 17  Haas 1966, 231, 235. 18  Haas 1966, 16. 11 12

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Black Sea littoral (Bithynians, Paphlagonians, Mariandynians and Syrians) does not mean that everyone in this satrapy lived there. The ‘Hellespontians of the right coast as one enters the straits’ mentioned by Herodotus are obviously the Phrygians of Hellespontine Phrygia,19 its capital being Daskyleion, which was located to the south–south-east of the Hellespont and the Propontis (Sea of Marmara) up to the banks of the Sangarios (in its central-southern and not northern part), and included indeed Ascania, and thus has nothing to do with the Black Sea coast, the western part of which was inhabited by the Bithynians. This area coincides with the territory mentioned in the Iliad. Then Herodotus mentions the ‘Phrygians’ separately in the same satrapy, and these are the Phrygians of the inland located Greater Phrygia and not the Hellespontine ones. In any case, none of them bordered the Black Sea, and especially not the ‘Phrygians’ of Herodotus, as Haas thought.20 The Paphlagonians and the Phrygians were indeed neighbours, but not on the Black Sea coast, as Haas suggested. The Paphlagonians neighboured with the Bithynians to the west, and probably also the Mariandynians.21 The Phrygians were only south-western neighbours of the Paphlagonians, far from the sea. The appearance of the name of the Paphlagonian ruler Otys on a Phrygian inscription does not necessarily mean that all Haas’s conclusions were right. First of all, the dating of the inscription is rejected by most scholars, who date it much earlier, to the 6th or the 7th century BC.22 Secondly, there have been different readings of the first verse of the inscription proposed than the ‘Otys himself and the wife’ of Haas.23 But even if Haas’s identification is correct, other issues appear. The early 4th century BC (the era of Otys) seems too far from the collapse of the Phrygian kingdom in order to make us think that any ruler took advantage from it at that time; not to mention that the whole area had already been conquered by the Persians well before Otys’ time.24 In any case, the specific inscription is not enough to prove cultural, linguistic or any other kinship between the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians. As for the – most probably – Phrygian name Manes, this was common not only in Phrygia and Paphlagonia, but also in other areas of Asia Minor.25 The same holds for some of the other ‘common’ names that are encountered, with smaller or bigger variations, in both Phrygian and Paphlagonian, which include Atatas/Atotas, Tiveia/Tiv(e)ios,

19

 And thus the ‘straits’ are the Hellespont and not the Bosporus.  In Haas 1966, 11, 242, it becomes clear that the author always refers only to them as his Black Sea Phrygians and not to Herodotus’ ‘Hellespontians of the right coast as one enters the straits’, who would suit geographically to his North-East Phrygians at the Ascanian Lake. 21  According to Strabo (12. 3. 2), the Mariandynians lived to the west of Paphlagonia (12. 3. 2), but in 12. 3. 42 and 12. 4. 1 he mentions that it was the Bithynians that bordered upon the Paphlagonians to the west, together with the Mariandynians. This could mean that the Mariandynians inhabited part of coastal north-east Bithynia. 22  Young (1969, 271, n. 42) argues that the boustrophedon writing of the inscription, similarly to the inscriptions of the Midas Monument, surely belongs to the 6th century BC, or even earlier. Brixhe and Lejeune (1984, 227, 235, 237) seem to date the inscription to the 7th century BC, but do not deny the possibility that there is another, earlier Otys mentioned on it. Cf. Avram 2018, 76, n. 70. 23  All of them in Brixhe and Lejeune 1984, 237. 24  See more in Manoledakis 2019. 25  Özlem-Aytaçlar 2010, 525–26; Lewis 2011, 97–98; Avram 2018, 65–66 and n. 5. Cf. Brixhe 2013, 57. 20

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Ata(s)/Otu(s)/Otys,26 and some more.27 This has led Brixhe to consider the possibility that they belonged to the local Anatolian names, from which both the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians naturally borrowed, since they inhabited this geographic area.28 Moreover, the few Phrygian pottery sherds that have been found in Sinope do not, of course, necessarily prove Phrygian habitation of the area, but could easily be explained through any kind of relations between the two neighbouring areas.29 And of course, Sinope does not belong to this coastal part of the southern Black Sea littoral in which Haas placed the Phrygians, which lies much more to the west. But also the similarity in the dresses or armour is not enough to prove a cultural kinship. If we study the sources, we will notice that most of the peoples of northern Anatolia, such as the Ligyes, the Matienoi, the Mariandynians, the Syrians, the Drilae, and the Mossynoikoi, wore clothes or armour that resembled the Paphlagonian ones (for example: Hecataeus 1a, 1, F 287.1; Herodotus 7. 72; Xenophon Anabasis 5. 2. 22; 5. 4. 13; Stephanus of Byzantium Ethnica 653). The supposed cultural kinship of the two peoples could be better traced if we had archaeological remains safely attributed to the Paphlagonians, as it happens with the Phrygians, so that we could compare them. But this is not the case, since there is no archaeological data about the Paphlagonians.30 What we have is the dispersal of the rock-cut tombs mentioned by Haas, as well as other funerary monument types, in both Phrygia and (Inner) Paphlagonia (see next section), which could indeed be a good indication of some kind of relation or contacts between the two areas, but cannot easily prove something more. Consequently, the arguments presented by Haas are not strong enough to prove that the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians belonged to the same nationality and spoke the same or similar languages. As far as the ancient texts are concerned, we would need more references to support such a strong relation between the two peoples. Nevertheless, what is remarkable is that such evidence exists, only it seems that it was not known to Haas!

OTHER REFERENCES CONNECTING

THE

PAPHLAGONIANS

WITH THE

PHRYGIANS

I will start with what I consider to be the most striking of these references. Herodotus, in a well-known story (2. 2), tells of Psammetichus’ experiment, which had shown that the most ancient language in the world was Phrygian (and therefore that the Phrygians were the most ancient nation), because the first word uttered by the two babies used in the experiment was βέκος (bread in Phrygian).31 However, in the texts of some later Scholiasts, the Paphlagonians replace the Phrygians in the narrative and the word βέκος is ascribed to their language (Schol. vetera in Aristoph. nub. 398c, where Psammetichus is also replaced by Sesonchosis, and the baby of the experiment is one). Elsewhere, we 26

 Brixhe 2013, 57–58; Avram 2018, 65–66, nn. 4–5, 76.  Avram 2018, 69–70 with n. 39. 28  Brixhe 2013, 58. 29  On the problem of ‘excavating ethnicity’, see most recently Tsetskhladze 2014, 316. 30  Marek 1993, 14–15. Cf. also Summerer and von Kienlin 2010. 31  A thorough analysis of the experiment of Psammetichus, especially from the linguist’s viewpoint, as well as its legacy, is provided by Gera (2003, 68–111). 27

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meet the Phrygians quarrelling with the Paphlagonians about which is the most ancient nation, and in this case it is the Phrygians who emerge as the winners (Schol. in Ael. Aristid. Rhet. 3. 7). In the scholia vetera on Aristophanes (schol. in nub. 398d) another version appears,32 according to which three nations were quarrelling, the Arcadians (who in 398c are also mentioned as προσέληνοι),33 the Persians and the Phrygians, when the intervention of Psammetichus proved that the Phrygians were the most ancient of all.34 It is really remarkable that while Haas knows the myth about the experiment with βέκος, as he mentions it twice in his book,35 he does not refer to the versions about the replacement of the Phrygians by the Paphlagonians at all. These versions would have much strengthened his arguments, was he aware of them.36 An indication of an, at least mythical, kinship of the two peoples is provided by the historian Flavius Josephus, who wrote in the 1st century AD about the origins of the nations. In his work Antiquities of the Jews (1. 126) we read that the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians derived from two brothers, sons of Gomer, who was son of Noah’s son Japhet (cf. Genesis 10:1–3): Of the three sons of Gomer, Aschanax founded the Aschanaxians, who are now called by the Greeks Rheginians. So did Riphath found the Ripheans, now called Paphlagonians; and Thrugramma the Thrugrammeans, who, as the Greeks resolved, were named Phrygians.37 To later periods of the mythical time refers the tradition about the origin of Pelops, the hero who founded the Olympic Games and gave his name to the Peloponnese. This is another occasion where we find different versions: According to Diodorus (4. 74. 1) Pelops was a Paphlagonian, and indeed, according to Apollonius (Argonautica 2. 358– 32  These versions are presented by the Scholiast on the occasion of the word βεκκεσέληνε met in Aristophanes (Nubes 398), which is interpreted in various ways, indicating old age as well as folly: Schol. in nub. 398b, d: βεκκεσέληνε = ‘you ancient and fool’; 398c: ‘the word means archaism’; 398f: ‘both the bread and the moon are most ancient’; 398g: βεκκεσέληνε = ‘you moonstruck and trivial’; 398h: ‘you unfeeling’. 33  See also, indicatively, the references to the Arcadians as προσέληνοι (because they were considered to be even more ancient than the moon) in Aristotle fr. 591; Lyrica Adespota fr. 67b; Hippolytus Refutatio omnium haeresium 5. 7. 4; Suda, s.v. βεκεσέληνε (229) and προσέληνοι; Eustathius Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem 1. 464. 27; Stephanus of Byzantium Ethnica s.v. προσέληνοι; Etymologicum Magnum 690. 12–13; Schol. in Aesch. Prom vinct. 438a. 2, and many others. Cf. Hesychius Lexikon, s.v. προσελήνιδες. 34  On these versions, see also Scholia graeca in Aristophanem. Cum prolegomenis grammaticorum, varietate lectionis optimorum codicum integra, ceterorum selecta, annotatione criticorum item selecta, cui sua quaedam inseruit Fr. Dübner (Paris 1842), 431, ad nub. 397; Holwerda and Koster 1977. On the tradition that the most ancient among the barbarians were the Phrygians, see also Menander Rhet. On Epideictic Speeches in Spengel 1856, 354. 1–2. 35  Haas 1966, 9–10, 229. 36  In some later versions of the experiment’s narration, goats are said to have suckled the babies, which created the suspicion that it was the bleating of the goats that was responsible for the word βέκος, since the latter has the same sound as this bleating, and it would be normal for the babies to imitate what they had first heard (Suda s.v. βεκεσέληνε 229; Schol. in Apoll. Rhod. Argon. 275; Schol. in Aristoph. nub. 398b). Cf. also Gera (2003, 81, 84), who reasonably wonders how the isolated milk-fed babies would know what bread is and ask for it. But all these remarks, although important for the analysis of the experiment itself, are not crucial for our topic here. All the versions, irrespective of the several variations, seem to stem from the Herodotean narration (Vannicelli 1997, 212; Gera 2003, 107–08), but our question of interest is why (and when) the specific replacement of the Phrygians by the Paphlagonians took place. See more infra. 37  The Aschanaxians, called by the Greeks Rheginians, cannot be securely identified.

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359, 790. Cf. Schol. Apol. Arg. 157; Etymologicum Magnum 340. 23–25), king of the Paphlagonians from Enete, just like Pylaemenes in the Trojan Catalogue of the Iliad (2. 851–852), the most ancient Greek source mentioning the Paphlagonians. However, Herodotus (7. 8C. 1; 7. 11. 4), Bacchylides (8. 31) and Sophocles (Ajax 1292) call Pelops a Phrygian, and according to Strabo (7. 7. 1), this was also the view of Hecataeus. Finally, Pindar (Olympian Ode 1. 24; cf. 1. 36–38; 9. 9) attributes to him Lydian origin (cf. Pausanias 2. 22. 3). Important in this version is the connexion of Pelops with Mt Sipylos: see also Pherecydes FGrHist 3 fr. 8. Thucydides (1. 9. 2) restricts himself to saying that Pelops came from Asia. The scholiast of Apollonius Rhodius (157) mentions the versions on the Paphlagonians and the Lydians adding that Euphorion (3rd century BC) combined both of them.38 It is noteworthy that we have again Paphlagonia and Phrygia contesting the origins of Pelops, this time with the addition of Lydia. Turning to the area of religion, in the Roman period Plutarch (De Iside et Osiride 69) states that Dionysos was worshipped by the Phrygians, the Paphlagonians, and the Greeks as a god of the year-cycle.39 But the joint appearance of the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians in the Greek written sources does not end here. Especially interesting is the fact that we find comments related to their character or idiosyncrasy, both positive and negative, that again connect them strongly to each other. In the 1st century AD, Curtius Rufus (Historiae Alexandri 6. 11. 4) recounted the accusation levelled by the Macedonian soldier Bolon against the general Philotas, that he ridiculed men from the country, calling them Phrygians and Paphlagonians, ‘although he, Macedonian-born, was not embarrassed to use an interpreter to listen to men who spoke his own language’. It is indicated that people from Phrygia and Paphlagonia were considered boorish in the era of Philotas, something that remained so in Curtius’ times. Besides, we also know that these two regions had been well known since the classical period for providing slaves. Already in the Old Comedy, we encounter Phrygian and Paphlagonian persons, usually slaves, who are often characterised as timid or in other pejorative terms. Indicatively, we could mention Euripides’ narration of the cowardly Phrygian slave (Euripides Orestes 1369–1526), as well as several occasions in Aristophanes’ works: from the Phrygians who are ‘barbarians to the core’ and timid (Aristophanes Aves 762; 1244), to the name Phryx, which is a typical slave name (Aristophanes Vespae 433), and of course the striking case of the main protagonist of the Knights, the politician Cleon, whom the poet detested and wished to defame, and presented him under the name Paphlagon. It is characteristic that the Scholiast of Aristophanes (sch. eq. 47) thinks that the poet deliberately chose to present Cleon as a Paphlagonian tanner, to mock him for both his origin and his craft. Also in the 5th century BC, Hermippus is mentioned by Athenaeus (Deipnosophistae 1. 27F) to have said that slaves were a typical import from Phrygia. Similar are the words of the 3rd-century BC Theocritus (15. 42), and the 2nd-century BC Terence (Adelphi 974), while Strabo (7. 3. 12) wrote that the Attic people often addressed their slaves by 38

 On the origin of Pelops and the different versions see Gruen 2011, 227–29.  Cf. Levick 2013, 47.

39

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names that were prevalent in their countries (as ‘Manes’ or ‘Midas’ for the Phrygian, and ‘Tibius’ for the Paphlagonian slaves).40 The underestimation of the two nations can also be met separately. Starting with the Phrygians, the 3rd-century BC Herodas presents them as people who have no schooling (Mimes 3. 36), adding that Phrygians are made better by beating (5. 14: ‘the more one beats a Phrygian...’). Cicero (Oratio pro L.Flacco 65) totally agreed with this, while he used several other belittling words to characterise the Phrygians (Oratio pro L.Flacco 17. 39–41).41 Strabo (1. 2. 30) refers to known ‘hyperboles’ like the one ‘to be more timid than a Phrygian hare’,42 while the habit of ‘the comic poets to deride the Phrygians for their cowardice’ remained well-known in the 2nd–3rd centuries AD (Tertullian De anima 20. 3). As far as the Paphlagonians are concerned, the most famous text criticising them is, of course, Lucian’s account of the 2nd-century fraud Alexander of Abonouteichos, where the author may seem to be focusing on the false prophet, but he is actually deriding the credulous Paphlagonians, calling them fat-heads and simpletons, superstitious (Lucian Alexander 9. 45), wretched (11), mad (45), and persons who had neither brains nor individuality, who bore no resemblance to men that live by bread, and had only their outward shape to distinguish them from sheep (15). In the 4th century, Libanius (Orations 1. 85) narrated about three Paphlagonians, who were brothers in every respect: character, ignorance, recklessness, and brutish physique.43 The negative comments on the Paphlagonians continued for many centuries. In the 10th century, Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus (De thematibus Asia 7), describing their province, uses horrible words for them, calling them blameworthy, shameless, and rude, and concluding that they are the derision, the shame, and the contempt of the human race. Indeed, he went so far as to claim that Homer himself implied their wickedness and brutality by saying that the race of mules originated from their area (Homer Iliad 2. 851–855) – something that, of course, was not Homer’s intention. Constantine the Rhodian (10th century) wrote 42 verses vilifying the eunuch Theodore of Paphlagonia, and through him the Paphlagonians, as pork-butchers, baconcurers, etc., suggesting that there must have been a political motivation behind this detestation of the Paphlagonians. Similar expressions are used by the Scholiast of Lucian, who says that the Paphlagonians are capable of inventing any kind of evil and using it in shameless ways (42. 9), and that they can turn good into rubbish (56. 27). Besides, he calls them pig-assed (80. 7. 3), fat, uneducated, insensible and stupid (42. 22–35). Later, Georgius Cedrenus (11th–12th centuries) calls the Paphlagonians detestable (Synopsis Historion 1. 566) and avers that during a famine they emasculated their children and sold them (1. 590). Finally, in the 12th century Eustathius of Thessalonica (De capta Thessalonica 32–34) uses disparaging words for the Paphlagonians, calling them a presumptuous and barbarian nation.44 40  Cf. Schol. in Aristoph. Acharn. 273a: δούλην ἀπὸ Φρυγίας καὶ Παφλαγονίας. On both Paphlagonian and Phrygian names as slave names in Attica, see Rives 2005, 238, n. 42, with bibliography. 41  For example: ‘O the shepherds, the literary shepherds! if they took nothing from those men except the letters!’. 42  On Phrygians as timid people, see Long 1986, 141; Rives 2005, 238. 43  On the criticism of the Paphlagonians by Lucian, Libanius and Tertullian, see S. Mitchell 2010, 87–89. 44  All the comments on the Paphlagonians in Manoledakis 2021.

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In a rare case of positive comments on both peoples, the 5th-century church historian Socrates of Constantinople, known as Socrates Scholasticus, praises them in his Ecclesiastical History (4. 28), saying that: while the inhabitants of the East are addicted to sensual pleasures, the Paphlagonians and Phrygians are prone to neither of these vices; nor are the sports of the circus and theatrical exhibitions in much estimation among them even to the present day. And for this reason, it seems to me, these people, as well as others of the same character, so readily assented to the letters then written by Novatus. Fornication and adultery are regarded among them as the grossest enormities: and it is well known that there is no race of men on the face of the earth who more rigidly govern their passions in this respect than the Phrygians and Paphlagonians. Totally contrary to this, Gregorius Nazianzenus (4th century AD) talked about the evil spirit of Montanus, as well as the boasting of Novatus45 and his wordy assumption of purity that tempts many people, criticising also the Phrygians in general (De pace 2 [oration 22], 176–177).

PAPHLAGONIANS NEIGHBOURS?

AND

PHRYGIANS: KINDRED

OR JUST

FELLOW-TRAVELLING

What could be concluded from the evidence presented above? In the beginning it was mentioned that Haas’s arguments are not strong enough to prove his theory that the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians belonged to the same nationality and spoke the same or even similar languages. But this is anyway a far-fetched theory. However, the truth is that all the above-mentioned passages from the written sources are quite enough and rather striking to pass unnoticed, especially when combined to the, actually not many, archaeological indications. Are all the similarities between the two peoples and their common appearance in the literature just accidental, or was there indeed a relation between the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians, and if so, of what kind and how strong? Acknowledging the lack of elements that would lead to safe conclusions, we could at least make some remarks on the above-stated evidence. The Paphlagonians and the Phrygians are from very early on encountered in the ancient Greek literature. Although they are not mentioned alone, but among other ‘barbarian’ peoples (for example in Homer and Herodotus), they seem to bear elements in common. Initially, nothing blameworthy characterises them. Indeed Homer calls their leaders in the Trojan War, the Paphlagonian Pylaemenes and the Phrygian Ascanius, stout-hearted and godlike respectively (Iliad 2. 851, 862). However, from the 5th century BC on, traces of criticism, sometimes rather sharp, start accompanying both of them. These initially might be considered humorous, but gradually they become very negative and underestimating, in an almost obsessive way. The fact that these comments first emerge in the specific period of time and in Old Comedy, may lead to the thought 45

 For the relation of both persons with Phrygia, see the next section.

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that it was the influence of the Persian Wars which played a decisive role to this development, since it was after these events that the opposition between Greeks and barbarians entered a new era, and especially incited by the Comedians.46 Despite this change, some signs in favour of the two peoples remain. Such may be considered the versions on the Phrygian or Paphlagonian origin of Pelops, and Xenophon’s account of the Paphlagonians, who are clearly distinguished by the author in his Anabasis from all their neighbouring nations, while some Paphlagonians in Greece seemed to have been trying deterring the Greeks from thinking disparagingly about them, as the 4th-century BC epitaph of Atotas in Laurion would indicate.47 However, the two peoples are not yet mentioned in literature together in the same text in a way implying a direct comparison, and it is only the funerary monuments of similar type found in the two regions that could indicate a relation between them. Besides, there are some indications that, at least until Plutarch’s era, they had some religious practices in common. Religion was a very important element in evaluating ethnicity by the Greeks. We can realise this from the definition of Greek ethnicity given by Herodotus (8. 144. 2), who says that ‘all Greeks are of the same blood, speak the same language, have common shrines of gods and sacrifices, and share common customs and way of life’. Thus, it is not insignificant at all when in the Roman period Plutarch (De Iside et Osiride 69) states that Dionysos was worshipped by the Phrygians, the Paphlagonians, and the Greeks as a god of the year-cycle. This similar religious perception between the three peoples indicates on the one hand that for the Greeks, the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians must have been considered among the ‘less barbarian’ nations,48 and on the other hand that the two of them shared common religious beliefs, which brings them close in terms of culture. Especially concerning the Phrygians, for whom far more concrete data are available than for the Paphlagonians, Dionysos was, not the only deity venerated by the Greeks that was also worshipped by them, especially in the Roman period, not to mention the several evidences of syncretism between their local deities and Greek ones. 49 Special mention should be also made of the bilingual Greek-Phrygian inscription with religious content from Vezirhan, in the lower Sangarios Valley, which indicates that Greeks and Phrygians worshipped together at the same rural sanctuary in the late 5th–early 4th centuries BC.50 As regards the Paphlagonians, Strabo records that Mt Olgassys was full of temples erected by the Paphlagonians (12. 3. 40).51 Besides, from the several references of the Greek sources to the Paphlagonians we acquire the impression that the latter not only seem to have been appreciated by some Greek authors more than many other foreign peoples on the southern Black Sea coast, but also that they may have had a 46

 For the barbarians especially in Greek comedy, see Long 1986.  On both Xenophon’s account of the Paphlagonians and the epitaph of Atotas, see in detail Manoledakis 2021. 48  For the perception of the Paphlagonians by the Greeks, see Manoledakis 2021. For the connexion of the Phrygians with the Greeks, see Manoledakis 2016. Cf. also Levick 2013, 43–45. 49  See recently Kelp 2013, 91–92, with sources and bibliography. 50  Brixhe 2004, 42–67 B-05. Cf. Thonemann 2013a, 16. On the ‘Hellenisation of Phrygian culture’ from the 4th century BC onwards, see Thonemann 2013a, 15–24. 51  See more in S. Mitchell 2010, 103. 47

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strong cultural influence to, or one might even say a cultural dominance over many of their neighbouring peoples, some of which may have even had an ethnic kinship to them.52 Herodotus’ four criteria of (Greek) ethnicity have been replaced by other ones – not always essentially different form the former – by modern scholars, who have proposed several definitions of ethnicity, emphasising social rather than biological criteria.53 One of these criteria determining membership in an ethnic group, according to J. Hall,54 is ‘a putative subscription to a myth of common descent and kinship’. If we accept this view, then, according to the myths on the origins of Pelops, the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians (and also the Lydians) are not disgusting Anatolian barbarians but on the contrary are closely related to, one might even say have an ‘ethnic kinship’ with, the Greeks (at least of the Peloponnese). As L. Mitchell characteristically observes, ‘having been rooted in Asia, some of the Greek genealogies subsequently re-acquire Greek credentials, apparently marking a shift in the Greeks’ confidence in their relationship with Asia and the Asian civilizations’. Thus, the Greeks ‘also found the confidence to locate Asia on the edges of their world, and to bring it under their intellectual control’.55 Apparently, the Phrygians and Paphlagonians, as well as the Lydians, were considered three very important nations of western/central/northern Asia Minor.56 Concerning the Paphlagonians, we notice that, while Pelops appears as Phrygian or Lydian in the 6th and 5th centuries BC, it is Apollonius that first mentions him as a Paphlagonian. In the same century (3rd century BC) Euporion is mentioned to have combined the versions on the Paphlagonians and the Lydians (Schol. Apol. Rhod. 157), so the Paphlagonians must have appeared in the myth by this period, or maybe in this period. Apart from important, these nations were also considered very ancient.57 We have mentioned that in later versions of the Psammetichus’ experiment intended to find out which was the most ancient nation, we encounter the replacement of Phrygians by the Paphlagonians, but also the Arcadians entering the tradition, and we cannot help but noticing that the latter were linguistically not irrelevant to the Phrygians, since, according to recent research, their dialects belonged to the same Achaean dialect family, together with Cypriot and Pamphylian.58 Besides, the Paphlagonians were also connected to the Peloponnese, through the version of the origin of Pelops from Paphlagonia, where he had reigned (Apollonius Argonautica 2. 358–359, 790 – see above). Although all this could be just coincidence, the antiquity of the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians and their possible connexion to the Greeks through these versions is noteworthy.

52

 Manoledakis 2021, in detail, with bibliography.  A very detailed presentation of the several approaches and attempts to define ethnicity can be found in Jones 1997, especially 56–84. See also Hall 2002, 9–10. 54  Hall 2002, 9. 55  L. Mitchell 2007, 182, 184. 56  Impressive is the phrase of Etymologicum Magnum (340. 23–25): Ἐνετοί γάρ οἱ Παφλαγόνες οἱ Λυδοί. Would this imply an ethnic relationship between the Paphlagonians and the Lydians? However, the Lydians appeared to descent from Shem’s son Lud (Josephus 1. 144), or from Ham’s grandson Ludim (Hippolytus of Rome Chronikon 111), and not from Japheth, as the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians (see above). 57  Especially concerning the Phrygians, there are several relevant sources of the Imperial period. See Rives 2005, 241. All the sources on the Paphlagonians in Manoledakis 2021. 58  Tzitzilis 2014. Let us remember that language was one of the four Herodotean criteria of ethnicity. 53

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P. Vannicelli59 explained the replacement of the Phrygians by the Paphlagonians in the specific version of the experiment’s tradition by stating that it results from the geographic, linguistic and, broadly speaking, cultural proximity of the two peoples. He also recalled, like Haas, the presence of the two in the same satrapy, and their similar equipment, as mentioned by Herodotus (3. 90. 2; 7. 73). But what could be the reasons for this replacement, when did it take place, and who were responsible for it? Similar questions should also be asked for the other instances concerning our topic. For example, when do we start encountering the Paphlagonians together with the Phrygians in the ancient literature, and in which contexts? Beginning with the latter question, we notice that the two peoples start appearing together in the same texts in the (Early) Imperial period. The relevant sources we have cited (see above) belong to Plutarch, Curtius Rufus (although he refers to the 4th century BC60), Flavius Josephus, Socrates, and the Scholiasts of Aristophanes and Aelius Aristides. The first three of them lived in the 1st century AD, while Socrates in the 5th. More complex is the dating of the very important for us versions of the Psammetichus’ experiment. The Paphlagonians emerge in the several versions in question (at least in the today available written sources) in the Scholia vetera in Aristophanem (Nub. 398c, d) and in the Scholia in Aelium Aristidem (De Rhetorica 3. 7). The issue of the dating of these commentaries is not an easy one. Concerning the Scholia vetera on Aristophanes, especially those on the Clouds, they are attributed to Thomas Magister or mainly Triclinius (14th century),61 and it is claimed that the latter had some guidance from the metrical commentary by Heliodorus (1st century AD).62 The Scholia on the 2nd-century AD Aelius Aristides are dated from the 4th century AD on.63 This means that in any case the Paphlagonians could have entered the specific tradition as early as the 1st century AD. If this ‘invasion’ was a product of the Greek and/or Byzantine intellectuals, then we should ask why they would confuse two different nations, even ‘with geographic, linguistic and cultural proximity’. The other alternative would be that it was the Paphlagonians themselves that encouraged the shaping of the new version, for obvious reasons. But were the Paphlagonians in a position to influence the literary tradition so efficiently? And when did this happen, in the era of Heliodorus or in the era of Thomas Magister and Triclinius? In my opinion, the former case is not improbable, because most of the rest of the texts that concern us here belong, as we saw, to the same century as Heliodorus, namely the 1st century AD. One of them, the work of Josephus, indicates both the antiquity of the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians and the kinship between them. Thus, it would be sensible to wonder whether the 14th-century grammarians actually borrowed the specific version from the commentaries of Heliodorus, even if the latter were mainly of metrical nature. The period in question coincides with the last years of Strabo and some years after his death, and it would be worth noticing the recently presented – and rather convincing – arguments based on Strabo’s references to the history of his family, that the forebears of 59

 Vannicelli 1997, 211.  Though, we should note that Curtius is the only author who mentions the specific incident. 61  Gera 2003, 93, n. 66. 62  Reynolds and Wilson 1991, 76–77; Dickey 2007, 29–30. 63  Dickey 2007, 69–70. 60

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the famous geographer were of Paphlagonian origin.64 This may not be enough to justify a Paphlagonian intervention of such a degree in the literary tradition, but we ought to keep in mind that the Paphlagonians, or at least their rulers, have always been very skilful politicians and diplomats, who were able to adapt to changing political circumstances, and manoeuvre between the powers that influenced their destiny, trying always to maintain the best possible state for them. Paphlagonia was distinguished as a place that ‘produced’ intelligent and sly political personalities, from the age of the Persian empire until the Sack of Constantinople by the Crusaders.65 Concerning the Late Hellenistic and the Early Roman period, it is characteristic that the name of the glorious mythical ancestor Pylaemenes reappears dynamically and widely in Paphlagonian politics, used also by non-Paphlagonian aspirant rulers of the region (for example Galatians). Besides, after the Mithridatic Wars there is evidence about a whole family of Pylaemenides (Strabo 12. 3. 1, 41), and it may be due to this family that Paphlagonia was in Pliny’s time also known as Pylaemenia (NH 6. 5). And soon after Paphlagonia’s annexation to the Roman empire we meet a Koinon of Paphlagonia on a coin dating from the period of Domitian’s reign (AD 81–96). All this may indicate that the Paphlagonians had been using their past intensively in the specific period and it would be very reasonable to attribute the emergence of the new version on the Psammetichus’ myth to this time.66 The joint appearance of Paphlagonians and Phrygians in the literature of the 1st century AD seems to have mainly religious (Plutarch) or mythical (Josephus, Scholiasts) context, while in exactly the same period grave monuments of similar types emerge in both Inner Paphlagonia and Phrygia (funerary doorstones),67 as was the case also in the Late Archaic and Classical periods (rock-cut tombs).68 Interestingly enough, many of the comments (both positive and negative but mainly the latter) that accompany the two peoples from this period on, appear also in religious contexts: Socrates’ praise of the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians refers to their morality and pro-Novatian trends (probably like his), and the same holds for the exactly opposite blames on the Phrygians by Gregorius Nazianzenus (see above). But the most striking comparison between the two peoples in terms of religion has to do with the existence of two (false) prophets in the 2nd century AD, Montanus in Phrygia and Alexander of Abonouteichos in Paphlagonia. Their contemporary – and seemingly successful and locally influential – activity in the two areas created fans and followers but also many enemies and curiously it is only through the written works of the latter that we learn about these two heretics of the Christian and ancient Greek religion respectively.69 In these works they are both blamed in ways clearly aiming at making the readers detest them, and this could conceal up to a degree their ability to attract the masses. 64

 Gabelko 2013, 117–27.  On this issue see in most detail Manoledakis 2019. 66  Without excluding the possibility that the new version appeared any time before the 14th century of Thomas Magister and Triclinius, since the Paphlagonians continued to have great influence on politics in the Byzantine period. See Magdalino 1998; Manoledakis 2019. 67  Lochman 2003; Kelp 2013; Koch 2015, with bibliography. 68  See, indicatively, von Gall 1966; Haas 1966, 14–15; Summerer and von Kienlin 2010, and 214–15 with the bibliography on the different datings that have been proposed for these monuments; Thonemann 2013a, 10–11. 69  Chaniotis 2002; 2004; Kyrtatas 2005, all with bibliography. 65

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Besides, the 3rd-century Novatianus, the founder of the Novatian sect, although probably born in Rome, has been called a native of Phrygia due to the words of the 4th–5thcentury Philostorgius (Historia Ecclesiastica 8. 15), who rather wanted to indicate the persistence of Novatianism in Phrygia at his time. This hate against the false prophets and their heresies by the specific authors affected the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians in general. It should be noted that Montanists were sometimes referred to as Phrygians.70 But the latter had a tradition in challenging the religious morals. Referring to the above-mentioned passages of Herodas (3rd century BC) containing harsh words on the Phrygians, M.S. Buck stated that ‘Hero(n)das seems to miss no opportunity for a slur at the Phrygians. The influence of the Phrygian religion and Mysteries was strongly felt in Greece although it seems that the Phrygians were constantly considered by the purer Greeks as barbarians’.71 The contempt of the ancient texts (mainly of the Comedians) might have become a very suitable occasion on which Lucian and the Byzantine authors72 were based in order to hurl insults at the Phrygians and the Paphlagonians, even if the motivation behind this hate has in some cases been political, especially after the 9th century.73 Paphlagonians and Phrygians seem to have walked together in good and bad for a significant period of time, as indicated through several written sources and some archaeological evidence. Apparently, they were usually presented as clearly differentiated from the Greek culture and belonging to the world of the ‘barbarians’. As U. Kelp notes, ‘for Greek and Roman writers Phrygia is always found in the field of the “Other”, lacking the crucial elements of Graeco-Roman culture and urban paideia’.74 The same holds for Paphlagonia as well. It has been supported that the Paphlagonians and the Phrygians were forced to keep their identities alive against the engulfing cultures they had to face every time (Persian, Greek, Roman).75 In my opinion, this argument is convincing. One might, however, claim that this could be supported for all the ‘barbarians’ of Anatolia, but we ought to keep in mind that the specific two peoples seem to have been distinguished themselves in Greek eyes, at least among their neighbouring nations, concerning their (even if still ‘barbarian’) culture.76 In the Imperial period, their effort to ‘promote’ their cultural identities was even expressed through appropriating Greek cultural elements77 or using different versions of known mythical traditions (see above). The question is ‘does all this mean an ethnic kinship between Paphlagonians and Phrygians?’ It would be rather impetuous to give a definitive answer. The similar funerary monuments that we encounter in Inner Paphlagonia and Phrygia in the Archaic and Classical as well as the Roman Imperial periods are good but not enough indication. They might imply that ‘the inner part of north-central Turkey is recognised as a vigorous arena for cultural contact’;78 though, such contacts would not necessarily be restricted between 70

 Levick 2013, 47, with bibliography.  Buck 1921, 113–14. 72  Whose comments on the two peoples have been cited above. 73  Concerning the Paphlagonians, see Magdalino 1998; Manoledakis 2019. 74  Kelp 2013, 92. Cf. Cicero’s reference to the ‘distant province of Phrygia’ (Orationes Verrinae 2. 1. 154). 75  S. Mitchell 2010 (Paphlagonians); Thonemann 2013a (Phrygians). 76  See n. 48. 77  See, for example, S. Mitchell 2010, 97–98, 110 and Koch 2015, 184–85, regarding the Paphlagonians. 78  Koch 2015, 172. 71

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Phrygia and Paphlagonia, the indisputable local protagonists there, but could also exist between each of them and the Greek or Persian element.79 There are still no objects of material culture to be safely attributed to the Paphlagonians, and there is nothing about their language, in both cases much unlike the Phrygians. As for the written sources, they are equally insufficient to prove Haas’s theory. Each time the Paphlagonians appear in a mythical tradition in which the Phrygians are engaged with, they follow them with considerable delay: in the case of Pelops’ origin, they enter in the 3rd century BC a tradition existent at least from the 6th century; in the case of the Psammetichus’ experiment, known form Herodotus, they appear much later, in fact in one version even quarrelling with the Phrygians about who is more ancient (Schol. in Ael. Aristid. Rhet. 3. 7). It might have been an aspiration of the Paphlagonians to be connected to the Phrygians (as they did with the Greeks, according to what was implied right above), in an attempt to establish a weightier identity than the one they already had. But still, their deafening silence in archaeological and linguistic data prevents us from yielding to the temptation to consider them kindred to the Phrygians.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Akurgal, E. 1955: Phrygische Kunst (Arkeoloji enstitüsü 5) (Ankara). Akurgal, E. 1956: ‘Die Ausgrabungen von Sinope’. Türk Arkeoloji Dergisi VI.1, 54–61. Avram, A. 2018: ‘Paphlagonian Notes’. Ancient West and East 17, 65–81. Brixhe, C. 2004: ‘Corpus des inscriptions paléo-phrygiennes. Supplément II’. Kadmos 43, 1–130. —. 2013: ‘The Personal Onomastics of Roman Phrygia’. In Thonemann 2013b, 55–69. Brixhe, C. and Lejeune, M. 1984: Corpus des inscriptions paléo-phrygiennes (Institut français d’études anatoliennes, Mémoire 45) (Paris). Buck, M.S. (ed.) 1921: The Mimes of Herondas (New York). Chaniotis, A. 2002: ‘Old Wine in a New Skin: Tradition and Innovation in the Cult Foundation of Alexander of Abonouteichos’. In Dabrowa, E. (ed.), Tradition and Innovation in the Ancient World (Electrum 6) (Cracow), 67–85. —. 2004: ‘Wie erfindet man Rituale für einen neuen Kult? Recycling von Ritualen – das Erfolgsrezept Alexanders von Abonouteichos’. Forum Ritualdynamik 9 (www.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/ archiv/5103). Dickey, E. 2007: Ancient Greek Scholarship: A Guide to Finding, Reading, and Understanding Scholia, Commentaries, Lexica, and Grammatical Treatises from their Beginnings to the Byzantine Period (Classical Resources 7) (Oxford). Gabelko, O.L. 2013: ‘Two New Conjectures in Strabo’s Geography and Certain Historical Inferences’. Anabasis. Studia Classica et Orientalia 4, 117–32. von Gall, H. 1966: Die paphlagonischen Felsgräber (Istanbuler Mitteilungen Beiheft 1) (Tübingen). Gera, D.L. 2003: Ancient Greek Ideas on Speech, Language, and Civilization (Oxford). Gruen, E.S. 2011: Rethinking the Other in Antiquity (Princeton). Haas, O. 1966: Die Phrygischen Sprachdenkmäler (Balkansko ezikoznanie 10) (Sofia). Hall, J.M. 2002: Hellenicity: Between Ethnicity and Culture (Chicago/London). Holwerda, D. and Koster, W.J.W. (eds.) 1977: Scholia in Aristophanem 1: Prolegomena de comoedia. Scholia in Acharnenses, Equites, Nubes, fasc 3.1 (Groningen). Jones, S. 1997: The Archaeology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present (London/New York). Kelp, U. 2013: ‘Grave Monuments and Local Identities in Roman Phrygia’. In Thonemann 2013b, 70–94. 79

 Cf., for example, Summerer 2009, 16; Summerer and von Kienlin 2010; Koch 2015, 183–86.

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Koch, J. 2015: ‘From Funerary Doorstones in Pompeiopolis to Tracing Local Identity from the Phrygian Highlands to Inner Paphlagonia’. In Winther-Jacobsen, K. and Summerer, L. (eds.), Landscape Dynamics and Settlement Patterns in Northern Anatolia during the Roman and Byzantine Period (Geographica Historica 32) (Stuttgart), 171–92. Kyrtatas, D. 2005: ‘Μοντανός και Αλέξανδρος: οι δύο προφήτες’. In Kyrtatas, D. (ed.), Λουκιανός: Αλέξανδρος ή ο Ψευδομάντης (Athens), 9–47. Leonhard, R. 1903: Paphlagonische Denkmäler (Tumuli, Felsengräber, Befestigungen): Ergebnisse einer Reise (Breslau). —. 1915: Paphlagonia: Reisen und Forschungen im Nördlichen Kleinasien (Berlin). Levick, B. 2013: ‘In the Phrygian mode: a region seen from without’. In Thonemann 2013b, 41–54. Lewis, D. 2011: ‘Near Eastern slaves in Classical Attica and the slave trade with Persian territories’. The Classical Quarterly 61.1, 91–113. Lochman, T. 2003: Studien zu kaiserzeitlichen Grab- und Votivreliefs aus Phrygien (Basel). Long, T. 1986: Barbarians in Greek Comedy (Carbondale, IL). Magdalino, P. 1998: ‘Paphlagonians in Byzantine High Society’. In Lampakis, S. (ed.), Byzantine Asia Minor (6th–12th cent.) (Hellenism: Ancient, Medieval, Modern 27) (Athens), 141–50. Manoledakis, M. 2016: ‘From Macedonia to Anatolia. Some comments on the Phrygians and their migration’. In Giannopoulou, M. and Kallini, C. (eds.), Τιμητικός τόμος για τη Στέ λλα Δρούγου/Volume in Honour of Prof. Stella Drougou (ἠχάδιν 2) (Athens), 48–72. —. 2018: ‘The local peoples of the southern Black Sea coast’. In Manoledakis, M., Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Xydopoulos, I. (eds.), Essays on the Archaeology and Ancient History of the Black Sea Littoral (Colloquia Antiqua 18) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 147–71. —. 2019: ‘Politics and Diplomacy in Paphlagonia’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Atasoy, S. (eds.), Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Select Papers of the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford), 194–205. —. 2021: ‘The Paphlagonians and the Greeks’ perception of them’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Greeks and Romans in the Black Sea and the Importance of the Pontic Region for the Graeco-Roman World (7th century BC–5th century AD): 20 Years On (1997–2017) (Proceedings of the 6th International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Constanţa, 18–22 September 2017) (Oxford), 167–78. Marek, C. 1993: Stadt, Ära und Territorium in Pontus-Bithynien und Nord-Galatien (Istanbuler Forschungen 39) (Tübingen). Meyer, E. 1925: Die Grenzen der hellenistischen Staaten in Kleinasien (Zürich). Mitchell, L.G. 2007: Panhellenism and the Barbarian in Archaic and Classical Greece (Swansea). Mitchell, S. 2010: ‘The Ionians of Paphlagonia’. In Whitmarsh, T. (ed.), Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Roman World (Cambridge), 86–110. Özlem-Aytaçlar, P. 2010: ‘An Onomastic Survey of the Indigenous Population of North-Western Asia Minor’. In Catling, R.W.V. and Marchand, F. (eds.), Onomatologos: Studies in Greek Personal Names presented to Elaine Matthews (Oxford), 506–29. Reynolds, L.D. and Wilson, N.G. 1991: Scribes and Scholars, 3rd ed. (Oxford/New York). Rives, J.B. 2005: ‘Phrygian Tales’. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 45, 223–44. Ruge, W. 1941: ‘Phrygia 1 (Topographie)’. RE XX.1, 781–868. Ruge, W. and Bittel, K. 1949: ‘Paphlagonia’. RE XVIII.4, 2486–550. Saprykin, S.J. 1997: Heracleia Pontica and Tauric Chersonesus before Roman Domination (VI–I Centuries BC) (Amsterdam). Spengel, L. 1856: Rhetores Graeci, vol. 3 (Leipzig). Summerer, L. 2009: ‘Herakles in Paphlagonien’. In Einicke, R., Lehmann, S., Lohr, H., Mehnert, G., Mehnert, A. and Slawisch, A. (eds.), Zurück zum Gegenstand: Festschrift für Andreas E. Furtwängler (Schriften des Zentrums für Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte des Schwarzmeerraumes 16) (Langenweißbach), 15–24. Summerer, L. and von Kienlin, A. 2010: ‘Achaemenid Impact in Paphlagonia: Rupestral Tombs in the Amnias Valley’. In Nieling, J. and Rehm, E. (eds.), Achaemenid Impact in the Black Sea: Communication of Powers (Black Sea Studies 11) (Aarhus), 195–221.

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Thonemann, P. 2013a: ‘Phrygia: an anarchist history, 950 BC–AD 100’. In Thonemann 2013b, 1–40 —. (ed.) 2013b: Roman Phrygia: Culture and Society (Cambridge). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2014: ‘Black Sea Ethnicities’. In McInerney, J. (ed.), A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean (Malden, MA/Oxford), 312–26. Tzitzilis, C. 2014: ‘Greek and Phrygian’. In Giannakis, G.K. (ed.), Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics, vol. 2 (Leiden/Boston), 72–77. Vannicelli, P. 1997: ‘L’esperimento linguistico di Psammetico (Herodot. II 2): c’era una volta il frigio’. In Gusmani, R., Salvini, M. and Vannicelli, P. (eds.), Frigi e Frigio (Atti del 1o Simposio internazionale, Roma, 16–17 ottobre 1995) (Rome), 201–17. Young, R.S. 1969: ‘Old Phrygian Inscriptions from Gordion: Toward a History the Phrygian Alphabet’. Hesperia 38.2, 252–96.

CITIES IN ROMAN GALATIA AND THE EMERGENCE OF URBANISM Paolo MARANZANA

ABSTRACT This chapter considers the emergence and development of cities in the West-Central Anatolian Plateau (Greater Ankara region), where the archaeological excavations at Pessinus provided a new opportunity to examine the long-term development of a major regional centre. This area of Anatolia has traditionally been neglected by modern scholars, who approached the study of ancient urbanism mostly through the evidence from large coastal sites. In this contribution, the evidence from Pessinus is examined contextually with the data collected at Amorium and Ankara, two other important centres in this region. This comprehensive examination demonstrates that settlement development in the West-Central Anatolian Plateau is well-rooted into the tradition of fortified hilltops, and cities only appear with the establishment of the Roman province of Galatia in 25 BC. The initial investment in urban infrastructure of the 1st century is followed by a second wave of urban expansion in the early 3rd century AD, which seems to relate to the increased interest in the region by the Severan emperors.

INTRODUCTION Gocha Tsetskhladze is well known for his contributions to the study of ancient communities along the coasts of the Black Sea. Some of his most recent endeavours were however located in the midst of the rural Central Anatolian Plateau, where he investigated the long-term development of the city of Pessinus. Pessinus is situated about 150 km west of Ankara, and it was famous in Antiquity for being the main centre for the cult of the Anatolian goddess Cybele. In 2009, when Tsetskhladze started his field work, the site had been excavated since the 1960s by a series of Belgian teams from the University of Ghent. The field work he conducted between 2009 and 2013 at Pessinus mostly revealed new urban structures from the Roman period,1 but also offered an opportunities to contextualise the large amount of archaeological data brought to light in ca. 50 years of archaeological research. In particular, this new wave of studies made it possible to address directly issues related to the appearance of urban structures at Pessinus as well as its changes over time. This contribution, therefore, intends to review the evidence for the emergence of urbanism at Pessinus in relation to the development of other cities in the same region, namely Ankara and Amorium (Fig. 1). Pessinus, Ankara and Amorium are located in the same geographical settings, shared much of the same history, and were the target of long-term archaeological investigations. By the 6th century AD, these cities 1

 Tsetskhladze 2019.

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Fig. 1. Map of Asia Minor (after Dally and Ratté 2011, 1, fig. 1).

were significant and accomplished regional centres, and their contextual examination will enable us to gain further insights into the long-term development of urbanism in a region, such as western-central Anatolia, mostly overlooked by modern scholars. In particular, the urban history of Anatolia has traditionally been approached through the evidence collected in large cities situated in coastal areas, while the rest of the region has been mostly neglected.2 The West-Central Anatolian Plateau, however, experienced an alternative development in settlement pattern, and this contribution aims to underline these different trajectories and, thus, fill this important gap in modern scholarship.

PRE-URBAN SETTLEMENT HISTORY Although evidence for human activity at these sites is attested already in prehistoric times,3 more significant data for occupation are available for the Bronze Age. At Amorium, for example, a stratified höyük has been located under the so-called Upper City (Fig. 2), but extensive archaeological excavations have only started uncovering the mediaeval phases.4 All our evidence, therefore, comes from occasional ceramic finds and textual sources; according to the latter,5 Amorium has been identified as the Hittite site of Aura, an outpost situated on a major road leading from the Central Plateau, where the heartland 2

 Scholarship on the matter is extensive. For an overview, see Parrish 2001.  Tsetskhladze 2019, 23–24. 4  Demirel Gökalp et al. 2020. 5  Lightfoot and Lightfoot 2007, 29. 3

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Fig. 2. Map of Amorium (courtesy of Amorium excavations project; after Lightfoot and Lightfoot 2007, 181, plan 1). The sector marked as Upper City yielded traces of Bronze Age material. The Lower City (including the City Walls, Large Building, and Lower City Church) was built in the late 5th and early 6th centuries AD.

of the empire was located, to the Aegean coast. Archaeological explorations at Pessinus also yielded minimal traces of Hittite material culture, and the finds recovered could not be associated with any structure.6 Bronze Age occupation at Ankara, on the other hand, has mostly been located in the region around the city,7 leaving us with practically no information about the presence of any settlement in this period. The Iron Age represents a period of significant change in Central Anatolia. After the collapse of Bronze Age societies,8 this region seems to fall under the control of the Phrygians, who had their capital at Gordion, a fortified settlement located ca. 90 km west of Ankara.9 Phrygian material culture is only slightly better documented than previous periods in the archaeological record of the cities considered; explorations at Pessinus, for example, yielded limited amount of Late Phrygian material (6th–4th centuries BC) from six of 19 sectors (B, H, L, K, Q and R) investigated around the city (Fig. 3). Although these sectors encompass an area of ca. 18 ha, Phrygian structures were only uncovered in 6

 Tsetskhladze 2019, 24–25.  Cross and Leiser 2000, 53–55. 8  The literature on this topic is extensive, but a discussion for the specific case of Central Anatolia can be found in Marek 2016, 68–99. 9  For an overview of the site of Gordion, see Kealhofer 2005; Rose 2012. 7

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Fig. 3. Map of excavated sectors at Pessinus (after Tsetskhladze 2013, 45, fig. 5).

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sectors B and H, where the later Roman temple was erected. No material prior to the 6th century BC was ever found, although later literary accounts10 report that Pessinus was a major Phrygian centre, founded by king Midas himself in the 8th century BC and known for being the main seat of the goddess Cybele.11 Further research in the region around Pessinus detected a larger settlement of this period ca. 13 km north of Pessinus, in a mountain site called Tekören.12 The considerable amount of Early and Middle Phrygian material collected here as well as the extensive architectural remains noted on the ground led Tsetskhladze to suggest that Tekören was indeed the main Phrygian centre of this area. The site of Hellenistic/Roman Pessinus, situated in the valley just below Tekören, may have therefore been a secondary site during the Phrygian period, whose size and extent remain unclear. Ankara and Amorium showed significantly less evidence for Phrygian settlements; if, at Amorium, only a few sherds of painted Phrygian pottery were retrieved during the surface survey of the city,13 at Ankara the data for this period comes almost entirely from excavated tumuli.14 Some scatter and occasional ceramic finds were also retrieved in the modern district of Ulus, where the core of the Roman city is situated (Fig. 4), suggesting a continuity of occupation from the Phrygian period onward.15 Equally elusive is the evidence for the integration of these cities into the Achaemenid empire (mid-6th century BC), which has traditionally been approached through a short passage in Herodotus (7. 26–31); this reports that the Royal Road, leading from Susa to Sardis, crossed the region in the vicinity of Ankara.16 The best archaeological evidence for Achaemenid presence in Central Anatolia has been found at Gordion, where the Achaemenid local administration was most likely located,17 but a brief re-examination of pottery finds conducted in 2013 suggests the presence of recognisable Achaemenid wares at Pessinus as well.18 Clearer data on settlement development in the considered area belong to the Hellenistic period, a time characterised by a movement of Gallic tribes into the region in the 3rd century BC.19 Recent studies reveal that the Galatian migration led to the resettlement of three tribes in Central Anatolia (Tectosages, Trocmii and Tolistobogii), which were based in Ankara, Tavium and Pessinus respectively.20 Unfortunately, Galatian settlements have not been yet extensively studied or excavated, but they seem to be located on fortified hilltops overlooking routes of communications and river valleys. L. and A. Vardar documented the position of some of these hilltops,21 which were situated in some of these strategic locations around the West-Central Anatolian Plateau. Ankara seemed to 10

 Theopompos of Chios (4th century BC), whose text survives through the account of Ammianus Marcellinus (22. 9. 6–7). 11  Claerhout and Devreker 2008, 26–27. 12  Tsetskhladze 2009, 707–08. 13  Lightfoot and Lightfoot, 30–31. 14  Tuna 2007. Pausanias (1. 4. 5) reports that also Ankara was founded by Midas. 15  Strobel 2002, 9. 16  David French proposed, however, an alternative route: French 1998. 17  Dusinberre 2013, 19–22. 18  Tsetskhladze 2019, 35. 19  Marek 2016, 180–309. 20  Darbyshire et al. 1999, 81–83. 21  Vardar and Vardar 1997.

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Fig. 4. Plan of Ankara (after Kadıoğlu et al. 2011, 281, plan 1). *The bath-gymnasium complex is located in the north-western corner (marked with no. 20).

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have been one of the key centres for the Galatians, but its size and plan are unfortunately unknown, as mostly covered by modern structures. Based on Strabo’s account (12. 5. 566–568), which described Galatian Ankara as a fortress (phrourion), we could assume that it was indeed one of the hilltop settlements just discussed. This hypothesis has therefore led scholars such as S. Mitchell to suggest that Ankara was most likely never a sizable settlement before the Roman period, a reading supported by the absence of substantial structures from this period identified archaeologically.22 The topography of Ankara, which presents several high hills overlooking a central valley, would certainly represent an ideal location for this kind of settlement. The excavations at Pessinus yielded more substantial evidence for late 4th–early 3rdcentury BC occupation; here, there is no trace of hilltop settlement, but archaeological explorations revealed the presence of a monumental complex situated on an artificial hill. This complex, identified as a citadel by the excavators,23 overlooked the southern entrance into the valley of a seasonal stream, which connected the site with the much larger valley of the Sakarya/Sangarios river. The complex has two recognisable construction phases: the first one mentioned above, dated to the late 4th–early 3rd centuries BC, was severely damaged by later restorations and no viable reconstructions can be attempted.24 The second phase (2nd century BC) is not only larger than the previous one, but also built on a different axis and further monumentalised by the addition of a colonnaded square to the east of the citadel (Fig. 5).25 The development of this complex belongs to a time of significant expansion in the whole site; for example, the sides of the northern plateau (the so-called Acropolis, sector I) were being systematically quarried for stone during this period, while new cemeteries (sectors A and C) in the surroundings were also opened during the 3rd century BC (Fig. 3).26 Archaeological investigations, however, failed to detect the presence of any other Hellenistic urban structure at this site;27 the settlement, therefore, must have been considerably smaller than the Roman one, and most likely centred on the artificial hill discussed above. In particular, none of the residential units excavated so far revealed evidence for occupation prior to the Augustan period, which suggests the presence of a much less centralised settlement pattern before the integration into the Roman state. Evidence for settlement at Amorium in the Hellenistic period is also limited. Just as for Ankara, literary sources provide almost all of the information at our disposal: Strabo, for example, simply named Amorium as a ‘Phrygian city’ (12. 8. 13). The earliest mention of Hellenistic Amorium occurs in an exchange of letters between the Attalids, their officials, and the priest-king Attis from Pessinus. This text, dated to 159 BC, was recently re-examined by Tsetskhladze and A. Avram, who suggested that Amorium may have been a settlement of mercenaries founded under the auspices of the Attalid dynasty during the 2nd century BC.28 According to literary evidence, the Pergamene kingdom relied

22

 Mitchell and French 2012, 17.  Claerhout and Devreker 2008, 70–107. 24  Verlinde 2015, 30–113. 25  Verlinde 2015, 30–113. 26  Claerhout and Devreker 2008, 114–24. 27  Claerhout and Devreker 2008, 114–24 28  Avram and Tsetskhladze 2014. Thonemann 2015 suggests that the mercenary settlement may have instead been Pessinus. 23

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Fig. 5. Pessinus. Plan of the Roman Temple Area (after Claerhout and Devreker 2008, map. 1). The Late Phrygian material was retrieved in spots marked in light blue. The 4th–3rd-century BC complex is marked in green, while the 2nd-century BC renovation is in the dark blue. The Augustan temple complex is red and Severan phase is purple (B6–B7–B8).

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extensively on mercenary forces to fight the Gauls during the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC (Diodorus 18. 61. 4–5), and new settlements, such as perhaps Amorium, were created in order to host these soldiers in times of peace (Polybius 5. 78. 5). The archaeological evidence is remarkably limited for Hellenistic Amorium: no urban structures from the Hellenistic period have been uncovered, and most of our information comes from a few fragments of terracotta figurines29 and four coins out of over 700 retrieved since the 1980s.30 The largest find of the Hellenistic period is a monumental tomb dated to the 2nd–1st centuries BC, which, however, provides no information about the size and organisation of this settlement.31 As in the cases of Ankara and Pessinus, the absence of substantial evidence for urban structures dated to the Hellenistic period may suggest that Amorium was probably not an extensive settlement in this period.

THE ARRIVAL

OF THE

ROMANS: THE EMERGENCE

OF

CITIES

The region was annexed by Rome in 25 BC, when Augustus ordered the creation of a new province. The integration into the Roman empire marked a time of extensive urban expansion in this area. The best archaeological evidence for this development was collected at Ankara and Pessinus, which have been extensively excavated.32 In the case of Ankara, the data available for the Roman city are abundant, even though the modern infrastructure obliterated most of the evidence for street system and residential areas. The city was selected by Augustus to be the capital of the newly established province of Galatia, an event that dramatically affected its urban development. For example, the main public structures (theatre, stadium, nymphaeum, and the temple of Augustus and Rome) as well as the main roads were designed at the time, or shortly after, the reign of Augustus (Fig. 4).33 A further wave of monumentalisation at Ankara occurred under the Severan dynasty, through the restoration of some urban structures and the addition of others. The most significant building project of this period was certainly the bath-gymnasium complex, a massive structure located in the north-western side of the city (Fig. 4). The bath-gymnasium at Ankara is one of the largest known examples of its kind, and it featured an unusually large heated area.34 The construction of this complex was also inserted into a wider project of monumentalisation of the northern part of city, as demonstrated by the erection of a colonnade along the nearby main road. Similarly, Pessinus experienced a significant urban expansion during the reign of Augustus, when the city received the most common urban features of provincial Roman towns: in particular, the Hellenistic monumental centre was expanded with addition of a temple, probably dedicated to the Imperial cult, and a stairway-theatre complex (Fig. 5).35 This frontal design, uncommon in Asia Minor, resembles examples in other regions of 29

 Lightfoot 2016, 188.  Katsari et al. 2012, 56. 31  Lightfoot 2016. 32  Kadıoğlu et al. 2011. 33  Kadıoğlu et al. 2011 34  For a full review of the evidence see Kadıoğlu et al. 2011, 179–90. For a contextual examination of the complex: Yegül 1992, 279. 35  Young 2018. 30

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the empire such as central Italy.36 Other monumental buildings were erected in the Roman period, for example, a theatre (sector G, Fig. 3) on the eastern side and a monumental central road (sector D, Fig. 3) which crossed the whole city from north to south, as mentioned above. Residential areas (sectors F, J, K, N, O, P, Q and R, Fig. 3) were constructed also in the Early Roman period, and they most likely connected to the main thoroughfare, which guaranteed access to the rest of the city. As for Ankara, the development of the city underwent another significant phase of expansion during the early 3rd century AD, when a large construction program was undertaken; an arch was built to mark the northernmost border of the main thoroughfare (sector E, Fig. 3), which was also renovated by the restoration and addition of side marble walls and colonnades. The temple complex was also redesigned with the erection of a new small theatre and a paved square on top of the Early Roman monumental stairway (sector B 7–8, Fig. 5). This obliterated the access to the temple, which was probably guaranteed by a new street laid out to the north of it. This road, unknown archaeologically, may have passed by a new porticoed structure identified as a civic basilica and also built in the early 3rd century AD (sector L, Fig. 3).37 We lack precise information about Amorium’s urban development in the Roman period. Our only data come from inscriptions, coins and architectural spolia found in later buildings; for example, an inscribed marble architrave from a public structure, a temple depicted on 3rd-century coins, a sundial and a possible small theatre/odeion seat suggest that the city may have been provided with some of the urban structures found at Pessinus and Ankara.38 The absence of visible traces of an aqueduct, bathhouse, colonnaded squares and road, and a main theatre may, however, indicate that this public infrastructure was not particularly extensive. In particular, it seems unlikely that large structures such as theatres and aqueducts have been missed at a site that has been investigated archaeologically for about 30 years, and has no major modern settlement on top of it. Moreover, epigraphic records, re-used as spolia in later structures, often speak for other buildings that are no longer visible; their absence at Amorium seems to be more than just a coincidence. Thus, the lack of visible buildings or epigraphic evidence reinforces the hypothesis that Amorium did not have extensive public infrastructure during the Roman period. The city was enlarged and fortified significantly in the late 5th century AD, most likely under the aegis of the emperor Zeno (AD 476–491) (Lower City, Fig. 2). The new urban structures all appeared in the southern part of the city, and they do not seem to rest on substantial older buildings.39 This may imply that this section of Amorium was uninhabited or at least underdeveloped, and it thus offered an opportunity for Roman town-planners to expand Amorium’s infrastructure in this direction. It is, however, worth noting that the numismatic evidence collected at Amorium underlines a dramatic increase in coin emission at the beginning of the 3rd century AD (almost half of the total recovered);40 some of these coins, as discussed above, bear the image of a temple, which 36

 Verlinde 2015, 169–96.  Maranzana 2018, 61–65. 38  Lightfoot and Lightfoot 2007, 32–42. 39  See, for example, the construction of the Lower City church (Lightfoot and Lightfoot 2007, 82–98) or the Late Roman/Early Byzantine unpaved road discovered in the Enclosure (Ivison 2007, 41–45). 40  Kasari 2012, 98. 37

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was probably (re-)dedicated during this period. It is, therefore, possible that also at Amorium the 3rd century AD represented a time of some urban development, just as observed at Pessinus and Ankara.

CITIES

OF

ROMAN GALATIA

IN

CONTEXT: SUMMARY

AND

CONCLUSION

The comparison of the archaeological evidence for this region demonstrated a clear path of development: 1) even though occupation of these three sites can easily be noted since the Bronze Age, it is only in the Hellenistic period that we have clear evidence for settlement development in the discussed area. At Pessinus, for example, the construction of a citadel goes hand in hand with the exploitation of stone quarries and the development of new burial grounds. Similarly, the large Hellenistic tomb chamber found at Amorium could suggest a comparable trend, as burial grounds in the city hinterland may have been occupied more extensively in this period. Conversely, the archaeological explorations failed to detect the presence of more extensive urban infrastructure; for example, none of the residential blocks and public buildings investigated at Pessinus can be dated before the late 1st century BC, and the Hellenistic citadel just discussed may have been the only major feature of the built environment. Failure to identify any evidence for urban structures also at Amorium and Ankara may therefore suggest that the settlements of the Hellenistic period were not particularly extensive, just as noted at Pessinus. The absence of clear urban infrastructure in the Hellenistic period at these sites is not unique within the Anatolian Plateau; for example, the temple states41 of Zela and Comana, located in south-eastern Pontus, seem to underline a similar trend of development. They were important agrarian centres tied to the cults of Anaitis and Ma respectively,42 but recent archaeological research conducted at Comana failed to detect the presence of any substantial urban settlement.43 According to the evidence at our disposal, the establishment of a polis, as administrative centre, at Comana is also dated to the Roman period, but44 unlike Pessinus and Ankara, the site did not acquire an urban form in this period. The survey conducted in the territory of ancient Comana did not find any trace of a large urban settlement in the area, which was instead occupied by small sites. It is therefore possible that the temple states of southern Pontus never developed into urban forms, contrary to the sites observed in the province of Galatia, where the three considered cities are located. In marked contrast with the case of Central Anatolia are the coastal areas of Asia Minor, where cities had been widespread from the Archaic period onward.45 For example, in western Asia Minor, cities such as Old Smyrna and Miletus were established in the Iron Age and developed in the Archaic period.46 Western Asia Minor underwent a second wave of significant urban expansion during the Late Classical and Hellenistic periods, as new cities were founded, re-founded and substantially enlarged often due to 41

 For the definition of temple states, see Virgilio 1981; Strobel 2007; Boffo 1985; 2001; 2007.  Erciyas 2009. 43  Erciyas and Sökmen 2010. 44  Erciyas 2009. 45  For an overview, see Cobet 2007; Greaves 2011, 501–11; Marek 2016, 150–79. 46  For Old Smyrna, see Cook et al. 1998, 35–137. For Miletus, see Weber 2007. 42

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the intervention of local rulers and Hellenistic kings.47 Such a trend was most likely already ongoing in the 4th century BC, when Mausolus re-founded his capital city, Halicarnassus, on a grid plan designed around his monumental tomb.48 For the Hellenistic period, kings were responsible for the development of capital cities such as Pergamum, or other large centres such as Ephesus.49 Local communities were equally active in the foundations or re-foundations of cities; the establishment of a new polis allowed communities to acquire a higher legal status, so that they could interact directly with the central power.50 Research on 2nd-century BC cities in western Asia Minor, for example, demonstrated that newly established urban centres were often recipients of donations from the Seleucids, while settlements without a polis status could often be overlooked by the central power.51 A similar trend can be observed at Aphrodisias in Caria, where the local community seems to have self-elevated to polis-status during the power vacuum that followed the Peace of Apamea in 188 BC.52 The significant difference in urban development between Hellenistic Central Anatolia and the coast of Asia Minor may therefore be the result of the diverse historical and geographical circumstances. In particular, the Archaic wave of urbanisation on the coast seems to be led by the interaction between Greek and local communities.53 These cities were often independent states that competed and collaborated in order to exploit their surroundings. Such cities were often planned in the vicinity of natural harbours (Miletus and Old Smyrna) and in wide river valleys (Sardis) in order to access the trade networks that connected them to the Aegean and the larger Mediterranean world. They controlled the rural countryside that surrounded the city, where both urban and rural residents benefited from the same rights, and they acted as full members of these city-states. In contrast, settlement development in Central Anatolia was often focused on fortified hilltops that controlled major roads or river valleys, such as Gordion, while the rest of the population was spread in rural villages. Rural settlements are largely unexplored archaeologically in Central Anatolia and their location is hard to establish. The Archaic/ Phrygian period is also extremely poorly documented in the three sites analysed here, but the limited data available seem to exclude the presence of large urban centres such as those at Old Smyrna or Miletus. At Pessinus, for example, Phyrgian structures can only be found under the Roman Temple Area, while at Amorium seems to be only localised on the site of the höyük. The following wave of urbanisation, in the Late Classical and Hellenistic periods, was often supported by local or Hellenistic kings in western Asia Minor, as mentioned above. In this respect, Central Anatolia does not seem to be deeply involved in the power struggle that takes place on the coasts; besides the famous wars between Galatians and Pergamum,54 the region was often overlooked by the various kings who fought over the control of Asia

47

 Ma 1999, 199–204; Cohen 2010.  Pedersen 1988. 49  For a brief overview, see Scherrer 2001 (Ephesus); Radt 2001, 44–53, and 2011 (Pergamum). 50  Ma 1999, 199–204. 51  Ma 1999, 199–204. 52  Ratté 2008, 29–30. 53  Cobet 2007; Greaves 2011, 501–11; Marek 2016, 150–79. 54  Marek 2016, 202–07. 48

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Minor. If we look at the epigraphic evidence available for the cities examined, we can note a close connexion between Pergamum and Pessinus. This is demonstrated by the discovery of eight letters inscribed in marble that record the correspondence between the two states in the 2nd century BC.55 The contents of these letters show the extent of these diplomatic relationships, which seem to underline friendly contacts between two foreign powers. By contrast, the above-cited letter no. 8 mentioned Amorium as a possible Attalid foundation, but the archaeological research discussed in the previous section clearly shows that no data can point to the existence of any urban structure. Thus, whatever the Attalid contribution in the foundation of Amorium was, we can exclude they invested considerable resources into the creation of a city. West-Central Anatolia, therefore, seems to develop along the lines established in the Iron Age, where smaller (and sometimes fortified) settlements controlled a network of rural villages. This is also employed by the Galatian tribes, which favoured fortified hilltops over larger settlements, as discussed above. For example, at Pessinus, an artificial hill and a citadel were erected to control the main route through the main local river valley in the late 4th century BC, but its construction was not followed by the planning of any other urban structures. The builders of the citadel at Pessinus most likely controlled a network of rural villages, similar to those discussed above at Zela and Comana. West-Central Anatolia experienced a significant urban development in the late 1st century BC, most likely as a result of the establishment of the Roman province of Galatia, and the evidence from Pessinus and Ankara confirms this trend. In both cities new streets were laid out during this period, while temples, buildings of entertainment (stadium and theatre) and residential blocks were also constructed. The recent topographical research conducted at Pessinus concluded that the Roman city reached an extension of about 88 ha.56 Amorium does not show evidence for significant urban development in the Roman period, and it is possible that its city structures were not particularly extensive. The appearance of substantial urban structures at Amorium may not have happened before the late 5th–early 6th centuries AD, when the city was fortified and enlarged significantly due to its strategic position.57 Like the Hellenistic kings, the Roman state employed foundations and re-foundations of cities as a preferred tool to administer the provinces of the empire.58 This phenomenon is well documented throughout the entire Central Plateau, such as in northern Pisidia, where several cities were founded or re-founded in the early 1st century AD.59 Roman Galatia, therefore, does not seem to be an exception to this, and the development of Pessinus and Ankara provide clear insights into the creation of Early Roman cities in this region. Pessinus and Ankara show also definitive evidence for urban expansion in the early 3rd century AD, which is marked by the erection of an arch (Pessinus), colonnaded roads (both Pessinus and Ankara) and new porticoed public structures (a civic basilica at Pessinus and the bath-gymnasium complex at Ankara). These new urban features not

55

 Strubbe 2005, 1–17; Avram and Tsetskhladze 2014.  Tsetskhladze 2013, 53. 57  Crow 2001, 100. 58  The literature on the topic is extensive: for an overview on Anatolia, see Marek 2016, 180–308. 59  De Giorgi 2014. 56

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only increased the size of the built environment in these cities,60 but also further monumentalised the public spaces throughout the cities. If we look at Pessinus, for example, the 3rd-century AD arch marked the northernmost limit of the city, and it was followed by a newly colonnaded road that led into the Temple Area, located on the southern part of the city. Here, a new access road to the Temple Area was also built in the 3rd century AD, and it was flanked by a new porticoed basilica. These elements seem to be final additions to the establishment of the so-called urban armature, a term introduced by William MacDonald to describe the articulation of urban space that became common in Roman cities during the High Imperial period (2nd century AD). This consists of ‘… streets, squares and essential public buildings linked together across cities … with junctions and entranceways prominently articulated’61 which made cities look like a ‘… unified monumental environment’.62 Urban armatures are a very common feature of Roman Imperial cities, and they aimed to guide visitors and citizens through major urban spaces; such spaces had utilitarian functions (baths and markets) and provided the suitable environment for the display of prominent citizens, provincial governors and emperors. The evidence for Ankara is not as straightforward as for the case of Pessinus, given our limited knowledge on its urban street network in the Roman period. However, the construction of the bath-gymnasium in the northern part of the city was followed by the erection of a colonnaded street, which monumentalised further the area east of the complex. Colonnaded streets were one of the main elements for the formation of an urban armature,63 and the erection of a new one in the northern part of the city may suggest that also Ankara underwent a development similar to that noted at Pessinus. The appearance and enlargement of urban armatures in Roman cities of this period certainly cannot come as a surprise. However, monumentalisation of urban structures often began in the 2nd century AD in western Anatolia, as it is demonstrated by recent archaeological research. For example, at Antioch in Pisidia and Hierapolis, located respectively in the western and southern parts of Central Anatolia, new colonnaded roads were added to the urban fabric in the 2nd century AD.64 Aphrodisias was equipped with a second agora in this period,65 while Ephesus and Pergamum received new temples, streets, baths, etc.66 A major construction phase from the 2nd century AD seems, therefore, to be uncharacteristically absent in the archaeological records of the cities examined here, and the development often observed in the 2nd century AD elsewhere appears to take place in the early 3rd century AD. The reasons behind this chronological difference are complex and often difficult to determine. However, as already argued by Mitchell, the 2nd century AD marked the beginning of a series of imperial journeys toward the East, where the emperors of this period were conducting military campaigns more and more frequently. These imperial visits in Galatia seem to peak in the late 2nd–early 3rd centuries AD, when first of all

60

 The construction of the bath-gymnasium in Ankara and the arch at Pessinus redefined the northern limits of the cities, adding further monumental areas to these urban centers. 61  MacDonald 1982, 4. 62  MacDonald 1982, 5. 63  MacDonald 1982, 9. 64  Ossi and Harrington 2011, 20–22 (Antioch), Spano et al. 2008 (Hierapolis). 65  Ratté 2001. 66  See Scherrer 2001 (Ephesus); Radt 2001, 44–53, and 2011 (Pergamum).

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Septimius Severus and then Caracalla travelled through Central Anatolia and stopped at Ankara. Caracalla set up his winter quarters at Nicomedia in AD 214/5 and visited Ankara in 215, where he established new festivals dedicated to Asklepios.67 The reign of Caracalla also marked a significant intensification of coin emission at Amorium, Ankara and Pessinus,68 while also an increase in the number of inscriptions at Ankara can be noted.69 It is therefore possible that the 3rd-century AD wave of urban monumentalisation documented above was also sparked by these events. The evidence at our disposal allow no direct connexion of these cities’ development to the visits of Severans, but it is possible that the renewed interest in this region by the 3rd century AD emperors encouraged local benefactors to invest more significantly into urban renovation. To conclude, we have seen how contextual examination of long-term settlement development can provide a complex picture for the emergence and growth of ancient urbanism in regions traditionally understudied. The evidence discussed here shows clearly that cities did not appear in Galatia before the annexation into the Roman empire in 25 BC. Before the arrival of the Romans, the regional settlement pattern was rooted in the tradition of small fortified outposts, which controlled strategic resources as well as networks of small villages. Urban development in Roman Galatia occurred mostly as a direct consequence of imperial interest in the region; Ankara and Pessinus received their first substantial urban development during the Augustan period, when the provincial administration was first established. Amorium’s city structures, on the other hand, appeared to be limited until the late 5th–early 6th century AD, which is likely to be the first extensive phase of urban expansion at this site. Even the late 5th–early 6th century AD urban structures at Amorium seem to be connected to the imperial interest (Zeno) in West-Central Anatolia, which sparked from the conflicts on the eastern frontiers. The Severan period (early 3rd century AD) represented another time of renewed imperial activity in this region, as it is visible in a substantial increase in production of coins (all three cities) and inscriptions (only Ankara). Under the influence of Severans, Ankara and Pessinus underwent another significant wave of urban development; this did not lead to a significant enlargement of urban areas, but mostly to the creation of the so-called urban armature, namely sequences of colonnaded spaces that guided visitors and citizens through the built environment. Urban armatures were already common in Roman Anatolian cities on the coasts by the 3rd century AD, but it is now clear that urban centres in Roman Galatia underwent this development only at a later date, when the Severan emperors often passed through the region.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Arslan, M. 2004: The Coins of Galatian Kingdom and the Roman Coinage of Ancyra in Galatia (Ankara). —. 2009: ‘Nymphe tasvirli ve hiç yayınlanmamış yeni Ankyra sikkeleri’. Anadolu Medeniyetleri Müzesi 2007–2008 Yıllığı, 15–81. Avram, A. and Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2014: ‘A new Attalid letter from Pessinus’. ZPE 191, 151–81. 67

 Mitchell and French 2012, 31–33.  Dandrow 2019; Katsari 2012; and Arslan 2004, 58–69; 2009, 50–60. 69  Mitchell and French 2012, 8–10. 68

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Boffo, L. 1985: I re ellenistici e i centri religiosi dell’Asia Minore (Florence). —. 2001: ‘Lo statuto di terre, insediamenti e persone nell’Anatolia ellenistica. Documenti recenti e problemi antichi’. Dike 4, 233–55. —. 2007: ‘I centri religiosi d’Asia Minore all’epoca della conquista romana’. In Urso, G. (ed.), Tra Oriente e Occidente: Indigeni, Greci e Romani in Asia Minore (Atti del convegno internazionale: Cividale del Friuli, 28–30 settembre 2006) (Convegni della Fondazione Niccolò Canussio 6) (Pisa), 105–28 Claerhout, I. and Devreker, J. 2008: Pessinus: Sacred City of the Anatolian Mother Goddess; an Archaeological Guide (Istanbul). Cobet, J. 2007: ‘Das alte Ionien in der Geschichtsschreibung’. In Cobet, J., von Graeve, V., Niemeier, W.D. and Zimmermann, K. (eds.), Frühes Ionien: Eine Bestandsaufnahme (PanionionSymposion Güzelçamlı, 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 729–43. Cohen, G.M. 2010: The Hellenistic Settlements in Europe, the Islands, and Asia Minor (Hellenistic Culture and Society 17) (Berkeley/Oxford). Cook, J.M., Nicholls, R.V. and Pyle, D.M. 1998: Old Smyrna Excavations: The Temples of Athena (British School at Athens Suppl. vol. 30) (London). Coşkun, A. 2009: ‘Der Ankyraner Kaiserkult und die Transformation galatischer und phrygischgalatischer Identitäten in Zentralanatolien im Spiegel der Münzquellen’. In Coşkun, A., Heinen, H. and Pfeiffer, S. (eds.), Repräsentation von Identität und Zugehörigkeit im Osten der griechisch-römischen Welt: Aspekte ihrer Repräsentation in Städten, Provinzen und Reichen (Inklusion/Exklusion 14) (Frankfurt), 173–210. Cross, T.M. and Leiser, G. 2000. A Brief History of Ankara (Vacaville, CA). Crow, J. 2001: ‘Fortifications and urbanism in late antiquity: Thessaloniki and other eastern cities’. In Lavan, L. (ed.), Recent Research in Late-Antique Urbanism (Journal of Roman Archaeology Suppl. 42) (Portsmouth, RI), 89–106. Dandrow, E. 2019: ‘The Coins of Pessinus (2009–11): A Catalogue’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Pessinus and its Regional Setting 2: Work in 2009–2013 (Colloquia Antiqua 22) (Leuven/ Paris/Bristol, CT), 277–92. Darbyshire, G., Mitchell, S. and Vardar, L. 2000: ‘The Galatian Settlement in Asia Minor’. AS 50, 75–97. De Giorgi, A.U. 2014: ‘Between Continuity and Change: Northern Pisidia through Classical and Late Antiquity’. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Istanbul 64, 55–71. Demirel Gökalp, Z., Erel, C., Tsivikis, N., Yilmazyaşar, H. and Kurt, M. 2020: ‘Amorium Kazilari 2018’. In 41. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 4 (Ankara), 567–77. Dusinberre, E.R.M. 2013: Empire, Authority, and Autonomy in Achaemenid Anatolia (Cambridge). Erciyas, B. 2009: ‘Komane Pontike: A City or a Sanctuary?’. In Højte, J.M. (ed.), Mithridates VI and the Pontic Kingdom (Black Sea Studies 9) (Aarhus), 289–312. Erciyas, B. and Sökmen, E. 2010: ‘An Overview of Byzantine Period Settlements around Comana Pontica, in North-Central Turkey’. Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 34, 118–41. French, D. 1998: ‘Pre- and Early-Roman Roads of Asia Minor. The Persian Royal Road’. Iran 36, 15–43. Greaves, A.M. 2002: Miletos: A History (London). Ivison, E.A. 2007: ‘Amorium in the Byzantine Dark Ages (Seventh to Ninth Centuries)’. In Henning, J. (ed.), Post-Roman Towns, Trade and Settlement in Europe and Byzantium 2: Byzantium, Pliska and the Balkans (Millennium Studies 5.2) (Berlin/Boston), 25–59. Kadıoğlu, M., Görkay, K. and Mitchell, S. 2011: Roman Ancyra (Istanbul). Katsari, C. 2012: ‘Table of Coins by Reign’. In Katsari, Lightfoot and Özme 2012, 98. Katsari, C., Lightfoot, C.S. and Özme, A. (eds.) 2012: The Amorium Mint and the Coin Finds (Amorium Reports 4) (Berlin). Lightfoot, C.S. 2016: ‘Christian Burials in a Pagan Context at Amorium’. In Brandt, J.R., Hagelberg, E., Bjørnstad, G. and Ahrens, S. (eds.), Life and Death in Asia Minor in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Times: Studies in Archaeology and Bioarchaeology (Oxford/Philadelphia), 188–95.

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Vardar, L. and Vardar, N.A. 1997: ‘Galatia Bölgesi Kaleleri/Yerlesmeleri Yüzey Arastırması: Ankara ili 1996’. Arastırma Sonuçları Toplantısı 15.1, 245–64. Verlinde, A. 2010: ‘Monumental Architecture in Hellenistic and Julio-Claudian Pessinus’. BaBesch 85, 111–39. —. 2015: The Roman Sanctuary Site at Pessinus: From Phrygian to Byzantine Times (Monographs on Antiquity 7) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). Vermoere, M. 2004: Holocene Vegetation Dynamics in the Territory of Sagalassos (Southwest Turkey): A Palynological Approach (Studies in Eastern Mediterranean Archaeology 6) (Turnhout). Virgilio, B. 1981: Il “Tempio Stato” di Pessinunte fra Pergamo e Roma nel II–I secolo a.C. (C. B. Welles, Royal corr., 55-61) (Biblioteca di studi antichi 26) (Pisa). Weber, B.F. 2007: ‘Der Stadtplan von Milet. Einhundert Jahre Stadtforschung’. In Cobet, J., von Graeve, V., Niemeier, W.D. and Zimmermann, K. (eds.), Frühes Ionien: Eine Bestandsaufnahme (Panionion-Symposion Güzelçamlı, 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 327–62. Yegül, F.K. 1992: Bath and Bathing in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, MA). Young, S.J. 2018: ‘Pessinus in the 2nd century AD: A Monumental City with an Elusive City Plan’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Pessinus and its Regional Setting, vol. 1 (Colloquia Antiqua 21) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 379–428.

SOME REMARKS ABOUT KONSULOVSKOE, A LESSER-KNOWN LATE SCYTHIAN HILLFORT ON THE LOWER DNIEPER Marcin MATERA, Nadezhda GAVRYLYUK, Dmytro NYKONENKO and Paweł LECH

ABSTRACT The Late Scythian/post-Scythian hillforts from the Lower Dnieper area are still one of the lesser-known networks of ancient fortifications. The Konsulovskoe site, one of bigger and better preserved fortified settlements from this group, is the aim of long-term research by a UkrainianPolish archaeological group from the University of Warsaw, the National Reserve ‘Khortytsya’ and the National Academy of Sciences of the Ukraine. Since 2015, this international research team has conducted different archaeological works on the site, beginning from non-invasive survey (magnetic prospection, resistivity survey, preparing DTM’s of site) through direct excavation of five trenches. Until now work focused on recognition of the fort’s fortifications. Three trenches were set in the inner citadel, one in a possible residential district, and one on the line of external fortifications. The results enabled us to recognise the shape and building technique of military constructions such as defensive walls, gate and flanking tower. In addition, details of semi-subterranean residential buildings were investigated. The archaeological material collected during excavation implies a short period of exploitation of this hillfort and sets the chronological frame as the 1st century BC–1st century AD.

The Konsulovskoe site belongs to the group of 15 so-called Late Scythian/post-Scythian hillforts,1 situated along banks of the Lower Dnieper.2 It is located close to Respublikanets village, in Kherson Oblast, in the southern Ukraine.3 The site was briefly described for the first time by A.P. Chirkov, member of Odessa Society of Antiquities in the 1860s,4 but it had already been mentioned in 1851 by S.I. Mysheckii.5 Information about Konsulovskoe hillfort was also published by V.M. Yastrebov in the 1890s.6 In 1912, V.I. Goschkevich published the first topographical plan of the Konsulovskoe hillfort (Fig. 1), which shows the separated part of the citadel

1  The term post-Scythian culture was first proposed by N.A. Gavrylyuk and V.V. Krapivina (2005, 66); cf. Gavrylyuk and Krapivina 2007, 563; see also Gavrylyuk and Matera 2016. Contra, see Simonenko et al. 2015, 7; Simonenko 2016, 476–77. 2  Simonenko et al. 2015, 3; detailed information about the particular hillforts, see Gavrylyuk and Olenkovskii 1992, 36–49; Gavrylyuk 2013, 543–61. 3  Gavrylyuk and Olenkovskii 1992, 44; Gavrylyuk 2013, 556. 4  Chirkov 1867. 5  Mysheckii 1851, 71. 6  Yastrebov 1894, 117.

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located in the south-eastern corner of the site.7 This plan was then republished several times.8 A year later, Goschkevich published a detailed description of the site with the characteristics of the materials discovered.9 In July 1915, on the territory of the Konsulovskoe site, the first excavation season took place. The results of these works were summed up and published two years later. A section of stone defensive wall was discovered and dated to the turn of the eras.10 From the 1950s to the end of 20th century only some trench pits and surveys were undertaken at Konsulovskoe.11 Unfortunately their results have never been fully published. An expedition of the National Reserve ‘Khortytsya’ started research of the Konsulovskoe hillfort in 2014.12 Since 2015, investigation of the site has been realised by a joint Ukrainian-Polish project in co-operation between the National Reserve ‘Khortytsya’, the Institute of Archaeology of the National Academy of Sciences of the Ukraine, and the Institute of Archaeology and the Antiquity of South-Eastern Europe Research Centre, both institutions associated with the University of Warsaw. The first stage of the joint Polish-Ukrainian work was a non-invasive survey of the site: aerial photography, topographical measurements, geophysical prospection with the use of magnetic and electrical resistivity measurements.13 Such a wide spectrum of non-invasive survey had never been employed at any Late Scythian hillfort. A magnetic prospection had been performed only on the territory of Chervonyi Mayak hillfort, about 8 km to the south of the Konsulovskoe site.14 On the basis of aerial photography and GPS measurements photogrammetric documentation of the territory of the hillfort was undertaken, including ortophotomaps (Figs. 2, 6) and a Digital Terrain Model (Fig. 3).15 A traditional topographical plan was made automatically during magnetic survey and consisted of levelling measurements with the use of a GNSS RTK receiver (Fig. 4). This receiver was combined with a Geometrics G–858G caesium magnetometer with two sensors in horizontal configuration. This solution enabled us to take measurements of the total vector of magnetic field intensity and, at the same time, determine the value of the pseudo-gradient of its horizontal components. As a result two maps presenting the distribution of magnetic anomalies were prepared (Figs. 5–6). Most of the dipole anomalies visible on the maps occurred irregularly throughout the whole investigated area and could be caused by single metal objects or heavily burnt materials present in the subsurface layers. Intensive agricultural activity that took place at the site in the second half of the 20th century suggests that these could be modern artefacts. Three point anomalies registered in the eastern part of the site might be a result of the high temperature involved in operating such devices as ovens, kilns or hearths. The 7  Goschkevich 1912, 8, fig. 3. The first rough plans of the site were already included on Russian military maps elaborated in the mid-19th century: see Nykonenko 2015, 92. 8  Goschkevich 1913, 138, fig. 57; 1915, 6, fig. 3. 9  Goschkevich 1913, 138–39; cf. Gavrylyuk and Krapivina 2007, 565; Nikonenko 2015, 91. 10  Goshkevich 1915, 6–7; cf. Nikonenko 2015, 91. 11  Gavrylyuk and Olenkovskii 1992, 44; Gavrylyuk 2013, 556; Nikonenko 2015, 91–92. 12  Nikonenko 2015, 91. 13  Nykonenko et al. 2018a. 14  Gavrylyuk et al. 2009. 15  Matera et al. 2017a, 125–29; Nykonenko et al. 2018a, 381–82.

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linear anomalies visible on the maps were caused by the remains of the defensive walls, as was confirmed by later excavations.16 The resistivity survey was carried out with ADA-7 using electrodes in dipole-dipole configuration. The resistivity measurements were taken down to a depth of 1 m. Surveys were performed on five sectors: E1–E5. The most evident results were recorded in the areas E1, E3 and E5, where parallel linear anomalies of high values of resistivity in the 4–5 m between the lines were recorded (Fig. 7).17 As in the case of magnetic survey, further excavations have shown that these anomalies should be linked with the remains of defensive walls.18 Systematic archaeological excavation of Konsulovskoe hillfort started in 2015. The Ukrainian part of the expedition set up trench (Trench I) on the northern line of the citadel fortifications. Poorly preserved remains of defensive wall were discovered. In 2016, the Polish part of the expedition set up a new trench (Trench II) located in the area of the northern part of the western defensive line of the citadel (Fig. 8). Excavations conducted here led to the discovery of a well-preserved part of the defensive stone wall built in the opus emplectum technique. Both façades were made of big irregular stones bound with clay (Figs. 9–10). The space between them was filled with clay and small- to medium-sized stones. The bond of both façades was not very solid; stones were laid in quasi-rows, matching the size and shape to the stones next to them. The length of the discovered part of the wall was 5 m, the width ca. 2.60 m. Layers of stone debris were recorded on both sides of the defensive wall. Within the stones fuzzy loess blocks were also noted. It is highly probable that the parapet of the wall was constructed from them. Moreover, loess plaster approximately 0.07 m thick was recorded on the outer façade of the defensive wall (Fig. 11). This kind of solution could protect the wall from the adverse influences of water (water percolation) and low temperature (freezing).19 A similar practice could be observed in the Late Scythian hillforts of the Crimea, where examples of coating the façades of defensive walls with clay plaster were recorded.20 The wall was erected on a substructure, namely a low earth bank. The height of this bank was about 0.50 m. This kind of substructure is known from other sites and was used to protect the main part of the wall from sliding into the direction of the defensive ditch.21 This method of construction was also used when the defensive wall could not be built on hard rock.22 Defensive walls set on banks of soil were recorded at other Late Scythian hillforts located along the Lower Dnieper: Annovskoe,23 Krasnyi Mayak, Gavrilovskoe, Kozackoe24 and Znamenskoe.25 In the case of the defensive walls of the Konsulovskoe citadel, no traces of foundation or footing were observed. Along the inner façade of the defensive walls a supporting buttress was unveiled. It was laid on alternate layers of ash and loess, resembling a technique for foundations  Matera et al. 2017a, 129–35; Nykonenko et al. 2018, 382–84.  Matera et al. 2017a, 135–37; Nykonenko et al. 2018a, 384–86. 18  Matera et al. 2017a, 137; Nykonenko et al. 2018b, 389. 19  Matera et al. 2017a, 137; Nykonenko et al. 2018b, 389. 20  Koltukhov 1999, 50. 21  Blavatskii 1954, 94–95. 22  Lawrence 1979, 202–03. 23  Gavrylyuk and Abikulova 1999, 15, see also Gavrylyuk 2013, 552; Gavrylyuk and Matera 2016, 124. 24  Gavrylyuk 2013, 556; Gavrylyuk and Matera 2016, 124. 25  Gavrylyuk and Abikulova 1999, 24; see also Gavrylyuk 2013, 543. 16 17

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known from Olbia. The buttress is preserved to a height of one row of masonry. Its width is from 0.40 to 0.70 m. A drainage ditch, about 1.30 m wide and about 0.40–0.60 m deep, was dug in the virgin loess along the curtain of the citadel’s defensive wall (Fig. 12). It cannot be ruled out that the ditch was also of strategic importance. Together with the bank of clay protruding in front of outer façade of the defensive wall at 1.10 m, it significantly complicated the direct approach to the fortification line. This drainage ditch cut through and partially destroyed the mouth of the earlier pit (pit 5/2017). The excavations conducted in Trench III (Fig. 13), located 22 m south of Trench II, brought new data on the fortification of the citadel at Konsulovskoe hillfort. The remains of a gateway leading to the citadel were investigated. The gate, 1.60 m wide, was flanked on the north by defensive curtain wall and on the south by a tower. Unfortunately, the poor state of preservation effectively bars any conclusions about the technical details of the gate’s construction. However, some information could be obtained thanks to the discovery of structural elements of the gate – for example, a corner stone and the stones with holes for attaching wooden poles. None of them was found in situ. The defensive wall flanking the gateway from the north was built on a clay substructure in the form of low bank which ended semi-circularly from the side of the gate. The bank itself not only stabilised the defensive wall but also prevented a direct approach to it. The preserved height of bank is 0.32 m; originally, it was probably higher. Given that its width reaches 1.80 m, it could significantly impede the approach to the defensive wall. To the south, a tower without internal space flanked the gateway. Along its outer side there was a drainage ditch preventing access to the tower walls. This ditch cut through the earlier pit (pit 2/2018). The poor state of preservation of the entire gate fortifications leaves us with the question of what course the road leading to the gate took. It is possible to assume that it led either across a kind of the bridge over the drainage ditch or, in the shape of a zigzag, along the clay bank, turning left into the gate. The surface of the entrance to the citadel was covered with a layer of loess, making up either a form of strengthening or possibly a substructure under a (not preserved) pavement. The works of the Polish part of the expedition also brought information about the main line of fortifications at Konsulovskoe. In the 2019 season, a new trench was dug (Trench V) where a section of western defensive wall, reinforced with a flanking tower, was discovered (Figs. 14–15). The building technique and masonry were analogous to those known from the fortifications of the citadel. However, the width of defensive wall was less – only 2.0 m. Like the walls of the citadel, the foundation trench and footing were not registered. Moreover, the defensive wall of the main part of the Konsulovskoe site was laid directly on a cultural layer. The form of the flanking tower was similar to a square, measuring 3.10 × 3.60 m. It was a construction without an internal room. Space inside the tower was filled with clay and small- to large-sized stones. Differences in the level of foundation of the defensive wall and tower indicate that the latter was built a little later. Unfortunately, the almost complete lack of archaeological material precludes our establishing the precise absolute chronology of the building of both structures. Excavations conducted in the citadel also brought the first information about housing. In Trench II a semi-subterranean dwelling was discovered (Figs. 16–17). It was subrectangular, oblong in shape (4.50 × 2.00 m), oriented by the long axis north-westerly

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to south-easterly. The north-west corner of the dwelling adjoined the clay bank on which the defensive wall was built. From the western side, it was dug into the virgin loess to a depth of 0.40–0.60 m. The above-ground part of the dwelling was most likely built from the blocks cut from the loess. The collapse of such blocks (0.16 m long × 0.12 m wide × 0.08 m thick) was recorded in the south-western corner. The same collapse was also traced from the outer side of that corner of the dwelling. It almost reached the fill of the next semi-subterranean dwelling localised to the south-west. It is possible that the aboveground walls of both structures originally met, creating a common angle. Two functional zones are distinguished inside the semi-subterranean dwelling: a place for sleeping in the northern part of the structure and a central part intended for everyday activities. The sleeping part was a horizontal platform extending about 0.40 m above the floor level. Its length along a line from north-west to south-east reached 1.60 m. The central part of the structure reached about 2.90 m in length. The floor was virgin loess. A slight slope of the floor in the south-east was identified. What was surprising is that no traces of a fireplace were recorded. The south-eastern corner of the structure housed a storage pit (pit 2/2017): its plan resembled a circle, whereas its cross-section was pear-shaped. Diameter of mouth: 0.50 m; maximum diameter: 1.20 m; depth: 0.60 m. It was filled with an ashy layer containing animal bones, and potsherds dated to the turn of eras/first centuries AD. In the south-western corner of the dwelling, a sub-rectangular, elongated niche measuring 1.05 × 0.75 m was let into the floor and partially into the western wall, carved in the loess. The depth of the niche was about 0.30 m.26 The second semi-subterranean dwelling was investigated only partially. The rest of it lay outside the trench. East of the semi-subterranean dwellings was a complex of three storage pits: 1/2017, 3/2017 and 4/2017. Pit 1/2017: approximately circular; trapezoidal cross-section. Diameter of mouth: 0.90– 1.10 m; maximum diameter: 1.95 m; depth: 1.10 m. It was filled with an ashy layer containing scarce small stones, animal bones, loess inclusions, potsherds and burnt grains. Pit 3/2017: approximately circular; trapezoidal cross-section. Diameter of mouth: ca. 1.05 m; maximum diameter: 2.12 m; depth: 1.60 m. It was filled with a heterogeneous layer containing scarce small stones, loess intrusions, animal bones, potsherds, burnt grains and charcoals. Pit 4/2017 resembled a circle in plan; cross-section irregular with semi-circular walls and a flat bottom. Diameter of pit: ca. 1.15 m; depth: 0.90 m. Its backfill was not uniform, with fragmented animal bones, small stones, potsherds and loess intrusions. The archaeological materials obtained during excavation of Konsulovskoe enable the establishing of chronological framework for a long period from the 1st century BC to the 1st century AD and maybe even later. Among them the largest group comprised fragments of handmade pottery (Fig. 18). The amphora assemblages included primarily examples produced from the 1st century BC to the 2nd century AD. Fragments of Vnukov CI amphorae and sub-Koan amphorae of unknown provenance prevailed in this group of material. Fragments of grey ware pottery were a relatively frequent find.  Matera et al. 2017b, 164–65.

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Fine ware was represented by the examples of red slip vessels. Among other finds worth mentioning are ceramic spindle-whorls, loom-weights, bone artefacts, beads, jewellery and examples of re-used pottery fragments (Figs. 19–21).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Blavatskii, V.D. 1954: Ocherki voennogo dela v antichnykh gosudarstvakh Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (Moscow). Chirkov, A.P. 1867: ‘Kratkii ocherk gorodishch’, nakhodyashchikhsya po Dnepru i ego limanu’. Zapiski Imperatorskogo Odesskogo Obshchestva Istorii i Drevnostei 6, 546–50. Gavrylyuk [Gavrilyuk], N.A. 2013: Ekonomika stepnoi Skifii VII–III vv. do n.e. (Kiev). Gavrylyuk, N.A. and Abikulova, M.I. 1999: Pozdneskifskie pamyatniki Nizhnego Podneprov’ya, part 1 (Kiev). Gavrylyuk, N.A. and Krapivina, V.V. 2005: ‘Nizhnedneprovskie gorodishcha k probleme vozniknoveniya i razvitiya’. In Zinko, V.N. (ed.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekov’ya. Periody destabilizacii, katastrof (Bosporskie Chteniya 6) (Kerch), 66–73. —. 2007: ‘Lower Dnieper Hillforts and the Influence of Greek Culture (2nd Century BC– 2nd Century AD)’. In Grammenos, D.V. and Petropoulos, E.K. (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea 2 (BAR International Series 1675) (Oxford), 563–90. Gavrylyuk, N.O. and Matera, M. 2016: ‘“Pizn’oskifs’ki” chi “postskifs’ski” gorodishcha Nizhn’ogo Podniprov’ya’. Arkheologiya 4, 121–35. Gavrylyuk, N.O. and Olenkovskii, M.P. 1992: Pam’yatki Skifiv: Arkheologichna karta Nizhn’odniprovs’kogo regionu 5 (Kherson). Gavrylyuk, N.A., Smekalova, T.N. and Chudin, A.V. 2009: ‘Magnitometricheskoe issledovanie pozdneskifskogo gorodishcha u sela Chervonyi Mayak v yuzhnoi chasti techeniya Dnepra’. In Zinko, V.N. (ed.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekov’ya. Aktual’nye problemy (Bosporskie Chteniya 10) (Kerch), 90–94. Goschkevich, V.I. 1912: Letopis’ muzeya za 1909, 1910 i 1911 gg. Hersonskii Gorodskoi Muzei Drevnostei 2 (Kherson). —. 1913: ‘Drevniye gorodishcha po beregam Nizovogo Dnepra’. Izvestiya Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii, 117–45. —. 1915: Letopis’ muzeya za 1913 god. Hersonskii Gorodskoi Muzei Drevnostei 5 (Kherson). Koltukhov, S.G. 1999: Ukrepleniya Krymskoi Skifii (Simferopol). Lawrence, A.W. 1979: Greek Aims in Fortification (Oxford). Matera, M., Bogackii, M. and Malkovskii, V. 2017a: ‘Neinvazivnye i arkheologicheskie issledovaniya pozdneskifskogo/postskifskogo Konsulovskogo gorodishcha’. Arkheologiya 2, 125–38. Matera, M., Nikonenko, D.D. and Gavrylyuk, N.A. 2017: ‘Pol’sko-ukrain’skaya Nizhnedneprovskaya ekspediciya: novye rezultaty’. In Pivnichne Prichornomor’ya za antichnoi dobi (na poshanu S.D. Krizhickogo) (Kiev), 162–66. Mysheckii, S.I. 1851: Istoriya o kazakakh zaporozhkikh, kak onye izdrevle zachalisya, i otkuda svoe proiskhozhdenie imieyut, i v kakom sostoyanii nyne nakhodyatsya, sochinennaya ot inzhinernoi komandy (Odessa). Nykonenko, D.D. 2015: ‘Pizn’oskifs’ke Konsulov’ske gorodishche’. Arkheologiya 1, 91–99. Nykonenko, D., Matera, M., Bogacki, M., Małkowski, W. and Lech, P. 2018: ‘Konsulovskoe hillfort, Ukraine. Non-invasive Survey in 2015 Season’. Światowit 13–14 (54–55), 381–88. Nykonenko, D., Matera, M., Gavrylyuk, N. and Lech, P. 2018b: ‘Konsulovskoe hillfort, Ukraine. 2016 Season’. Światowit 13–14 (54–55), 389–92. Simonenko, A.V. 2016: ‘O proiskhozhdenii pozdneskifskoi kul’tury Nizhnego Dnepra’. Starodavne Prichornomor’ya 11, 476–83. Simonenko, O.V., Sizkoza, D.M. and Dzneladze, O.S. 2015: Pizn’oskifs’kii mogil’nik Chervonii Mayak. Doslidzhennya 2011–2015 rokiv (Kherson). Yastrebov, V.M. 1894: ‘Opyt topograficheskogo obozreniya drevnostei Khersonskoi guberni’. Zapiski Imperatorskogo Odesskogo Obshchestva Istorii i Drevnostei 17, 63–176.

SOME REMARKS ABOUT KONSULOVSKOE

Fig. 1. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Topographical plan (after Goschkevich 1912, 8, fig. 3).

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Fig. 2. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Ortophotomap with the localisation of trenches (M. Bogacki and W. Małkowski).

SOME REMARKS ABOUT KONSULOVSKOE

Fig. 3. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Digital Terrain Model (M. Bogacki).

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Fig. 4. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Topographical plan made in 2015 (W. Małkowski).

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Fig. 5. Magnetic map of the site: A – map of the values of the pseudo-gradient of the horizontal component of total vector of magnetic field intensity within the range between -3 and +3 nT/m; B – map of the values of total vector of magnetic field intensity within the range between 49710–49810 nT; C – Interpretation of the result of magnetic measurements (M. Bogacki and W. Małkowski).

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Fig. 6. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Ortophotomap with the result of electrical prospection (M. Bogacki and W. Małkowski).

SOME REMARKS ABOUT KONSULOVSKOE

Fig. 7. Results of electrical prospection in the sector E1, E3 and E5 (W. Małkowski).

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Fig. 8. Trench II with discovered remains of defensive wall (D. Nikonenko).

Fig. 9. Eastern façade of defensive wall discovered in Trench II (M. Matera).

Fig. 10. Western façade of defensive wall discovered in Trench II (M. Matera).

SOME REMARKS ABOUT KONSULOVSKOE

Fig. 11. Loess plaster recorded on the western façade of the defensive wall discovered in Trench II (M. Matera).

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Fig. 12. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Trench II. Drainage ditch, pit 3/2017, earth-bank and defensive wall (M. Matera).

Fig. 13. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Orthophotomap of Trench III with discovered remains of fortifications and gateway (P. Lech).

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Fig. 14. Konsulovskoe hillfort. Orthophotomap of Trench V with discovered remains of fortifications – defensive wall and flanking tower (P. Lech).

Fig. 15. Ortophotography of western façade of defensive wall and flanking tower discovered in Trench V (P. Lech).

Fig. 16. Plan of semi-subterranean dwelling and pits discovered in Trench II (A. Miernik).

628 MARCIN MATERA – NADEZHDA GAVRYLYUK – DMYTRO NYKONENKO – PAWEŁ LECH

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Fig. 17. Semi-subterranean dwelling. View from the south-east (M. Matera).

Fig. 18. Fragment of handmade vessel discovered in Trench II (photograph: A. Graczyk).

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Fig. 19. Loom-weight discovered in Trench II (drawing: A. Miernik; photograph: A. Graczyk).

SOME REMARKS ABOUT KONSULOVSKOE

Fig. 20. Bone knife handle discovered in Trench III (photograph: A. Graczyk).

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Fig. 21. Silver bracelet discovered in Trench III (drawing: A. Miernik; photograph: A. Graczyk).

THE SINOP I SHIPWRECK: A BLACK SEA MERCHANT SHIP FROM THE ROMAN IMPERIAL ERA* Andrei OPAIŢ, Dan DAVIS and Michael L. BRENNAN

ABSTRACT In 2011, the E/V Nautilus expedition discovered the remains of an ancient amphora carrier at 109 m depth off Sinop, Turkey. The amphorae that define the site initially suggested a date in the Roman Imperial period. Subsequent study of the cloudy imagery collected on the day of discovery revealed three amphora types that fall within Vnukov’s typology (Sin Ic, Sin II and Sin IV). A fourth type is arguably the first discovery of a Sinopean imitation of a Rhodian amphora, a practice that has parallels at other sites in the Black Sea region. The wreck, now provisionally dated to the second half of the 1st or early 2nd century AD, provides much needed data for evaluating Sinope’s economy during the Early/Middle Empire.

The Sinop I shipwreck, an amphora carrier of Early (Roman) Imperial date, was one of four shipwrecks discovered in deep water by Ocean Exploration Trust’s E/V Nautilus Expedition in 2011.1 The others include the Late Roman Sinop F shipwreck and the pre-modern shipwrecks Sinop G and Sinop H (Fig. 1).2 These four new wrecks may be added to the inventory of four deep-water shipwrecks first discovered in 2000 off Sinop (Sinop A–D), all of which date to the 5th–6th century AD and were carrying the products (mostly likely wine) of Sinope.3 Aside from the spectacularly preserved Sinop D shipwreck, which rests in the anoxic layer at 325 m depth, all of Sinop’s deep-water shipwrecks found to date lie between 90 and 110 m depth. The twofold purpose of the 2011 Nautilus expedition was to investigate the oceanographic dynamics of the Black Sea’s oxic/anoxic interface, as well as to explore and document submerged cultural remains.4 The expedition partnered with Turkish colleagues and conducted a non-intrusive and non-sampling mode of remote survey in accord with the principles of in situ * We would like to express our sincere gratitude to the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Ministry of Culture and Tourism for permission to conduct research and imaging. We are especially thankful to İlknur Subası and Huseyin Vural of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism for co-sponsoring the Bodrum Symposium on Archaeological Oceanography (October, 2014). We are particularly grateful to Robert D. Ballard, Katy Croff Bell and Tufan Turanlı for their amiable collaboration. 1  Brennan et al. 2013, 94, 96. The 2011 expedition also resulted in the discovery of eight shipwrecks off Ereğli (ancient Heraclea Pontica), which lies between the Bosporus and Sinop (see Davis et al. 2018). 2  For Sinop F, see Opaiţ et al. 2019. Sinop G and Sinop H are semi-articulated wooden shipwrecks with no identifiable diagnostic artefacts (see Brennan et al. 2013). 3  Ballard et al. 2001; Ward and Ballard 2004; Davis 2008; Ward and Horlings 2008; Ward 2010. The site designator ‘Sinop E’ remains unassigned. 4  Brennan et al. 2013; Davis et al. 2018.

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Fig. 1. The Sinop promontory and its offshore areas, including the shipwrecks discovered by scientific expeditions in 2000 and 2011 (map: D. Davis).

preservation articulated by the UNESCO Convention for the Protection of the Underwater Cultural Heritage (2001). The Sinop I shipwreck is marked by mostly intact amphorae of at least four types, all of which may be traced to ancient Sinope. Their morphologies and parallels found at other Black Sea sites point to a date in the late 1st or 2nd century AD. The socioeconomic dynamics of the Pontic basin in this period are not very well known, nor is direct evidence for Sinope’s maritime trade. Focused studies and archaeological field surveys have helped illuminate Sinope in the Early Roman period, particularly after the conquest of Lucullus in 70 BC and the foundation of the Julian colony just two decades later.5 Literary and archaeological evidence from the Early Roman period reveal a thriving city with a densely populated hinterland, particularly along the coasts of the Sinop promontory. In addition to exploiting its rich offshore fishing grounds and exporting fish products across the empire, including to Rome itself,6 its industrious natives and colonists exploited the peninsula’s natural resources, including timber for ship-building and soils favourable for olive oil and wine production.7 The mountainous interior ensured that the city’s port served as the main artery of communication and commerce. A 1st- or 2ndcentury sarcophagus in Sinop’s archaeological museum serves as an appropriate symbol of the city’s maritime prosperity. On its façade are carved two merchant ships under sail, the inscription highlighting its owner, Cornelius Arrianus (presumably a shipper), aged 60.8 5  Doonan 2004 and Dan 2009 remain crucial studies on the historical and archaeological investigation of Sinop. 6  See Strabo 7. 6. 2, 12. 3. 11; Doonan 2004, 39, 93–96. 7  Doonan 2004, 47, 94–96. 8  To our knowledge, the sarcophagus remains unpublished.

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Sinopean amphorae from the Roman period were widely distributed both within and beyond the Pontic region,9 but direct evidence for their transport during these centuries has been fleeting. No other known shipwrecks with exclusively Sinopean amphorae have been found dating prior to the Late Roman period. Recognising the significance of the shipwreck, the expedition’s primary goals were to determine the approximate size and date of the site, investigate evidence of the ship’s hull (if possible), analyse the amphora types, and explore the possible nature of its cargo.

SITE

AND

METHODOLOGY

The Sinop I shipwreck was located during the expedition’s 2011 side-scan sonar survey and visually verified with the Hercules/Argus remotely operated vehicles (ROVs). The site lies at 109 m depth on a silty and gently sloping seabed approximately 14 nautical miles west–north-west of Inceburun and 24 nautical mile west–north-west of Sinop. Ustaburun, the nearest point of land, lies 12 nautical miles to the south-west (see Fig. 1). The wreck is oriented north to south (Fig. 2). The visible portions of the site are comprised of three artefact mounds: a large central mound (ca. 14.0 × 6.0 m) that rises 0.70 m from the seabed, a smaller mound (ca. 2.0 × 2.0 m) lying a metre to the north, and a mediumsized mound (ca. 5.0 × 3.0 m) located the same distance to the south-east. The total artefact field occupies an area of approximately 23.0 × 7.0 m, a likely close approximation of the size of the original ship. On the day of discovery and documentation, the water around the wreck was unusually turbid, resulting in cloudy imagery and the production of an incomplete multibeam microbathymetry map (Fig. 2, right); for this reason no attempt was made to initiate a photomosaic survey. The map shows the outline and relief of most of the central mound and all of the small northern mound, but the south-east mound is off the map to the upper right. Surprisingly, unlike the other Sinop shipwrecks that lie around this depth, the site appears to have suffered little to no damage from modern trawls.10 The upper part of the hull appears to have decomposed after its sinking. The few small unworked wood fragments visible on the site were likely transported to the site by bottom currents. No anchors or other ship fittings are visible in the imagery. The two ROVs served as the project’s main work platforms. Argus provides overwatch and powerful lighting for Hercules, which is outfitted with an array of sensors, cameras and manipulators for conducting precise underwater work. Hercules was employed to evaluate the site by circumnavigating the perimeter to conduct high-resolution imaging. Frame-grabs of the high-definition video were collected throughout the dive, which included imaging of diagnostic artefacts and two red lasers spaced 10 cm apart for scaling objects. Following the video recording, a partial microbathymetric mapping survey was carried out, but the turbid water prevented comprehensive coverage. Accordingly, Sinop I lacks some of the detailed imagery normally acquired on shipwrecks documented by the expedition. This makes reliable measurements and identification of some amphorae very difficult. 9

 Vnukov 1993; Kassab Tezgör 2002; 2010; Erten et al. 2004; Opaiţ 2010.  Brennan et al. 2013, 98.

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Fig. 2. Left: Side-scan sonar record of the Sinop I shipwreck. Right: Partial acoustic multibeam map (courtesy of Ocean Exploration Trust).

THE AMPHORAE The cloudy imagery on the day of the wreck’s discovery and documentation precludes even rough estimates of the quantities of amphorae, but at least four different types can be distinguished. Table 1. Dimensions (in cm) of select amphorae from the Sinop I shipwreck. Asterisk (*) denotes estimate, ± 2 cm. Amphora ID

Figure

SI.001

Fig. 3A

SI.002

Type

Height

Max. Diam.

Rim Diam.

Type I (Vnukov type Sin Ic)

–

25.5

10.5

Fig. 3B

Type I (Vnukov type Sin Ic)

61.0

23.0

12.0

SI.003

Fig. 3C

Type I (Vnukov type Sin Ic)

62.0

28.0

11.5

SI.004

Fig. 4A

Type II (imitation Rhodian)

–

–

12.0*

SI.005

Fig. 5A

Type III (Vnukov type Sin II)

74.0

30.0

8.0*

SI.006

Fig. 6A

Type IV (Vnukov type Sin III)

–

24.0*

4.5*

Type I (Vnukov Sin Ic) Type I is not well known, and its dating is controversial (Fig. 3 and Table 1). As Monakhov and Vnukov have pointed out, this type, although it maintained its biconical, elongated body, differs from the Hellenistic Sinopean amphorae in its long neck and short and more or less cylindrical foot.11 These new features may have been adopted under an Aegean influence. Typologically it belongs to Vnukov Sin Ic. Complete examples survive 11

 Monakhov 1992, 179; Vnukov 2003.

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Fig. 3. A–C: Amphorae of Vnukov type Sin Ic (SI.001, SI.002, SI.003) from the Sinop I shipwreck (images courtesy of Ocean Exploration Trust). D: Amphora of Vnukov type Sin Ic found in Chersonesus (after Vnukov 2003, fig. 51.2).

at Panticapaeum, where they are dated to the end of the 2nd or the 1st century BC.12 A complete example discovered at Chersonesus was published by Monakhov, who considers it an isolated variant and suggests a dating in the second half of the 3rd century BC.13 The height of the Chersonesus exemplar (Fig. 3D) is 65 cm, its maximum diameter 28 cm, and its capacity 4 choes (or 13.13 litres). The capacity of the amphora found at Panticapaeum is ca. 13.8 litres.14 These dimensions and the morphology of this type of amphora discovered on the Sinop I shipwreck suggest a close parallel to these examples. However, the dating of this type should be modified in light of the fact that Sinope continued to manufacture amphorae of this Late Hellenistic shape deep into the 1st century AD. Of course we also cannot rule out the possibility that it was re-used for a period of time.15 The content of these amphorae may have been wine but they may have been re-used to transport other commodities such as vinegar.16 The presence of this type, together with the other two amphora types on this shipwreck, suggests a date in the second half of the 1st century AD. Type II The second type, represented by the upper half of just two discernible examples, appears to be a Sinopean imitation of a Late Hellenistic Rhodian amphora (Fig. 4). It comes as a surprise because it appears to be the first evidence for such amphora production at Sinope. 12  Vnukov 2003, 132, fig. 51.2–3; Lomtadze and Zhuravliev 2004, 207, fig. 4.1; Vnukov 2010, 362, fig. 1.1. 13  Monakhov 1992, 179–80, pl. 12.77. 14  Lomtadze and Zhuravliev 2004, fig. 4. 15  For example, the pictures of two complete amphorae suggest the existence of two variants, as one example has a shorter neck and a reddish colour while the neck of the second is slightly longer and the colour more whitish. 16  A wax tablet discovered at Pompeii (cf. Camodeca 1999, 184) mentions a ship called the Octa loaded with six medium-sized amphorae of wine, 77 of vinegar and 16 Sicilian jars of honey.

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Fig. 4. A: Imitation of a Late Hellenistic Rhodian amphora (SI.004) from the Sinop I shipwreck (image courtesy of Ocean Exploration Trust). B: Drawing of a Heraclean imitation of a Rhodian amphora, found at Chersonesus (drawing: O. Malinovskaya).

Imitations of Rhodian amphorae in the Black Sea area are known at Heraclea, along the Lower Danube and at Pompeiopolis in northern Anatolia.17 The image captures a cylindrical neck with a beaded rim atop a relatively short neck – much shorter than that of a Heraclean imitation (see Fig. 4B). The handles are arched and rounded in section, and the shoulder appears sloppy. Although the example is not complete, it seems assuredly an imitation of a Rhodian amphora produced well into the 1st century AD, by which time Rhodes had already modified its Late Hellenistic amphora shape. However remote the possibility, it cannot be ruled out that these examples are survivals or instances of reuse of a Rhodian form that began production in the 1st century BC. Type III (Vnukov Sin II) This type was thoroughly described by Vnukov, who considered it a Sinopean product and included it in his type Sin II.18 The container has a tall, cylindrical neck that is well delineated from the broad shoulders, its massive handles are ovoid in cross-section, and 17

 Heraclea: Vnukov 2003, 96–102, type S II, fig. 34. Lower Danube: Opaiţ 2011, 449; 2013, 30, fig. 2; Pompeiopolis: Opaiţ 2018, 701, figs. 3–4. 18  Vnukov 1993, 206–08, fig. 2.2–3; 2003, 133–41.

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Fig. 5. A: Amphora (SI.005) of Vnukov Sin II type from the Sinop I shipwreck (image courtesy Ocean Exploration Trust). B: Amphora found at necropolis Sovkhoz 10 near Chersonesus (courtesy of Chersonesus Archaeological Museum; photograph: A. Opaiţ).

the large conical body ends in a conical base, forming a continuous line with the body. A deep constriction outlines the triangular, well-bent rim from the neck (Fig. 5). Within Vnukov’s typology, its dimensions are quite constant: the height varies between 82.5 and 84 cm, and its maximum diameter ranges between 32 and 35 cm.19 However, our example seems to be smaller with a height of only 74 cm and a maximum diameter of ca. 30 cm.20 The amphora found at necropolis Sovkhoz 10 near Chersonesus (Fig. 5B) holds ca. 24 litres.21 To judge from the narrow neck and the conical body, it appears to have been designed for transporting wine. 19

 Vnukov 2003, 228.  These reduced dimensions fit with the amphora discovered in the castrum at Mălăieşti. 21  Strjeletskiiy et al. 2005, 67, pl. III.1. 20

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Fig. 6. A: Amphora (SI.006) of Vnukov type Sin III from the Sinop I shipwreck (image courtesy Ocean Exploration Trust). B–D: Urn 227 from necropolis Sovkhoz 10 near Chersonesus (image courtesy of Chersonesus Archaeological Museum; photographs: A. Opaiţ; drawing O. Malinovskaya).

Amphorae of this type have been found along the coasts of the northern Black Sea at Kalos Limen, Chersonesus and Kara Tobe,22 and in the Lower Danube it is documented at the Roman castrum at Mălăieşti, where it is dated specifically to AD 102–117.23 Vnukov’s proposed dating for the type in the 1st or 2nd century AD fits well with our context.24 A closer look of a recovered example most likely would help narrow the date range. Type IV (Vnukov type Sin III [fig. 52.223]) Vnukov considered this type (Fig. 6) a transitional variant between his type Sin II and a new type from the 2nd century AD.25 It is also present in Kassab Tezgör’s typology as type B Sin III.26 However, in our view, this amphora represents a distinct type according to its morphology, dimensions and perhaps contents. This type is well exemplified by a complete amphora (Urn amphora 227) discovered near Chersonesus in necropolis Sovkhoz 10 (Fig. 6B–D).27 It has reduced dimensions, with a height of just 75 cm, a maximum diameter of 31 cm, a weight of 6.4 kg and a capacity of ca. 23 litres. This example seems to be a fractionary variant, as the amphora published by Kassab Tezgör holds ca. 67 litres.28 With this type’s presence on Sinope I, its date range can be extended into the late 1st and 2nd century AD. Its occurrence together with the previous type may indicate that both are contemporaneous and not evolving one from another, as has been suggested.29 22  Kalos Limen: Uzhentzev 2001, 166, fig. 7.6–7. Chersonesus: Strjeletskiiy 1959, 143; Vysotskaya 2001, 167; Strjeletskiiy et al. 2005, 67, pl. III.1; pl. 47, urn 185. Kara Tobe: Vnukov 2013, 31, fig. 6Д. 23  A. Opaiţ, personal observation. 24  Vnukov 2013, 31. 25  Vnukov 2010, 366. 26  Kassab Tezgör 2010, 126, pl. 15.3–4. 27  Vnukov 2003, fig. 52.223. 28  Kassab Tezgör 2010, pl. 15.3–4, 6. 29  Vnukov 2003, 140–41, fig. 52.223.

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The product carried by this amphora also appears to have differed from that of the previous type, as its neck is not cylindrical but is well enlarged at its lower part. This morphologic characteristic suggests a rather less fluid content such as a fish product. Vnukov considers olive oil and not wine as a possible product for this amphora type.30

DISCUSSION The Sinope I shipwreck contributes crucial data on Sinopean agricultural and piscatorial production during the 1st century AD. It reflects a prosperous city producing and exporting different vintage wines and perhaps fish products. Since the latter half of the 1st century BC, Sinope had become one of the most prosperous and populated Pontic cities. It sheltered not only a native Greek population but also a colony of Roman veterans sent there by Julius Caesar in 46/5 BC.31 These arrivals were perhaps a necessary demographic addition to the population of a city that likely suffered losses during the Mithridatic Wars. Throughout the Hellenistic period the city had maintained an important wine export industry. However, in the Early Imperial period, as Vnukov has pointed out, Sinope developed much more diversified amphora types.32 The presence on the Sinop I shipwreck of three wine amphora types is of great interest. The presence of Type I is striking, as it represents the last surviving example of a Hellenistic shape. It is quite possible that amphorae of the old Hellenistic tradition (Type I) are products of the older, pre-Roman polis, whereas the new amphorae (Types II and III) represent a new wine manufactured by the veterans established under Caesar, the former after the middle of the 1st century BC, the latter perhaps after the middle of the 1st century AD. These amphorae may serve as markers of a double community, spatially and administratively separated, at Sinope.33 It is possible that the occurrence of Pseudo-Coan and PseudoRhodian amphorae at both Heraclea and Sinope around the middle of the 1st century BC is a reflexion of the simultaneous founding of Roman colonies of veterans in these two poleis (Strabo 12. 3. 6, 11). This suggests a common agricultural initiative, as the arrival of Roman veterans represented not only an influx of labour but also a financial and managerial enterprise,34 the newcomers transplanting new and more prolific vines in the chorai of these Greek cities. Interestingly, Sinope I was not loaded with amphorae of Pseudo-Coan type (Sin III in Vnukov’s typology), thus lending further evidence that this type was out of fashion in Sinope after the middle of the 1st century AD. Contrary to those who consider Sinope to have been an important olive oil exporter,35 it seems unlikely that these amphora types carried olive oil. Strabo’s description of olive trees in and around the city was meant to underline the cultural significance of these trees, as he did for Synnada in Phrygia and Melitene in Cappadocia, and not to posit a 30

 Vnukov 2010, 368.  Strabo 12. 3. 11: ‘But at present it has also received a colony of Romans, and part of the city and its territory belong to them’ (νυνὶ δὲ καὶ Ῥωμαίων ἀποικίαν δέδεκται, καὶ μέρος τῆς πόλεως καὶ τῆς χώρας ἐκείνων ἐστί); Magie 1950, 414 and n. 33, page 1267; Barat 2011; Efremov 2013. For the literary, epigraphic, numismatic and archaeological sources on Sinope, see Dan 2009, 95–96, n. 97, with bibliography. 32  Vnukov 2016, 368. 33  Mitchell 1979, 417. 34  For instance, a similar process took place at Berytus (cf. Waliszewski 2014, 305). 35  Doonan 2004, 95; Krapivina 2012, 468; de Boer 2013, 112; Vnukov 2017, 122. 31

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large oil export industry.36 One of the first obligations of an economy is to fulfil the necessities of the local population.37 The mere presence of olive groves is not sufficient to assume the practice of export. In spite of the widespread cultivation of this tree around the Mediterranean and southern coast of the Black Sea, without an extensive specialisation of this culture no export was possible.38 Syria and Palestine, for instance, produced olive oil for millennia, but not in sufficient quantities for export.39 As L. Foxhall points out, olive oil was not a dietary staple for Greeks but an expensive opson, or condiment, obtained through a complicated and labour-intensive process. It is estimated that the annual olive oil consumption was between 20 and 40 litres per year,40 or as much as 50 kg per person, and each household used around 200–330 kg of oil per annum41 for personal use (sustenance, bodily cleaning, medicine, sacred use).42 Large quantities of oil were also used for lighting. Amouretti suggests that one litre of olive oil would provide 250–300 hours of light,43 while a typical lamp used 8 grammes of oil per hour.44 Of course, there are many unknown variables in this equation, the olive oil quality and consumption varied between an olive oil production area and an importing area, between a farmer who owned the olive oil and the one who processed it.45 Although we lack the data to estimate the population of Sinope, it was likely quite large, especially if a modest settlement such as Tios (260 km to the west) had a 5000-seat theatre.46 It seems more reasonable to suppose that the city’s olive oil served the local population for daily sustenance rather than as an export, at least during the Early Imperial period.47 According to O. Doonan, the four olive presses investigated at Demirci (just 10 km south of Sinop) yielded a maximum of about 20–40,000 litres in the 6th century AD,48 a quantity that could barely cover the needs of 100–200 households. In order to have a massive export of a certain product, either wine or olive oil, certain regions must be highly specialised, the exported product should be sufficiently valuable to compete with other similar products, and a reliable export market must be found for it.49 On the other hand, the 36

 Mitchell 2009, 442.  Jongman 2007, 593. 38  Mattingly 1988, 22; iconographic representations on Sinopean amphora stamps suggest wine as their contents (cf. Garlan 1999, 135). 39  Waliszewski 2014; Frankel 1999. 40  Van Limbergen 2018, 17; Mattingly 1988, 22. 41  Foxhall 2007, 85–96. 42  Amouretti 1986, 195; Foxhall 2007, 87. 43  Amouretti 1986, 190. It is helpful to recall that olive oil fell into a variety of categories of quality depending on the processes of production; the lowest quality oils were most likely used for lighting (cf. Brun 2003, 161, 178). 44  Van Limbergen 2018, 17. 45  Frankel 1999, 47. 46  Aksoy and Yıldırım 2017, 5. 47  The only typical olive oil amphora is a Sinope imitation of LRA 2, which is dated to the 4th– 5th century. Olive trees were cultivated in various regions around the Roman empire such as Syria and Palestine (cf. Waliszewski 2014, 310), but in many cases their olive oil was barely sufficient for local sustenance. 48  Kassab Tezgör 2010, 100–01; Doonan 2004, 151. 49  Mattingly 1988, 22. For instance, we know from papyri (cf. Cockle 1981) and archaeological discoveries (cf. Dixneuf 2011) that wine production existed in Egypt during the Roman period. This wine, however, was exported only in very modest quantities, either because its quality was low and thus unable to compete with other famous vintage wines or because it was produced to satisfy local demand. 37

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oil production of a modest farmer does not require pressing equipment, and thus it is difficult to identify archaeologically.50 Amphorae of Type IV appear ready made to receive semi-liquid and solid products. It is possible that they were used to transport processed fish, for which Sinope was famous (see Diodorus Siculus 37. 3. 5). Ancient literary sources discuss the massive schools of pelamydes (bonito) that came south from Lake Maeotis, passed Trapezus and Pharnacia where the first catch took place, arrived at Sinope for the second catch, then moved on to Byzantium for the third and most prolific catch, an activity which brought ‘considerable revenue to the Roman people’.51 However, we cannot totally reject olive oil as a content for this type. This shipwreck also helps confirm the terrestrial discoveries made on the North Pontic shore, where, on a small site such as Bezymyannaya in southern Crimea, South Pontic amphorae dominated the market. Considering that the Sinop I ship may have been carrying wine and fish amphorae of Sinopean types, it is possible that it left Sinope’s harbour bound for the northern coast of the Black Sea where these amphorae are well known in this period. Alternatively, the ship may have been headed to the west Pontic coast where the Roman limes had recently been established and the military market was a very attractive destination. As mentioned above, Type III amphorae were already present in a Roman camp (Mălăieşti) at the beginning of the 2nd century AD, while it maintained a constant presence in many Roman fortresses and cities in Moesia Inferior and Dacia during the 2nd and the 3rd centuries AD.52 Type IV is also present at Knossos during the 2nd century,53 which reinforces our hypothesis that the type was designed to hold fish contents; it would be strange to see Cretans importing olive oil from Sinope. In conclusion, the Sinope I shipwreck serves as a proxy of the economic sophistication and prosperity Sinope continued to enjoy at the beginning of its Roman phase. However, to achieve a better chronological setting and a more refined typology, examples of these four amphora types still need to be recovered. Only additional measurements and careful morphological observations can generate a more comprehensive picture of their contents and types, and an examination of amphora interiors would reveal pitch-coated or plain walls. In spite of the difficult conditions encountered during the collection of underwater data, the Sinop I shipwreck conveys invaluable data to fill out the picture of Sinope’s economic prosperity at a time that remains incompletely known by terrestrial excavations.

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50

 Mattingly 1988, 24.  For fish-catching and processing at Pharnacia, Trapezus, Sinope and Byzantium, see Strabo 7. 6. 2 and 12. 3. 11. 52  Bona et al. 1982, 200, pl. IX.1; Ardeţ 2006, 108–10, pl. XIX. 53  Hayes 1983, 55, type 36, fig. 25.80. 51

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—. 2013: ‘Amfory rimskogo vremeni gorodischa Kara-Tobe’. Drevnesti Bospora 17, 21–54. —. 2016: ‘Pozdneellinisticheskie amfory gorodishcha Kara-Tobe v Krymy’. Drevnesti Bospora 20, 1–32. —. 2017: ‘Overseas Trade in the Black Sea Region and the Formation of the Pontic Market from the First Century BCE to the Third century CE’. In Kozlovskaya, V. (ed.), The Northern Black Sea in Antiquity: Networks, Connectivity, and Cultural Interactions (Cambridge), 100– 32. Vysotskaya, T.N. 2001: ‘O nekotoryh etnicheskih osobennostyah pogrebennyh v mogil’nike “Sovhoz No. 10” (na osnove lepnyh pogrebal’nyh urn)’. In Pozdnie Skify Kryma (Moscow), 167–74. Waliszewski, T. 2014: Elaion: Olive Oil Production in Roman and Byzantine Syria Palestine (Polish Centre of Mediterranean Archaeology Supplementary Series 6) (Warsaw). Ward, C. 2010: ‘Four Ships of Late Antiquity in the Black Sea’. Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 16, 189–98, 541–42. Ward, C. and Ballard, R.D. 2004: ‘Deep-water Archaeological Survey in the Black Sea: 2000 Season’. International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 33, 2–13. Ward, C. and Horlings, R. 2008: ‘The Remote Exploration and Archaeological Survey of Four Byzantine Ships in the Black Sea’. In Ballard, R.D. (ed.), Archaeological Oceanography (Princeton), 148–73.

MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS FROM THE NECROPOLIS OF APOLLONIA PONTICA Krastina PANAYOTOVA

ABSTRACT The necropolises of the Ionian colony of Apollonia Pontica are the most thoroughly studied among all similar sites in the western Pontic region. So far, over 2500 burial structures, hundreds of remains of commemorative rituals and thousands of artefacts have been revealed. The group of musical instruments stands out among the variety of grave-goods in the Apollonia necropolis from the Classical period – a double aulos made of bone, and four string-instruments – three lyres made of the back of a tortoise shell and a plectrum made of bone all of them housed in the Archaeological Museum of Sozopol. The purpose of the work is to present these instruments found in well-dated burial complexes and their identification within the context of the burial rites of the ancient Apollonians during the Classical period. Their study may shed some light on certain aspects of the inquiry and classification of musical instruments in the Greek world from the Classical period. The musical instruments coming from Apollonia Pontica can illuminate the meaning of their presence among the grave-goods characterising the sex as well as the social status of the buried individual.

The necropolis of Apollonia Pontica, in the Kalfata locality and on the Budzhaka Peninsula, is located along a coastal road; it functioned from the mid-5th to the mid-3rd century BC.1 While in the second half of the 5th century BC the funerals were performed in plain burial pits alone, in certain cases their size impressive, in the following centuries, tile and stone graves were built as well as peribolos tombs. The grave structures are clustered in standardised family plots delimited with peribolos walls.2 The rituals performed from the onset of death to the closure of the grave are mainly aimed at facilitating the deceased’s transition to the Beyond. Besides taking care of the dead body and its last dwelling place, matching its physical and emotional needs also played an important role in the burial practices on the one hand and the satisfaction of the eschatological notions of its relatives on the other. This was expressed by leaving various gifts (objects and food) in the grave. Any item that had been beloved or belonged to the deceased could serve as a gift as well as objects with a specific funerary purpose. The custom of leaving burial gifts is rooted in most ancient times and is evidence of a clear picture of the post-mortem condition of man. The manner in which the deceased was laid and the things with which they were buried indicate that they were prepared to go to the Beyond as though they were alive and what they should or would like to be.  Hermary et al. 2010; Panayotova 1998; 2007; Venedikov 1948; 1963.  Panayotova 2017.

1 2

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Ancient authors do not give a detailed description and do not explain the principles that guided the ancient Greeks when leaving gifts in graves. They are characterised by a logical but too broad interpretation of the purpose of burial gifts. Some objects were left in the grave because they had belonged to the deceased and others because the deceased had valued them a lot. As a gift, objects were offered that the dead might need in the Beyond or might serve them to worship the deities Below. Furthermore, items used in the funeral ceremony were also left in the grave that should no longer be used by the living. However, the idea that the grave-gifts signified some value for the deceased – a personal object or a necessary item – prevails.3 The grave-goods discovered in the Classical necropolis of Apollonia Pontica are more or less plentiful and varied but some of the gifts are always the same. Most Apollonian graves from the second half of the 5th century contain artefacts, mainly pottery, although the number differs and shows some peculiarities according to age and sex. In general the graves of women and especially children are supplied with more gifts. The most numerous and varied is the group of oil- and fragrance containers related to a woman’s toilette, the physical activities of the ephebes, or the requirements of the funeral ritual. Alongside them, the graves often reveal vessels of various shapes and types serving for the storage, pouring and drinking of liquids in everyday life. The graves of children usually contain miniature vessels, jewels, terracotta figurines, astragals, etc. A group of musical instruments stands out among the variety of grave-goods in the Apollonian necropolis – a double aulos and the remains of three lyres and of a cithara, all of them housed in the Archaeological Museum of Sozopol. The grave structures from which they were recovered during rescue investigations are large rectangular pits, their corners rounded, and one cist. They are located relatively close to each other, but in different landed properties on the cadastral plan of the town of Sozopol (Fig. 1). A perfectly preserved double aulos4 (Fig. 2) is part of the rich furnishings of grave 162 (Zoned Property 5518) revealed in 2007. A young woman, about 17–19 years of age, was buried there ca. 430 BC.5 She was laid in a wooden coffin that clearly appeared as a darker coloured rectangle in the sand fill of the grave. The skeleton was on its back, with its limbs stretched out and its head to the east.6 The grave-goods, mainly located around her feet (Fig. 3), are fragrance vessels (a black-glazed lekythos with grooves, a cylindrical lekythos with floral decoration against white background, a black-glazed amphoriskos with stamped decoration), vessels for liquids (two oinochoai), items serving for maintaining appearance and beauty (a pitcher-like pyxis, a pyxis of powder type, a bronze mirror), a hook from a decorated bronze plate, a bronze pin, a string composed of a silver bead and three bone pendants (two pieces right hand and a ram’s head), a glass bead, a terracotta figurine – a doll with moveable limbs – and 51 astragals. The double aulos from Apollonia Pontica was made of the bone of fallow deer (Cervus dama)7 and put next to the left leg of the buried woman. We can assume that the two 3

 Panayotova 2007, 102.  Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 3202. 5  The anthropological analysis was performed by Dr Anne Keenleyside, Trent University, Canada. 6  Panayotova 2016, 294–95, fig. 8; Panayotova et al. 2008, 320, fig. 3. 7  The osteological analysis was performed by Dr Lazar Ninov, National Institute of Archaeology with Museum, Sofia. 4

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pipes once formed a pair and were left together in the grave but some of the segments were found dislocated and only the reed mouthpiece is missing. Once assembled, in the order assumed according to how they were found (as shown in Fig. 2), one of the tubes has five sections and the other four, connected to each other by the spigot-and-socket method. The total length of the tubes is ca. 43 and 38 cm as the right one is longer. Nine whole or fragmented8 cylindrical sections of different lengths are preserved (Fig. 4). Depending on the shape and length, the individual sections can be placed in four groups. The first group includes three sections that have a bulb at their upper part (bulb section). Their length is about 71.56 mm (A) and 70.92 mm (B), and the diameter of the bulb 17.02 mm and 15.90 mm respectively. The second group is composed of two cylindrical sections – extension section, without holes. Two other sections (A: 128.28 mm in length and 16.09 mm in diameter; B: 141.37 mm in length and 16.05 mm in diameter) have three finger-holes each, about 8 mm in diameter (A: 7.79, 8.24 and 8.00 mm; B: 7.78, 8.11 and 8.12 mm) on one of their sides arranged in almost exactly the same order. The distance from one hole to the other two (located at the opposite end of the section) is 46.70 mm (A) and 49.05 mm (B). On the reverse side of these sections there is one hole with a diameter of 8.15 mm (A) and 8.23 mm (B). The last group contains two sections: the length of A is 107.64 mm and B 110.55 mm; outer diameter 16.29 mm and 16.27 mm respectively. Each of them has two holes about 8 mm in diameter (A: 8.5 mm and 8.5 mm; B: 8.10 mm and 8.0 mm) on one side arranged 20.84 mm (A) and 33.37 mm (B) from each other. Ancient auloi, made of wood, bone or ivory, are to be found in various contexts (graves including) along the Black Sea coast9 as well as all over the Mediterranean world.10 The earliest remains of an aulos (late 7th century BC) are known from Sparta.11 Musical instruments from the Classical period have survived in small number, rarely in full, more often as fragments.12 From the 5th century BC come the pieces of Agora C, Aphaea, Corinth J and H+G, Locri Epizephyrii, Brauron and the Elgin pair.13 The parameters of the Apollonia aulos give ground to relate it in general to the larger number of the fragments of Classical instruments studied by S. Psaroudakēs;14 obviously to make it specific tone patterns have been followed. It is hard to specify where this instrument was manufactured since bones from an animal widely distributed on the Balkan Peninsula were used to make it.15 The piece from Apollonia Pontica is one of the best preserved pairs of auloi with the Elgin, Copenhagen, Pydna and Acanthus examples, and like both latter examples it comes from the grave of a young woman well studied archaeologically. It should be noted that the known graves in which auloi are found belong to men or boys (where possible to specify). In the necropolis of Contrada Lucifero at Locri Epizephyrii in South Italy, the 8  They have now been restored to the laboratory of National Institute of Archaeology with Museum, Sofia. 9  Peters 1986, 73–76, drawing 46, pl. XV 10  Bellia 2013, 224, figs. 13–17; Psaroudakēs 2002; 2008; 2013, 93–103. 11  Psaroudakēs 2002, 337, pl. 12. 12  Mathiesen 1999, 188–90. 13  Psaroudakēs 2002, 337. 14  Psaroudakēs 2002, 338, pl. 13; 2008, 197–98. 15  Ribarov and Boev 1997, 63–64, fig. 2.

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grave-goods including auloi include also vessels for the symposium and a large number of astragals: the latter, when used other than for play, may have had special symbolic value. Particularly interesting is the fact that, in three of the graves in Locri, in addition to auloi, lyre remains were also found.16 A vast majority of images of musical instruments are preserved among scenes on Attic black- and red-figured vases as well as among the works of sculpture and terracotta figurines. The oldest known evidence of a double aulos composed of separate sections appears on a Protocorinthian vase dating from 640–630 BC.17 One of the finest vessels coming from the necropolis of Apollonia is an Attic redfigured oinochoe decorated by the Eretria Painter (ca. 425 BC). Its multi-figural scene shows one of the earliest representations of Apollo and eight Muses.18 The inscriptions surviving on the vase define the Muse playing a double aulos as Polyhymnia, and Thalia holding a lyre in her hands (Fig. 5). Women who play the double aulos (Fig. 6) appear also among the representations on the numerous Attic vases found in Apollonia Pontica as well as those housed in Archaeological Museum of Sozopol.19 According to the notions of respectable Greeks, in Classical and Hellenistic times a respectable woman could not make music her profession. Of course, women were not forbidden to sing and play a musical instrument for personal entertainment (as the scenes of the gynaeceum on Attic ceramics show). The women who earned their living playing the aulos and stringed instruments were hetaerae hired to entertain banquets and parties of men. None of them, even if a good artist, had access to a world of competitions reserved exclusively for men. This strict rule affected married women especially, although there are some examples of girls who had been accepted into music competitions. During the Hellenistic period, women were already allowed to participate in musical agones.20 Music played an important role in the daily, festive and religious life of the ancient Greeks – it sounded at all more or less significant moments in a person’s life beginning with the feast celebrating the birth of a child and ending with the funeral procession under the sad melody of the aulos. Every major or minor celebration was preceded by a solemn procession to the temple or altar, accompanied by music and singing. Hymns, paeans, dithyrambs and other types addressed to particular gods played an essential role in the life of the ancient Greek. They contributed not only to the sense of grandeur and solemnity of the special cases, but they were also a sure way to preserve, communicate and interpret cultural heritage.21 Extremely rare remains of lyres with resonators made of tortoise shell22 and iron objects (chordotonons, tailpieces for attaching the strings23), found in three graves from the second half of the 5th century BC, also bear witness to the place of stringed musical instruments in the education and daily activities of the ancient Apollonians. 16

 Elia 2010, 406; Bellia 2013, 227, figs. 13–17.  Anderson 1994, 18, fig. 17. 18  Lezzi-Hafter 1997, 353–59. 19  Baralis et al. 2019, cat. nos. 114, 198, 229. 20  Bélis 1999, 37. 21  Mathiesen 1999, 29. 22  They are housed in the Archaeological Museum of Sozopol and have not undergone any restoration or reconstruction since they were discovered. 23  See Mathiesen 1999, 238–39, fig. 35. 17

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In a disproportionately large grave pit (2.00 × 1.05 m) – grave 14 in Zoned Property 4303 = 5040 – a child of about six years of age24 was buried in the last quarter of the 5th century BC (425–400 BC). Due to the infant’s age, a skeletal study cannot reveal his or her sex. The child was laid on the back, with the limbs stretched and the head facing east (Fig. 7). A bronze strigil and 15 astragals were arranged next to his/her left hand. A local jug, a black-glazed bowl with bubble-like protuberances on the wall, a black-glazed bolsal and a pyxis with lid were left in the western sector of the grave. A (long-extinct) sea tortoise shell (Caretta caretta)25 was found on the left femur, a species appearing relatively often in the Mediterranean but extremely rare in the Black Sea.26 The dimensions of the find, measured in situ, are ca. 19 cm in length, ca. 15 cm in width. A highly corroded, fragmented, U-shaped iron object is preserved at one end of the shell (at the head). It has a quadrangular section and dimensions of: 6.7 cm in length; shoulder length of 2.3 cm; and section of 0.6 cm. Obviously the find is the sound box and the tailpiece for attaching the strings of the lyre resonator that locks the strings to the instrument (Fig. 8). The relatively small size of the tortoise shell (lyre) apparently corresponds to the age of the individual buried in this grave. Similar lyre remnants are the only find in grave 14 revealed in Zoned Property 5084 in 2008. The deceased is an adolescent aged 15–18 years of age.27 The body was laid in the pit on the back with his head to the east (with a deviation to the south-east). To the left hand is a sea tortoise shell measured in situ: 27 cm in length and 20 cm in width (Fig. 9). Fragments of a decomposed iron object are preserved at one of its ends (at the head). There are four small round holes in the turtle’s shell, and the last two of them contain traces of an iron object. There is a similar small round hole in the centre of the shell as well (Fig. 10). The stratigraphic observations allow this grave to be dated also in the second half of the 5th century BC. In grave 5, explored in 2008 in Zoned Property 5536, a woman aged 21–3528 was buried in the period 430–400 BC. She was laid in a wooden casket on the back, with her head to the east (with a north-eastward deviation). An amphora was erected in the north-east corner of the pit. An alabastron made of alabaster was located 0.27 m from the right ossa cruris and a bronze strigil was found on the metatarsal bones (Fig. 11). The sea turtle shell with remains of the iron tailpiece for attaching the strings of the resonator box (Fig. 12) was left next to her right ankle. Being about 30 cm long and about 21 cm wide, it is the largest piece of its kind discovered in the necropolis of Apollonia. Next to the shell 15 astragals were found; nine of them have been bilaterally processed and bear incised letters of Χ, Β, Δ, Σ, Τ, Λ, Θ and Ω, and the rest have been covered with lead. Along with them were shells of mussels and black organic substance.29

24

 The age was determined by Viktoria Ruseva, Institute of Anthropology, Sofia.  The species of turtles found in the necropolis of Apollonia was determined by Vladislav Vergilov, National Museum of Natural History in Sofia. 26  Petrov 2007, 74–75, fig. 29. 27  The age is determined by V. Ruseva, Institute of Anthropology, Sofia. 28  According to the anthropological analysis of Dr Keenleyside. 29  The substance contains honey, wax and olive oil. The study was performed by M. Rogozherov at the Institute of Organic Chemistry with a Phytochemistry Centre, Sofia. 25

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As the most widespread stringed instrument, the lyre is well represented among finds from burial contexts from the Classical period all over the Mediterranean world.30 The necropolis of Lucifer in Locri Epizephyri is undoubtedly an emblematic case: lyre remains were found in 14 burial complexes. Based on the presence of the strigil among the gravegoods, it can be established that they originate from the graves of males. This finding is also supported by the results of paleoanthropological studies on male burials with lyres in the necropolises in Metaponto and Poseidonia, which were also accompanied by the tools used on the palaestra.31 The artefacts from the destroyed and probably robbed grave 29 located in the same Zoned Property 5536, revealed in 2008, can also be added to the described remains of string-instruments. The grave structure is a cist constructed of limestone blocks. A woman aged 21–3532 was buried there in the 4th century BC with her head to the south-east. Among the displaced bones and around the skull were a bronze ring and part of a bronze loop, a ceramic bead, an iron object and a bone object. The iron object, which is highly corroded and fragmented, is about 12 cm long. It is rectangular in section with thinning terminals, one of which is bent at a right-angle. Despite its poor condition, we can suggest that it is part of a stringed instrument – a chordotonon? The presence of a bone-worked object in the grave also leads to the same assumption (Fig. 13) as its shape allows it to be defined as a plectrum. It is 8.4 cm; one of its terminals is rectangular in section and the other one is getting broad and thinner. Both latter objects can be associated with a cithara made of wood, from which no other parts have survived. As we know from the images on the painted vases, the plectrum was attached to the cithara with a thin strap.33 Unlike the drawings on vases and works of terracotta figurines, remains of citharas are almost unknown.34 Seven-string cithara elements (a string-holder and plectrum made of bone and an iron nut) were found in the grave of a warrior from the first half of the 5th century BC in the necropolis Volna 1 on the Taman Peninsula.35 Citharas/lyres dedicated to Apollo obviously were related to the urban symbols of Apollonia Pontica since, although seldom, they are represented on the reverse of Apollonian coins. The symbols (cithara and less often lyre) of a god highly venerated in the towns along the northern Black Sea coast appear also among the images on the coin emissions of Thira, Olbia and Bosporus.36 A representation of a seven-string cithara has been employed as a stamp (Fig. 14) on the local production of building ceramics in Apollonia in the second half of the 4th century BC.37 The gifts found in grave 162 (Zoned Property 5518), composed predominantly of incense containers and artefacts associated with the care of women’s beauty, correspond to the sex of the young woman buried together with the double aulos. The presence of a doll among the grave-goods might be accepted as an indication that the buried Apollonian lady was not married. The scholarly

30

 Carter 1998, 198–99, fig. 6.20; Psaroudakēs 2006, 59–61, figs. 1–25; Castaldo 2008, 353–54, figs. 3–6.  Bellia 2013, 224, figs. 3–12; Elia 2010, 406–08, fig. 29.1, 2. 32  The anthropological analysis was performed by Dr Keenleyside. 33  Mathiesen 1999, 261, fig. 44. 34  Lepore 2010, 445, fig. 30.21, 43. 35  Mimokhod and Sudarev 2018. 36  Skrzhinskaya 2009, 273. 37  Panayotova 2016, 289–90, fig. 2. 31

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literature offers differing opinions on the functional purpose and use of the terracotta figures with mobile limbs, most of which depict a young woman with a high kalathos. The discovery of dolls in sanctuaries and necropolises testifies to their relation mainly with the chthonic cults of Kore/Persephone: as she was a bride according to the myth, some of the dolls may have been donated to her by girls of marriageable age as a symbolic abandonment of the toys for childhood or as an expression of psychic maturity and fertility before the upcoming nuptials.38 The situation in grave 29 (Zoned Property 5536) is similar as the individual buried with jewels there is female. However, the grave-goods (alabastron and bronze strigil) in grave 5 (Zoned Property 5536) are rather characteristic of male graves and are associated with the daily routine of the athlete and the physical activity of the palaestra. In the graves in Locri the lyre often appears together with the symbol of athletics.39 Besides a bronze strigil, the gifts in child grave 14 (Zoned Property 4303) include a jug and three cups – a set for a banquet/symposium – but also a pyxis. Since the second half of the 5th century BC, the citizens of Apollonia Pontica began to leave bronze strigils in the graves of men and children as a gift, or to employ them as an offering during post-funerary rituals in the necropolis at Kalfata. During the Hellenistic period, they offered also strigils made of iron in inhumation and cremation graves.40 Although much rarer, shears appear in the graves of women who used them to maintain personal hygiene and beauty.41 Except in Apollonia Pontica, where the use of strigils as burial gifts is registered in seven graves of women42 of the Classical period in the necropolis in the area of Kalfata, this practice is known from other places in the Greek world.43 Mixing of burial gifts considered only for women or only for men is revealed in other burial complexes in the Kalfata necropolis. For example, a woman aged 21–35, buried about 430–420 BC in grave 305, was accompanied by a large amount of grave-goods. Two groups of artefacts stand out above all. While one of them – toiletries (a mirror, a lekanida and ochre), jewels and a string of beads – definitely relates to a woman’s daily life and care for her beauty, the presence of a wine set in this grave cannot be overlooked (a krater, two oinochoai and two cups), traditionally associated with the participation of a man in the symposium.44 In three of the five graves with musical instruments considered here, the skeletal remains in two of which are designated as female, astragals are also present. The view that astragals are a common offering in the graves of children and adolescents is widespread and is strongly confirmed by the finds in the necropolises of Apollonia Pontica. Their presence also in the graves of adults is no exception. It is noteworthy that astragals are present among the grave-goods from one to hundreds in number, sometimes processed or covered with lead, some marked with letters from the Greek alphabet, employed also during

38

 Merker 2000, 49–50.  Bellia 2013, 226. 40  Panayotova 2017, 29. 41  Pexo 2005, 155. 42  Graves NN 30, 56 (ZP 5040), NN 9, 99 (ZP 5518), N 1 (ZP 8155), N 19 (ZP 5083), N 5 (ZP 5536). The anthropological analysis was performed by Dr Keenleyside. 43  Prohászka 1995, 78. 44  Panayotova 2019, 352. 39

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post-funeral rituals and found in ritual fireplaces. Their popularity and importance among the residents of Apollonia is evident from the fact that they even used astragals made of glass for funerary and post-funerary rituals,45 as well as black-glazed vessels shaped as astragals.46 As in any Greek town, music played an important role and was present in the everyday, festive and afterlife of the ancient Apollonians. Music was of varying degrees of importance in many Greek poleis, but it was still a compulsory element of a citizen’s basic education. It was part of their upbringing, and from their infant years the Greeks not only listened to music and singing but also learned to play the lyre and aulos.47 The lyre was the most widely used stringed musical instrument in Antiquity, and most available for training. An Attic red-figure oinochoe from the necropolis of Apollonia illustrates the training of youngsters in music. It dipicts an ephebe talking to his lyre teacher (Fig. 15). The vessel was found among the numerous gifts in the grave of a woman aged 21–35, dating to about 430 BC.48 The results of archaeological studies of the Apollonian necropolis in recent years show that the employment of musical instruments as grave-goods falls within a relatively short period of time: from the second half of the 5th century BC and during the 4th. They are part of the inventory of graves located relatively close to each other. The graves contain the remains of young individuals. According to D. Castaldo, the presence of musical instruments among grave-goods that also included drinking vessels might be associated with the symposium. The availability of musical instruments in graves might also be related to the notion that music, plays and banquets are earthly pleasures but they also represent the joys of life after death.49 The instruments analysed here, together with the images on imported painted vessels, are the main source of our knowledge of the place of music in the culture, religion and daily life of Apollonia Pontica. They testify that the inhabitants of this town, as well as those in other Greek poleis, knew and imitated the art of famous musicians and performers. As in every other Greek town, probably in Apollonia music of various kinds constantly sounded – on the agora, in the temples, on the temenos, on the streets with processions walking in honour of the gods, during weddings or funerals, etc. At home, women sang while performing their household chores, or played the lyre, triton or aulos – one of the few entertainments allowed them. Although information on musical cultural events in Apollonia Pontica has not been preserved, the instruments found in the necropolis from the Classical period, and their numerous representations on vases and terracottas, illustrate the flourishing cultural life of this West Pontic polis whose inhabitants were not isolated from phenomena characterising the cultural life of other Greek towns.

45

 Panayotova 2007, 107.  Panayotova 2008. 47  Skrzhinskaya 2000, 63. 48  Panayotova 2016, 54. 49  Bellia 2013, 228. 46

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Anderson, W.D. 1994: Music and Musicians in Ancient Greece (Ithaca, NY/London). Baralis, A., Panayotova, K. and Nedev, D. (eds.) 2019: Sur les pas des archéologues: Apollonia du Pont. Collections du Louvre et des musées de Bulgarie (Exhibition Catalogue) (Sofia). Bellia, A. 2013: ‘Musical Instruments and Funerary Rites in a Western Greek Colony: the case of Locri Epizefirii (VI–IV c. B.C.)’. In Nika-Sampson, E., Sakallieros, G., Alexandru, M., Kitsios, G. and Giannopoulos, E. (eds.), Crossroads: Greece as in Intercultural Pole of Musical Thought and Creativity (Conference Proceedings) (Thessalonica), 217–28. Bélis, A. 1999: Les Musiciens dans l’Antiquité (Paris). Carter, J.C. 1998: The Chora of Metaponto: The Necropoleis, 2 vols. (Austin). Castaldo, D. 2008: ‘Sound boxes of ancient Greek lyres from Roca (Lecce, Italy)’. In Both, A.A., Eichmann, R., Hickmann, E. and Koch, L.C. (eds.), Herausforderungen und Ziele der Musikarchäologie/Challenges and Objectives in Music Archaeology (Papers from the 5th Symposium of the International Study Group on Music Archaeology at the Ethnological Museum, State Museums Berlin, 19–23 September 2006) (Studien zur Musikarchäologie 6; OrientArchäologie 22) (Rahden), 423–28. Elia, D. 2010: ‘Tombe con strumenti musicali nella necropoli di Lucifero: aspetti del rituale e dell’ideologia funeraria a Locri Epizefiri’. In Lepore, L. and Turi, P. (eds.), Caulonia tra Crotone e Locri (Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Firenze, 30 maggio–1 giugno 2007) (Atti 27) (Florence), 405–21. Hermary, A., Panayotova, K., Baralis, A., Damyanov, M. and Riapov, A. 2010: Apollonia du Pont (Sozopol): La nécropole de Kalfata (Ve–IIIe s. av. J.-C.). Fouilles Franco-Bulgares (2002–2004) (Bibliothèque d’Archéologie Méditerranéenne et Africaine 5) (Paris/Aix-en-Provence). Lepore, L. 2010: ‘Gli strumenti musicali locresi tra iconografia e realia’. In Lepore, L. and Turi, P. (eds.), Caulonia tra Crotone e Locri (Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Firenze, 30 maggio– 1 giugno 2007) (Atti 27) (Florence), 423–57. Lezzi-Hafter, A. 1997: ‘Offerings Made to Measure: Two Special Commissions by the Eretria Painter for Apollonia Pontica’. In Oakley, J.H., Coulson, W.D.E. and Palagia, O. (eds.), Athenian Potters and Painters: The Conference Proceedings (Oxbow Monographs 67) (Oxford), 353–69. Mathiesen, T.D. 1999: Apollo’s Lyre: Greek Music and Music Theory in Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Publications of the Center for the History of Music Theory and Literature 2) (Lincoln, NE/London). Merker, G.S. 2000: Corinth XVIII.4: The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore. Terracotta Figurines of the Classical, Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Princeton). Mimokhod, R.A. and Sudarev, N.I. 2018: ‘Muzika v arkheologii: novye unikal’nye nakhodki na antichnom nekropole poseleniya Volna 1’. Iz noveishikh otkrytii arkheologov IA RAN [Institute of Archaeology, Russian Academy of Sciences]: https://archaeonews.ru/music/. Panayotova, K. 1998: ‘Apollonia Pontica: Recent Discoveries in the Necropolis’. In Tsetskhladze G.R. (ed.), The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Historia Einzelschriften 121) (Stuttgart), 97–13. —. 2007: ‘Burial and Post-Burial Rites in the Necropoleis of the Greek Colonies on the Bulgarian Black Sea Littoral’. In Grammenos, D.V. and Petropoulos, E.K. (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea 2 (BAR International Series 1675) (Oxford), 85–126. —. 2008. ‘Askosi s forma na astragalosi ot nekropola na Apolonia’. In Gencheva, E. (ed.), Studia in honorem Aleksandrae Dimitrova-Milcheva: Yugoiztochna Evropa prez antichnostta (VI v. pr. Khr.– VII v. sl. Khr.) (Sofia), 104–14. —. 2016: ‘Muzikata v Apolonia Pontiiska (po arheologicheski materiali)’. In Delev, P. (ed.), Συμπόσιον, Sbornik v pamet na Prof. D. Popov (Sofia), 286–302. —. 2017: ‘Organization of Space and Funerary Rituals in the Necropoleis of Apollonia Pontica’. In Kiyashkina, P., Damyanov, M., Bozkova, A., and Delev, P. (eds.), Nessebar 4 (Proceedings of the international conference ‘Ancient Greek Necropoleis along the Black Sea Coast’, Nessebar, October 4–7, 2012) (Veliko Tarnovo), 23–39. —. 2019: ‘Sépulture no. 305’. In Baralis et al. 2019, 352.

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Panayotova, K., Giuzelev, M. and Nedev, D. 2008: ‘Spasitelni prou`vania na teritoriata na nekropola na apolonia Pontiiska’. In Arkheologicheski otkritiya i razkopki prez 2007 g. (Sofia), 317–21. Peters, B.G. 1986. Kostoreznoe delo v antichnykh gosudarstvakh Severnogo prichernomor’ya (Moscow). Petrov, B. 2007: ‘Razred kostenurki’. In Biserkov, V. (ed.), Opredelitel na zemnovodnite i vlechugitr v Balgaria (Sofia). Prohászka, M. 1995: Reflection from the Dead: The Metal Finds from the Pantanello Necropolis at Metaponto. A Comprehensive Study of Grave Goods from the 5th to the 3rd Centuries B.C. (SIMA 110) (Jonsered). Psaroudakēs, S. 2002: ‘The aulos of Argithea’. In Hickmann, E., Kilmer, A.D. and Eichmann, R. (eds.), The Archaeology of Sound: Origin and Organisation (Papers from the 2nd Symposium of the International Study Group on Music Archaeology at Monastery Michaelstein, 17–23 September 2000) (Studien zur Musikarchäologie 3; Orient-Archäologie 10) (Rahden), 335–66. —. 2006: ‘A Lyre from the Cemetery of the Acharnian Gate, Athens’. In Kilmer, A.D., Hickmann, E., Both, A.A. and Eichmann, R. (eds.), Musikarchäologie im Kontext: Archäologische Befunde, historische Zusammenhänge, soziokulturelle Beziehungen/Music Archaeology in Context: Archaeological Semantics, Historical Implications, Socio-Cultural Connotations (Papers from the 4th Symposium of the International Study Group on Music Archaeology at Monastery Michaelstein, September 19–26, 2004) (Studien zur Musikarchäologie 5; Orient-Archäologie 20) (Rahden), 59–79. —. 2008: ‘The auloi of Pydna’. In Both, A.A., Eichmann, R., Hickmann, E. and Koch, L.C. (eds.), Herausforderungen und Ziele der Musikarchäologie/Challenges and Objectives in Music Archaeology (Papers from the 5th Symposium of the International Study Group on Music Archaeology at the Ethnological Museum, State Museums Berlin, 19–23 September 2006) (Studien zur Musikarchäologie 6; Orient-Archäologie 22) (Rahden), 197–216. —. 2013: ‘The Daphnē Aulos’. Greek and Roman Musical Studies 5.1, 93–121. Rekho, M. 2005: ‘Grizhata (cultus) za krasotata na tyaloto v Trakiya prez rimskata epokha: iz kolektsiite na Arkheologicheskiya institut s muzei – Sofiya’. In Zemite na Balgaria – lyulka na trakiiskata kultura 2 (Sofia), 153–54. Ribarov, G. and Boev, Z. 1997: ‘Kostni ostanki ot divi i domashni zhivotni ot praistoricheskoto selishte „Telish-Redutite“ pri s. Telish (Plevensko)’. Historia naturalis bulgarica 7, 61–70. Skrzhinskaya, M.W. 2000: Budni i prazdniki v O’lvii v VI–I vv. do n.e. (St Petersburg). —. 2009: Drevnegrecheskie prazdniki v Elade i Severnom Prichernomor’e (Kiev). Venedikov, I. 1948: ‘Razkopkite v nekropola na Apoloniya prez 1946’. Razkopki i prouchvaniya 2 (Sofia). —. (ed.) 1963: Apoloniya: Razkopkite v nekropola na Apoloniya prez 1947-1949 g. (Sofia).

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Fig. 1. Location of the graves with musical instruments in the necropolis of Apollonia in the Kalfa locality (by A. Kamenarov).

Fig. 2. Reconstructed double aulos from Apollonia Pontica (photograph: K. Georgiev).

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Fig. 3. Grave-goods in grave no. 162, Zoned Property 5518 (photograph by author).

Fig. 4. Sections of the aulos from grave no. 162, Zoned Property 5518 (photograph by author).

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Fig. 5. Oinochoe with Muses by the Eretria Painter. Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 226 (photograph: K. Georgiev).

Fig. 6. Red-figured oinochoe from the necropolis of Apollonia, 425–400 BC. Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 3625 (photograph: L. Damelet).

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Fig. 7. Grave N 14 in Zoned Property 4303=5040 (photograph by author).

Fig. 8. Part of tortoise shell (lyre) and iron tailpiece from grave N 14 in Zoned Property 4303=5040 (photograph by author).

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Fig. 9. Grave N 14, Zoned Property 5084 (photograph by author).

Fig. 10. Tortoise shell (lyre) from the grave N 14, Zoned Property 5084 (photograph by author).

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Fig. 11. Grave-goods in the grave N 5, Zoned Property 5536 (photograph by author).

Fig. 12. Tortoise shell (lyre) from the grave N 5, Zoned Property 5536 (photograph by author).

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Fig. 13. Plectrum from the grave N 29, Zoned Property 5536 (photograph by author).

Fig. 14. Seven-string cithara-stamp on an Apollonian tile, second half of the 4th century BC (photograph: L. Damelet).

Fig. 15. Red-figure oinochoe from the necropolis of Apollonia, 430–420 BC. Archaeological Museum of Sozopol, inv. 2531 (photograph: K. Georgiev).

DOG NOT IMPORTANT, ONLY STAFF IMPORTANT!* Richard POSAMENTIR

ABSTRACT This paper deals with a certain class of 5th-century BC gravestone, the so-called man-and-dog stelae of allegedly Ionian origin, and raises the question of whether the dog that led to the naming of the whole group was less important than another attribute. In fact, all depicted men make use of a staff, which in Athens must have been an object of sex- and age-determining significance from a rather early moment onward – an idea that was picked up again after the restart of Attic grave reliefs around 430 BC. Since, for specific reasons, Attic gravestones from the early/middle 5th century BC are lacking, the gap between Archaic and Classical Attic tombstones can probably be filled with examples from the hands of Ionian craftsmen – even though their earliest manifestations, in particular the stelae with the man-and-dog motif, are surprisingly incoherent at first glance. Two major types – both of them seem to fall back on Attic models – have been identified but the differentiation has, as suggested here and in contrast to earlier approaches, nothing to do with the dog. The distinguishing criterion is the posture of the man, which changed sometime around 500 BC from the Archaic step-forward motif to a more complicated one with crossed legs – a type that was probably invented to distinguish itself from older traditions and even yielded a certain socio-political meaning. This change in motif within a group of stelae with the same background substantially blurred our image and seemed to set these gravestones apart from the pictorial language established in Athens – in fact, the staff was still the attribute of major importance, designating the man as a member of a certain age group.

Trying to find a subject with some kind of relevance to the occasion, my thoughts turned to the famous so-called man-and-dog stelae, a motif allegedly of Ionian origin.1 In fact, not only the Ionian world but also the Black Sea area and Gochaʼs teacher in England, Sir John Boardman, play a certain role in the following reconsideration of this class of stele. It will finally result in the question whether it is justified to concede some sort of major significance to the depicted dog that led to the naming of the whole group of gravestones. Anyway, the designation ‘man-and-dog stelae’, that has consolidated over the past 120 years, obviously emerged from a rather modern conception.2

* The title of this contribution refers to a scene in Luc Besson’s film ‘The Fifth Element’ – originally, it reads ‘Time not important – only life important!’ – the advice of a wise alien to the archaeologists standing around. 1  For the most recent overview, see Schneider 2000; an earlier specific study of the subject is Ridgway 1971. 2  See Brückner 1902 – the title of his article, ‘Lebensweisheit auf griechischen Grabsteinen’, is already highly informative in respect of his approach to ascribing a major significance to the depicted dog. Still, one has to admit, that there are already several ancient sources praising the company of noble and well-educated dogs; see Özgan 1978, 96–97; Schneider 2000, 22, 24–29.

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Noteworthily, the characteristic (though iconographically to some extent heterogeneous) combination of man and dog remained especially prominent in the 5th century BC and the areas outwith Athens and Attica. For this reason, and because of the fact that in the beginning the creature appeared in association with elderly men, but only a little later also with young men, the dog was interpreted by the majority of scholars as a status symbol of a certain social class.3 Without denying the fact that the dog might have had exactly this function, I would like to try to show that another also regularly depicted attribute was of even higher importance, although on a different level: the staff or crutch all the elderly men make use of.4 Its actual meaning seems to be traceable through various times and would suggest a strong link of the respective stelae to Athens, to a certain degree probably even inheriting a political dimension. In order to make this conclusion plausible, one has to start from two ends. In his 1978 handbook on Archaic Greek sculpture, Boardman rather casually expressed the assumption that Attic gravestones of the 6th century BC might have yielded evidence of age (and sex) determination:5 ‘The Attic stelai seem to present archetypes for the three ages of Archaic man – young naked athlete: warrior: man and dog – with javelin, discus or aryballos: with spear and armour: with a crutch.’ He did so, even though evidence for the characterisation of an older age in form of a man with staff (crutch) and dog was almost absent for Athens and Attica at that time, while depictions of athletes with sports equipment and warriors with weapons were rather frequent.6 However, there can be no doubt that at least the differentiation in shape or decoration of grave markers according to the sex of the deceased was well known in Greece (and especially Athens) at least from the Early Iron Age onward.7 It is therefore very likely that such traditions continued in the following periods in one or other (or even more sophisticated) way, even though such a phenomenon seems hard to be identifiable during the Archaic and post-Archaic era – and in Classical Attic grave art in particular.8 However, there are certain and clearer indications in the subsequent period attested by the Late Classical/Early Hellenistic gravestones of the Heraclean settlement of Tauric Chersonesus on the northern shore of the Black Sea: the various stelae, obviously limited by a self-imposed or state-dictated restriction, displayed only certain objects, though clearly age- and sex-differentiated.9 Men of the ‘three ages’ would be honoured with either sports equipment (strigil and aryballos), a sculpted weapon (sword) or a painted staff (Fig. 1), while stelae of women would regularly feature a sash or a sash with an attached alabastron. Concerning the three different ages of men, this is exactly the spectrum of objects that Boardman had already observed for 6th-century BC Athens. Apart from 3

 Schneider 2000, 31–36, with full reference to previous attempts.  Interestingly, C. Schneider was already at least partly aware of this constellation: ‘Die deutliche Kennzeichnung der Altersstufe des Verstorbenen könnte in diesen Zusammenhang gehören’ (see Schneider 2000, 34). 5  Boardman 1978, 164. 6  For an overview on the depictions on Archaic Attic grave stelae, see still Richter 1961. 7  Coldstream 2003, 26, 55, 75, 81, 110 and 120; see also Boardman 1988. 8  For attempts in this direction, see Schmaltz 1979, 22–32. Apart from this it is obvious that already the shapes of the Archaic gravestones as well as the depicted objects were sex- and age-differentiated (see Schmaltz 1983, 160–63, 167–70 or Himmelmann 1999, 12–18). 9  Posamentir 2011, 144–54. 4

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Fig. 1. Grave stele of Sannion, son of Megakles; found re-used in the so-called tower of Zeno in Tauric Chersonesus. Chersonesus Museum, inv. 36847/5. About 300 BC (courtesy I. Engelmann).

this, the three different crownings of the tall and slender gravestones of Chersonesus bear a certain meaning too: the stelae of men had a horizontal ending with antefixes, those of females a pediment, and the grave markers of youths of both sexes were crowned by an anthemion.10 The rather strict adherence to these patterns is no less than surprising and can probably be best explained by the chronological compactness of the convolute of stelae that have been found re-used in a tower of the city walls; it was constructed only a little later. For various reasons it is not very likely that such ideas were born in a city at the fringes of the Greek world, even more so since the Late Classical/Early Hellenistic gravestones of Chersonesus clearly resemble Athenian predecessors of the early 4th, partly even the late 5th century BC, in a more than remarkable way.11 In fact, sometimes one has the impression that the models for these stelae – in their strict rejection of figural depictions – have to be sought for in a period when seemingly no gravestones existed in Athens and 10  Posamentir 2011, 139–44. As already mentioned, one can also find tendencies of such a differentiation in Archaic times: stelae for women are significantly broader (as the woman is mostly depicted seated) and crowned by a pediment – the same may hold true for Classical Attic grave stelae but this phenomenon has not been studied in detail yet (cf. Dohrn 1957, 106, 119; Posamentir 2006, 84, 99). 11  Posamentir 2011, 139–40; 2020, 208–09.

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the appearance of grave markers was only conveyed by the images on Athenian whiteground lekythoi of the middle third of the 5th century BC.12 Notably, a strong and certain harking back on Classical 5th-century Athens and its art during the later 4th century BC is everything but uncommon, as shown by many other constellations, especially in the East and the Black Sea area.13 This phenomenon is, however, of substantial relevance for our specific case, as the range of objects displayed on the gravestones of Chersonesus is in fact well known from the earlier Classical Attic grave reliefs (strigil, sword, crutch; certainly among others) – with the difference that in Athens the image remains less clear, since the objects are almost always combined with the depiction of human beings.14 Still, as well in these cases, the same class of object or attribute in the hands of a man mostly determine the deceased as young, middle aged or elderly. Admittedly, in Athens this is only verifiable in the form of a tendency with exceptions (as is the case with the so-called loutrophoroi;15 the same will probably hold true for the shapes of Attic gravestones which have not been taken into consideration on a statistical base up to now) – but the tendency is far too strong to be completely ignored or rationalised.16 As a consequence, the objects on the stelae of Chersonesus obviously have to be interpreted as some kind of abbreviation or short cut, focusing on the essential element and therefore underlining the significance of the strigil/aryballos, sword and staff. The basic idea, however, might have had its roots in the 6th century BC, as already suggested by John Boardmanʼs visionary remark and the short consideration of the Archaic gravestones of Athens and Attica at the beginning. Unfortunately, and obviously due to an antiluxury decree, we do have not have much of an idea what grave markers of the early and mid-5th century BC (between ca. 500/490 and 440/430 BC) might have looked like in Athenian cemeteries/burial grounds.17 All attempts to explain the depictions of grave stelae on white-ground lekythoi have failed so far (in their majority, they cover only the time between ca. 470 and 420 BC),18 and the same holds true for other attempts to identify such grave markers in a handful of very rough and small stone pillars.19 This leaves us with a gap of roughly two generations, before it was again appropriate to honour the dead with gravestones – a gap that also concerns the evidence for a possible continuation of the practice of using certain objects to visualise the sex and age of the deceased.

12  The most prominent example is the lekythos inv. 2021 kept at the National Archaeological Museum of Athens with a sword adorning a stele (see Kurtz 1975, pl. 29.3). For a comprehensive compilation of grave stelae depicted on Athenian white-ground lekythoi, see Nakayama 1982. 13  For a discussion of this phenomenon, see recently Posamentir 2020, 204–12; Cavalier 2020; earlier Schädler 1991; Stucky 2005, 85–92. 14  Exceptions are almost always modest and the depictions are throughout painted (see Posamentir 2006, 82–84). 15  For the still heavily disputed meaning of funerary marble vessels (loutrophoroi and lekythoi), cf. Kokula 1984, 143–50; Dehl-von Kaenel 1981; Bergemann 1996; Posamentir 2006, 85–92; Mösch-Klingele 2006, 115–21; Schmaltz 1970, 76–111; Fabricius 2004. 16  See the list of objects in Clairmont 1993 VI, 76, 164–65, 169–71. For the staff as an object there is no entry in this general index as staffs are normally painted. 17  Stupperich 1977, 71–86; Engels 1998, 97–119. 18  Nakayama 1982, 60–141. 19  Cf. Kurtz and Boardman 1971, 122–25; Himmelmann 1999, 18 and the critical evaluation of this assumption in Posamentir 2006, 19–24.

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In order to try to close this gap, scholars have frequently turned to gravestones from other regions for the timeframe between ca. 500/490 and 440/30, especially so-called Ionian ones.20 Unfortunately, these are problematic from the beginning, as the state and character of the relevant Ionian cities in the 5th century BC remains largely unknown21 and almost all the respective stelae have been found outside the Ionian sphere of influence. Even more disturbingly, the few known Archaic gravestones from cities such as Miletus, Samos, Chios, Clazomenae or Teos hardly ever yielded human depictions, limiting their possible role as predecessors to a minimal extent.22 Exceptions are only at hand from the islands, some of which, such as Paros, might have had a real tradition of producing grave stelae for instance,23 but it is these examples which show that the so-called Ionian 5th-century stelae with their motifs – man and dog, athlete24 (rarely a warrior25) or seated/standing woman – do not have unquestionable archetypes within the region of their proposed origin.26 This should always have been somewhat alarming but hardly convinced most scholars that the principle idea for most of these images must have been stimulated by the ideas and traditions of other areas. Among these stelae of allegedly Ionian origin – according to their stylistic features there can be no doubt that Ionian craftsmen and sculptors were involved – there is from the beginning a good number showing the ‘man-and-dog’ motif; athletes are rare, becoming more frequent a little later, while warriors remain exceptional. As they seemed to introduce a completely new concept of depiction, many scholars have dealt with the so-called manand-dog stelae,27 while the pieces with athletes have never attracted attention on an equal level – they always seemed to be self-explanatory, even though here again locally produced predecessors are unknown. Not very surprising, the lack of plausible predecessors showing a man with his dog has indeed led to a debate on whether the motif might not stem in fact from Athens; two early fragments seemed to support this theory,28 as too do images on Athenian vases or pinakes.29 A number of scholars, however, remained sceptical and still opted in favour of a Ionian origin,30 even though some versions of the motif are strikingly 20

 For an overview, see still Berger 1970; Hiller 1975; Pfuhl and Möbius 1977.  See Slawisch 2009. 22  For examples from Samos or Miletus, see Freyer-Schauenburg 1974, 174–83, pls. 72–75; von Graeve 1989. For this discussion, see Kurtz and Boardman 1971, 220–21, figs. 48–49. In this regard the two stelae from Delipınar are of interest as well (see Özsait and Özsait 2007, 160–61, 165, fig. 4; Hürmüzlü 2016, 494–95, figs. 2–5). 23  See Friis-Johansen 1951, 115–17, fig. 57; Barlou 2014, 17–18, pls. 1–2. Examples from Thasos are probably dependent from these models; see Boardman 1978, 165, figs. 250–251. 24  Best known early example is the stele from Nisyros; Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 14, no. 14, pl. 5. A more recent and as well complete find is the stele from Çanakkale (see Özgan 1986, 27–30, pl. 89; Akurgal 1987, 63, pl. 92). 25  See the well-known stele from Syme, which at least reflects the Attic models of warriors on gravestones (Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 11–12, no. 8, pl. 3). 26  Still valuable (with other publications in n. 19) is the overview given by Friis Johansen 1951, 120–45. 27  For the most recent overview, see Petrova 2015, 14–16. 28  Thompson 1949, 373–77, pls. 51–52 (fragment a); Harrison 1956, 28, 42–43, pl. 11e (fragment a); Thompson 1952, 108–09, pl. 28b (fragment b); Hiller 1975, 137–39, pl. 26.1 (fragment b); Richter 1961, 34–35, no. 49, fig. 131, and 48, no. 69, fig. 168 (both fragments); Woysch-Méautis 1982, 54, 124, nos. 257– 258, pl. 38 (both fragments); Schneider 2000, 1–3, figs. 1 and 6 (both fragments). 29  Clairmont 1986, 41–42; Schneider 2000, 4–5, figs. 2–5, and 19–23, figs. 18–19; Petrova 2015, 1, n. 22. 30  Surprisingly, Boardman himself considered this possibility (see Boardman 1978, 164). A clearer position in favour of Athens in Kurtz and Boardman 1971, 221–22. See also Ridgway 1971, 63, 78; Özgan 1978, 96. Or, more differentiated: Hiller 1975, 137–39; Woysch-Méautis 1982, 54; Schmaltz 1983, 168–69. 21

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complex: they definitely seem to require an adequate model which does not exist in Ionia, be it in stone, on pottery or on metal. The assumption that the ‘true picture’ of Ionian art has been lost but must have existed is in fact a phenomenon most typical for the Ionian world, as it is still much less well known than the Athenian one. As the stelae or fragments of stelae depicting a man with his dog exhibit certain differences and have therefore been interpreted and classified in a variety of ways, a closer look will be necessary to understand the group in its entirety. In the past, rather strange concepts of dividing the more than ten stelae into those where the dog shows attention to its master and those where it does not, have been applied.31 It is, however, not always possible to draw a sharp line between such groups, which means that this cannot have been of major importance – on the contrary, it seems to be more a sign of the times in which a stronger visualisation of affection for other living beings becomes remarkably common and obvious.32 Still, certain similarities among the preserved stelae and fragments allow us in fact to identify two basic versions of the ‘man-and-dog’ motif – but the decisive difference lies in the posture of the man, not in the behaviour of the dog or its interaction with its master. The first and simpler version, with examples from Marmaris,33 Kelenderis/Cilicia(?),34 Sinope35 and a rather recent find from Cyme36 (also the back of the stele from Komotini37 belongs there), depicts a dog strolling forward on its four legs with its head turned backwards (Figs. 2–5). The accompanying male figure is also shown stepping forward – but noteworthy is that he holds a staff in all these cases, even though it is sometimes visible only rudimentarily. Although stylistic differences are undeniable, obviously due to the widespread occurrence of the stelae, a certain kinship of all these pieces is hardly disputable. Interestingly, one of the two fiercely disputed Athenian fragments belongs to this group as well, even though it is unclear how it should be reconstructed as a whole; in this case, however, the section of the fragment does not allow us to decide whether a staff was again part of the depiction. According to its stylistic features, the Athenian fragment is most probably the earliest example of this group, even though this view has been challenged by a minority of scholars.38 If this assessment is correct, we are dealing here with an archetype mentioned by Boardman: an elderly man with a highly symbolic staff or crutch, accompanied by his dog. However, there is a second type, slightly later in date,

31  This differentiation was suggested by Hiller (1975, 137). For a short and critical discussion, see Clairmont 1986, 41–42; Schneider 2000, 1–2. For more potential candidates of stelae with the ‘man-and-dog’ motif, see Berger 1970, 34–35, figs. 29–34. 32  See the exceptional Sosias cup from around 500 BC (Simon 1981, 102–03, pl. 117; Robertson 1996, 58–59, fig. 46; and discussion on the meaning of the image in Junker 2005, 13–19). For the combination of human beings with animals, see Woysch-Méautis 1982, 102. 33  The stele is kept today in the museum of Bodrum (see Özgan 1978, 79–97, pl. 43; Akurgal 1987, 63, pl. 90; Schneider 2000, 4–7, fig. 7). 34  Akurgal 1987, 63, pl. 91; Schneider 2000, 6–8, fig. 8. 35  Hiller 1975, 59–61, 163–64, no. O 18, pl. 11.2; Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 14, no. 13, pl. 4; Schneider 2000, 14–15, fig. 15. 36  See Grasso 2012. 37  Berger 1970, 111–14, fig. 133; Andrianou 2017, 30–32, 198–99, 286–89. Unusually, the dog is in this case combined with a servant carrying a diphros. 38  Cf. Özgan 1978, 92–96, who suggested the stele from Bodrum be dated to around 530 BC.

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Fig. 2. Middle part of a man-and-dog stele from Marmaris, Archaeological Museum Bodrum, inv. 6004. Late 6th/early 5th century BC (after Akurgal 1987, pl. 90).

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Fig. 3. Lower half of a man-and-dog stele (amphiglyphon) from Kelenderis/Cilicia(?); Sadberk Hanım Museum Istanbul, inv. no. unknown. Early 5th century BC (after Akurgal 1987, pl. 91).

which effectively blurs the image by showing the scene in a completely different way, and very deliberately so. The second group, at least equally homogeneous but much better preserved, shows an elderly, bearded man with his legs crossed, prominently leaning on a staff, while his dog stretches up to him, the forelegs raised – the group is, with regard to the motif, significantly more characteristic in its appearance (Figs. 6–8). The three well-known examples come from Orchomenos in Boeotia,39 Apollonia Pontica on the western shore of the Black Sea40 and from Lower Italy, but the latter is said to have been found near Sardis 39  Berger 1970, 44–45, fig. 46; Hiller 1975, 177–79, no. K 11, pl. 19; Schneider 2000, 12–14, figs. 13–14; Schild-Xenidou 2008, 242–43, no. 9, pl. 4. 40  Berger 1970, 30, fig. 26, and 55–57, fig. 57; Hiller 1975, 152–54, no. O 8, pl. 5; Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 12, no. 10, pl. 4; Petrova 2015, 14–18, 166–68, pl. 2; Schneider 2000, 7–10, fig. 9.

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Fig. 4. Grave stele with man and dog from Sinope; Kastamonu Museum, inv. 377. Mid-5th century BC(?) (after Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, pl. 4.13).

Fig. 5. Detail of a fragmented grave stele with man and dog; Izmir, Basmane Museum, inv. no. unknown. Early 5th century BC (R. Posamentir).

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Fig. 6. Grave stele from Orchomenos, Fig. 7. Grave stele (amphiglyBoeotia; sculpted by Alxenor from Naxos. phon) of Deines, son of Athens, National Museum, inv. 39. Anaxander. Sofia, National Early 5th century BC (DeA Picture Museum, inv. 727. Library, licensed by Alinari; Early 5th century BC DEA-S-001033-6110). (D-DAI-ROM-86.205).

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Fig. 8. Grave stele with man and dog, said to have been found in Sardis. Naples, Mus. Naz., inv. 6556. Early 5th century BC (D-DAI-ROM-69.672).

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Fig. 9. Classical Attic gravestone of Ktesileos and Theano. Athens, National Museum, inv. 3472. Early 4th century BC (D-DAI-Z-NEG-10455).

in Lydia.41 However, in this case it might be not only easier but almost necessary to establish a strong connexion to Athens: regardless of the find-spots of the three stelae, one is almost immediately reminded of the emblematic image of the ‘Athenian citizen’ on Classical Attic tombstones (Fig. 9),42 which certainly relies on models from the Parthenon Frieze and therefore most probably on the group of Eponymous Heroes (Fig. 10).43 As a matter of fact, this motif, the elderly man leaning on a staff (which later became the crucial symbol for this age group, i.e. the dignified citizen on the Late Classical/Early Hellenistic gravestones from Chersonesus), must have been developed earlier (Fig. 11), 41

 Berger 1970, 40–41, fig. 40, and 111–14, fig. 136; Hiller 1975, 156–58, no. O 11, pl. 7; Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 13–14, no. 12, pl. 4; Schneider 2000, 9–12, figs. 10–12. 42  See Hollein 1988, 17–24, 221–31; but especially Bergemann 1994, 287–90; Himmelmann 1999, 39–42; Scholl 2002, 179–84; and Schmaltz 2009. Equally symbolic was without any doubt the motif of the tyrant-slayers that deliberately broke with the preceding image traditions of the aristocratic era. 43  For the connexion of the figural type, known from vase-painting of this time, with the monument of the Eponymous Heroes (and the Parthenon Frieze), see Mattusch 1994 (with further references); also Krug 1976, 202–32.

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Fig. 10. Parthenon, detail of the east frieze with some of the so-called Eponymous Heroes; British Museum, London; plaster cast at the University of Göttingen (courtesy Archaeological Institute, University of Göttingen; photograph: Stephan Eckardt).

Fig. 11. Detail of a red-figure kylix attributed to the Foundry Painter; Staatliche Museen zu Berlin F 2294. Early 5th century BC (courtesy BPK/Antikensammlung SMB, Johannes Laurentius).

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which means in the early 5th century BC. It is even not unthinkable that it somehow served as some kind of iconic image for a new style in politics and cohabitation in the first years of Athenian democracy. How would it be possible then that the three ‘Ionian’ stelae from Orchomenos, Apollonia and Sardis could show such an image, probably even with an inherent meaning, that must have been connected so strongly to Athens? At least Apollonia, even though far away, had strong bonds to Athens in the 5th century BC,44 which might explain the adoption of an Athenian image’; additionally, the epigram unusually praises the deceased Deines, son of Anaxander literally as having been ‘highly respected among the citizens’.45 A closer and comparative look at the three stelae is finally eye-opening: while the gravestones from Apollonia and Sardis do exhibit some definitely odd features (at least from an Athenian point of view), the example from Orchomenos does not and is by far more communicative in its details. It is true that all three of them try to show the man with crossed legs leaning on his crutch,46 but only on the Boeotian stele, the work of a Naxian sculptor by the name Alxenor, this motif of the stance is reflected correctly, while the two others reveal some serious problems the craftsmen faced when echoing an obviously common and well-known model.47 Furthermore, the gravestone from Lower Italy (Lydia) most curiously displays a staff together with sports equipment; most likely a misinterpretation of the pictorial language that had been developed in Athens – and also the combination with an anthemion might seem somewhat peculiar in this light.48 Doubtless, Alxenor’s stele from Orchomenos must be seen as the most authentic reproduction of the basic idea, and there are two more details suggesting a higher credibility of the depiction. First, it features a meaningful architectural framing, the first known on such stelae in the whole Greek world.49 It is not very likely that a Naxian sculptor who was probably familiar with ornamental or geometrical frames on Ionian stele50 invented this detail on his own, it is even less likely that this invention happened in rural Boeotia where he made use of a rather coarse limestone for the commissioned gravestone.51 More logical would be the assumption that Alxenor, likely in the previous 44  Not much is known about the city in the Classical period, but at least in the later 5th century BC it was a member of the Delian League – according to finds from the necropolises, however, the stele of Deines remains in a rather isolated position (see Baralis and Panayotova 2013, 253). 45  Clairmont (1970, 28–31, pl. 4) translated the passage ‘most respected of our townsfolk’. 46  Not so on the stele from Apollonia, where the sculptor had obviously serious problems in understanding the posture (also the staff is not where it is supposed to be), trying to cover his agony with the dog – which is depicted here most unusually in the foreground. Still, format of the stele and motif remain very similar to the other examples of this group. 47  Surprisingly, C. Schneider strictly rejected the idea of a common predecessor or model: see Schneider 2000, 8. All three stelae are shown next to each other in Woysch-Méautis 1982, pl. 39. 48  For some more peculiarities and the occasionally raised idea that the stele might have been partly reworked see Schneider 2000, 9–12. 49  Already stated by Berger 1970, 7, 44–45. 50  Compare, for example, the stelae from Dorylaion (Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 8–9, no. 2, pl. 1) and Perinthos (Akurgal 1987, 62, pls. 86, 88) – a feature that had been common in Archaic Athens as well. See Harrison 1956, 28, pl. 11e-f for the fragment of the man-and-dog stele from the Agora; others documented by Richter 1961, figs. 30, 86, 126. The well-known stele of a young man from Samos (Pfuhl and Möbius 1977, 25, no. 54, pl. 14) shows significant remains of an egg-and-dart motif along the vertical edge/frame – it proves that the preference for ornamental frames still prevailed in Ionia even in the later 5th century BC. 51  Schild-Xenidou 2008, 242.

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employ of an aristocratic family in nearby Athens, had seen such a frame right there52 – probably even in combination with the motif of the ‘draped citizen (or eponymous hero) leaning on his staff.53 It is noteworthy that the Athenian Agora was framed with stoai exactly around that time; which means that the model for Alxenorʼs depiction might have been the vision of a living citizen on the Agora in front of the stoai – but it is possible too that images like that had already been created in Athens and were common. Given the fact that the Persians would destroy or hijack sculptural works of higher sociopolitical relevance – such as the tyrant-slayers from Athens or the Kanachos Apollo from Miletus54 – exactly such images might have been destroyed completely, leaving us with faint reflexions from areas outwith Athens. Still, there is another detail which should probably attract our attention: the elderly man depicted on the Boeotian tombstone teases or feeds his dog with a carefully rendered grasshopper (in complete contrast to the other two stelae) – a detail which was not repeated in subsequent times as it was probably not considered important or was misunderstood (Fig. 12). As mentioned above, the orchestration of nearness to another creature – no matter if human or beast – was certainly a contemporary phenomenon, as can be found in other media as well;55 it must be seen as a visual reaction to a vivid debate about a society which only functioned if people started to take care of each other. This kind of depicted emotional attraction is again completely missing on the stele from Sardis, where the man does not even look at the dog and interaction seems to be superficial to the utmost;56 on the stele from Apollonia the momentum is clearly better understood, but the dog is fed with something else, probably a piece of meat. Not so on the stele by Alxenor, and one has to ask why the elderly man, of all things, should carry out this gesture of affection with a grasshopper. In case we concede some sort of higher credibility to the gravestone found in Boeotia because of all the other mentioned details, we would have to take this detail more seriously than has been done before: one might remember that the Peisistratids allegedly had a monumental and apotropaic grasshopper placed on their palace on the Acropolis57 – which had now become, in an abstract transformation, the puppet in the hands of a new political power, the Athenian citizen. That would place the image in a new sociocultural context: the Athenian citizen, caring for his environment and co-directing the fortunes of a new society at the Agora; the society framed by a stable architecture. That idea would have been visualised through a new and specifically invented motif – the man with crossed legs, supported by a staff; an invention that must have happened in the late 6th/early 5th century BC. Still, this staff or crutch was still the attribute with its original inherent meaning, like on the other stelae of Type 1 with man and dog, but now embedded in a new and even political context. 52

 This has already been suggested by G. Richter (1949, 154).  The depiction of a similar figure (and other figural types) next to architectural elements of his house(?) on cup 3590 from the Villa Giulia might point to the same direction (see Bérard and Durand 1985, 41–47). 54  Fehr 1984, 51–54; Hölscher 2011, 49–50. For ideological reasons the Persians removed the so-called Kanachos Apollo to Susa (see Strocka 2002, 94–97). 55  See n. 29. 56  Against most other scholars, Özgan (1978, 81–83) interpreted this difference as an indication for an earlier date of the so-called Borgia stele. 57  Rakoczy 1996, 173; Weiß 2015, 304 – the quoted source, Hesychius of Alexandria, is admittedly late, even though it is obvious that Hesychius made substantial use of older reports. 53

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Fig. 12. Detail of the grave stele from Orchomenos, Boeotia; sculpted by Alxenor from Naxos. Athens, National Museum, inv. 39 (courtesy L. Balandat).

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Regardless of this divergence, which possibly had its reason in a sociopolitical turnabout, it is in fact much more probable that the staff was generally the object of major importance – as an indication of a certain age group, going back to ideas that had been invented at least by the second half of the 6th century BC; the dog remained no more than an addition with a hitherto overrated significance. This would explain why the dog could subsequently serve as an addition to men of completely different age groups58 and why the staff was still present on many Classical gravestones, while the addition of a dog was obviously more or less coincidental59 and especially frequent on stelae from the rural environments around Athens.60 It would further explain why some early 5th-century BC gravestones with men and staff omit dogs.61 One of the two fragments from Athens might have served – most probably together with others which are waiting to be found – as a model for the ‘man-and-dog’ stelae of Type 1, originating from an earlier and aristocratic time.62 The other fragment from Athens would then have been a potential model (but almost certainly not the prototype) of a motif with deeper meaning: both groups of stelae, however, feature staffs, as they were a timeless symbol of age, applicable under all political circumstances. Of course, the same ultimately holds true for weapons and sports equipment – which means that, in these cases too, the relevant stelae from the Ionian sphere reached back in their pictorial language to Archaic predecessors from Athens. This does not mean that the erection of gravestones with figural depictions was invented in Athens, as there are various areas in the Greek world with earlier convolutes of stelae. Still, Attic grave art must have been, due to the implementation of a certain pictorial language, some sort of ‘role model’ already in Archaic times, gratefully adopted by other areas in the course of the 5th century BC, and lasting there until an even more powerful wave of images re-coined the whole Mediterranean world in the Classical era.

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58  Again, Schneider was already aware of the fact that is basically difficult to explain if it was all about the dog. See the relief of a youth with servant and dog (Berger 1970, 18, 24, fig. 22). Another (heavily damaged and still unpublished) stele, found in Miletus and dating to approximately the mid-5th century BC, shows the lower half of a standing man of obviously younger age with crossed legs, together with a dog and a servant boy. 59  For an overview of grave stelae with dogs of the subsequent time period, see Zlotogorska 1997. 60  Cf. the stele of a youth in Munich (Möbius 1966, 139; Vierneisel-Schlörb 1988, 34–39). 61  Cf. a fragment from Samos (Hiller 1975, 148, no. O 1, pl. 1); one from Tinos (Hiller 1975, 171–72, no. K 5, pl. 15) and another from Delphi (Hiller 1975, 180–81, no. K 14, pl. 20) – all with staff, none with dog. 62  This was already suggested by Hiller (1975, 137–39), who also argued for an Attic origin of this type.

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Scholl, A. 2002: ‘Geschlossene Gesellschaft: Die Bewohner des klassischen Athen in den Bildern und Inschriften ihrer Grabdenkmäler’. In Die griechische Klassik. Idee oder Wirklichkeit (Exhibition Catalogue) (Mainz), 179–90. Simon, E. 1981: Die Griechischen Vasen, 2nd ed. (Munich). Slawisch, A. 2009: ‘Epigraphy versus Archaeology: Conflicting Evidence for Cult Continuity in Ionia during the fifth century BC’. In Gates, C., Morin, J. and Zimmermann, T (eds.), Sacred Landscapes in Anatolia and Neighboring Regions (BAR International Series 2034) (Oxford), 29–34. Strocka, V.M. 2002: ‘Der Apollon des Kanachos in Didyma und der Beginn des strengen Stils’. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 117, 81–125. Stucky, R. 2005: Das Eschmun-Heiligtum von Sidon: Architektur und Inschriften (Antike Kunst Beiheft 19) (Basel). Stupperich, R. 1977: Staatsbegräbnis und Privatgrabmal im klassischen Athen (Dissertation, Münster). Thompson, H.A. 1949: ‘An Archaic Gravestone from the Athenian Agora’. In Commemorative Studies in Honor of Theodore Leslie Shear (Hesperia Suppl. 8) (Athens/Princeton), 373–77. —. 1952: ‘Excavations in the Athenian Agora: 1951’. Hesperia 21, 83–113. Vierneisel-Schlörb, B. 1988: Glyptothek München, Katalog der Skulpturen 3: Klassische Grabdenkmäler und Votivreliefs (Munich). Weiß, C. 2015: ‘Heuschrecken auf griechischen Vasen und in der Glyptik’. In Lang-Auinger, C. and Trinkl, E. (eds.), ΦΥΤΑ ΚΑΙ ΖΩΙΑ. Pflanzen und Tiere auf Griechischen Vasen (Akten des Internationalen Symposiums an der Universität Graz, 26.–28. September 2013) (CVA Österreich Beiheft 2) (Vienna), 299–310. Woysch-Méautis, D. 1982: La représentation des animaux et des êtres fabuleux sur les monuments funéraires grecs de l’époque archaïque à la fin du IVe siècle av. J.-C. (Lausanne). Zlotogorska, M. 1997: Darstellungen von Hunden auf griechischen Grabreliefs (Antiquates 12) (Hamburg).

THE MAIN AGONISTIC FESTIVALS IN TAURIC CHERSONESUS Oksana RUCHYNSKA

ABSTRACT This study is devoted to identifying the main agonistic festivals of the Chersonesus polis and determining their impact on the civic community. The specificity of the Virgo (Parthenos) and Dionysos cults, worshipped in Chersonesus on behalf of the entire civic community, was accompanied by polis-wide public festivals (the Partheneia and Dionysia), allows us to classify them among the main agonistic festivals in this region. The characteristic features of both were: solemn processions (pompe), sacrifices, various agones and ceremonies of a civic nature (glorifications, crownings of citizens and foreigners). These festivals had the greatest public resonance throughout the history of the Chersonesus polis and contributed to the unity of the civic community. In addition, they influenced the formation and strengthening of inter-polis relations: the particular importance and the wide popularity of the cults were used to strengthen the Chersonesite local world, and they were also the basis for creating strong cult ties and preserving a common Hellenic oikumene on its distant periphery in the Black Sea littoral.

Greek agonistic festivals are one of the most keenly studied problems in Classics.1 This applies fully to the poleis of the northern Black Sea coast.2 It should be remarked that, in the Greek world, the whole civic community celebrated festivals in honour of only those gods who were considered related to the polis and included in the official pantheon. The most significant were those accompanied by public competitions (agones).3 They were arranged in honour of official gods or heroes, who were of special significance for a particular civic community. In Chersonesus, several festivals accompanied by competitions can be distinguished: Heracleia (most revered in the 4th–3rd centuries BC), Hermaea (especially popular in the first centuries BC), both festivals were probably followed by competitions of boys and youths; as well as the Dionysia (with dramatic contests) and Partheneia.4 However, the social significance of these festivals varied. Epigraphic evidence in conjunction with other historical sources suggests that it was the last two festivals that included ceremonies 1  For the essence of agonistic festivals in the ancient Greek cities, see Bremmer 1994; Nilsson 1948; Gardiner 1968. 2  About the history of the study of agonistic festivals of the northern Black Sea area, see Ruchynska 2016. 3  Ringwood 1933, 457; Goldhill 1987, 58. Note that the competitions were the most important element of festivals since Hellenistic times, hence the name of particular festivals are ‘agonistic festivals’ (cf. Chaniotis 2011, 22). 4  Ruchynska 1994; 1996; 2017, 167–71; A. Shevchenko 2007. Cf. Skrzynska 2009: the author, following other scholars, calls the Partheneia one of the Chersonesite festivals, but does not distinguish its characteristic features, does not associate contents with this festival, and, therefore, does not see it as a particularly significant event for the Chersonesus polis.

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of glorification of citizens, in addition to the solemn procession, sacrificial offerings and competitions.5 Therefore, they played a special role in the life of the Chersonesus civic community. Discussions about the origin and worship of the Chersonesite gods in the specialist literature arise repeatedly. The specifics of the festivals of Parthenos (the patron goddess of Chersonesus) and Dionysos (one of the most popular gods in the northern Black Sea region) festivals are widely discussed. On the question of the Parthenos cult origin in Chersonesus, two main approaches can be found: 1) concept of Tauric origin of the goddess (V.V. Latyshev, S.A. Zhebelev, N.V. Pyatysheva, Y.A. Babinov, D.B. Shelov, I.Y. Shaub, G.M. Nikolaenko, M.E. Bondarenko); 2) theory of the goddess Virgo’s Greek origin (V.F. Meshcheryakov, L.A. Paltseva, V.I. Kadeev, V.M. Zubar, S.B. Sorochan, A.S. Rusyaeva, M.V. Rusyaeva, A.V. Shevchenko, T.M. Shevchenko). Among scholars who studied the cult of Dionysos in Chersonesus (N.V. Pyatysheva, A.P. Ivanov, A.S. Rusyaeva, M.Y. Bondarenko, T.M. Shevchenko), there is also no consensus regarding the forms of worship and significance of this cult in the polis.6 The variety of approaches to studying the cults of these Chersonesite deities reflects their multifaceted role in all areas of the life of the ancient city. However, it should be emphasised that the features of their ritual system and specifics of the festivals have not received adequate coverage in modern historiography. This situation is explained by the complexity of the source base, the virtual lack of literary evidence on this issue, and the need for the integrated use of all available historical sources.

PARTHENEIA The Parthenos cult and the Partheneia celebrated in her honour are mentioned only in sources related to Tauric Chersonesus. The uniqueness of this cult was thanks in large part to the desire of the civic community to preserve the traditional ideology carried over by the Dorian first settlers. Note that both Paltseva7 and A.S. Rusyaeva8 focus on the tradition of transferring the cult from Heraclea Pontica, the metropolis, to Chersonesus, and the close link between this cult and the first settlers. This is also confirmed by the Chersonesite oath, text of the 4th–3rd centuries BC, where the cult was given a place directly after the three Panhellenic gods associated with the cosmic order (‘Zeus, Gaia, Helios, Parthenos …’: IOSPE I2 401), which emphasises the importance of the cult in the pantheon of the Chersonesites. It is known that Parthenos was depicted on the earliest coin series of Chersonesus.9 This might suggest that by the turn of the 5th/4th centuries BC she dominated the pantheon. Agreeing with the ideas of Meshcheryakov, it is possible to talk  The combination of three such elements as procession, sacrifice, and contest (pompe kai thysia kai agon) in Greek texts was often regarded as a synonym for festival (heorte) (cf. Chaniotis 2013, 25). 6  See Rusyaeva and Rusyaeva 1999; Rusyaeva 2005a; 2005b; Bondarenko 2003, 13–14, 66; T. Shevchenko 2011, 12–18. For more details about the historiography of the cult of Parthenos in Chersonesus, see Lapina 2002. 7  Paltseva 1988, 75–80. 8  Rusyaeva and Rusyaeva 1999, 12, 106–11. 9  Anokhin 1977, 20, 31. 5

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about the worship of Parthenos in Chersonesus in the first centuries AD as a combination of elements from the cults of Artemis (with the epiclesis Parthenos and Tauropoles), Iphigenia, and Tyche.10 It must be emphasised that by the turn of the 4th/3rd centuries BC Chersonesus experienced an influx of the new groups of immigrants from the metropolis, as too from the Dorian city of Callatis, located on the west coast of the Pontus.11 The economic prosperity and expansion of the polis across the territory of the north-western and western Crimea and Kerkinitis led to Chersonesus becoming the centre of a large territorial state, covering a significant part of Taurica.12 Therefore, the festivals in honour of the main goddess, Parthenos, acquired special significance and were held sumptuously, accompanied by a number of ceremonies, including a ceremony of glorification and rewarding citizens who had provided great services to the polis.13 The decree in honour of Diophantus mentions: ‘… may the Council and the People decide to crown Diophantus, the son of Asclepiodorus, with a golden wreath at the Partheneia during the procession …’ (IOSPE I2 352). The sanctuary of the goddess Virgo has not yet been clearly discovered, but it was probably located in the city centre, had a large altar, and was the main shrine of Chersonesus.14 Excavations of 2012–13 carried out in the northern region of Chersonesus revealed parts of a Doric temple built at the end of the 4th century BC and a stepped altar.15 There was a cave in the basement of the sanctuary, which can be correlated with a cave (asulon) dedicated to the goddess Parthenos, mentioned in The Lives of Holy Bishops of Cherson.16 The epiphania (phenomenon or ‘miracle’) of the goddess as well as the signs, noted in epigraphic documents of the 3rd–2nd centuries BC, were characteristic manifestations of Parthenos-worship in Chersonesus (IOSPE I2 344, 352).17 The most interesting information about the Parthenos ‘miracles’ is contained in the decree in honour of Sirisk. The text, of the second half of the 3rd century BC, tells us that Chersonesite historian Sirisk ‘… painstakingly described [the] Parthenos phenomena …’, noting with what events the miraculous power of the goddess Parthenos was associated and what was the source of healing or recovery (IOSPE I2 344). Another decree of the 2nd century BC in honour of Diophantus says that the signs of the goddess Virgo contributed to the victory of Diophantus, commander of the Pontic king Mithridates VI Eupator, who defended Tauric Chersonesus in a military confrontation with the Scythian king Palak (IOSPE I2 352). The signs of Parthenos were also described by Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus in the treatise On the Governance of the Empire. He tells about the nameless goddess (Parthenos) who helped Gikia, the daughter of the wealthy Chersonesite aristocrat, to save the polis when Bosporan envoys tried to seize power there.18 In the texts mentioned, Parthenos 10

 Meshcheryakov 1980.  Shcheglov 1978, 11. 12  Vinogradov and Shcheglov 1990, 326–34. 13  Ruchynska 1994, 83; 1996, 140. 14  Pichikyan 1984, 254–55. A. Buiskikh reconstructed the appearance of the temple of the Doric order, according to the preserved architectural details (Buiskikh 2008, 171–75). 15  Ryzhov 2015, 5–9. 16  Latyshev 1906, 50. 17  Vinogradov 1997, 110–12. 18  De adm. imp. 53. The text mentions the events of the second half of the 1st century BC. 11

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was considered as the saviour and patroness of the Chersonesite community, as a goddess with soterial functions. A.S. Rusyaeva believes that the expansion of such functions of the goddess Parthenos and their combination with signs and divinations testified to a significant elevation of her cult over other gods of the polis pantheon.19 It should also be added that, accordingly, the importance of festivals in honour of Parthenos increased too. The decree of the second half of the 3rd century BC specifically stipulates that the Chersonesites should ‘arrange the service well’ and, therefore, conduct all the necessary rituals and ceremonies at the festivals of Parthenos, and thus thank her for the multiple salvation of the citizens of Chersonesus in various situations (IOSPE I2 343). As noted by M.P. Nilsson, Partheneia in Greece were held in honour of Artemis and were necessarily accompanied by a solemn procession, music, dancing and competitions.20 Given that in the cult of Parthenos there were elements of worship from the Artemis cult, we can assume a similar structure of festivals in Chersonesus. The inscription of the 2nd century BC, mentioning Partheneia, tells of the solemn procession (pompe) with the participation of all citizens of Chersonesus during the ceremony (IOSPE I2 352). The decree also tells about the crowning of the Sinopean Diophantus with a golden wreath during the celebration of Partheneia, which allows us to talk about the tradition of official proclamations and crownings during the procession at the Chersonesus Partheneia. The crowning of a foreigner testifies that such solemn processions could be attended not only by citizens but also by representatives of other Greek cities. According to the honorary decrees, the organisation of festivals in honour of Parthenos and leading the procession were the preserve of male priests.21 Perhaps Agasikl, son of Ctesias, famous statesman and public figure of Chersonesus, was one of the priests in the cult of Parthenos, in accordance with the decree of the end of 4th–first quarter of the 3rd century BC.22 For his outstanding services, an equestrian bronze statue was erected to him in the city. According to the inscription carved on the pedestal, Agasikl acted as gymnasiarch after his priesthood and could well have organised competitions during the Partheneia (IOSPE I2 418). The name of one of the victors in the Chersonesus agones, Theophantes, the son of Apemant, is preserved on a tombstone of the late 4th–early 3rd centuries BC. The depiction on the relief of a strigil, a vessel for oil and several victorious dressings (taeniae) allows us to say that this athlete was a multiple winner of athletic competitions. It is quite natural that such famous victors as Theophanes should take part in one of the most important events in the life of the civic community of Chersonesus, in a solemn procession in honour of the main goddess of the city. Given the special role of the goddess as the patron of the polis and its protector during the wars, it is quite appropriate to assume the presence of fully armed young men at the solemn procession, similar to the festival of the Great Panathenaia in Athens.23 Admission of ephebes to the number of polis citizens could also be carried out at the Partheneia. Musicians and choirs who performed the solemn song in honour of Parthenos could take 19

 Rusyaeva and Suprunenko 2003, 273.  Nilsson 1906, 256. 21  IOSPE I2 410, 415, etc. For details on this subject, see Rusyaeva and Rusyaeva 1999, 101–05. 22  Rusyaeva and Suprunenko 2003, 143. According to Saprykin (1994, 73–76), this decree should be dated to the first quarter of the 3rd century BC. 23  Ephebes often took part in processions during various festivals (see Chaniotis 2011, 38). 20

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part in the pompe too. Such a procession during the Partheneia was supposed to reflect the valour and prosperity of the civic community. The festivals in Chersonesus took place annually in the corresponding month of Parthenos, which is recorded in the Chersonesite calendar.24 Based on the general significance of the holiday and the magnitude of the Parthenos cult for Chersonesus, it is possible to assume that during these festivals all kinds of agones were held (agon gymnicus, agon gippikus, agon musikos).25 The fact that, starting from the Hellenistic era, many agonistic festivals held in the Greek poleis began to be transformed and new ones were established, can indirectly confirm this assumption. These festivals necessarily included all three types of agones: athletic, hippic (equestrian) and musical. Such, for example, were the newly established Aetolian Soteria (Syll3 402, 9–10, 15–16; 408, 16–17)26 or Nicephoria in Pergamum (Syll 3 629, 9, 15). In addition, their obligatory element was the crowning of citizens and the proclamation of agones as sacred. Thus, there is a general tendency to expand the competition programmes of the most significant festivals. Mention of an architheor, victor of the Panhellenic Pythian Games (famous for their diverse agones programme, with a special role for the musical competitions) in the decree of 194 BC, may be indirect confirmation of the expansion of the programme of the Chersonesus Partheneia. The winner in this particular case was one of the citizens of Chersonesus.27 A pseudo-Panathenaic amphora, originating from Alexandria, depicting fist fighters, runners and a discus thrower, was found in Chersonesus. In the Hellenistic period, many Greek poleis held festivals similar to Athenian Panathenaia with a variety of competitions. Perhaps a Chersonesite citizen took part in the Alexandrian Games. The same prize was a bronze hydria, which was awarded to a man from Chersonesus, victor in the equestrian competitions at the Athenian festival of Anakii in honour of the Dioscuri.28 A bronze medallion from Assos is indirect evidence from Roman times, giving an idea of the tradition of equestrian competitions in Chersonesus. It has an image of the emperor (probably Commodus) on the front and a quadriga on the back.29 These medallions did not circulate as coins and their issues were dedicated to special events. Such an event, apparently, was the ceremonial games with the chariot competitions, held in honour of the emperor in Assos. The participants in these games might include wealthy citizens of Chersonesus, possibly with the rights of Roman citizenship, who actively participated in the worship of the Imperial cult. Competitions of riders and, especially, chariots required long training and were very expensive, thus only the social elite could participate. Athletic competitions were much more accessible for the majority of citizens. 24

 Solomonik 1976, 139.  For more details on individual types of competitions that were held in Tauric Chersonesus, see Ruchynska 1994; 2017, 153–80. Note that the assumption of A. Shevchenko (2007, 185) about the inclusion of archery competitions during the Parthenos festivals, based on images of a bow and arrows depicted on coins as attributes of the goddess, looks very doubtful. Rather, this fact is a confirmation of the Chersonesite cult’s connexion with the archer goddess Artemis. 26  Sifakis 1967, 63–71. 27  Grakov 1939, 14. The Pythian Games also included all three types of competitions (see Sharnina 1997, 63–65). 28  Grinevich 1926, 23. 29  Gilevich 1974, 30–34. 25

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It should be noted that, by the 2nd–1st centuries BC, the organisation of festivals and agones in honour of Parthenos had become the responsibility of the sanctuary itself, which was the main depository of the city’s treasury. Special treasurers of sacred sums (tamias ton hieron) allocated the necessary amounts for sacred ceremonies, starting from the 3rd century BC (IOSPE I2 344, 352).30 By the first centuries AD, the treasury of the Parthenos temple had become significantly impoverished and the Partheneia festival gradually lost its former grandeur and splendour. However, the Parthenos cult, as well as the accompanying religious ceremonies, continued to exist in Chersonesus until the end of Classical Antiquity. According to The Lives of Holy Bishops of Cherson, in the second half of the 4th century AD adherents of the new Christian religion sought to overcome the polis citizens’ commitment to the still extremely popular pagan Parthenos cult.31

THE DIONYSIA An image of a dimorphic deity, which is a combination of two essentially related cults, could be found on coins issued by Chersonesus between 350 and 330 BC. There are different points of view regarding the interpretation of these cults, for example, the union of the cults of Zeus and Hera,32 Dionysos and Ariadne, two different hypostases of Dionysos33 or Dionysos and Parthenos.34 From our point of view, S.Y. Saprykin is more correct, claiming that the image of the male head belongs to Dionysos and the female to Virgo.35 Similar images and a system of symbols on coins were a way of promoting the public side of the cults of Parthenos and Dionysos as well as their civic functions. Simultaneous mentions of these two cults are found not only in coinage but also in the texts of the inscriptions. In particular, the decree of the 3rd century BC, which mentions the sacred rites in honour of Parthenos, reports on how the citizens of Chersonesus, along with their children and wives, carried statues of Dionysos (IOSPE I2 343). The closeness of the two cults in Chersonesus manifested itself in the peculiarities of their worship by large-scale festivals, which were accompanied by solemn processions, competitions, public crowning and glorification of citizens. Numismatic data clearly indicate that the Dionysos cult already had an official status in Chersonesus in the 4th century BC.36 It gained popularity in the Hellenistic period, when there was an active development of the Chersonesite chora, the delimitation of the Heraclean Peninsula, the development of viticulture and winemaking (Chersonesus occupied a leading position in the supply of wine of its own production in the northern Black Sea region).37 In the same period, a theatre was established and began to operate actively. With certain restructuring, it existed from the end of the 3rd/beginning of the 30

 Solomonik 1964, 2; 1973, 110.  Sorochan 2005, 1270–73. 32  Anokhin 1977, 23, 57–59. 33  Zograf 1927, 394. 34  Saprykin 1980, 50. 35  Saprykin 1980, 50. 36  Zograf 1927, 394; Anokhin 1977, 23; cf. Bondarenko 2003, 68. 37  Vinogradov and Shcheglov 1990, 332; Zedgenidze 2015, 41. 31

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2nd century BC to the 4th century AD.38 A Chersonesite decree of the second half of the 3rd century BC, which tells about the crowning with a golden wreath of a Chersonesite citizen Sirisk, who read his work on the history of his native polis in the theatre during the Dionysia (IOSPE I2 344), provides us with documentary evidence of state celebrations in honour of Dionysos. Analysis of epigraphic materials allows us to restore certain events related to the Dionysia in Chersonesus: a procession of citizens accompanying the statue of Dionysos headed for his sanctuary located outside the polis (IOSPE I2 343), a solemn procession (pompe) also headed for the altar of Dionysos, located directly in the theatre or in the temple nearby. Such processions during the Dionysia usually took place very solemnly, accompanied by music and dances.39 The image of one of these processions is present on a relief.40 In the first centuries AD, thiasarches were the ones who organised the solemn processions during the Dionysia in Chersonesus (inscription of the end of the 3rd century AD) (IOSPE I2 425). The thiasarch, who was a magistrate and a noble and wealthy citizen, judging by the expenses that he spent on public services, was elected for a determinate period.41 The celebration of the Dionysia in Chersonesus occurred at the beginning of spring (February–March), as indicated by the same month in the calendar – Dionysios (IOSPE I2 352, 357).42 It was the usual time for dramatic contests in Greece.43 It is interesting to note that the month Dionysios was preserved in the calendar of Chersonesus in the first centuries AD. This fact clearly indicates a long tradition of celebrating the official festival in honour of the god and, to some extent, contradicts the existing point of view about the insufficiently wide worship of this cult in Chersonesus compared with other gods of the polis.44 The English scholar S. Goldhill notes that the structure of the festivals in honour of Dionysos included dramatic contests, which were part of sacred ceremonies, as well as civic ceremonies.45 All these actions formed a single complex of the festival. One of the most important elements of civic ceremonies, reflecting the polis ideology, was the theatre-based proclamation and crowning of citizens who distinguished themselves in the service of the polis (Demosthenes Orat. 18, 120). It is important to note that the award wreaths, even if they were golden, typically imitated the plant, which was supposed to be a reward. During the crownings at the Dionysos festivals, often more ‘valuable’ ivy wreaths were used. They were usually intended for service in especially responsible positions or the greatest services to the polis. For service in less important positions, citizens were crowned with a laurel wreath during the festivals of Apollo or Artemis.46 In Chersonesus, an ivy wreath was probably awarded during the Dionysia, and a laurel during the Partheneia (IOSPE I2 418). With the help of crownings and proclamations during the most important festivals, the polis thus educated citizens in the spirit of the 38

 Dombrovskii 1960.  Bieber 1961, 52. 40  Belov 1962, 55. 41  Kadeev 1996, 146–47. 42  Minns 1913, 546; Solomonik 1964, 49; Vinogradov 1997, 104. Cf. Kadeev 1996, 146. The author rather correlates the Dionysios month with February in the calendar of Chersonesus. 43  Nilsson 1906, 275–302. 44  Cf. Rusyaeva 2005, 78; T. Shevchenko 2011, 149–50. 45  Goldhill 1987, 58. 46  Vinogradov and Shcheglov 1990, 351; Rusyaeva and Suprunenko 2003, 137. 39

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prevailing value system. Fragments of inscriptions of the 3rd century BC from Chersonesus, reporting the theatre-based rewarding of citizens during the Dionysia, indicate a close relationship of the theatre with the festivals in honour of Dionysos (IOSPE I2 344). The specified decree in honour of Sirisk is of particular interest. It tells about the crowning of the Chersonesite historian for his services to the fatherland. Dramatic contests (agon skenikos) were an important element of the Dionysia. A terracotta figurine of the first centuries AD from Chersonesus depicts an actor in a tragic image, tightly wrapped in a himation.47 The players of Dionysos’ priests traditionally wore it during dramatic contests. The find of this terracotta is unique, since it testifies to the continuation of the tradition of staging tragedies in the theatres of the northern Black Sea region in Roman times. In Greece, only excerpts from tragedies related to the love affairs of the Greek gods were performed during this period.48 Terracotta figurines from Chersonesus, depicting comic actors in a short tunic, with a large belly and large phallus as an indispensable comedy attribute of a male costume, fully correspond to the image of the comedy’s distinctive characters.49 During the Dionysia, satirical drama was the third discipline included in the programme of the dramatic contests.50 Masks and terracotta figurines of Dionysos, his companions Satyr, Silenus and Pan, who were indispensable heroes of the satire drama, are found in Chersonesus. A direct connexion with the theatre and satirical drama is indicated by the fact that terracotta masks from Chersonesus had cuts in the mouth similar to traditional theatre masks.51 In the first centuries AD, with ancient drama in general decline, dramatic contests were supplemented by literary and musical agones (agon musikos).52 The inscription of the first centuries AD, found in the area of the theatre at Chersonesus, allows us to talk about the organisation of literary and musical competitions there (IOSPE I2 433).53 The text lists victories in three poetic agones: comedy (komodia), complimentary poem (enkomion) and epigram (epigramma). The inscription also indicates contests of heralds (karukas) and trumpeters (salpistas). During such agones, trumpeters and heralds competed for the right to announce the names of competitors and winners. Note that in 396 BC, at the 60th Olympic Games, such competitions were included in the agones programme as the last eighteenth discipline. In Olympia, these competitions were combined with athletic forms, which is quite justified, since the competitions of trumpeters and heralds revealed the strength of the voice and respiratory organs.54 However, in the Chersonesus catalogue, these two competitions are mentioned among the musical agones. Thus, in the northern Black Sea region the main focus was on the musicality and performing skills of the participants. Perhaps, by trumpeter competition we should generally understand the competition of musicians.55 Traditionally, literary and musical competitions held in Chersonesus are associated with the Dionysia, but the expansion of the Partheneia 47

 Kadeev 1985, 279–80.  Ruchynska 2017, 215. 49  A. Shevchenko 2016, 801, 804. 50  Papakonstantinou 2019, 25. 51  Papakonstantinou 2019, 260, 267, 274. 52  Chaniotis 2011, 23. 53  Solomonik 1973, 127. 54  See Ruchynska 2017, 175–76. 55  Ruchynska 2017, 176. 48

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programme, which may also have included musical agones, suggests that in the first centuries AD literary and musical competitions were held then too. It should be noted that the Roman period is characterised by the inclusion of trumpeter, herald, encomium writer, comedy and other competitions in the festivals. However, these were not the Dionysia festivals, but others, for example Lysimacheia and Aphrodisia, which already had a more socio-political than sacred meaning.56 Also, an important point is that in Greek religion epiphanies were characteristic of the cult of Dionysos. With the help of words, music, dance, rhythm, Dionysos appeared to his admirers and was perceived as epiphanestatos theos.57 For Dionysos, the theatre was where the ‘coming god’ celebrated his arrival and epiphanies.58 In Chersonesus, Parthenos assumed these functions back in the Hellenistic era. The reality of the miraculous power of the goddess, her epiphanies and signs raised no doubts in the minds of citizens.59 We should agree with A.S. Rusyaeva that there is a direct connexion between the signs, epiphanies, the reflexion of Parthenos’ acts in the work of Sirisk and the honourable decrees, and the elevation of one goddess over the others in the Chersonesus polis.60 This was not a new phenomenon for the Greeks, but it was usually Dionysos, who possessed similar henotheistic traits, who included the functions of other gods.61 Consequently, the uniqueness of the Partheneia in Chersonesus was that the priests sought to create a universal image of a god, which, subject to its worthy observance, possessed powerful soterial properties, including the sacred functions of Dionysos.

CONCLUSION The Partheneia and Dionysia, which were the most significant festivals of Chersonesus, were carried out for almost the entire period of the polis’s existence. Their characteristic features were solemn processions covering the entire civic community, competitions, and ceremonies of glorification and awarding of citizens. Honorary decrees indicate that the prevailing values were reflected in the festivals: the upbringing and training of harmoniously developed personalities in the gymnasium, who could triumph in a diverse programme of agonistic competition; the pursuit of charity, which was encouraged by crownings and praises during festivals both among citizens and foreigners; the active involvement of all segments of the population in solemn processions and sacred actions. The Dionysia were local festivals, which traditionally conveyed the foundations of Greek ideology; and the Partheneia, due to the strengthening of the Chersonesus polis, sought to play the role of larger-scale games, strengthening inter-city relations, becoming a sacred defence for the local population, and turning Chersonesus not only into the sociopolitical but also the religious centre of the region. In the first centuries AD, agonistic festivals lost their unique cult features and became universal. Agones and processions were meant to distract people’s attention from the difficult political and economic situations, 56

 Papakonstantinou 2019, 25–26.  Henrichs 2008, 19. 58  Bierl 2012, 2–8. 59  Tolstoy 1918, 98–104. 60  Rusyaeva and Suprunenko 2003, 273. 61  Bierl 2012, 10–12. 57

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could serve as a means of agitation in favour of one or another polis benefactor, and continued to accustom the population to charity. Thus, Partheneia and Dionysia were used as a kind of propaganda for the Hellenic way of life and the strengthening of the local world in Chersonesus: the soterial and magical properties of Parthenos protected and psychologically influenced the civic community. In addition, both festivals were the basis for the creation of a cult and, as a result, interpolis relations, contributing to the preservation of a common Hellenic oikumene in the Black Sea littoral.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Anokhin, V.A. 1977: Monetnoe delo Khersonesa (4 v. do n.e.–12 v. n.e.) (Kiev). Bierl, A. 2012: ‘Dionysos’ Epiphany in Performance. The God of Ecstatic Cry, Noise, Song, Music, and Choral Dance’. Electra 2, 1–12. Bondarenko, M.E. 2003: Panteon Khersonesa Tavricheskogo (Moscow). Bremmer, J.N. 1994: ‘Greek Religion’. Greece and Rome n.s. 24, 1–111. Buiskikh, A.V. 2008: ‘Prostranstvennoe razvitie Khersonesa Tavricheskogo v antichnuyu epokhu’. Materialy po arkheologii, istorii i etnografii Tavrii 5, 1–424. Chaniotis, A. 2011: ‘Festivals and Contests in the Greek World’. In Hermary, A. (ed.), Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum 7: Festivals and Contests (Los Angeles), 1–43, 160–72. —. 2013: ‘Processions in Hellenistic cities contemporary discourses and ritual dynamics’. In Alston, R. and van Nijf, O.M. and Williamson, C.G. (eds.), Cults, Creeds and Identities in the Greek City after the Classical Age (Groningen-Royal Holloway Studies on the Greek City after the Classical Age 3) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 21–47. Dombrovskii, O.I. 1960:‘Antichnyi teatr v Khersonese (Raskopki 1954–1958 gg.)’. Soobshcheniya Khersonesskogo muzeya 1, 29–36. Gardiner, E.N. 1968: ‘Games the Greeks Played’. In Cantor, N.F. and Werthman, M.S. (eds.), The History of Popular Culture (New York/London), 3–11. Gilevich, A.M. 1974: ‘Moneta Vizantia s agonisticheskim suzetom’. In Antonova, I.A. and Borisova, B.B. (eds.), Khersones Tavricheskii: Remeslo i kul’tura (Kiev). Goldhill, S. 1987: ‘The Greek Dionysia and Civic Ideology’. JHS 107, 58–76. Grakov, B.N. 1939: ‘Materialy po istorii Skifii v grecheskikh nadpisyakh Balkanskogo poluostrova i Maloi Azii’. VDI 3, 231–315. Grinevich, K.E. 1926: ‘Steny Khersonesa Tavricheskogo. 1. Podstennyi sklep no. 1012 i vorota Khersonesa’. Khersonesskii Sbornik 1, 1–72. Henrichs, A. 2008: ‘Dionysische Imaginationswelten: Wein, Tanz, Erotik’. In Schlesier, R. and Schwarzmaier, A. (eds.), Dionysos: Verwandlung und Ekstase (Berlin/Regensburg). Kadeev, V.I. 1996: Khersones Tavricheskii. Byt i kul’tura (I–III vv. n.e.) (Kharkov). —. 1985: ‘Raskopki v raione Khersonesa’. Arkheologicheskie otkrytiya 1983, 279–80. Lapina, O.V. 2002: ‘Khersonesskaya Partenos (istoriograficheskii aspekt)’. In Makhlayuk, A.V. (ed.), Akra. Sbornik nauchnikh trudov (Nizhny Novgorod), 70–86. Latyshev, V.V. 1906: ‘Zhytiya svyatykh episkopov Khersonskikh. Issledovaniya i teksty’. Zapiski Imperatorskoi Akademii nauk po istoriko-filologicheskomu otdeleniyu 8.3, 1–86. Meshcheryakov, V.F. 1980: ‘Derzhavni kulty Divy i Khersonas u Khersonesi Tavriiskomu 1-3 st. n.e.’. Visnyk Kharkivskogo Universitetu, seriya ‘Istoriya’ 12, 64–72. Minns, E.H. 1913: Scythians and Greeks: A Survey of Ancient History and Archaeology on the North Coast of the Euxine from the Danube to the Caucasus (Cambridge). Nilsson, M.P. 1906: Griechische Feste von religiöser Bedeutung mit Ausschluss der Attischen (Leipzig). —. 1948: Greek Piety (Oxford). Paltseva, L.A. 1988: Khersones Tavricheskii v 5–1 vv. do n.e. (Leningrad). Papakonstantinou, Z. 2019: Sport and Identity in Ancient Greece (London/New York) Pichikyan, I.R. 1984: Malaya Azia – Severnoe Prichernomor’e: Antichnie traditsii i vliyaniya (Moscow).

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Ruchynska, O.A. 1994: ‘Religioznye obryady i prazdnestva v obshchestvennoi zhizni antichnykh gorodov Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. Drevnosti 1994, 73–86. —. 1996: Obshchestvennaya zhizn’ v antichnykh gorodakh Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (sotsialnokul’turnyi aspekt) (Avtoreferat dissertatsii kandidata istoricheskikh nauk) (Dnepropetrovsk). —. 2016: ‘Agonisticheskie prazdnestva v antichnykh gorodakh Severnogo i Zapadnogo Prichernomor’ya: istoriya izucheniya problemy i ee sovremennoe sostoyaniye’. Visnyk Kharkivskogo Natsionalnogo Universiteta, seriya ‘Istoriya’ 51, 13–23. —. 2017: Kul’tura i obshchestvo grecheskikh gorodov Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (6 v. do n.e.–4 v. n.e.) (Kharkov). Rusyaeva, A.S. 2005a: ‘Regionalnye osobennosti kul’ta Dionisa v Prichernomor’ye’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 9, 65–83. —. 2005b: Religiya pontiiskikh ellinov v antichnuyu epokhu: Mify. Svyatilitshcha. Kul’ty olimpiiskich bogov i geroev (Kiev). Rusyaeva, A.S. and Rusyaeva, M.V. 1999: Verkhovnaya boginya antichnoi Tavriki (Kiev). Rusyaeva, A.S. and Suprunenko, A.B. 2003: Istoricheskie lichnosti ellino-skifskoi epokhi (kul’turno-politicheskie kontakti i vzaimovliyaniya) (Kiev/Komsomolsk). Ryzhov, S.G. 2015: ‘Antichnyi khramovyi kompleks v Severnom raione Khersonesa’. Materialy po arkheologii, istorii i etnografii Tavrii 20, 5–30. Saprykin, S.Y. 1980: ‘K tipologii dvukh grupp monet Khersonesa’. Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 3, 43–57. —. 1994: Ancient Farms and Land-Plots on the Khora of Khersonessos Taurike. Research the Herakleian Peninsula 1974–1990 (Antiquitates Proponticae, Circumponticae et Caucasicae 1; McGill University Monographs in Classical Archaeology and History 16) (Amsterdam). Shcheglov, A.N. 1978: Severo-Zapadnyi Krym v antichnuyu epokhu (Leningrad). Shevchenko, A.V. 2007: ‘“Svyashennye” prazdnestva v antichnom Khersonese’. In Alekseenko, N.A., Babinov, Y.A. and Hoffmann, H. (eds.), Sacrum et Profanum 2: Religioznoe mirovozzrenie v drevnem i sovremennom obshestvakh: prazdniki i budni (Sevastopol/Cracow), 185–88. —. 2016: Terrakoty antichnogo Khersonesa i ego blizhaishei selskoi okrugi (Simferopol). Shevchenko, T.M. 2011: Religiinyi svitoglyad naselennya antychnogo Khersonesa (Kiev). Sifakis, G.M. 1967: Studies in the History of Hellenistic Drama (London). Skrzynska, M.V. 2009: Drevnegrecheskie ptazdniki v Ellade i Severnom Prichernomor’ye (Kiev). Solomonik, E.I. 1964: Novie epigraficheskie pamyatniki Khersonesa (Kiev). —. 1973: Novie epigraficheskie pamyatniki Khersonesa (Kiev). —. 1976: ‘Nekotorie gruppy graffiti iz antchnogo Khersonesa’. VDI 3, 121–41. Sorochan, S.B. 2005: Vizantiiskii Kherson (vtoraya polovina 6–pervaya polovina 10 vv.) (Ocherki istorii i kul’tury 2) (Kharkov). Tolstoy, I.I. 1918: Ostrov Belyi i Tavrika na Evksinskom Ponte (Petrograd). Vinogradov, Y.G. 1997: ‘Khersonesskii dekret o “nesenii Dionisa” IOSPE I² 343 i vtorzhenie sarmatov v Skifiyu’. VDI 3, 104–24. Vinogradov, Y.G. and Shcheglov, A.N. 1990: ‘Obrazovanie territorialnogo Khersonesskogo gosudarstva’. In Golubtsova, E.S. (ed.), Ellinizm: ekonomika, politika, kul’tura, vol. 1 (Moscow), 310–71. Zedgenidze, A.A. 2015: ‘Voprosy osvoeniya khory Khersonesa Tavricheskogo i problema “drevnego Khersonesa” Strabona’. VDI 2, 40–55. Zograf, A.N. 1927: ‘Dve gruppi khersonesskikh monet s zaimstvovannimi tipami’. Izvestiya Gosudarstvennoi Akademii Istorii Material’noi Kul’turi 5, 379–97.

THE PRE-ACHAEMENID KINGDOM OF CAPPADOCIA AND THE IDENTIFICATION OF KERKENES DAĞ Zsolt SIMON

ABSTRACT This paper argues that the pre-Achaemenid kingdom of Cappadocia (so far neglected in historical research) can be located within the Halys Bend, where the site of Kerkenes Dağ provides an archaeological, historical and philological fit for its capital.

It is my pleasure to offer this short essay on a Phrygia-related problem as a token of appreciation to Gocha Tsetskhladze, who has done so much for the investigation of the Ancient West and East. Gilotsavt da didkhans sitsotskhlesa da khangrdzliv da naqopier sametsniero moghvats’eobas gisurvebt!

1. THE PROBLEM Xenophon lists in his Cyropaedia (2. 1. 5) the Anatolian members of Croesus’ coalition against Cyrus as follows: Artacamas, king of Greater Phrygia; Aribaios, king of Cappadocia; and Gabaidos, leader of the contingent from Phrygia on the Hellespont. The Carians, Cilicians and Paphlagonians did not join the coalition. It is Aribaios and his realm who are the subject of this investigation, since they represent a complete mystery in the history of pre-Achaemenid Anatolia: Aribaios is known only from a single further remark, also in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia (4. 2. 31), according to which he was killed in the upcoming battle by the Hyrcanians.1 His kingdom is not mentioned either before or after this event, until of course the rise of the post-Achaemenid kingdom of Cappadocia. Unfortunately, he and his kingdom have not been the topic of scholarly research, which has usually avoided even mentioning them.2 This paper is devoted to the most basic question: where is his kingdom to be located?3

1

 Kirchner 1895.  Although standard reference works such as Der Kleine Pauly, Der Neue Pauly and the Oxford Classical Dictionary have entries on Cappadocia, they do not mention the kingdom of Aribaios and no entry is devoted to him. The detailed list of king in Eder and Renger 2004 and Marek 2017 as well as the historical overview in the Cambridge Ancient History (Mellink 1991) also neglect him. Högemann and Oettinger 2018 discuss the 6th-century political landscape of Central Anatolia in detail, but without even mentioning the kingdom of Aribaios. The supposed handbook of Ancient Near Eastern polities before the Achaemenid period (Bryce 2009) also lacks an entry Cappadocia. 3  Considering the problematic issue of the genre of the Cyropaedia, one may object that the historicity of Aribaios and his kingdom is doubtful. Current research, however, stresses the value of the Cyropaedia from 2

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2. THE LOCATION

ZSOLT SIMON

OF

CAPPADOCIA

As is well known, Cappadocia as a geographic term includes a vast territory in Central Anatolia stretching from the Black Sea to the Taurus Mountains with the River Halys flowing through it, which also serves as its western border, while in the south-west it borders on Lycaonia and in the south on Cilicia.4 Nevertheless, it would be premature to identify the kingdom of Aribaios with this entire territory, for two reasons. First, we do not know when this extension of Cappadocia came about, and accordingly, we do not know if this extension can be applied to 547/546 BC too, when Aribaios and his kingdom are mentioned. This is not independent from the fact that the origin of this toponym is unclear, but if it originates in the Hittite term ‘Lower Land’, it was definitely a more restricted area (see below for more discussion). Second, there are clear indications that parts of Cappadocia belonged to other political entities, both in the south and in the north. In the south, the king of Cilicia is mentioned by Herodotus (1. 74) as a mediator between the Lydians and Medes after their battle in 585 BC.5 The role of the king of Cilicia as a mediator could have been motivated either because his territory was somehow involved in the clash of the Lydians and Medes or for another, politically motivated reason as a neutral mediator. It remains to be seen whether the ruler of a small country (as Cilicia is usually reconstructed) at the corner of the Lydian empire could indeed have served as a neutral and influential mediator between two powers. The assumption that the ruler of Cilicia was affected by the sheer extension of his realm is not only more logical but also has the advantage of being able to explain yet another passage of Herodotus: He claims in 1. 72 that the River Halys originates in the Armenian Mountains, flows through Cilicia and then reaches the Phrygians. Although it has been claimed that Herodotus’ knowledge of the real course of the river ‘seems, to say the least, to have been limited’,6 this specific description is correct in terms of the origin of the river and the relative order of the topography. Thus, we have no reason to doubt that Cilicia at least reached the Halys. And if Cilicia bordered the Halys, this makes the king of Cilicia’s mediator role between the Lydians and the Medes perfectly logical. What we do not know is whether this ‘Great Cilicia’ still existed 40 years later, on the eve of the Persian conquest reducing Cappadocia to the region of the Halys Bend, but one obviously has to take into account this possibility too.7

the point of view of Achaemenid history and Iranian studies: see the recent overview by Tamiolaki 2017, 176–80 (with detailed references). 4  See, for example, Jacobs 1994, 140–44; Strobel 1999a, 262 (both with references). 5  The precise date is frequently questioned (see, for example, the overview in Bichler 2001, 240, n. 99), but it has no relevance here. 6  Rollinger 2003, 307 (with references). 7  Högemann and Oettinger (2018, 399–400, with map) suggest that the Herodotean description of the Halys reflects an earlier region of the Cilicians, who later immigrated to Cilicia. Needless to say, there is no evidence for a Cilician migration. Their claim (pp. 397–98) that Hilika/Hilakku (the Ancient Near Eastern term for a part of Cilicia) is located at the upper course of the Halys has no basis. Although its traditional location in Western Cilicia is indeed disputed, even those scholars who assume a northern location include and for obvious historical-geographical reasons (the region in question belonged to Tabal, of which Hilika was not a part) can include only the Bolkar Dağları. See the summary with detailed references in Bagg 2007, 106–07; add now Bryce 2009, 309; 2012, 161; Bryce and Birkett-Rees 2016, 163–64 (for Cilicia Tracheia); and Novák 2010, 406 (north of Adana). Cf. also the next footnote.

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As for the north, Herodotus’ report (1. 75–76) about Croesus crossing the Halys and attacking Pteria, a part of Cappadocia, is contradicted by Xenophon’s claim that the king of Cappadocia was an ally to Croesus. The obvious solution is that not all parts of Cappadocia stood under the rule of the same sovereign. Since only a northern location of Pteria, close to Sinope, can be reconciled with the ancient testimonies (see below), this would restrict the location of the Cappadocia of Aribaios to the region within the Halys Bend without the Black Sea area in a wide sense.8 One may object that the border of Croesus’ empire was the Halys and thus Cappadocia of Aribaios must be located west or south of it. This is, however, not necessarily the case. Nowhere is it claimed that Aribaios was a vassal of Croesus and thus his realm a part of Croesus’ empire. On the contrary, the description of Croesus’ coalition given by Xenophon includes units that were clearly not vassals of Croesus: Aragdus the Arabian and even ‘Assyrians’. In other words, there is no reason to locate the Cappadocia of Aribaios west of the Halys, and in fact it can be safely located only within the Halys Bend.

3. THE IDENTIFICATION

OF

KERKENES DAĞ

There is no doubt that Aribaios’ Cappadocia was a significant power. This is clearly demonstrated by the size of his army in comparison with the other members of Croesus’ coalition, unless one wants to assume a more militarised state, an Anatolian Prussia, for which there is no evidence (Cyropaedia 2. 1. 5; note that even if the numbers are incorrect, their proportion to each other gives the same picture and there is no reason to assume that Xenophon downsized Croesus’ unit and increased those of Aribaios): Table 1. Main forces of the army of Croesus

Croesus (Lydia)

Cavalry

Infantry

10,000

40,000

Artacamas (Greater Phrygia)

8000

40,000

Aribaios (Cappadocia)

6000

30,000

8  Högemann and Oettinger (2018, 407–11) express a radical view, according to which Cappadocia was originally a region south of the Halys (cf. Högemann 1992, 251, without arguments). This is based on their interpretation of the Herodotean account, according to which Croesus crossed the Halys twice, once on the lower course into the region of the Halys Bend and once from there into the region south of the Halys. In their view Herodotus claims that the river was flowing ‘von links’, which is possible only if the army was standing within the Halys Bend facing south. This is, however, false, since, first, the text clearly mentions only one crossing. Second, the text says, ‘Thales (…) made the river, which flowed on the left hand, flow also on the right of the army’ (1. 75, translation A.D. Godley). In other words, Herodotus does not say that the river was flowing from the left, but simply describes the relative position of the army and the river to each other. Needless to say, an army stationed on the west bank of the Halys facing south is exactly in this position. A similar proposal can be found in Wittke 2014, 750, who suggests that the Herodotean Cappadocia included only the upper course of the Halys and the region south of it. Her claim is based only on the 4th-century division of the satrapy of Cappadocia into a northern and southern part – this is clearly a non sequitur and refuted by the location of Pteria (see below). For the necessity of a Cappadocia at the Black Sea coast already at the time of Darius I, see also Jacobs 1994, 140–41.

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A significant power obviously had a significant capital (while the size of its territory need not be significant). Interestingly enough, there is one (and only one) site in the 6th century both within the Halys Bend, and in all Cappadocia, which was clearly the capital of a significant polity: Kerkenes Dağ. Thus it is proposed here that Kerkenes Dağ was the capital of the kingdom of Cappadocia of Aribaios. This fits also the general background, since the destruction and immediate abandonment of Kerkenes Dağ coincided with the Persian conquest, which is fully understandable if the troops of Kerkenes Dağ participated in the lost battle against Cyrus and if its ruler, the king of Cappadocia, died in the battle. The fact that Kerkenes Dağ belonged to the Phrygian world in terms of both local spoken language and material culture9 causes no problems, since we only know the names of the country and its ruler: while the origin of the name Cappadocia is unclear to this day,10 the name Aribaios may provide a Phrygian connexion. Although it has been claimed that the name is Iranian, more precisely, a so-called Kurzname from Ari(o)barzanes or Ari(o)bazos,11 which would indeed fit morphologically,12 we are dealing with a ruler before the Achaemenid conquest, when any Iranian linguistic influence in Central Anatolia is improbable.13 Justi refers, however, to the name Arribaios being held by at least two kings of the Lyncestae, a Macedonian tribe (Thucydides 2. 99. 2, 4. 83. 1). Although this name is in reality almost always written as Arrabaios,14 once it appears as Arribaios in the Suda (E 3695) and another Arrabaios might be identical to the Macedonian general Aribbaios mentioned by Polyaenus (7. 30). It is possible that Arrabaios and Ar(r)ibaios represent two dialectal forms of the same name,15 but what is important for this investigation is that, as is well known, this is exactly the geographical (cf. also Herodotus 7. 73) and linguistic milieu from which the Phrygians originate and thus the similarity of these names cannot be coincidence. Accordingly, one can identify Aribaios as a Phrygian name.16 A king with a Phrygian name and a capital where Phrygian was spoken at least among the elite is a perfect match and supports the identification of 9

 See the critical summary in Summers 2018, 104–08 (with further references).  For a critical discussion of the previous theories, see Yakubovich 2014. In his views (uncritically followed by Högemann and Oettinger 2018, 397), the Hittite term ‘Lower Land’ (which is not attested in syllabic spelling) is to be read as *katta peda-, which was Luwianised as *kattapadda-, which led with syncope to *katpadda-, which turn led to Iranian Katpatuka- (with a regular suffix and sound substitution or voice assimilation for *-dd-), Hellenised as Cappadocia. However, this derivation is not possible. Setting aside that the reconstruction *katta peda- was rightly questioned by Forlanini 2017, 239, n. 1 (note, however, that the existence of the toponym Pedašša obviously allows a toponym *Katta peda-, so a connexion to the term ‘Lower Land’ is not necessary), the assumption of the syncope and the phonological ‘explanation’ of the Iranian and the Greek forms are ad hoc. 11  Justi (1895, 25, followed by Zgusta (1964, 90: see there also Aribas, a perhaps related Cappadocian name). Arrabaios was a widespread name in Macedonia (see the attestations in LGPN IV, 48). 12  In case of the shortening of the second member of Indo-European compound names the only rule is that at least the initial consonant (cluster), the so-called hypocoristic root, should be preserved (Schmitt 1995b, 424–25; 1995a, 620). 13  There is no reason to assume that a king of Cappadocia in the mid-6th century had a Scythian or Cimmerian name (setting aside the vexed question of the Iranian origin of the Cimmerians). It is noteworthy that Tavernier’s handbook of Old Iranian Nebenüberlieferung (2007) did not include this name. 14  For the attestations, see Kaerst 1895. 15  The origin of this name (and that of Arridaios, the first member of which is obviously related) is unfortunately unknown (Brixhe 2018, 1865). 16  This name has not been identified until now as Phrygian, see the most recent and most extensive compilation by Obrador Cursach 2018. 10

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Kerkenes Dağ with the capital of Aribaios. But even if none of the names showed any connexion to the Phrygians, it would have no relevance, since the name of a region and the name of only one of its rulers do not need to reflect the locally spoken language(s). At this juncture, it must be mentioned that the identification of Kerkenes Dağ is the object of a long-standing and heavy discussion. Although the excavator claims that ‘identification of Kerkenes with the place called Pteria by Herodotus has found wide if not universal acceptance’,17 this is far from the case. In fact, although some scholars have followed this identification,18 some others have rejected it19 and the overwhelming majority avoid any decision.20 Summers’s identification is practically based on the observation that Kerkenes Dağ fits the Herodotean account in the sense that it lies to the east of the Halys river, within Cappadocia, more or less ‘due south of Sinope’.21 What he neglects is that the identification of Kerkenes Dağ with Pteria cannot be reconciled with the written sources on Pteria, which clearly point to a settlement close to Sinope. The phrase used by Herodotus (1. 76), κατὰ Σινώπην, can mean not only ‘due south of Sinope’, but also ‘opposite / near / by / at / in a line with Sinope’.22 That the precise meaning here is ‘near Sinope’ is revealed by other Antique sources independent from Herodotus, by an entry of Stephanus of Byzantium (s.v. Πτέριον), who records a Pteria of Sinope, and by a Giessen papyrus (PbuG 40 [olim P. Giess 307b = Hellanicus 4 F 201 bis]), which mentions a Pteria in a Sinopean Black Sea context (note also that Herodotus used this phrase only for places close to each other).23 Be that as it may, the capital need not to be homonymous with its empire. Thus, even if Kerkenes Dağ turns out to be Pteria, it does not contradict the identification of the region as the kingdom of Cappadocia. 17  Summers 2018, 104 (cf. also Summers and Summers 2012, 163 about this location: ‘almost certainly’). 18  French 1998, 23, n. 2; Strobel 1997, 140; 1999b; 2001, 50; 2003–05, 547; 2005, 135, 146, 149; Boardman 2000, 17; Mitchell in Talbert 2000 (Map 63, but cf. next footnote). 19  Müller 1997, 208, 210; Braund and Sinclair in Talbert 2000 (Map 87, Eğrikale, 80 km south of Sinope); Rollinger 2003, 321–22; Wittke 2014, 759–60: instead of answering Wittke’s criticism Summers (2018, 104) labelled her paper as an ‘eccentric view of historical geography’; Högemann and Oettinger 2018, 409–11. See also the scepticism of Roaf (2003, 19). Since the identification with Kerkenes is not a new idea (it was proposed by Przeworski 1929), there were already scholars who doubted or rejected this before the current debate, including Bittel in Bittel and Güterbock 1935, 18; Kirsten 1959, 2466. 20  Tuplin 2004, especially 241–42 (‘strongly suggestive, rather than definitively compelling’); BerndtErsöz 2006, 120; Sagona and Zimansky 2009, 370 (‘tempting’, ‘by no means ruled out’); Michels 2011, 695 (‘not sure’); Roller 2011, 564 (‘may be’); van Dongen 2014, 700, n. 15 (‘not quite certain’). Payne and Wintjes 2016, 39 (‘still eludes firm identification’). Sams (2011, 614) mentions it only as one of the candidates for Pteria. 21  Summers 1997, 86, 88. 22  See the full lexicographical analysis in Powell 1960, 184–85. Cf. Bittel in Bittel and Güterbock 1935, 18; Rollinger 2003, 322. A critical overview of the ancient testimonies on Pteria (the basis of the following remarks) can be found in Tuplin 2004, 247–48. 23  See already Radke 1959, 1496. The precise identification of Pteria is beyond the scope of this paper, but mention must be made of Akalan, discussed by the honorand as a possible solution (Tsetskhladze 2012, 238). Thus, the papyrus and the Herodotean account are easily reconcilable, contra Tuplin 2004, 258. Tuplin (2004, 242, 258) rejects this identification since he cannot imagine a northern location of the Battle of Pteria between Croesus and Cyrus (‘scarcely viable’, ‘intrinsically awkward’; cf. also Payne and Wintjes 2016, 39). But it was Croesus who started the war, and if he started by attacking in the north – precisely because the ruler of the central region within the Halys Bend, Aribaios, was his ally – then he had to be stopped there.

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4. CONCLUSIONS This paper argues that the pre-Achaemenid kingdom of Cappadocia (so far neglected in historical research) can be located within the Halys Bend, where the site of Kerkenes Dağ provides an archaeological, historical and philological fit for its capital.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bagg, A.M. 2007: Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der neuassyrischen Zeit 1: Die Levante (Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients. Reihe B. Geisteswissenschaften 7; Répertoire géographique des textes cunéiformes 7) (Wiesbaden). Berndt-Ersöz, S. 2006: Phrygian Rock-Cut Shrines: Structure, Function, and Cult Practice (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 25) (Leiden/Boston). Bichler, R. 2001: Herodots Welt: Der Aufbau der Historie am Bild der fremden Länder und Völker, ihrer Zivilisation und ihrer Geschichte (Berlin). Bittel, K. and Güterbock, H.G. 1935: Boğazköy 1: Neue Untersuchungen in der hethitischen Hauptstadt (Abhandlungen der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse 1935, no. 1) (Berlin). Boardman, J. 2000: Persia and the West. An Archaeological Investigation of the Genesis of Achaemenid Art (London). Brixhe, C. 2018: ‘Macedonian’. In Klein, J., Joseph, B. and Fritz, M. (eds.), Handbook of Comparative and Historical Indo-European Linguistics (Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft 41) (Berlin/Boston), 1862–67. Bryce, T.R. 2009: The Routledge Handbook of the Peoples and Places of Western Asia: The Near East from the Early Bronze Age to the Fall of the Persian Empire (London/New York). —. 2012: The World of the Neo-Hittite Kingdoms: A Political and Military History (Oxford). Bryce, T.R. and Birkett-Rees, J. 2016: Atlas of the Ancient Near East: From Prehistoric Times to the Roman Imperial Period (New York/London). Eder, W. and Renger, J. 2004. Herrscherchronologien der antiken Welt: Namen, Daten, Dynastien (DNP Suppl. 1) (Stuttgart/Darmstadt). Forlanini, M. 2017: ‘South Central: The Lower Land and Tarḫuntašša’. In Weeden, M. and Ullmann, L.Z. (eds.), Hittite Landscape and Geography (Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1, Near and Middle East 121) (Leiden/Boston), 239–52. French, D. 1998: ‘Pre- and Early-Roman Roads of Asia Minor. The Persian Royal Road’. Iran 36, 15–43. Högemann, P. 1992: Das alte Vorderasien und die Achämeniden: Ein Beitrag zur Herodot-Analyse (Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients. Reihe B, Geisteswissenschaften 98) (Wiesbaden) Högemann, P. and Oettinger, N. 2018: Lydien: Ein altanatolischer Staat zwischen Griechenland und dem Vorderen Orient (Berlin/Boston). Jacobs, B. 1994: Die Satrapienverwaltung im Perserreich zur Zeit Darius’ III. (Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients. Reihe B, Geisteswissenschaften 87) (Wiesbaden). Justi, F. 1895: Iranisches Namenbuch (Marburg). Kaerst, J. 1895: ‘Arrabaios’. RE II.1, 1223–24. Kirchner, J. 1895: ‘Aribaios’. RE II.1, 822. Kirsten, E. 1959: ‘Pteria’. RE XXIII.2, 2465–66. Mellink, M. 1991: ‘The native kingdoms of Anatolia’. CAH III.22, 619–65. Michels, C. 2011: ‘Cyrus’ II Campaigns against the Medes and the Lydians’. In Rollinger, R., Truschnegg, B. and Bichler, R. (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich/Herodotus and the Persian Empire (Akten des 3. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema ‘Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalischer Überlieferungen’, Innsbruck, 24.–28. November 2008) (Classica et Orientalia 3) (Wiesbaden), 689–704.

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Müller, D. 1997: Topographischer Bildkommentar zu den Historien Herodots 2: Kleinasien und angrenzende Gebiete mit Südostthrakien und Zypern (Tübingen). Novák, M. 2010: ‘Kizzuwatna – Hiyawa – Quwe. Ein Abriss der Kulturgeschichte des Ebenen Kilikien’. In Becker, J., Hempelmann, R. and Rehm, E. (eds.), Kulturlandschaft Syrien: Zentrum und Peripherie. Festschrift für Jan-Waalke Meyer (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 371) (Münster), 397–425. Obrador Cursach, B. 2018: “Phrygian” Personal Names: An Updated Classification. Paper presented at the fifth ‘Luwic’ Dialects: Inheritance and Diffusion Workshop. Santiago de Compostela, 26 January 2018. Payne, A. and Wintjes, J. 2016: Lords of Asia Minor: An Introduction to the Lydians (Philippika 93) (Wiesbaden). Powell, J.E. 1960: A Lexicon to Herodotus (Hildesheim). Przeworski, S. 1929: ‘Die Lage von Pteria’. Archiv Orientální 1, 312–15. Radke, G. 1959: ‘Pteria’. RE 23, 1496–97. Roaf, M. 2003: ‘The Median Dark Age’. In Lanfranchi, G.B., Roaf, M. and Rollinger, R. (eds.), Continuity of Empire (?): Assyria, Media, Persia (History of the Ancient Near East 5) (Padua), 13–22. Roller, L.E. 2011: ‘Phrygian and the Phrygians’. In Steadman, S.R. and McMahon, G. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia. 10,000–323 B.C.E. (Oxford), 560–78. Sagona, A.G. and Zimansky, P. 2009: Ancient Turkey (London/New York). Sams, G.K. 2011: ‘Anatolia: The First Millennium B.C.E. in Historical Context’. In Steadman, S.R. and McMahon, G. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia. 10,000–323 B.C.E. (Oxford), 604–22. Schmitt, R. 1995a: ‘Entwicklung der Namen in älteren indogermanischen Sprachen’. In Eichler, E., Hilty, G., Löffler, H., Steger, H. and Zgusta, L. (eds.), Namenforschung: Ein internationales Handbuch zur Onomastik (Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft 11) (Berlin/New York), 616–36. —. 1995b: ‘Morphologie der Namen: Vollnamen und Kurznamen bzw. Kosenamen im Indogermanischen’. In Eichler, E., Hilty, G., Löffler, H., Steger, H. and Zgusta, L. (eds.), Namenforschung: Ein internationales Handbuch zur Onomastik (Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft 11) (Berlin/New York), 419–27. Strobel, K. 1997: ‘Galatica I. Beiträge zur historischen Geographie und Geschichte Ostgalatiens’. Orbis Terrarum 3, 131–53. —. 1999a: ‘Kappadokia I. Geographie und Bevölkerung. II. Geschichte A. Vom 8. Jh. v. Chr. bis zur röm. Provinz. B. Römische Provinz’. DNP 6, 262–64. —. 1999b: ‘Kerkenes Dağı’. DNP 6, 442–43. —. 2001: ‘Phryger – Lyder – Meder: Politische, ethnische und kulturelle Größen Zentralanatoliens bei Errichtung der achaimenidischen Herrschaft’. In Bakır, T. (ed.), Achaemenid Anatolia (Proceedings of the First International Symposium on Anatolia in the Achaemenid Period, Bandırma, 15–18 August 1997) (Uitgaven van het Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul 92) (Leiden), 43–55. —. 2003–05: ‘Phrygien, Phryger. B. Geschichte und Religion’. Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie 10, 546–49. —. 2005: ‘Pteria und das Phrygerreich’. In Beutler, F. and Hameter, W. (eds.), ‘Eine ganz normale Inschrift’ … und Ähnliches zum Geburtstag von Ekkehard Weber. Festschrift zum 30. April 2005 (Althistorisch-epigraphische Studien 5) (Vienna), 133–54. Summers, G.D. 2018: ‘Phrygians east of the red river: Phrygianisation, migration and desertion’. AS 68, 99–118. Summers, G.D. and Summers, F. 2012: ‘Kerkenes Dağ’. In Sivas, T. Tüfekçi and Sivas, H. (eds.), Frigler. Midas’ın Ülkesinde, Anıtların Gölgesinde/Phrygians. In the Land of Midas, In the Shadow of Monuments (Istanbul), 162–81. Talbert, R.J.A. (ed.) 2000: Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (Princeton/Oxford). Tamiolaki, M. 2017: ‘Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Tentative Answers to an Enigma’. In Flower, M.A. (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon (Cambridge), 174–94.

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Tavernier, J. 2007: Iranica in the Achaemenid Period (ca. 550-330 B.C.): Lexicon of Old Iranian Proper Names and Loanwords, Attested in Non-Iranian Texts (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 158) (Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2012: ‘The Southern Black Sea Coast and Its Hinterland: An Ethno-Cultural Perspective’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) Oxford), 235–41. Tuplin, C.J. 2004: ‘Medes in Media, Mesopotamia, and Anatolia: Empire, Hegemony, Domination or Illusion?’ Ancient West and East 3.2, 223–51. van Dongen, E. 2014: ‘The Extent and Interactions of the Phrygian Kingdom’. In Gaspa, S., Greco, A., Morandi Bonacossi, D., Ponchia, S. and Rollinger, R. (eds.), From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond. Dedicated to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday on June 23, 2014 (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 412) (Münster), 697–711. Wittke, A.-M. 2014: ‘Überlegungen zur Lage von Pteria’. In Gaspa, S., Greco, A., Morandi Bonacossi, D., Ponchia, S. and Rollinger, R. (eds.), From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond. Dedicated to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday on June 23, 2014 (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 412) (Münster), 745–65. Yakubovich, I. 2014: ‘From Lower Land to Cappadocia’. In Kozuh, M., Henkelman, W.F.M., Jones, C.E. and Woods, C. (eds.), Extraction and Control. Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper (Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68) (Chicago), 347–52. Zgusta, L. 1964: Kleinasiatische Personennamen (Československá akademie ved. Sekoe jazyka a literatury. Monografie Orientálního ústavu 19) (Prague).

GORGONS ON THE GO: AN ATHENIAN BLACK-FIGURE SKYPHOS FROM BEREZAN* Tyler Jo SMITH

ABSTRACT Among the corpus of Athenian black-figure pottery discovered in the excavations on the island of Berezan is a partially preserved skyphos of ca. 500 BC decorated on both sides with three Gorgons: the beheaded body of Medusa and her two sisters. This paper presents the skyphos in relation to the iconography of Perseus and the gorgons on other black-figure vases with particular attention to contemporary examples with the same scene found on the same shape. Three aspects of the Berezan skyphos are explored in more detail – the garments of the figures and their possible connexion to metals, the poses and gestures of the figures, and the dolphins that likely appeared beneath both handles – in an effort to understand the object in relation to its mythology and its potential audiences located at a Greek colonial site on the north coast of the Black Sea. The movements of the gorgons are connected to dancing figures on Athenian black-figure vessels and their repetition on both sides of the skyphos is viewed as possible evidence for performance. When viewed from a local perspective, it seems possible that the hybrid gorgons were a deliberate choice for purchase, if not the thus far unique decoration on a made-to-order vessel.

BEREZAN’S GORGON SKYPHOS Athenian black-figure pottery has been discovered in large quantities as a result of excavations on the island of Berezan, the site of ancient Borysthenes colonised by Miletus. A diagnostic sample of these imported wares was selected for study and appeared in the second volume of reports based on the collections held at the State Hermitage Museum. Additionally, the corpus of Athenian black-figure has been discussed in more detail according to their iconography with special attention to artists, workshops and significant parallels.1 Although the subjects on these vases, many of poor quality and surviving in a fragmentary condition, might simply be seen to represent general trends in Archaic Greek art, there are some rather unusual vessels from Berezan and in fact some that are * It is my pleasure to honour Gocha Tsetskhladze whom I have known for many years, first as a fellow postgraduate at Oxford and since that time as a colleague and a friend. I thank Gocha for inviting me to take part in the Berezan Publication Project and facilitating my research visit to the Hermitage to study the Athenian black-figure pottery from the excavations. My thanks are also extended to: Alan Shapiro, who joined me in St Petersburg in order to study the red-figure pottery and who helped in many ways throughout the process; Sergey Solovyov at the Hermitage for his ongoing assistance and encouragement; Malcolm Bell for permission to publish the skyphos from Morgantina; Hank Lanphier for sharing his expertise on metals; Dan Weiss for his drawing of the Agora fragment; and the editors of this volume, in particular James Hargrave and John Boardman, for including my contribution. 1  Smith 2010b; 2013.

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thus far unique. One category of vase decoration that is particularly well represented from the site are animals and monsters.2 On the one hand, this might be explained as an indication that such scenes, in keeping with the long-dying ‘animal-style’, had generic appeal and were appropriate to audiences both at home in Greece and abroad.3 On the other hand, their quantity encourages us to revisit the question of consumer preferences, as well as the reasons and ways these objects and images reached their destinations – a trend that has entered the conversation of Athenian and other vase imports to colonial, non-Greek and mixed locales. Hybrid creatures are also attested on Berezan’s Athenian black-figure vases, such as sphinxes and sirens, as well as composite figures tied to specific myths, such as Triton, Pegasus, Medusa and the gorgons. One unusual vase that merits further exploration is the fragmentary black-figure skyphos of ca. 500 BC connected to the CHC Group that is decorated with gorgons on both sides and dolphins under the handles (Fig. 1a–b). Although all the figures on the black-figure skyphos are not completely preserved, it is clear that the same three winged gorgons were on each side. It also seems likely that the composition and general appearance of the three sisters – Stheno, Medusa and Euryale – was more or less identical on both sides of the vessel. The two immortal sisters are shown with frontal faces, running to the right, with both arms bent and their fists clenched and held at waist-level. Between these two is the headless, failing Medusa, who seems to fall towards the ground with one arm bent and raised and the other pointed downward perhaps swinging behind her. Despite their postures and movements, the winged monsters fill the available space both horizontally (handle-to-handle) and vertically (top-to-bottom), making them seem at once larger than life and somewhat awkwardly compressed within the frame. Each gorgon has white skin, in keeping with the convention of showing female figures in Athenian black-figure, and each is wearing a short belted chiton, their typical drapery by this period in Greek art. Unusually, however, their garments are highlighted in added yellow paint, an uncommon choice for black-figure painters. Incision has also been used to diversify the details of their clothing, such as the hemlines (both straight and scalloped) and the folds above or below the belt. Their faces, where preserved, are rendered in a very simple way with two added red dots for the eyes and a swath of red to suggest a lolling tongue.4 The skyphos was discovered in the north-western plot of Berezan (trench B) in a household pit (no. 23), along with transport amphorae, black-glazed pottery, various East Greek vessels, and metal objects including a dolphin-shaped coin.5 It is one of several skyphoi found throughout the site in various contexts, dated to the decades before and after 500 BC, among them those belonging to Ure’s Class of Skyphoi A1, the Heron Class and Ure’s Class K2.6 While it is likely that the skyphoi replaced stemmed-cups (kylikes), the prevalent form of Athenian black-figure drinking vessel imported during 2

 Smith 2010b, 75–76.  Hardin 2014, 29–37. 4  Compare the gorgoneion medallions on a black-figure volute krater, from Orvieto (ca. 520 BC); Cohen 2006, 84–85, no. 16 (Copenhagen, National Museum 3835). 5  Smith 2010a, 196, no. 105 (B84.139); 2013, 350–51, figs. 6–7. On the context: S.L. Solovyov, pers. comm., 22 October 2020; and Solovyov 1999, 32, fig. 10. 6  Smith 2010a, 194–97; Kilinski 1990, 59. 3

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Fig. 1a–b. Fragmentary Athenian black-figure skyphos, from Berezan. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B84.139. Medusa and her sisters, ca. 500 BC (photograph: S.L. Solovyov).

the 6th century, the suggestion that the large quantity of cup imports at Berezan and elsewhere on the Black Sea reflects the desires of the local Greek population to maintain the sympotic drinking customs of their homeland is difficult to prove based on our current understanding and evidence.7 Rather than focusing solely on that issue, here we shall discuss the iconography of the gorgon skyphos, consider a few parallels from other places and suggest the applicability of the subject for Berezan, a site described as a ‘contact zone of interaction between the Greeks and indigenous peoples’.8 7  See Smith 2010a, 173–78, for the shape distribution according to chronology, and 178, n. 15, for the suggestion of Greek drinking customs; Solovyov 1999, 52–54; cf. Reeder 1999, 149, no. 42, a 4th-century Scythian gold plaque with a drinking scene. A detailed presentation of the evidence by find-spot is still needed: see Smith 2010b, 87–88. 8  Solovyov 1999, xiv. See also Solovyov 2010, 92 and 96.

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ON

VASES

The story of Perseus and the gorgons would have been well known to an Archaic Greek audience, and by this date it had an established iconography in black-figure vase-painting. Armed with supplies provided by Athena, Hermes and the Nymphs, Perseus, who had been set the difficult task of beheading the gorgon Medusa, ‘flew beyond Ocean to the land of Gorgons, whom he found asleep’ (cf. Hesiod Theogony 275–279).9 After successfully cutting of her head with a curved dagger (harpe), Perseus placed the head inside a bag (kibisis) and quickly fled wearing Hades’ cap of invisibility. The distressed sisters chased after Perseus but were unable to see him (Pherecydes Histories fr. 11; Apollodorus Library 2. 4. 1–5). The myth of Perseus and the gorgons first appears on Greek vases in the 7th century, beginning with the well-known example shown on a large Protoattic amphora of ca. 650 BC used for a child burial at Eleusis.10 Although not fully preserved and too early to be painted in black-figure, we recognise on the vase a male figure thought to be Perseus who moves off to the right, while being pursued by Stheno and Euryale – Medusa’s two concerned sisters who, according to this painter, must first get past Athena as she stands guard. Significantly, ‘The artist has created gorgon heads out of the forms of cauldrons with animal protomes (here lion-headed serpents), inspired by the appearance of Orientalising metalwork’.11 None of the gorgons have wings, though Medusa who has lost her head now seems to fly through the air with her horizontal body parallel to the ground. Like at least one of her running sisters, Medusa’s oddly bulging torso appears to be covered in scales, either in reference to the snakes from her now lost head, her marine origins as a descendant of sea deities or, less likely, her folded wings (the sisters do not seem to have wings). A ‘gorgon-headed goddess’ appears on the surface of an East Greek plate from Kamiros, Rhodes, dated later in the century, where the single frontal-faced female has features that are beginning to look more familiar (sans snakes) and the wings have also been included.12 Also of East Greek manufacture and provenance is an Ionian figure-vase from Rhodes (ca. 600–575 BC) in the shape of the gorgoneion, complete with teeth, tusks, tongue, large penetrating eyes and snakes.13 Around 600 BC, both the gorgon figure-vase and the gorgoneion in black-figure also make their appearance in Corinthian production, including a lekanis also found at Kamiros.14 Gorgons and gorgoneia are among the first subjects to be chosen for full black-figure, turning up in Athens by at least 600 BC and even earlier in other arts.15 The name vase of the Nessos Painter, a large amphora from Athens dated to the late 7th century, includes on its body the three sisters devoid of other figures in a foreshadowing of the way they will appear on the Berezan skyphos a century later: the two immortal sisters with frontal faces and bodies exhibit a kneeling-running pose with one arm extended to the front and the other bent sharply at the shoulder with forearm hanging straight down; headless 9

 Stafford 2004, 102–03.  Eleusis, Archaeological Museum; Boardman 1998, 105, fig. 208.1–2. 11  Boardman 1998, 90. See also Carpenter 1991, 104–05. 12  London, British Museum 1860.4-4.2; Boardman 1998, 156, fig. 297; Tsiafakis 2003, 89. 13  Berlin, Antikensammlung, 1961.4; Boardman 1998, 176, fig. 358. 14  London, British Museum 1861.4-25.46; Boardman 1998, 198, fig. 395; and see 197, fig. 392.2, and 202, fig. 408. 15  LIMC 4, ‘Gorgo, Gorgones’, 316–17; Ogden 2008, 35–37; Tsiafakis 2003, 83–90. 10

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Medusa has been left behind as she falls towards the ground and grabs on to one knee for support, her wings folded against her body in a bird-like fashion.16 Below the gorgons, who move to the right, we see a row of dolphins swimming in the opposite direction in clear reference to the body of water that the sisters are passing over in pursuit of Perseus. Although normally a painter of animals, the early 6th-century Gorgon Painter presents on his name vase, a standed dinos now in Paris, a far more developed version of our favourite myth.17 The obviously winged sisters chase Perseus, with the aid of their winged boots, as their beloved Medusa drops down towards the ground behind them. The kneeling-running pose is less dramatic here, and the frontally facing, winged monsters seem to stay apace with Perseus whose cap of invisibility will ultimately save him. These two vases by the Nessos Painter and the Gorgon Painter, represent two iconographic traditions that will continue throughout the history of Greek vase-painting – namely, scenes that centre on the three sisters immediately after the decapitation and those that contain other figures in the story, starting with Perseus himself. The painter of the Berezan skyphos has chosen to capitalise on the former, the pursuit of the hero by the distraught sisters. Useful comparison can be made with two mid-6th-century Boeotian black-figure tripod-kothons, a shape whose exact function is a matter of some debate. On the first, from Tanagra, the myth is spread out across all three legs of the large vessel: two gorgons (one running, one headless), one running gorgon and Perseus (inscribed).18 The gorgon sisters are immediately recognisable by their wings, frightening faces and animated poses. Their arm gestures, one raised up to the front and the other hanging down at the back with the palm facing the buttocks, hold much in common with the dancing male komasts who themselves form almost a chorus-line on one of the three painted sides of the same vessel. As I have argued elsewhere, the separation of Perseus and the gorgons across the three legs of the kothon, as well as their momentum, helps guide the viewer around the object; as a result, one simultaneously follows the three stages of an ancient festival (procession/sacrifice, banquet/drinking, dancing/celebration) that are featured as the main decoration on the three sides of the vessel.19 The second example is found on a smaller kothon from Rhitsona, and again the relevant figure – a gorgon on the go – is placed on one of the three legs, while the other two legs display a male komast and a lion.20 The frontal-faced monster on this Boeotian vase, the work of a different painter, exhibits greater detail in her overall appearance (winged boots; added red on her face, wings, clothing; protruding tongue; snaky pattern on her torso), yet her longer chiton seems to inhibit her ability to move fast and she uses her spread wings and exaggerated arms to carry her forward. Again, this gorgon shares the decorated stage with a male komast dancer, and one wonders if these images combined reflect the use of the kothon

16

 Athens, National Museum 1002; Boardman 1974, 14–15, fig. 5.2; Beazley 1986, 13–14. On the pose in Archaic art, see LIMC 4, ‘Gorgo, Gorgones’, 306–08; Padgett 2003, 304–07, no. 81 (Medusa on her knees), 312–15, no. 84. 17  Louvre E 874; Boardman 1974, 17, fig. 11; Beazley 1986, 15–16. 18  Kilinski 1990, 15–16, no. 1 (Berlin, Staatliche Museen F 1727), 49, and pl. 7.1–2; and 56–57, on the shape. 19  Smith 2010c, 168–69. 20  Kilinski 1990, 18, no. 1, pl. 9.1–2 (Thebes, Archaeological Museum R50.263).

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Fig. 2. Athenian black-figure skyphos, from Morgantina. Aidone, Archaeological Museum 69-149. Medusa and her sisters, ca. 500 BC (photograph: M. Bell).

in life (at a religious festival) or in death (as a grave gift), and if the figures might be associated in some other way. As in the earliest Athenian examples, on these Boeotian versions Medusa’s offspring, Pegasus and Chrysaor born from her severed head, whom we might expect to find in the scenes are in no way alluded to.21 Comparing the Berezan skyphos to the two Boeotian black-figure examples, one realises that both the mythology and the figures are simplified in even more ways by the Athenian painter. Not only is Perseus missing, but also some standard details of the gorgons’ appearance, such as the snakes in their hair, gritted teeth and boar’s tusks (both evident on the Boeotian examples). Like the Boeotian kothon painters, however, the painter of our Athenian skyphos is more concerned with the chase than with other temporal aspects or narrative details of the myth. Returning to Athenian black-figure comparisons, it is necessary to consider the Berezan skyphos in relation to contemporary examples that combine the same iconography and shape. Although they are not many, the black-figure gorgon skyphoi from other sites demonstrate some shared iconographic features across the series as well as the peculiarities of the Berezan example.22 The closest parallel comes from another Greek colonial location, the site of Morgantina in East-Central Sicily (Fig. 2). During the course of excavations in the late 1960s on the slopes of Cittadella hill, a group of tombs was uncovered and identified at the time as Greek.23 The object was singled out in the original excavation 21

 Kilinski 1990, 49.  For the iconography on skyphoi, see Batino 2002, 146–49. 23  Allen 1970, 380–81. For the complete tomb and its contents, see Lyons 1996, 170 (burial 12), 9–157, dated ca. 525–500 BC, and for burial customs, including a more nuanced view of the ‘social and ethnic identities’ of the occupants, see 115–33, especially 125–26 (‘There is little, if any, correlation between the 22

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reports by H.L. Allen as an important piece of dating evidence, and described as ‘a skyphos with a frieze of gorgons, Medusa presumably indicated by having no head’. Allen further noted an unexpected detail of their iconography, consistent with the Berezan skyphos: ‘The faces are not traditional gorgon faces but rather amorphous, giving the appearance of masks.’24 Another shared feature of both examples are the dolphins situated under the handles, noted as ‘typical’ by Lyons, who also assigns the Morgantina skyphos to the Heron Class in her publication of the Archaic cemeteries.25 While at first glance the two skyphoi, one discovered on the north coast of the Black Sea and the other in the western Mediterranean, seem quite similar, their most obvious similarities are those mask-like faces on the gorgon figures and the composition of the scenes: two frontal-faced running sisters on either side of the slumped and headless Medusa. The clothing of the monsters on the Morgantina example is entirely different from those yellow frocks worn at Berezan. Their short loose chitons are decorated using incision in a series of arcs both above and below the waist to indicate folds and it is possible that each one is also wearing boots. Most importantly, the gestures of the figures on the two skyphoi differ. On the Morgantina vessel one of the running sisters holds her arms at waist level while the other extends one arm forward and another back in a way that benefits her movement. Medusa holds both arms down, reaching towards her nearby sister with one and holding the other one close to her body. Even the faces of the figures on both vessels, while similar in their use of added red to denote the eyes and mouth/tongue, are not exactly the same. Finally, the wings on the figures from Berezan show much more competent and careful use of incision. In short, we would be hard-pressed to conclude that the same painter decorated both of these skyphoi despite their obvious similarities. As at Berezan, the Athenian imports from the Archaic burials at Morgantina, be they occupied by Greeks, local Sikels or some mixture of the two, are dominated by vessels appropriate to the storage, mixing and consumption of wine, and there is no shortage of vases with Dionysian themes in their decoration. Such a situation at both sites, has inevitably led to conversations about the audiences for these imported vessels, not to mention the possible types and levels of contact between coloniser and colonised. The funerary context of the Morgantina vessel aligns with discussion of funerary banquets and offerings, while more recent explorations on the island of Berezan have unearthed two buildings, perhaps hestiatoria, ‘which served for the public dining associated with cult and social activities and festivals’ – namely, a setting in which our skyphos might have been used.26 Regardless of any possible functions within their respective local circumstances, the ‘secondary quality’ of the Athenian imports at Morgantina, and the fact that those in black-figure from Berezan ‘do not represent the highest quality … available’, is yet another point in common worth mentioning in consideration of the gorgon skyphoi found at both sites.27 typology of the tomb and the provenience of the ceramics it contained. Most tombs contained a combination of imported, colonial, and local pottery’). 24  Allen 1970, 381, pl. 97, fig. 32; Lyons 1996, 36, pl. 37 (below). 25  Lyons 1996, 36 (‘cup-skyphos’). See another skyphos in the series, said to be from Boeotia, also with dolphins under the handles; CVA Athens 4 (4), pl. 581.2. 26  Lyons 1996, 123–25; Chistov 2015, 407–12. See also Smith 2013, 349–51; and Tsetskhladze 2013. 27  Lyons 1996, 30–31; Smith 2010b, 87–88.

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Fig. 3. Fragment of Athenian black-figure skyphos, from the Athenian Agora. Athens, Agora Museum P 3988. Gorgon, early 5th century BC (drawing: D. Weiss).

Two more Athenian black-figure skyphoi, one from Greece and the other from Etruria, also provide food for thought. Closer in style to the Morgantina gorgons, than to those from Berezan, is the partially preserved winged, running female on an early 5th-century fragment from the Athenian Agora (Fig. 3).28 Unfortunately, not enough of the figure’s white face survives to determine the details of her eyes and mouth, but her garment (partially picked out in added red) again reveals simple incision above and below the waist to represent folds, while her gesture of one arm raised and the other across the waist combines those used by Stheno and Euryale on the example from Morgantina. Rather different in feel is a CHC Group skyphos from Tarquinia displaying on both sides one gorgon in swift motion, running away from her recently beheaded sister who holds her bent arms at waist level as she collapses towards the floor.29 Two youthful draped males seated on stools witness the tragic moment and seem to have no part in the well-known narrative. Who are these spectators, and what might they be watching? As on the Agora example, the scene on the Tarquinia skyphos was originally framed by palmettes positioned at the handles. A final example, an Athenian black-figure skyphos of unknown provenance, completes the series and confirms the range of postures and gestures used by the gorgons across the various scenes.30 Again, on this example, the total number of gorgons is reduced to two in a manner which abbreviates the scene yet still makes it easily identifiable. Headless Medusa falls towards the ground with one arm raised to the front and the other resting on her hip, while her frontal-facing sister runs to the right with both arms bent across the waist in the now-familiar, much-loved gorgon pose. Like the Medusa figure on the 28

 Athens, Agora Museum P 3988; Moore and Philippides 1986, 296, no. 1644, pl. 107.  Tarquinia, Museo Nazionale 611; ABV, 620, no. 99; CVA Tarquinia 2, pl. 40.4. 30  Lund University; ABV, 621, no. 100; BAPD 306312. 29

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Berezan skyphos, a row of white blobs of paint has been added to the top of her body to emphasise the missing part, and as in the Agora example there is red paint added to the gorgons’ garments. Like the other black-figure skyphoi in the series, there is a striking lack of details, attributes or other known roles in the myth – all elements we might expect by this date and for which sufficient parallels existed beginning with early Attic black-figure. Although each gorgon is winged, draped in a short chiton and seems to wear boots, there are no snakes on their heads or bodies; nor are Medusa’s offspring, Pegasus and Chrysaor referred to in any way. A useful comparison might be made with a contemporary white-ground lekythos by the Diosphos Painter (ca. 500–490 BC) where Perseus, painted in black-figure, flies away with the snaky head in his satchel and his curved weapon in hand, as Pegasus (also in black-figure) springs from the body of the fallen headless gorgon.31 The Athenian black-figure skyphos-painters in each example we have seen from the years around 500 BC, by contrast, prioritised the moment immediately following Medusa’s decapitation and the resulting chase, rather than the killing itself or the births that ensued.32 Several other Athenian black-figure vases with gorgon themes were discovered at Berezan, and these two should be presented briefly. The gorgoneion, that is the bodiless face/head of Medusa, is used as the interior tondo decoration on several Athenian eye-cups. In the corpus from Berezan, gorgoneia generally embellish cups portraying Dionysian, dancing or homosexual courtship scenes on their exteriors, either between the eyes or surrounding them. One striking example dated to the late 6th century BC illustrates the god of wine and drama in the midst of dancing, an activity relatively rare for him.33 The combination of the mask-like face of the gorgon inside the cups and the decorative eyes on the exterior should be viewed as a deliberate pairing and one that speaks directly to the drinker and his companions. That is to say, as one fellow drains his cup, perhaps begins to feel intoxicated, the grotesque face of the gorgon comes into view; and while he lifts his wide-rimmed cup to his own face, his companions (themselves drinkers) confront the face of the drinker now covered by the eye-cup, itself resembling a theatrical mask.34 Thus, drinking enters the realm of ritualised performance both literally and figuratively, where the combination of gorgon-mask inside and eye-mask outside reinforce the spectacle for the participants. Furthermore, the human figure-decoration on the exteriors of these cups represents themes associated with the symposium culture of Athens (and perhaps other Greek poleis), and may be an indication (like the vessels themselves) of the drinking practices of ‘home’ transplanted to the Black Sea’s colonial northern shores.35 The gorgoneion is used in the reverse manner on a cup-skyphos of ca. 530 BC from Berezan, where it decorates the exterior of the vessel rather than the interior.36 The eyes of the hideous monster in this example are large and exaggerated in a manner that  New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 06.1070; ABV, 702; Cohen 2006, 209–10, no. 56.  Sparkes 1968, 12–14. See also Schefold 1992, 86–89; Woodford 2003, 127–30, 208–09. 33  Smith 2010a, 191, no. 73, figs. 69a–b (B90.75); 2010b, 79–81, for Dionysian iconography on the vases. For a komos around a gorgoneion in Athenian black-figure, see Vierneisel and Kaeser 1990, 291–92. 34  Vierneisel and Kaeser 1990, 417–21. See also Tsiafakis 2003, 90. 35  Evidence for symposia in East Greece is scant. For related East Greek Fikellura vase iconography produced at Miletus, the place of most relevance here, see Smith 2010c, 194–206, especially 196, pl. 35b (from Berezan). 36  Smith 2010a, 194, no. 92, fig. 88 (B68.81). 31 32

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Fig. 4. Fragment of Athenian black-figure cup interior, from Berezan. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B73.210. Pegasus, late 6th century BC (photograph: S.L. Solovyov)

closely resembles the decorative eyes on the exteriors of the eye-cups just mentioned. These too belong to a known series, and their find-spots (where known) include locations in Greece as well as colonial contexts East and West.37 One final example germane to our current theme, is the nicely drawn Pegasus (Fig. 4) decorating the tondo of a black-figure stemless cup dated to the late 6th century.38 The winged equine child of Medusa gallops to the right, complete with reins and bridle; and although the rest of the cup is not preserved, the solo figure of Pegasus stands in for a larger mythological cycle of stories or at the very least alludes to the tragic death of his mother Medusa at the brave hands of Perseus.39

DRESSES, DANCES

AND

DOLPHINS

Looking more closely at a few details on the Berezan skyphos enables us to place its iconography into the broader context of Greek vase-painting, to question some choices that have been made by the painter, and perhaps to attach the vessel to its regional Black Sea destination. The first is the highly unusual dress of all gorgon figures on the skyphos: short chitons painted in added yellow. Added yellow is not common in Athenian blackfigure vase-painting (nor on Greek vases in general), yet it is attested on late 6th century Athenian black-figure skyphoi assigned to the Krokotos Group, so named for the yellow  Freyer-Schauenburg 1970; LIMC 4, ‘Gorgo, Gorgones’, 317–19.  Smith 2010a, 192, no. 79, fig. 75 (B73.210). 39  Smith 2010b, 76; LIMC 7, ‘Pegasos’, 215–18; Ogden 2008, 27, 35–36. 37 38

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chitons (krokotoi) worn by dancing female figures in some scenes.40 Painters of the Krokotos Group apply added yellow in other ways, such as on animals, details of clothing, hair, beards and tails.41 As specified by Noble: ‘Occasionally added yellow was used, particularly on black-figured skyphoi. It is not a bright true yellow but instead is a beige or ivory tone distinctly different from added white.’42 An obvious comparison to be made with our gorgons adorned in yellow is with another set of female figures, the girls described by Aristophanes (Lysistrata 644) who ‘played the bear’ and wore a saffroncoloured garment (krokotos) as part of the Arkteia. Many scholars have interpreted the running and dancing figures, both nude and clothed, visible on late 6th–mid-5th-century krateriskoi discovered at Brauron as girls attending the local festival for Artemis and taking part in pre-marriage initiation rites.43 When the girls on these krateriskoi are clothed, it is important to add that all are by no means wearing what might be construed as yellow garments.44 Although the exact participants and the rites themselves are not known, nor the extent to which they were private or public, as Lee points out: ‘Saffron was an expensive yellow dye, indicating the elite status of the participants in the ritual.’45 A common link between the Krokotos Painter’s skyphoi and the krateriskoi from Brauron, assuming the suggestion that the latter reference the Arkteia is accurate, are the yellow garments associated with female figures as well as with dancing ones.46 But why dress the gorgons in yellow on the Berezan skyphos? After all, in Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers (mid-5th century) gorgons are considered to be ‘dark-robbed’ (φαιοχίτωνες), as exclaimed by Orestes: ‘You handmaidens, look at them there: like Gorgons, wrapped in sable garments, entwined with swarming snakes!’ (1048; translation H.W. Smyth). Although such a portrayal might have had more to do with the plot and performance of the tragedy, expressing such a reality in black-figure vase-painting was more or less impossible given the restrictions of the technique and the dominance of artistic convention. Indeed, the gorgons on the other Athenian black-figure skyphoi we have discussed are very much dark-robbed, while their white skin on one example is actually described as ‘yellowish’.47 A notable exception is the Athenian white-ground lekythos by the Diosphos Painter mentioned above on which Medusa (drawn in outline) is in fact wearing a short yellow garment.48 Yellow as a colour might also be connected symbolically to gold, ‘the yellow metal’ that shared both positive and negative connotations in various mythological systems, reflected the prestige of its ancient consumers and, importantly, enjoyed particular relevance in the context of the material culture and visual arts of the northern Black Sea.49 Furthermore, both yellow garments and gold were tied to elite consumption 40

 CVA Athens 4 (4), 41–42, pls. 29–30. See also Ure 1955.  CVA Athens 4 (4), 42–49. 42  Noble 1960, 315–16. 43  Simon 1983, 83–88. 44  Hamilton (1989, 461–62) suggests that none are wearing yellow and that the krokotos might have been held or worn temporarily by the girls during the ritual. 45  Lee 2015, 200, and see 44 and 93. See also Pastoureau 2019, 47–49. 46  Compare the female figure, possibly a maenad, on an Athenian white-ground alabastron found in Cyprus (ca. 500 BC); Cohen 2006, 211–12, no. 57 (London, British Museum 1887.7-801.61). 47  CVA Athens 4 (4), 63. 48  See Oakley 2004, 7–8, for added yellow garments on white-ground lekythoi. 49  Pastoureau 2019, 23–27, 30–37. See also Williams and Ogden 1994, 125–27, and 131, no. 74 (goldsheet gorgoneia appliqués, ca. 450–425 BC, from Seven Brothers kurgan II); Reeder 1999, 186, no. 43; and 41

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and trade in Antiquity, given their expense and rarity.50 Added to this is the fact that the gorgons themselves are associated with metal both in art, as we saw on the Eleusis amphora where their horrid heads take the form of bronze cauldrons, and in literature, where they are described as having bronze hands and gold wings (Apollodorus Library 2. 4. 2). Other connexions to metals, and especially to bronze and gold, are evident in the Perseus-Medusa sequence of stories. Perseus uses a bronze shield provided by Athena (cf. the aegis) to deflect the gaze of Medusa in order to get close enough to behead her (cf. Homer Iliad 7. 36 [shield of Agamemnon]; Hesiod Shield of Herakles 220–239); and the noise of the gorgons has been compared with clanging metal.51 Perseus, lest we forget, was the son of Danaë who had been impregnated by Zeus in the form of a shower of gold (Apollodorus Library 2. 4. 1); and the progeny of Medusa, Chrysaor, translates ‘golden sword’, according to Hesiod (Theogony 282) ‘from the fact that he held a golden sword in his dear hands’.52 Taken from the perspective of Berezan, a place with a mixed population of local Scythians and Greek colonists, such repeated references to bronze and gold, both with respect to the gorgons and in general, might have had special implications. Herodotus (1. 215) makes clear that the Scythians used neither iron nor silver, but had an abundant supply of both bronze and gold.53 Under these circumstance, the yellow dresses may be more than a simple way of dressing-up the gorgons and adding an unnecessary splash of colour to the vessel; rather, they suggest a painter who both knows his audience and customises the story for them, complete with gold gorgons. The gestures and movements of the gorgons on the Berezan skyphos, and of contemporary vases with related iconography, also merit further discussion. On the Athenian black-figure skyphoi described above, we noted that the combination of gestures employed by the figures differs from one example to another. However, a series of arm gestures may still be recognised as standard to the iconography. The gorgons, be they the frontal-faced sisters or the headless Medusa, hold their arms bent sharply at the elbows and in front of their bodies, one arm across the waist and the other one up, or they extend one arm up and hang the other one down. A fourth option, evident on the Morgantina skyphos (Fig. 2), is the positioning of both arms in the same direction, in this case by Medusa as she tries to brace her fall. In other instances, such as on the Boeotian tripod-kothon from Tanagra, Medusa actually grabs one of her fleeing sisters by the leg just as she takes off towards Perseus. The codification of gorgon gestures on the skyphoi is significant. Not only does the repetition help to identify the figures and the story, it also indicates that within this group of vessels a certain level of artistic convention has taken over. I, however, prefer to take the issue one step further by making the comparison with dance iconography on vases. Beginning in Corinthian black-figure with the advent of the komast or ‘padded LIMC 4, ‘Gorgo, Gorgones’, 307–08, nos. 250–251, for Greek examples; and Kurke 1999, 60–64 (Herodotus and Scythians). 50  See above n. 45; and Williams and Ogden 1994, 13–17. 51  Topper 2007, 73; Ogden 2008, 50–54; and see Leeming 2013, 14 and 20; Martin 2020, 314–17. Consider also the frequency with which gorgons and gorgoneia decorated Archaic bronze vessels as well as artistic evidence of gorgon-themed shield devices; Tsiafakis 2003, 85–87. 52  Ogden 2008, 35 (translation). For gorgons and gorgoneia on Archaic bronze vessels, see Pipili 1987, 17–18; Padgett 2003, 312–22. 53  See further Vernant 1991, 117–19, 124.

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dancer’ figure certain body positions (for example, knees sharply bent) and gestures (for example, bottom-slapping) are used and repeated in dozens of examples. But it is in early Athenian black-figure vase-painting during the first quarter of the 6th century that the gestures and postures of komast dancers, both nude and clothed, become standardised by painters of the Komast Group. The main decorated shape is the Komast cup, but the dancers in question also appear on a series of early Athenian black-figure skyphoi belonging to the same group.54 The identical set of gestures and poses that come to be used over and over again – until black-figure painters working later in the century introduce more variety – may well reflect a series of actual steps and movements. It is a dance system, though not one that should be read literally or translated easily from three-dimensions (dance) to two-dimensions (images) and back again (re-performance). It is also worth noting that Komast cups displaying the dancing figures, although several decades earlier in date than the gorgon skyphos, are well represented amongst the Athenian black-figure imports unearthed at Berezan.55 The decked-out gorgons embellishing the skyphos from Berezan, and arguably those appearing on other Athenian black-figure skyphoi similar to it, may very well be ‘performing’ a series of movements. To be sure these are not your everyday kneeling-running figures so often associated with the horrific gorgons of Archaic art. Again, we question this choice on the part of the painters and begin to wonder if this might be more than a simple matter of artistic convention. It is indeed possible that the gorgon figures dressed in yellow, like their companions on contemporary skyphoi, are taking part in a performance, forming a sort of gorgon chorus if you will. In Aeschylus’ lost play Phorcides, possibly written as early as the 490s, it is the Graeae, sisters of the gorgons, who formed the chorus.56 Yet the presence of Perseus in tragedy, comedy and perhaps satyr-play, creates even more possibilities to envision various aspects of his mythology, including the gorgon episode, in relation to staged performance.57 Furthermore, each of the movements demonstrated by the gorgons on the Late Archaic skyphos series are paralleled in longestablished dance iconography on black-figure vases. The gesture that is most remarkable and defining is accomplished by placing both bent arms across the waist with fists drawn together; and it is sometime also practiced by gorgon figures in Corinthian art.58 The shared movements of dancers and gorgons on vases is probably not a coincidence. The invention of the red-figure technique in Athens, some 20–30 years earlier than the skyphoi in question, appears to have exercised no influence whatsoever on the nostalgic manner in which these artists have chosen to portray groups of moving gorgons. Furthermore, the lack of other ‘characters’ so vital to the myth in these scenes, not to mention the example from Tarquinia that even includes spectators, helps to build the case for a mimetic performance featuring Medusa and the gorgon sisters. The gorgon chorus, if such a thing ever existed, may initially have belonged to the private performance context 54

 CVA Athens 4 (4), 13–17; Smith 2010c, 50–56.  Smith 2010a, 181–83; Petrakova 2013. 56  Ogden 2008, 40–43, who also mentions the satyr-play by Aristias named Perseus (467 BC) and the 4th-century Middle Comedy entitled Gorgons and written by Heniochus. 57  Topper 2007, 88–89, 97–98, and n. 82 (collected textual references). 58  See Smith 2010c, 136, a Laconian cup (Küsnacht, Hirschmann coll.) with bearded males in loose chitons dancing in this manner, and n. 93 for Corinthian parallels; Pipili 1987, 118–19, no. 209h. 55

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of the symposium or occurred as part of a competitive festival – much like the komast dancers before them – especially given the Late Archaic date of the skyphoi series which clearly predates formal staged drama. A final detail of the Berezan gorgon skyphos worth mentioning are the dolphins that must have appeared swimming beneath both handles, though only one such creature actually survives. Dolphins were sometimes chosen to decorate the empty space beneath the handles on Athenian black-figure skyphoi, and several showing Medusa and her sisters include this aquatic animal specifically (cf. Fig. 2).59 We also observed that dolphins had an association with the myth of Perseus and the gorgons, as already noted by Beazley in reference to the Nessos Painter’s amphora: ‘The Gorgons, as Hesiod tells, dwelt on the farther shore of Ocean, and the chase is over the sea, which is indicated by the border of leaping dolphins under the picture.’60 On the vases that include dolphins alongside gorgons, the creatures make a clear reference to the story of Perseus and Medusa as well as to the larger cycle of associated mythology, the most obvious cases being: Perseus being born from a chest thrown into the sea; the gorgons descending from sea deities and residing in a far-away place, differing according to various sources, but consistently reached across a large body of water (Ocean, Libya, northern Scythia near the one-eyed Arimaspians); Poseidon, god of the sea, fathering Pegasus and Chrysaor; Perseus struggling with a sea-monster (ketos) in order to free Andromeda.61 On the black-figure skyphoi, however, the moving dolphins beneath the handles function in yet another way – namely, to join, rather than to divide, the two sides of the vessel. As a result, the scenes on the Berezan skyphos mirror one another by replicating the three gorgons on both sides. Such visual repetition lends additional credibility to the idea of a performance of dancing gorgons decorating the whole series of Late Archaic black-figure skyphoi made in Athens. The three sisters, Stheno, Medusa and Euryale, visible on so many other vases, would only need to be shown once in order to relate the myth, and no other characters or details of the story or its aftermath are offered by the skyphos painters. Furthermore, it is somewhat unusual to find the same episode of the same myth decorating both sides of the same vessel. Interestingly, there is another parallel to be made here with dance iconography, and in particular with the Komast Group, whose painters tended to place the same or similar groupings of mortal male dancers on both sides of cups and skyphoi and, as we explained, gave them a regulated series of poses and gestures. Thus, based on the presence of the dolphins and the repetition of both subject and of movement, we should imagine that the two sides of the Berezan gorgon skyphos were meant to be viewed as a unified whole. Dolphins in ancient Greek literature and art are frequently tied to performance culture, including music, dance and dithyramb, and such a realisation may shed further light on the gorgon imagery on the Berezan skyphos.62 Of singular importance is the aulos. According to Pindar in Pythian 12, an ode composed ca. 490 BC for the winner of a musical contest (one Midas of Akragas), the aulos was invented by Athena (eventual wearer of

59

 CVA Athens 4 (4), 41–42, pl. 29 (Krokotos Group with comparanda); n. 25 (above).  Beazley 1986, 13. 61  Ogden 2008, 24–26, 47–49, 59–60, and Chapter 4; Stafford 2004, 104–05. 62  Lightfoot 2019; Kitchell 2014, 56; Kowalzig 2013; Csapo 2003; Lissarrague 1990, 114–22. 60

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Fig. 5. Athenian black-figure disc, from Berezan. St Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum B67.123. Overlapping dolphins, third quarter of the 6th century BC (photograph: S.L. Solovyov).

Fig. 6. Bronze dolphin-shaped coin from Berezan, found in layer of the 5th century BC (after Chistov 2019, 106, fig. 9.1).

Medusa’s head on her aegis) to mimic the shrill sounds of one of the two troubled gorgons; the same instrument was also related to the gorgon-mask (gorgoneion) because of the distortion of the face when the device was being played.63 According to ancient sources, dolphins were attracted to the sounds of the aulos and the ancient Greek word for the animals’ breathing hole was in fact ‘aulos’.64 The cries, expressions and gestures of the gorgon, accompanied by the aulos, and the person who imitates the gorgon compared with ‘a kind of death-dancer’.65 In Archaic Greek vase-painting, however, the aulos belongs to the symposium and the komos, where it accompanies both the drinker and dancer. Regardless of any possible connexions between gorgons, dolphins and performance evident on the surface of the Berezan skyphos, a final irresistible detail worth mentioning is the corpus of dolphin-shaped monetary signs (Fig. 6), perhaps a form of coinage, discovered during the excavations of Berezan’s Archaic settlement. These regionally produced bronze tokens, such as one listed as having been found with the gorgon skyphos, 63

 Ogden 2008, 54; Lissarrague 1999, 32–33, 80; Frontisi-Ducroux 1995, 75–76; Vernant 1991, 125–29.  Lissarrague 1990, 119. 65  Vernant 1991, 127 and 129; cf. Frontisi-Ducroux 1989, 156–57; Croon 1955. 64

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are a clear testament to the significance of both the sea and the sea-mammal locally, and one that pairs nicely with the small Athenian black-figure disc (perhaps a lid or a token) portraying two dolphins also discovered at the site (Fig. 5).66 Early 5th-century coinage from nearby Olbia, considered to be the earliest from that site and cast in solid bronze, features a gorgoneion on one side and an eagle with a dolphin on the other.67 Finally, dolphins, be they on vases or coins, due to their relevance for sea travel, may not only have been appropriate to the larger cycle of myths concerned with Perseus and the gorgons (sea travel is a consistent feature of several episodes), they also had a bearing on the challenges and hazards of the Greek colonial experience, given their ability to guide ships and to rescue victims of drowning.68

DECOLONISING

THE

GORGONS

The Athenian black-figure skyphos from Berezan, showing the headless Medusa and her agitated sisters draped in yellow, affords the opportunity to consider not only some of the more and less common aspects of the vessel’s iconography but also to question its place within the place that purchased it and used it. Here we have made comparisons with other gorgon figures on other vases, and established that our skyphos is one of several in its shape category, technique and date range focusing on the exact same moment of the myth. Perseus having used up all of his magical attributes to behead the mortal Medusa has already exited the stage. Left behind are the two gorgon sisters, each whose name describes her nature and ability: Stheno (‘strength’) and Euryale (‘wide jump’). But it is Medusa herself, literally the ‘guardian’, who has captured the imagination of writers and artists from Antiquity to the present day, many of whom have fixated on her nature, her gift of petrification and her message.69 Most would agree that Medusa is a figure of paradox, having a dual nature, at once connected to life and to death, both static and moving, both tragic and comic, both terrifying and beautiful, both apotropaic and dangerous, both visible and invisible. As we have seen, the painter of the Berezan skyphos, like those of other vases belonging to the same series, has dispensed with all other participants in the story and, instead, prefers to tell the tale from the perspective of the immortal sisters. The emphasis is thus on their grief, anger and mobility, rather than on the violence of the story or the heroism of Perseus. The mask-like faces of the gorgon sisters are not those ghastly gorgoneia frequently shown on vases and in other arts, but appear rather more human and less detailed – dare we suggest, these are humans dressed as gorgons? It is also worth noting that shortly after the production of our skyphos, gorgon iconography in general undergoes a radical transformation. The ugly gorgon whose mask-like face has normally been used to express her appearances is replaced with a visage more delicate and beautiful, less threatening and disquieting.70 Other features of the Berezan skyphos, namely the yellow garments, the movements of the gorgons and the presence of dolphins, have enabled a brief exploration of these choices 66

 Chistov 2019; Smith 2010a, 208–09, no. 212 (B67.123, third quarter of the 6th century).  Boardman 1999, 251, fig. 291. 68  Lissarrague 1990, 118. 69  For example, Leeming 2013; Clair 1989. 70  Ogden 2008, 55; Tsiafakis 2003, 90, who also mentions a similar change in sphinxes and sirens. 67

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on the part of the vessel’s unknown painter. Two important points have emerged. The first is a general theme of performance that can be gleaned through comparisons with blackfigure dance iconography as well as through our knowledge of adjacent themes, among them masks, drama and the myth itself.71 The second is the potential suitability of the story, a traveller’s risky journey to an unknown and far-off land, in its unique articulation for an audience of Greeks, Scythians or perhaps both at Berezan. Although there has been much discussion of how Greek vases reached distant shores and settlements, and much debate has ensued about the exact role of the artists, purchasers and middlemen who handled them, no consensus has been reached regarding what must have been a rather complicated network of trade and a highly variable situation across the different parts of the Mediterranean. The idea that Greeks living far from home, or non-Greeks for that matter, only had access to leftover goods (i.e. those not picked up along the way by previous buyers), or that shape rather than iconography was the guiding factor for purchase within these communities, are two suggestions that find ample support in light of the corpus of Athenian black-figure vases excavated at Berezan. At the same time, a unique vessel such as our skyphos with its yellow-clad gorgons, calls for a deeper dive into the comparanda with an eye to uncovering the potential of an object made-to-order. The importance of metals in the region of Berezan, especially bronze and gold, as well the intriguing attraction to dolphins – two aspects we have touched upon only briefly – were elements also vital to the Perseus-Medusa cycle in different yet definable ways. However tenuous, they provide evidence that the purchase of the skyphos at Berezan may not have been due entirely to the lack of better quality vases to select from, but rather the result of a deliberate and conscious choice by some person at some point in time. Finally, when considering the Athenian vase imports from a setting such as Berezan, be it as an assemblage or in relation to other finds, it is highly inappropriate at this juncture to view their imagery exclusively through Athenian eyes. How a person living in late 6th- or early 5th-century Athens understood and appreciated the gorgon story or the gorgon skyphos may be of little consequence to its eventual owner at Berezan, a resident of a mixed population settlement on the north coast of the Black Sea settled by eastern Greeks. In this context, it is both the hybridity and performativity of the golden gorgons, as well as the dolphins who accompanied them, that somehow appealed to a local audience.72 Taken on its own terms, the gorgon skyphos from Berezan serve as a useful reminder that portable objects and images are carriers of meaning, whose significance has the potential to change with every new context and as a result of different peoples, uses and perspectives.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Allen, H.L. 1970: ‘Excavations at Morgantina (Serra Orlando), 1967–1969: Preliminary Report X’. AJA 74, 359–83. Batino, S. 2002: Lo skyphos attico dall’iconografia alla funzione (Quaderni di ostraka 4) (Naples). Beazley, J.D. 1986: The Development of Attic Black-Figure, rev. ed. (Berkeley). 71

 Cf. Martin 2020, 1-8.  The same might also be said with respect to the example from Morgantina when viewed within its local and regional perspective. Cf. Motta 2016, for dolphins on Sicilian coinage. 72

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Boardman, J. 1974: Athenian Black Figure Vases (London). —. 1998: Early Greek Vase Painting (London). —. 1999: The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Trade and Colonies, 4th ed. (London). Carpenter, T.H. 1991: Art and Myth in Ancient Greece (London). Chistov, D. 2015: ‘The Civic Centre of Archaic Borysthenes: A New Approach to Localisation’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 403–13. —. 2019: ‘The Chronology of Arrowhead and Dolphin-Shaped Monetary Signs from Berezan’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Atasoy, S. (eds.), Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Select Papers of the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford), 99–107. Clair, J. 1989: Méduse: contribution à une anthropologie des arts du visuel (Paris). Cohen, B. 2006: The Colors of Clay: Special Techniques in Athenian Vases (Los Angeles). Croon, J.H. 1955: ‘The Mask of the Underworld Daemon: Some Remarks on the Perseus-Gorgon Story’. JHS 75, 9–16. Csapo, E. 2003: ‘The Dolphins of Dionysus’. In Csapo, E. and Miller, M.C. (eds.), Poetry, Theory, Praxis: The Social Life of Myth, Word and Image in Ancient Greece: Essays in Honour of William J. Slater (Oxford), 69–98. Freyer-Schauenburg, B. 1970: ‘Gorgoneion-Skyphoi’. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 85, 1–27. Frontisi-Ducroux, F. 1989: ‘In the Mirror of the Mask’. In Bérard, C. et al., A City of Images: Iconography and Society in Ancient Greece (Princeton), 151–65. —. 1995: Du masque au visage: aspects de l’identité en Grèce ancienne (Paris). Hamilton, R. 1989: ‘Alkman and the Athenian Arkteia’. Hesperia 58, 449–72. Hardin, A. 2014. ‘Animals in Classical Art’. In Campbell, G.L. (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Animals in Classical Thought and Life (Oxford), 24–60. Kilinski (II), K. 1990: Boeotian Black-Figure Vase Painting of the Archaic Period (Mainz). Kitchell, K. 2014: Animals in the Ancient World from A to Z (London/New York). Kowalzig, B. 2013: ‘Dancing Dolphins on the Wine-Dark Sea: Dithyramb and Social Change in the Archaic Mediterranean’. In Kowalzig, B. and Wilson, P.J. (eds.), Dithyramb in Context (Oxford), 31-58. Kurke, L. 1999: Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold: The Politics of Meaning in Archaic Greece (Princeton). Lee, M.M. 2015: Body, Dress, and Identity in Ancient Greece (Cambridge). Leeming, D. 2013: Medusa: In the Mirror of Time (London). Lightfoot, J. 2019: ‘Something to Do with Dionysus? Dolphins and Dithyramb in Pindar Fragment 236 SM’. Classical Philology 114, 481–92. Lissarrague, F. 1990: The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet: Images of Wine and Ritual (Princeton). —. 1999: Greek Vases: The Athenians and their Images (New York). Lyons, C. 1996: Morgantina Studies 5: The Archaic Cemeteries (Princeton). Martin, R. 2020: Mythologizing Performance (Myth and Poetics 2) (Ithaca, NY/London). Moore, M.B and Philippides, M.Z.P. 1986: The Athenian Agora 23: Attic Black-Figured Pottery (Princeton). Motta, R.M. 2016: ‘Myths, Coins, and Semiotics: Arethusa and Persephone on the Coins of Syracuse’. In Reid, H. and Tanasi, D. (eds.), Philosopher Kings and Tragic Heroes: Essays on Images and Ideas from Western Greece (Sioux City, IA), 371–86. Noble, J.V. 1960: ‘The Technique of Attic Vase-Painting’. AJA 64, 307–18. Oakley, J.H. 2004: Picturing Death in Classical Athens: The Evidence of the White Lekythoi (Cambridge). Ogden, D. 2008: Perseus (London/New York). Padgett, J.M. 2003: The Centaur’s Smile: The Human Animal in Early Greek Art (Exhibition Catalogue) (New Haven/London).

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Pastoureau, M. 2019: Yellow: The History of a Color (Princeton). Petrakova, A.E. 2013: ‘Komast Cups from Excavations on Berezan Island: On the Distribution of Attic Pottery in the Northern Black Sea Area’. In Tsetskhladze et al. 2013, 123–28. Pipili, M. 1987: Laconian Iconography in the Sixth Century BC (Oxford). Reeder, E.D. 1999: Scythian Gold: Treasures from Ancient Ukraine (Exhibition Catalogue) (New York). Schefold, K. 1992: Gods and Heroes in Late Archaic Greek Art (Cambridge). Simon, E. 1983: Festivals of Attica: An Archaeological Commentary (Madison, WI). Smith, T.J. 2010a: ‘Athenian Black-Figure Pottery from Berezan’. In Solvyov, S.L. (ed.), Borysthenes – Berezan: The Hermitage Archaeological Collection, vol. 2 (St Petersburg), 171–290. —. 2010b: ‘Black-Figure on the Black Sea: Art and Visual Culture at Berezan’. In Solovyov, S.L. (ed.), Archaic Greek Culture: History, Archaeology and Museology (Proceedings of the International Round-Table Conference, June 2005, St-Petersburg, Russia) (BAR International Series 2061) (Oxford), 75–88. —. 2010c: Komast Dancers in Archaic Greek Art (Oxford). —. 2013: ‘Athenian Pottery from Berezan at the Hermitage – Revisited’. In Tsetskhladze et al. 2013, 347–54. Solovyov, S.L. 1999: Ancient Berezan: The Architecture, History and Culture of the First Black Sea Colony in the Northern Black Sea, ed. J. Boardman and G.R. Tsetskhladze (Colloquia Pontica 4) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). —. 2010: ‘Borysthenes and Olbia: Greeks and Natives Interactions on the Initial Stage of Colonisation’. In Solovyov, S.L. (ed.), Archaic Greek Culture: History, Archaeology and Museology (Proceedings of the International Round-Table Conference, June 2005, St-Petersburg, Russia) (BAR International Series 2061) (Oxford), 89–102. Sparkes, B.A. 1968. ‘Black Perseus’. Antike Kunst 11, 3–16. Stafford, E.J. 2004: Life, Myth, and Art in Ancient Greece (Los Angeles). Topper, K. 2007: ‘Perseus, the Maiden Medusa, and the Imagery of Abduction’. Hesperia 76, 73–105. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2013: ‘Not All Things Greek came through Greek Trade or at the Hands of Greeks’. In Tsetskhladze et al. 2013, 69–82. Tsetskhladze, G.R., Atasoy, S., Avram, A., Dönmez, Ş. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.) 2013: The Bosporus: Gateway between the Ancient West and East (1st Millennium BC–5th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Istanbul, 14th– 18th September 2009) (BAR International Series 2517) (Oxford). Tsiafakis, D. 2003: ‘PELORA: Fabulous Creatures and/or Demons of Death’. In Padgett 2003, 73–104. Ure, A.D. 1955: ‘Krokotos and White Heron’. JHS 75, 90–103. Vernant, J.P. 1991: Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays, ed. F. Zeitlin (Princeton). Vierneisel, K. and Kaeser, B. 1990: Kunst der Schale: Kultur des Trinken (Munich). Williams, D. and Ogden, J. 1994: Greek Gold: Jewellery of the Classical World (London). Woodford, S. 2003: Images of Myths in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge).

THE THRACIAN THOLOS TOMBS AT RAVNOGOR RECONSIDERED Nikola THEODOSSIEV

ABSTRACT Two tholos tombs at Ravnogor explored in 1987 appear to be very important for our understanding of the funerary architecture and the status of the Thracian aristocracy during the Late Hellenistic and Early Imperial periods. The detailed analysis of the chronology of the gravegoods show that the previously proposed date of the tombs, the 4th–3rd century BC, is too early and is not correct. Fragments from Late Hellenistic chain-mails, sherds from Hellenistic blackgloss pottery, a bronze coin of Tiberius minted in Amphipolis, a gold border strip of a disc pendant most probably of the Roman period and sherds of the Roman period allow us to conclude that the tholos tombs date to the 2nd–1st century BC, or even to the first decades of the 1st century AD.

The present article provides a holistic discussion and new conclusions about the chronology of two Thracian tholos tombs excavated in 1987 near the village of Ravnogor in the Rhodope Mountains.1 While the tombs display relatively simple architectural layout, technique and design, they are among the few Thracian funerary monuments that prove the continuity of the Late Classical and Early Hellenistic practice to build tholos tombs through the Late Hellenistic and Early Imperial periods as well. Previously, most scholars usually considered that the Thracian tholos tombs were constructed only in the Late Classical and Early Hellenistic periods and that after the middle of the 3rd century BC this practice was abandoned and such tombs were no longer built due to the political fragmentation in Late Hellenistic Thrace and the lack of significant Thracian tribal kingdoms with powerful aristocracies. Thus, the tholos tombs at Ravnogor not only change our understanding of the chronology and the development of Thracian funerary architecture, they also testify to the advanced political status and economic power of the local aristocracy during the Late Hellenistic and Early Imperial periods, shortly before ancient Thrace was incorporated into the Roman empire.

1  The director of the archaeological excavations was the late Georgi Kitov, to whom I am grateful for providing me with the relevant field reports and photographs. In 1987, I was a member of the archaeological team and directed the excavations of Tholos Tomb 2, which facilitated my work on the present article. In addition, in 2004, thanks to the kind responsiveness of Dimitar Mitrev, Daniela Katincharova and Stoilka Ignatova, I was able to observe some finds from Tholos Tomb 1 kept in the Regional Museum of History in Pazardzhik.

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THOLOS TOMB 1 History of Discovery and Location In 1986, during agricultural works that levelled the terrain, about three quarters of Tumulus 1 situated near the village of Ravnogor was dug out and a significant part of Tholos Tomb 1 was destroyed.2 In 1987, rescue archaeological excavations were carried out: the tomb and nine other tumuli located in the neighbouring area were explored, and subsequently, the results from the excavations were published in several reports and articles.3 Tumulus 1 was situated in a plain area in the Rhodope Mountains, in Chemerikata locality at ca. 1 km to the south of the village of Ravnogor and it belonged to a necropolis of 20 tumuli. Tumulus 1 was located in the south-western periphery of the tumular necropolis and close to the south of a cart track, at the very beginning of a slant declivity to the south.

Tumulus Since the tumular embankment was almost destroyed during the levelling of the terrain in 1986, the original size of Tumulus 1 remains unknown. Most probably it was 4–5 m in height and 20–25 m in diameter, as suggested by Georgi Kitov.4 Some local people reported that before the levelling of the terrain, some stones of the tomb structure were visible on the surface of the tumulus and therefore, the original size of the tumular embankment presumably was not very large.

Tomb Tomb 1 (Figs. 1–7) was situated on the ground level in the centre of the tumulus. There was a layer of trampled small stone pieces, 2–3 cm thick, originating from the cutting of slabs and blocks, spread over the ancient terrain close to the outer walls and around the funerary monument. The masons’ rubbish was covered with another layer of sandy soil, 2–3 cm thick, but no remains of stone cutting were found in the upper part of the tumular embankment. According to Kitov, this stratigraphic situation clearly indicated that initially the tomb was built in an open area and later covered with earth and incorporated into the tumulus.5 However, it is not possible to specify how long the tomb stood like an open-air monument and, in fact, the construction of the tumulus might have begun immediately after the tomb was built. Tomb 1 (Fig. 1) consisted of a dromos and a beehive tholos chamber, and its entrance was oriented to the south-east. The funerary monument (Figs. 2–7) was built of roughly cut slabs of local stone and quadrilateral blocks (sandstone in the dromos) and smaller 2

 Kitov 1989b, 29; Kitov 2002, 35, no. 9; Kitov and Katincharova 1987, 103.  Kitov 1988a; 1988b; 1988c; 1988d; 1989a; 1989b; 1990–91; 1993. Cf. later publications with more details: Kitov 2002; 2003. 4  Kitov 1989b, 29; 1990–91, 25; 2003, 11. 5  Kitov 1989b, 32; 1990–91, 27; 2002, 20. 3

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Fig. 1. Layout and cross-section of Tomb 1 (drawing by Daniela Stoyanova after Kitov 1989b).

uneven stones arranged in irregular horizontal courses with a core structure of smaller slabs and splinters bounded with mud. The walls had well-shaped but not completely even inner and outer faces. The dromos (Figs. 2–4) was oriented to the south-east. It was 5.15 m long and 90–95 cm wide. The dromos was built on foundations 20–50 cm deep, constructed of not wellarranged horizontal slabs that lay on the bedrock. The floor level within the dromos and the outside area in front of it was covered with a layer of trampled sandy clay, 5 cm thick. The walls of the dromos were 1.17–1.30 m wide. Their inner and outer faces were carefully constructed of quadrilateral blocks (the biggest ones were 90 cm by 60 cm in

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Fig. 2. Frontal view of Tomb 1 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

Fig. 3. The dromos of Tomb 1 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

size and were used in the inner sides of the walls) and slabs arranged in irregular courses, with a core structure consisting of horizontally placed slabs and smaller broken stones and splinters with a bonding medium of mud. The upper part of the walls was destroyed and the original construction of the roofing is unknown. It is possible to suppose that the dromos consisted of two vertical walls without any roof. Slabs and blocks from the demolished structure were found inside the dromos. The tholos chamber (Figs. 5 and 7) had an almost regular layout and was 5.26–5.40 m in diameter. The chamber was built on a circular foundation, 20–50 cm deep, which lay

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Fig. 4. Side view of Tomb 1 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

Fig. 5. Back view of Tomb 1 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

on the bedrock. The floor of the tholos chamber was partly preserved and consisted of horizontally arranged stone slabs. The width of the wall was 2 m at the bottom and it gradually increased to 2.50 m at the highest point that was preserved. The inner and the outer faces of the tholos were carefully built of slabs and quadrilateral blocks arranged in irregular courses, with a core structure of horizontal slabs and smaller broken stones and splinters originating from the masons’ work and a bonding medium of mud. The height of the courses varied between 6 cm and 21 cm, but some blocks and slabs were up to 29 cm in height and up to 80 cm in length. Often the courses were evened with

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Fig. 6. The entrance in the tholos chamber of Tomb 1 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

Fig. 7. The tholos chamber of Tomb 1 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

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irregularly placed small slabs and splinters. The first two–three courses of the wall were arranged in a vertical line up to 15–20 cm in height, thence a corbelled vault rose upwards. The corbelling was achieved by means of step-like arranged overlapping slabs and blocks. The curve of the corbel was gradual up to 1.60 m in height and then it steepened upwards, while the projection of the overlapping courses significantly increased by 5 cm, 6 cm, 7 cm, 8 cm and 9 cm for every next course. The inner face of the wall, preserved up to 2.30 m in height, consists of 22 horizontal courses, and the outer face was preserved up to a height of 2.90 m. Kitov assumed that the original height of the tholos was 4–4.80 m, which is quite plausible.6 The covering slab that closed the top of the chamber had an oval shape and was 1.25–1.45 m in diameter and 15–20 cm thick; it was found fallen inside the tholos chamber. A significant number of slabs from the fallen structure were also discovered inside the chamber (Fig. 7). The doorway of the chamber (Fig. 6) was oriented to the south-east. It was trapeziumlike and measured 1.55 m in height, 1 m width at the bottom and 80 cm width at the top. A quadrilateral limestone block, 38 cm in height, 95 cm in length and 43 cm in width, placed on the floor level, served as a threshold; the inner face of the threshold was cut out, thus having an incised Π-shape that faced the chamber interior. Each jamb consisted of three blocks incorporated into the wall. The inner edges (facing the chamber) of both jambs were additionally cut out, thus having vertical Γ-shaped grooves that opened the place for fitting a single-winged door, which most likely was wooden and iron-studded (fragmentary iron studs were found inside the chamber). A horizontal stone slab, 1.55 m in length, 1.21 m in width and 22 cm thick, served as a lintel. The socket of the door axle, 6 cm in diameter and 5.5 cm in depth, was cut into the lintel, just above the vertical groove of the south-western jamb. Kitov published a number of photographs, the layout of the tomb and the crosssection of the tholos chamber, which provide us with a holistic view on the monument and its architectural features.7

Burial No remains of human burial were discovered in the tomb.

Finds Unfortunately, the original situation within the tomb was not preserved and the archaeological material was badly disturbed by looting. Moreover, the whole situation within the tholos chamber was complex and may not be easily understood on account of the robbery and any subsequent events. Kitov described three strata separated by two layers with the remains of fireplaces, all of them situated above the almost-destroyed chamber floor and under the fallen debris of the dome.8 He considered that the strata and the 6

 Kitov 1989b, 31; 1990–91, 25; 2002, 19–20; 2003, 12.  Kitov 1988c, 25–26, figs. 1–2; 1988d, 123; 1989a, 38; 1989b, 30–32, figs. 3–8; 1990–91, 41–44, figs. 5–10; 2002, 46, figs. 3–4, 48, fig. 1; 2003, 25, figs. 2–4. 8  Kitov 1989b, 32–33; 1990–91, 26–29; 2002, 20–21; 2003, 12–13. 7

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layers were related to different periods of activity inside the tomb, from the time of its plundering until the moment when the beehive dome collapsed. Later digs, presumably related to treasure-hunting, disturbed parts of the strata and the fireplaces. The lowest stratum was thick up to 20 cm and obviously was related to the time of the looting. It lay on the continental rock and consisted of disturbed slabs from the floor and sandy soil, while fragments of a local handmade dolium, sherds of Thracian handmade coarse ware, fragmentary wheel-made pottery of the Roman period, and a gold border strip of a disc pendant (Fig. 8) were found within the debris. Kitov speculated that the Thracian pottery dated to the Hellenistic period, but no drawings or photographs were published.9 In fact, the sherds of coarse ware lacked any clear chronological features and may be placed in the entire Late Iron Age (5th–1st centuries BC), or even in the Early Imperial period. Due to the fragmentary and atypical local Thracian pottery of unspecified date, the pottery of the Roman period and the gold border strip appear to be most important material for dating the tomb, since they could be interpreted as grave-goods related to original or secondary burial performed inside the tholos chamber. The strip (Fig. 8) is round and it bordered the disc of a pendant; its diameter is 2.3–2.4 cm, V-like incisions decorate its front and there is a layer of silver solder on the back.10 It is almost impossible to propose an exact date for the strip; it might come from the Hellenistic period, as suggested by Kitov.11 However, no exact parallels to it exist among Hellenistic jewellery in Thrace, while similar round or oval gold border strips with decoration of incised lines are known from the Roman period.12 Therefore, it is possible that it could be dated to the Early Imperial period, thus corresponding to the pottery of the Roman period. The lowest stratum in the tholos chamber was covered with a layer of ash and charcoal 10–30 cm thick, obviously the remains of a large fireplace. The layer was disturbed by later digs. Fragments of a dolium (identical to those found in the lowest stratum), sherds of untypical Thracian handmade coarse ware, not typical fragments of Late Iron Age (5th–1st centuries BC) wheel-made Thracian pottery, and fragmentary wheel-made pottery of the Roman period were discovered in the remains of the fireplace. Fragments of two iron studs,13 presumably coming from the wooden door of the chamber, and a provincial bronze coin (Fig. 9a–b) of Tiberius (AD 14–37), minted in Amphipolis,14 were found in the same disturbed layer. Having in mind that the fireplace was situated over a layer of disturbed material from the tomb interior, the burning could date to when the tomb was looted, or to any subsequent activities. Kitov speculated that the coin of Tiberius belonged to the robbers and dated the time of the looting.15 In addition, he connected the plundering of the tomb with the aftermath of the Thracian uprising against the Romans in AD 21. 9

 Kitov 1989b, 33, 37; 1990–91, 28.  Kitov 2003, 14, no. 1. 11  Kitov 1989b, 33; 2003, 14, no. 1. Cf. 2nd-century BC disc pendants with twisted-wire border circles: Miller 1979, 58–61. 12  Cf. Ruseva-Slokoska 1991, 124, no. 51, 127, no. 57, 149, nos. 127 and 129, 150, no. 130. 13  Kitov 2003, 14, no. 3. 14  Kitov 2003, 14, no. 2; coin type = Mushmov 1912, 361, no. 6047; RPC I, 306, nos. 1632–1633. Information kindly provided by Evgeni Paunov. 15  Kitov 1988a, 65–66; 1988b, 40; 1988c, 24; 1989a, 37–38; 1989b, 33; 1990–91, 29; 1993, 226; 2002, 20–21; 2003, 12, 14, no. 2. 10

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Fig. 8. A gold border strip of a disc pendant from Tomb 1 (photograph by Nikola Theodossiev).

Fig. 9a–b. A provincial bronze coin of the emperor Tiberius from Tomb 1 (photograph by Nikola Theodossiev).

Fig. 10. A terracotta spindle-whorl from Tomb 1 (photograph by Nikola Theodossiev).

However, such an interpretation of the archaeological data is quite hypothetical and speculative, although it might look convincing. Considering the chronology of the pottery coming from the Roman period and having in mind the date of the gold border strip, the coin of Tiberius could be interpreted as grave-goods coming from a primary or secondary burial, or as an offering related to subsequent ritual activities. A second stratum of sandy soil and stone slabs was situated over the fireplace. The stratum was up to 20 cm thick and a small quantity of ash and charcoal and a few sherds were found within it. Another thin layer of ash testifies that several fires were burnt over

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the second stratum. A third stratum of sandy soil and a large amount of stone slabs lie over the ash; a terracotta spindle-whorl (Fig. 10), most probably dated to the Roman period, was found among the fallen stones.16 Obviously, the upper strata within the burial chamber should be related to different periods of various activities that occurred after the tomb was looted and before its final destruction.17 Three pieces of iron chain-mail, consisting of small rings linked together and the concave disc of its fastener, were found on the floor of the dromos at ca. 1 m from the chamber entrance.18 The chain-mail was certainly an important element of the gravegoods, displaying well the warrior status of the Thracian aristocrat buried in the tomb. The pieces from Ravnogor do not provide any significant features of the whole chainmail, but they find a number of good parallels throughout Late Hellenistic Thrace and could be dated to the 2nd or 1st century BC.19 In fact, iron chain-mails were used in Thrace in the 1st century AD as well, but usually they were more complex than those of the Late Hellenistic period.20 Therefore, it is possible to assume that the chain-mail from Tomb 1 at Ravnogor should be dated to the second half of the 2nd–1st century BC and may even come from the first decades of the 1st century AD, thus being synchronous with the bronze coin of Tiberius. Kitov speculated that the Late Hellenistic chain-mail was related to any secondary burial inside the earlier tomb, but there is no evidence whatsoever to support such a hypothesis.21

Date Kitov wrote that the primitive architectural features and the building technique in this particular case may not be the right criteria for dating the tomb.22 Considering the possible date of part of the pottery, he assumed that the funerary monument was built at the end of the 4th or first half of the 3rd century BC,23 although in other articles he proposed several different dates: the 4th century BC,24 second half of the 4th–3rd century BC,25 and end of the 4th–beginning of the 3rd century BC.26 This chronology is possible but it may be not proven and there is no single find that could be clearly dated to this particular period. In addition, Kitov supposed that the tomb was a heroon that 16

 Kitov 2003, 14, no. 4.  Kitov 1993, 226; 2002, 21. 18  Kitov 1988c, 26; 1989a, 38; 1989b, 39, n. 22; 1990–91, 32, n. 18; 1993, 227; 2002, 20; 2003, 13–15, no. 5. Personal observations of the find. 19  On similar Late Hellenistic Thracian iron chain-mail found to the north of the Balkan range and usually dated to the second half of the 2nd or 1st century BC, see Torbov 2001, 10–11; 2004. Cf. a chain-mail dated to the second half of the 2nd or 1st century BC from Tumulus 1 near Tarnava: Theodossiev 2000, 139, no. 225. Another chain-mail from Tumulus 1 near Kalnovo seems to be earlier and was dated to the late 3rd or first decades of the 2nd century BC: Atanasov 1992, 5; Vaorazhenie 1995, 82, no. 86; Domaradski 1995, 22. The chain-mail from Sashova Mogila near Shipka also dates to the first half or the middle of the 2nd century BC: Kitov 1996, 15. 20  Onurkan 1988, 98–100, no. 103; Torbov 2004, 60, 62, 66 with op. cit.; Domaradski 1995, 22. 21  Kitov 1989b, 39, n. 22; 1990–91, 32, n. 18. 22  Kitov 1989b, 33; 1990–91, 28. 23  Kitov 1989b, 33. 24  Kitov 1993, 227. 25  Kitov 1988c, 26. 26  Kitov 1990–91, 28, 30. 17

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was re-used for successive burials during the entire Hellenistic period,27 but again, there is no clear proof supporting similar suggestions, although one may speculate that the Late Hellenistic chain-mail and the Early Imperial finds (pottery, a provincial bronze coin and a gold border strip of a disc pendant) were related to any secondary burials. Jerzy Hatłas, following Kitov’s suggestions, dated the tomb to the end of the 4th or beginning of the 3rd century BC.28 The same date was accepted by Dafina Vasileva.29 As noted above, the sherds from the Late Iron Age wheel-made Thracian pottery do not provide any typical features and they may come from the very end of the Hellenistic period, while the local handmade coarse ware may even date to the Early Imperial period. In addition, when considering the chronology of the tomb, one should keep in mind that there is no single find that could be dated to the 4th or 3rd century BC, while the well-dated material is much later: the Late Hellenistic (or even Early Imperial) iron chain-mail, the provincial bronze coin of Tiberius (AD 14–37), the pottery of the Roman period and the gold border strip (most probably from the Roman period). In fact, all the finds indicate complex ritual activities and presumable single or multiple burials performed during the 2nd–1st centuries BC and the first half of the 1st century AD. Unfortunately, the original situation within the tomb chamber was destroyed and the archaeological data are insufficient to provide a clear answer to whether the tomb was built in the 2nd or the 1st century BC and was re-used during the first half of the 1st century AD, or if it was constructed at the very beginning of the Early Imperial period, while some Late Hellenistic objects (for example, the iron chain-mail, which actually may come from the very end of the Hellenistic period or even from the 1st century AD30) were placed like grave-goods among the Early Imperial objects. Therefore, it is only possible to propose a broader chronology and to conclude that the tomb was built either in the 2nd century BC or in the 1st century BC, or even in the first several decades of the 1st century AD.

Other Ritual Activities and Finds Fragments of two untypical handmade ceramic vessels of the Late Iron Age or the Early Imperial period were found in front of the dromos, being placed on the level of trampled sandy clay. Presumably, the ceramic vessels were related to some additional ritual activities performed in front of the tomb.

Bibliography Archibald 1998, 285–87, 341–42; Hatłas 1997, 311, no. 8; 2002, 489, no. B8; Kitov 1988a; 1988b, 40; 1988c; 1988d, 122–23; 1989a; 1989b; 1990–91; 1993; 2002; 2003; Kitov and Katincharova 1987, 103–04; Vasileva 2005, 91–95.

27  Kitov 1988a, 66; 1988b, 40; 1988d, 123; 1989a, 38; 1989b, 33, 37; 1990–91, 27–29; 1993, 226; 2002, 21. 28  Hatłas 1997, 311, no. 8; 2002, 489, no. B8. 29  Vasileva 2005, 92. 30  Cf. Torbov 2004, 60, 62, 66 with op. cit.; Domaradski 1995, 22; Onurkan 1988, 98–100, no. 103.

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THOLOS TOMB 2 History of Discovery and Location In 1987, during the rescue archaeological excavations of ten tumuli near the village of Ravnogor, Kitov investigated Tumulus 9 and discovered Tholos Tomb 2.31 The tumulus was situated in a plain area slightly sloping to the south-west in the Rhodope Mountains, in Chemerikata locality, ca. 800 m to the south of the village of Ravnogor. The tumulus belonged to a necropolis of 20 tumuli and was located in its south-eastern periphery, ca. 600 m to the east of Tumulus 1.

Tumulus The tumulus was 3.50 m in height and 21–26 m in diameter. A big oval pit in the central part of the tumular embankment was apparently a result of the tomb destruction and later clandestine excavations and use of the debris as a quarry for ashlars during the first decades of the 20th century, as reported by local people.

Tomb Tholos Tomb 2 (Figs. 11–16) was situated in the centre of the tumulus and on the ground level. A layer of stone pieces, 3–5 cm thick, coming from the cutting of the ashlars, was spread around the funerary monument and in front of the dromos, on the level of the ancient terrain. Two identical layers of masons’ rubbish were found in the upper part of the tumular embankment, at 40 cm and 90 cm above the ancient ground level, respectively. Both layers adjoined the outer face of the tomb wall and went slightly down, becoming thinner towards the tumulus periphery. This stratigraphic situation clearly indicated that the construction of the tomb and the tumulus occurred simultaneously.32 Tomb 2 (Fig. 11) consisted of a dromos and a beehive tholos chamber and was oriented from the north-west to the south-east with an entrance directed to the south-east. The funerary monument (Figs. 12–16) was built of roughly cut irregular sandstone and limestone ashlars with even faces and smaller broken stones and slabs (used to fill the space between the irregular lines of the ashlar faces) arranged in uneven horizontal courses, with a core structure of slabs and splinters with a bonding medium of mud. The walls had well-shaped, but incomplete inner and outer faces and they display some resemblance to the Lesbian polygonal masonry style. The dromos (Figs. 12–13) was oriented to the south-east. It was 5.75 m long and narrowed towards the tholos chamber, while its width varied between 1.05 m and 1.30 m. The dromos was built on the ancient terrain without any foundation. The original floor level within the dromos was not preserved and, presumably, was covered with sand similarly to the burial chamber. The walls of the dromos were 1 m wide. Their inner and outer faces were constructed of irregular ashlars (up to 90 cm in length and up to 60 cm in 31

 Kitov 1988a; 1988b, 40; 1988c; 1989a; 1989b; 1990–91; 1993; 2002; 2003. I participated in the archaeological team and directed the excavations of Tumulus 9. 32  Kitov 1988c, 26; 1989b, 32, 34; 1990–91, 31; 1993, 227; 2003, 17.

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Fig. 11. Layout and cross-section of Tomb 2 (drawing by Daniela Stoyanova after Kitov 1989b).

height) with even faces and of smaller slabs and broken stones arranged in irregular horizontal courses between 20 cm and 45 cm in height. The walls had a core structure of slabs and masons’ rubbish consisting of broken stones and splinters with a bonding medium of mud. The walls of the dromos were preserved up to 1.75 m in height and up to six courses. The upper parts were destroyed and it was not clear whether there was any roof, or if the dromos consisted of two vertical walls without roofing. However, a significant number of middling and large stone slabs were found fallen inside the dromos and they may have originated from the destroyed upper parts of the walls and from a presumed horizontal roof. The beginning of the dromos was sealed with five ashlars

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Fig. 12. The tholos chamber and the dromos of Tomb 2 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

Fig. 13. The dromos of Tomb 2 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

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Fig. 14. The sealing of the dromos of Tomb 2 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

placed between the two walls (Fig. 14). Four large slabs (up to 55 cm wide and up to 1 m high) were placed vertically from the outside of the entrance leaning against the front faces of the walls, thus closing the opening of the dromos from the south-east. Presumably, the dromos was sealed after performing a burial. The tholos chamber (Figs. 12, 15–16) has an almost regular layout and was 5.10–5.34 m in diameter. The chamber was built on the ancient ground level without any foundation. The floor was destroyed but it consisted of a sand layer, up to 5 cm thick, which was partly preserved in the chamber periphery, towards the inner wall. The wall was 1.20 m wide. The inner and outer faces were built of irregular blocks with even faces, and smaller slabs and broken stones arranged in uneven horizontal courses, with a core structure of slabs and masons’ rubbish with a bonding medium of mud. The height of the courses varied between 20 cm and 45 cm but some blocks were up to 90 cm long and up to 60 cm high. The first two courses of the wall were built in a vertical line and the corbel vaulting began upwards. The corbelling was achieved by means of a gradual batter of the circular wall. The inner face of the wall was preserved up to 1.55 m in height, consisting of five horizontal courses; the outer up to 1.70 m, consisting of six courses. Kitov suggested that the original height of the tholos was 4.50–5 m, which seems quite plausible.33 A number of blocks and slabs from the fallen structure were discovered inside the tholos chamber. The entrance of the tholos chamber (Fig. 12) was 1.05 m wide and was presumably similar to that of Tholos Tomb 1. However, it was destroyed and both jambs were missing, only their beds in the tomb walls being clearly visible. The threshold was also 33

 Kitov 1989b, 34; 1990–91, 31; 2002, 22; 2003, 16.

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Fig. 15. The tholos chamber of Tomb 2 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

Fig. 16. The tholos chamber of Tomb 2 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

missing, but the outline of its bed was still visible on the ground, thus showing that it had been 37 cm wide. A number of photographs, a layout of the tomb and a cross-section of the tholos chamber, published by Kitov, provided a very good idea of the monument and visualised its architectural features.34 34  Kitov 1988c, 27, fig. 3; 1989b, 35–36, figs. 9–12; 1990–91, 45–47, figs. 11–14; 2002, 47, figs. 5, 7, 16 and 48, fig. 2; 2003, 26, figs. 5–6.

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Burial No remains of human burial were discovered within the tomb.

Finds The tomb was looted in the past and later it was heavily damaged, excavated by treasurehunters and used for quarrying. During the excavation, four strata were discovered inside the tholos chamber.35 The lowest stratum was 40–60 cm thick and it was formed in a period after the looting, presumably when the earth had penetrated through the tholos roofing, which may have been partly destroyed by the robbers to open a hole for entering the chamber (since the dromos was sealed). The stratum consisted of soil mixed with a small quantity of broken stones and some bigger slabs, presumably originating from the structure. Kitov listed the finds from the stratum.36 A piece of carbonised wood (coloured in green as a result of touching some bronze object) and a number of fragments of local Hellenistic hand- and wheel-made pottery were found in the lowest part of the stratum, on the level of the chamber flooring. However, no drawings of the sherds were published. In fact, the pottery did not provide any significant features and it was typical of the entire Late Iron Age (5th–1st centuries BC). Several atypical small fragments of imported Hellenistic black-gloss pottery may provide a better opportunity to discuss the tomb chronology, but their exact date also cannot be specified. Most significant however, were 26 pieces of iron chain-mail (Fig. 17) made of linked loops, identical to the chain-mail found in Tomb 1 and discovered on the level of the floor of the tholos chamber.37 The pieces do not provide any significant features of the whole chain-mail, but they could well be dated to the 2nd–1st century BC, or even to the beginning of the 1st century AD.38 The upper strata in the tholos chamber were related to a longer period: from the tomb’s destruction in the past until modern times. Thus, the second stratum, 35–40 cm thick, consisted of sand, soil and stone slabs and ashlars; the third of a significant number of slabs and ashlars from the fallen structure and some modern materials of the first half of the 20th century; and the fourth, up to 30 cm thick, of earth.

Date Kitov argued that Tomb 2 was a little later than Tomb 1 and that it was built during the second half of the 4th–3rd century BC or during the late 4th–early 3rd century BC. 39 He further speculated that the funerary monument was used like a heroon during the entire Hellenistic period and was robbed by the Roman army in the aftermath of the 35

 Kitov 2003, 16.  Kitov 1989b, 36–37; 1990–91, 32; 1993, 227; 2002, 22; 2003, 16. 37  Kitov 1988c, 26; 1989a, 38; 1989b, 36; 1990–91, 32; 1993, 227; 2002, 22; 2003, 16–17, No. 6, 26, fig. 7. 38  Torbov 2001, 10–11; 2004; Domaradski 1995, 22; cf. discussion of the chain-mail found in Tholos Tomb 1. 39  Kitov 1988a, 65–66; 1988b, 40; 1988c, 26; 1989a, 38; 1989b, 34–37; 1990–91, 31–32; 2002, 22. 36

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Fig. 17. A piece of iron chain-mail from Tomb 2 (photograph by Georgi Kitov).

Thracian uprising in AD 21. Following Kitov’s suggestions, Hatłas dated the funerary monument to the end of the 4th–beginning of the 3rd century BC.40 Vasileva also accepted Kitov’s chronology and dated the tomb to the 4th–3rd centuries BC.41 However, as with Tomb 1, no clear data exist to support such a chronology, while the claim that the tomb functioned like a heroon for several centuries may not be proven. In fact, the local Thracian pottery cannot be precisely dated and it may come from the entire Late Iron Age (5th–1st centuries BC), while only the Hellenistic black-gloss sherds provide some better opportunity to date the tomb to the Hellenistic period. Most important, however, are the pieces of Late Hellenistic chain-mail that undoubtedly originated from a disturbed burial context of the 2nd or 1st century BC. Supposedly, after performing that burial, the entrance of the dromos was sealed. Therefore, it is possible to conclude that Tomb 2 dates to the 2nd–1st century BC and thus it might be a little bit earlier than Tomb 1.

Bibliography Archibald 1998, 285–87, 341–42; Hatłas 1997, 312, no. 9; 2002, 489, no. B9; Kitov 1988a; 1988b, 40; 1988c; 1989a; 1989b; 1990–91; 1993; 2002; 2003; Vasileva 2005, 95–97.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Archibald, Z.H. 1998: The Odrysian Kingdom of Thrace: Orpheus Unmasked (Oxford). Atanasov, G. 1992: ‘Saorazheniya ot III–II v.pr.n.e. ot okolnostite na s. Kalnovo, Shumensko’. Izvestiya na Istoricheskiya Muzei – Shumen 7, 5–40. Domaradski, M. 1995: ‘Trakiisko predpazno vaorazhenie’. In Vaorazhenie 1995, 19–24. 40

 Hatłas 1997, 312, no. 9; 2002, 489, no. B9.  Vasileva 2005, 96.

41

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Hatłas, J. 1997: ‘Der ägäisch-anatolische Kontext der thrakischen sepulkralen Bauwerke (5.–3. Jh. v. Chr.)’. In Roman, P. (ed.), The Thracian World at the Crossroads of Civilizations (Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Thracology, Constanţa, Mangalia, Tulcea, 20–26 May 1996), vol. 1 (Bucharest), 310–20. —. 2002: ‘Konstruktionsreiche Grabanlagen der thrakischen Aristokratie (5.–3. Jh. v. Chr.)’. In Fol, A. (ed.), Thrace and the Aegean (Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Thracology, Sofia–Yambol, 25–29 September 2000) (Sofia), 487–99. Kitov, G. 1988a: ‘Mogilen nekropol pri selo Ravnogor v Rodopite’. In Arheologicheski Otkritiya i Razkopki – 1987 (Blagoevgrad), 65–67. —. 1988b: ‘Sveshteni darove v trakiiska mogila krai Ravnogor v Rodopite’. Izkustvo 38.7, 40–48. —. 1988c: ‘Svidetelstva za trakiiskata kultura pri Ravnogor’. Vekove 17.4, 24–30. —. 1988d: ‘Trakiiski mogilen nekropol’. Trakiya 28.5, 122–24. —. 1989a: ‘Arheologicheski otkritiya krai Ravnogor v Rodopite’. Rodopi 24.1, 37–39. —. 1989b: ‘Kupolnite grobnitsi pri Ravnogor v Rodopite’. Arheologiya 31.3, 28–41. —. 1990–91: ‘The Domed Tombs near the Village of Ravnogor in the Rhodopes’. Talanta 22–23, 23–47. —. 1993: ‘Ravnogor’. In Popov, D. (ed.), Kratka entsiklopediya trakiiska drevnost (Sofia), 226–27. —. 1996: ‘Sashova mogila (Monumentalna neograbena trakiiska grobnitsa mezhdu Shipka i Yasenovo)’. Arheologiya 38.2–3, 9–22. —. 2002: ‘Domed Tombs, Symbolical Graves and Sacred Gifts in the Thracian Tumuli near the Village of Ravnogor in the Rhodope Mountains’. Anali 9.2–94, 18–51. —. 2003: ‘Domed Tombs, Symbolical Graves and Sacred Gifts in the Thracian Tumuli near the Village of Ravnogor in the Rhodope Mountains’. Anali 10.1, 11–28. Kitov, G. and Katincharova, D. 1987: ‘Trakiiska kupolna grobnitsa krai s. Ravnogor, Pazardzhishki okrag’. In Arheologicheski Otkritiya i Razkopki – 1986 (Razgrad), 103–04. Miller, S.G. 1979: Two Groups of Thessalian Gold (University of California, Classical Studies 18) (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London). Mushmov, N. 1912: Antichnite moneti na Balkanskiya poluostrov i monetite na bulgarskite tsare (Sofia). Onurkan, S. 1988: Doğu Trakya tümülüsleri maden eserleri (Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayinlari VI, 26) (Ankara). Ruseva-Slokoska, L. 1991: Roman Jewellery: A Collection of the National Archaeological Museum – Sofia (Sofia). Theodossiev, N. 2000: North-Western Thrace from the Fifth to First Centuries BC (BAR International Series 859) (Oxford). Torbov, N. 2001: Trakiisko vaorazhenie i snaryazhenie ot kasnozhelyaznata epoha mezhdu Dunava i Balkana (III–I v.pr.Hr.). Avtoreferat (Sofia). —. 2004: ‘Chain-Mails from Northern Bulgaria (III–I C. BC)’. Archaeologia Bulgarica 8.2, 57–69. Vaorazhenie 1995: Vaorazhenie ot drevna Trakiya (Shumen). Vasileva, D. 2005: Trakiiskite grobnitsi. Arhitekturno-metrichno izsledvane sas satrudnichestvoto na Daniela Stoyanova (Studia Archaeologica Universitatis Serdicensis Suppl. 3) (Sofia).

ON THE ARCHAIC FORTIFICATIONS OF PORTHMION Marina VAKHTINA

ABSTRACT This contribution is devoted to the earliest defensive structures of the ancient town of Porthmion in the eastern Crimea. The remains of Archaic walls were found in the eastern and south-eastern parts of the rocky plateau on which the ancient town was located. They were structures built of mud-brick on a stone base. This technique is similar to the early defensive walls of East and Mainland Greece. Fortifications in Porthmion were built shortly after the founding of the Greek settlement, approximately in the middle of the 6th century BC or immediately thereafter. The defensive system of Porthmion belongs to the most ancient fortifications found on the Bosporus. In the Archaic period, it was obviously intended not only to protect the residents of the town, it was also an important link in the system of fortified settlements located near the Kerch Strait, in the area of the most ancient crossings of the Cimmerian Bosporus.

Ancient Porthmion belongs to the so-called ‘small towns’ of the Cimmerian Bosporus. The ruins identified with the settlement mentioned by the ancient authors were discovered to the north-east of the modern city of Kerch on a small plateau located not far from the coast of the Kerch Strait.1 The origin of its name comes from the Greek word πορθμόζ (‘crossing’). This is quite clear and has not caused doubts among scholars. The data from written and archaeological sources helps to reconstruct one of the traditional crossings of the Strait, which in ancient times connected the Crimea (and the northern Black Sea coastal region as a whole) with the Pre-Kuban.2 In the immediate vicinity of the settlement lay a seaway from the Black Sea to the Sea of Azov, from Panticapaeum to Tanais. We know about it from written sources. The settlement was founded in approximately in the middle of the 6th century BC and ceased to exist in the middle of the 1st century BC or several decades later. Excavation of the site began in 1953, carried out by the Porthmion Archaeological Expedition of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences, and it has continued intermittently until today. Studies have revealed defensive structures corresponding to the two periods of the town: primary, Archaic; and final, Late Hellenistic.3 Study of the defensive structures of ancient settlements is always of great interest, as it is usually not limited to the issues of military architecture, siege tactics and defence. The study of defensive systems, wherever they are and to whatever time they date, allows us to understand the relationship of ancient communities to the territories they occupied, to learn something about their political organisation, relations with surrounding peoples, etc., thus approaching consideration of 1

 Vakhtina 2009, 91, figs. 2–3; 2010, 426–27.  Vakhtina et al. 1980. 3  Vakhtina 2009, 93–102; 2012, 26–29. 2

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Fig. 1. Schematic map of Greek sites on the Cimmerian Bosporus.

Fig. 2. ‘Small’ Bosporan town Porthmion (view from the west, Kerch Strait in the background).

more general problems.4 Here, I will attempt to describe the Porthmion’s early defensive system. Porthmion was a ‘frontier’ town, located on the eastern border of the European Bosporus, near other ‘small’ Bosporan towns – Myrmekion and Parthenion (Fig. 1). The settlement was based on a small rocky plateau (Fig. 2), from which land and sea routes, in 4

 Tolstikov 1986; 1997, 228–29; Balandier 2000, 169.

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Fig. 3. Socle of the eastern Archaic defensive wall. 1 – south-eastern area (view from the north-east); 2 – fragment of the masonry (view from the east).

particular the crossing of the Kerch Strait, were well visible.5 The very importance of this route for the Archaic Bosporus is indicated eloquently by the very name of the town. The size of the hill chosen for the settlement limited its territory at all historic periods. It did not exceed 0.7 ha. The most significant remains of the oldest fortifications of Porthmion were found in its eastern part, where the foundation of the Archaic defensive wall was revealed.6 The wall went from north-east to south-west along the natural slope of the plateau (Fig. 3.1). The plateau had the gentlest slope there. This place was the most vulnerable during an assault. A series of large limestone blocks lay at the base of the wall 5

 Vakhtina 2010, 435.  Vakhtina 2003, 40, figs. 3–4; 2006, 33–35, figs. 2–4; 2009, 94–95, figs. 4–8.

6

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Fig. 4. 1 – remains of the Archaic drainage system (view from the north); 2 – bed of the drain; 3 – remains of the socle of the western Archaic defensive wall, incorporated in Hellenistic dwelling (view from the east).

(up to 1–1.2 m long and up to 0.5–0.6 m wide). Smaller stones were laid on it, and the space between them was filled with small stones (Figs. 3.2, 6.2, 7.1). Masonry was irregular and ordinary. The maximum preserved height of the base of the wall is 1.2 m, the length is 12.8 m, and the thickness is 1–1.1 m. As we can see from the remaining ruins, the upper part of the wall was made of mud-brick. Its southern edge was attached to natural rocky outcrops; here the structure resembled a broken line, forming something like a bastion. A drain had been incorporated into the construction of the eastern defensive wall of the site; the remains of it were traced to 10 m in length (Fig. 4.1). It went along the inner surface of the wall; the depth of its bed (Fig. 4.2), lined with small

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Fig. 5. Remains of the southern line of Archaic defensive system (view from south-east).

stones, reached 0.40 m, width reached 0.25–0.30 m. Due to the natural slope, sewage water was led out of the settlement through the drain; the ‘exit’ was found in the southern part of the wall. Subsequently, during the next construction period, the drain was backfilled, and a large stone overlaid its ‘exit’. The southern line of defence of Porthmion is not well preserved. In this part, the fortifications went along the southern border of the plateau, which had a steep slope. Massive natural rocky blocks of limestone were employed, which served as the basis for the wall. In some places they were slightly squared, and the bridges between them were filled with small stones. Sometimes natural outcrops of limestone were ‘completed’ with masonry of smaller stones (Fig. 5). The route of the southern defensive wall of Porthmion was traced in the south-eastern part of the settlement for about 20 m. Another fragment of the site’s early defensive wall was discovered during excavation of residential areas of the Late Hellenistic period in the south-western part of the site (Fig. 4.3), where it had been incorporated in a later dwelling.7 Judging by the technique and by the time of construction, the laying of the base of the Archaic wall of Porthmion is close in time to the laying of the socle of the wall discovered in nearby Myrmekion (Fig. 6.1).8 Relatively recently, the remains of the oldest known defensive walls of the Bosporan kingdom were discovered in Panticapaeum; the thickness of their masonry reached 2.2 m.9 V.P. Tolstikov dated their construction to the beginning of the 6th century BC. It should be noted that the construction technique of the early fortifications of Panticapaeum is close to that of the first defensive systems of Myrmekion and Porthmion,10 which certainly testifies that they were created within a single building tradition. 7

 Vakhtina 2009, fig. 9.  Tolstikov 2017a, 266–69; 2017b, 71–73, figs. 44–45. 9  Tolstikov 2017a, 266–69. 10  Tolstikov 2017a, 262, figs. 3–4. 8

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Fig. 6. Faces of the Archaic walls. 1 – Myrmekion; 2 – Porthmion.

Let us seek analogies for the defensive system of Archaic Porthmion in other areas of the ancient world. It is well known that at all times towns were built in easily defended places. The best place for a town was a hill accessible from land and sea, where it was possible to build fortifications to protect the population at times of danger. Such hilltop sites were common in Asia Minor.11 These include Militos (Kalabak-tepe), the oldest settlements in Ephesos, Larissa, Aspendos, Perge, Magnesia-on-Sipilume and many others.12 Each of these centres at an early stage of its existence had a relatively large Acropolis, large enough to contain the entire population. The fortifications of Greek towns of various sizes could be part of a settlement, where, in case of danger, all the inhabitants could hide. There were towns where the entire population resided within the walled territory. It is noted that the Acropolis was larger in Greek centres of Ionia, which arose in Archaic times, than in the towns of Mainland Greece. This feature is associated with the need to confront locals who sometimes were hostile.13 Porthmion, a small town on the eastern frontiers of the Greek world, can also be attributed to such ‘hilltop sites’. Obviously, from its foundation and for long afterwards, its entire population lived under the protection of fortifications. The earliest traces of the development of the surrounding area outside the city walls and outside the hill were dated to the second half of the 4th–3rd centuries BC.14 In Asia Minor and Greece we find parallels to the character of the masonry of the Archaic walls of Smyrna15 (Fig. 7.3) and Vroulia (Fig. 7.2).16 The laying of the base of 11

 Winter 1971, 3–4.  Winter 1971, 6. 13  Winter 1971, 16–18. 14  Vakhtina 2002, 94–95. 15  Nicholls 1959, 48–49, figs. 5a, 7–9. 16  Kinch 1914, 7, fig. 9. 12

ON THE ARCHAIC FORTIFICATIONS OF PORTHMION

Fig. 7. Fragments of socles of the Archaic walls. 1 – Porthmion; 2 – Vroulia; 3 – Old Smyrna.

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the wall in Abay (Phocis) also resembles the laying of the base of the earliest Porthmion wall. Walls of raw bricks on a stone base, known on sites in Mainland and East Greece, are characteristic for the Archaic period. Usually they were thin and had different heights. An example is the defensive walls of the small military settlement in Vroulia (Rhodes). It was completely surrounded by a mud-brick wall on a stone base, whose width did not exceed 1.3 m.17 This is a characteristic indicator of the early Greek walls, which seemed to be so insignificant compared with the thickness of the defensive walls of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, which are much better preserved and better known. Walls of mud-brick on a stone base were not only less costly and time consuming than building walls entirely of stone, but also greatly accelerated construction, which was also important when founding colonies in new lands, often in difficult and unsafe environments. Indeed, the defensive structures of the town were built quickly, taking into account the very real situation. Excavation has revealed traces of fires and destruction, indicating some kind of catastrophe at the very end of the 6th or at the turn of the 6th/5th centuries BC.18 Apparently, the town-dwellers soon recovered. A large above-ground complex of several rooms was attached to the inner face of the eastern Archaic defensive wall rather quickly after this event,19 while the drain was filled up. This development, associated with the following Late Archaic and Early Classical period of the town’s life, would perish in turn in a fire of the end of the first third of the 5th century BC.20 It should be noted that the traces of fires and destruction, which are fairly regularly recorded during the study of Porthmion and which separate different periods of its existence, indicate the difficult life of this settlement, determined by its location. It seems obvious that the place chosen for the establishment of a settlement had a number of advantages, but also carried certain risks. Returning to the initial period of the history of Porthmion, we can only guess about the residential development of the town then. All the expressive remnants of residential dwelling complexes to have been excavated belong to the next period in the town’s life, when it was rebuilt after the first disaster.21 These are above-ground buildings with mud-brick walls on stone bases, typical of the early houses of the Greek settlements of the northern Black Sea region. Judging by the remains recorded in the lower part of the site’s cultural layer in its south-western part, it can be assumed that the first houses of the Greek colonists were built from mud-brick, and the walls were put directly on the ancient surface.22 A layer of clayey loam, which is insignificant in thickness, represents the continental layer on the site and there is natural rock beneath it, which, apparently, ensured the stability of such dwellings. The material found during disassembly23 confirms the early dating of such structures. They were built at the same time as the oldest fortification systems. Thus, ancient Porthmion was at first probably a small settlement atop a hill, surrounded by raw defensive walls built on a stone base and taking into account the natural topography. Under the protection of these fortifications were the primitive ‘houses’ of 17

 Kinch 1914, 7, 90, fig. 3.  Vakhtina 2005, 46–47; 2010. 19  Vakhtina 2003, 51, figs. 18–19; 2009, 39–40, figs. 10–12. 20  Vakhtina 2009, 40; 2017, 248–50. 21  Vakhtina 2009, 41–42. 22  Vakhtina 2017, 235. 23  Vakhtina 2017, fig. 7. 18

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the first colonists, light dwellings made of mud-brick, their walls placed directly onto the surface – a rock, covered with a thin layer of loam. The remains of the Archaic defensive walls of Panticapaeum, Myrmekion and Porthmion belong to the oldest Greek fortification systems to have survived, not only at the Bosporus but also in the entire northern Black Sea coastal region. The earliest are the fortifications of Panticapaeum, begun in the early 6th century BC (based on the dates of finds from the layer of fire and destruction24 that followed shortly after the construction of the defensive walls). For dating the first defensive wall of Myrmekion, there exists a reliable terminus post quem: its base covered complexes containing material of the second quarter of the 6th century BC.25 Consequently, these fortifications were probably built around the middle of that century.26 Since the base of the Porthmion Archaic defensive wall rests on the mainland, dating it must rely on the materials found in the layer along the wall, as well as those associated with the early fire and destruction that apparently took place shortly after the settlement was founded. Among the ceramic material that can be used for dating, of undoubted interest is a fragment of the vertical wall of Chian kantharos with vertical handles (Fig. 8.1). It was found during the clearing of the bed of buried drainage incorporated into the structure of the eastern Archaic defensive wall. The outside body of the vessel is covered with white overlay; in its lower part there is a wide band of dark paint; the inner surface is covered with black overlay; and under the edge there is a band in overlay colour and narrow bands of white and purple paint. In the northern Black Sea littoral, fragments of such kantharoi were found among the materials of Berezan27 and Olbia,28 and they usually date to 550–500 BC.29 Among the materials found in the layer along the route of the eastern Archaic defensive wall is a fragmented closed vessel with a globular body of loose yellow clay, decorated with horizontal zigzag lines, applied with red paint, and mastoid protrusions (Fig. 8.2–2a). Its form and ornamentation do not find close analogies among Archaic Greek pottery. Perhaps, by analogy with finds on Berezan30 and in the most ancient layers of Panticapaeum,31 it belongs to the non-Greek, Anatolian pottery brought to the northern Black Sea by the first colonists. Following the opinion of Gocha Tsetskhladze, I believe that this kind of pottery was brought by the Ionian founders of the northern Black Sea settlements during the first wave of Greek colonisation of the region and cannot be interpreted as evidence showing the participation of nonGreeks in that process.32 Among the painted Greek pottery are Clazomenian pottery fragments: amphorae with ‘scaly’ ornament (Fig. 9.1–2), closed vessels – among the latter there is a small fragment of the Enman Class wall with a part of the image of the spotted fallow deer or a panther, which can be dated 540–520 BC (Fig. 9.3); fragments of an East Greek ceramic painted with wide and narrow horizontal bands and zigzags 24

 Tolstikov 2015, 268, fig. 7.  Vinogradov 2008, 44–45. 26  Vinogradov 2008, 53. 27  Ilyna 2005, cat. 209, 213. 28  Buiskikh 2013, cat. 10.41–10.44. 29  Buiskikh 2013, 172–73. 30  Solovyov 2013, 64–67; Dupont et al. 2009, 22–24. 31  Tolstikov 2017a, fig. 6.1–12. 32  Tsetskhladze 2012, 352. 25

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Fig. 8. Finds from the area of the eastern Archaic wall of Porthmion. 1 – wall of Chian kantharos from the fill of the drainage; 2, 2a – fragmented non-Greek(?) vessel; 3 – fragment of ornamented brazier.

(Fig. 9.4–6); and Attic black-figured pottery (Fig. 9.9–10). Corinthian pottery is represented by fragments of miniature skyphoi (Fig. 9.7–8). The bulk of the material belongs to the third quarter–second half of the 6th century BC. Among the most interesting finds of this period are the fragments of two ornamented stands/braziers (Fig. 8.3).33 Obviously, they were brought from the metropolis by the first colonists and used in their houses, which were destroyed during the catastrophe at the end of the 6th century BC. Thus, the earliest specimens of painted pottery from this layer can be attributed to the third quarter of the 6th century BC. Most of the finds are dated within the last quarter of the century.34 Apparently, the erection of the ancient fortifications of 33

 Vakhtina 1997, fig. 2; Gritsyk 2004, 152–56, fig. 1.  Vakhtina 2003, 41–44, figs. 10–11; 2006, 36–37, figs. 6–8; 2010, 428.

34

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Fig. 9. Fragments of painted pottery from the layer at the area of the eastern Archaic wall of Porthmion. 1–3 – Clazomenian; 4–6 – East Greek; 7–8 – Corinthian; 9–10 – Attic.

Porthmion can be dated by the middle–third quarter of the 6th century BC, i.e. soon after the foundation of the settlement. Probably, the situation here was close to that in which the first Greek settlers of Panticapaeum found themselves. As Tolstikov saw it for Panticapaeum: … Milesian colonists who arrived on the hill, today called Mt Mithridates, were rather numerous, well organised, had good engineers, fortifiers and builders-masons. Having information about the presence of a military threat, the settlers chose the upper plateau of the hill, protected by nature, for the foundation of the apoikia. A monumental wall was built by the perimeter of the plateau. It was built taking into account the terrain and the skilful use of the outputs of the mainland rock. On the powerful stone base, apparently, the raw-brick construction rested….35 35

 Tolstikov 2017a, 267, 269.

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As we can see, the earliest fortifications on the Bosporus were built in line with the same building tradition that is demonstrated by the Archaic fortifications of Myrmekion and Porthmion, although in comparison with them they were more powerful. Thus, as noted above, the most ancient defensive wall of Porthmion is closest to the wall of Myrmekion by the nature of masonry, power and time of construction.36 To the east and north-east of Porthmion, in the coastal part of Cape Fonar in the area of the present-day lighthouse, other small ‘supporting’ Greek settlements might possibly have existed.37 Myrmekion was located at a relatively short distance to the west of Porthmion, where Archaic fortifications were revealed that were extremely close to those of the Porthmion structure.38 There could be other fortified points between Porthmion and Myrmekion, perhaps at an early stage of their existence, for example, in Parthenion, where the remains of the foundation of the defensive wall dating from the end of the 6th–beginning of the 5th century BC have been discovered.39 A similar system of small fortified settlements and towers existed in Classical times along the borders of Attica.40 These fortified points were located on heights relatively close to each other in the most dangerous border areas where the threat of invasion existed, at the same time ‘marking’ the borders of the polis. Another analogy is provided by the chain of Greek ‘strongholds’ that were located on high ground along the ancient road leading from Sardis (Lydia) to Smyrna. Of course, these small fortifications were easily vulnerable if a sufficiently numerous army were moved and they could neither prevent nor repel large-scale enemy invasion. An example of such a successful conquest was the capture of Smyrna by the troops of the king of Lydia, Alyattes, around 600 BC, reflected in the numerous fires and destruction recorded by archaeologists.41 However, the presence of small regular fortifications along the main line of communication eliminated the effect of surprise attacks, and their capture, which did not play a decisive role in the campaign, nevertheless slowed down the advance of enemy armies. There is an opinion that Porthmion was not only the dominant fortified settlement in the European Bosporus in the area of the crossing of the Strait, but also an important link in the defence system of the Bosporan kingdom as a whole.42 The chain of early fortifications of Bosporus, represented by the defensive structures of Porthmion, Myrmekion and Parthenion, built to the east of Panticapaeum, apparently did not begin to form in the direction of the traditional crossing over the Strait by accident.43 By analogy with the system of defensive structures of Cyprus, the topography and dynamics of which were shown by K. Balandier,44 it can be noted that from the very beginning, the Bosporan fortification system may be regarded as one of the reflexions of its territorial unity and, probably, state integrity.

36

 Vakhtina and Vinogradov 2001; Vakhtina 2012, 29.  Beilin 2006. 38  Vinogradov 2005, 225; 2008. 39  Stolyarenko 2013, 54–56, fig. 1. 40  Chandler 1926; Camp 1991. 41  Cook 1963, 71. 42  Vinogradov 2002, 194. 43  Vinogradov 2005, 224–25. 44  Balandier 2000, 170, fig. 1, 2; 2001, 332, fig. 1. 37

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Probably, the defensive systems of towns located along the Strait (Myrmekion, Parthenion, Porthmion) can also be viewed not only as a result of the initiatives of their inhabitants, but also as ‘markers’ delineating the territory controlled by the early state association. Apparently, the tendency towards consolidation of the Bosporan centres was indeed quite early in appearance. Hence, the earliest fortifications on the Bosporus and also along the entire northern Black Sea coast were discovered in Panticapaeum,45 Myrmekion46 and Porthmion.47 Undoubtedly, their construction was caused not just by the need to protect the inhabitants of individual settlements but, in my opinion, formed part of a single defensive system of the early Bosporus, created to protect against nomadic groups, which, apparently, quite regularly crossed the Strait during military campaigns and seasonal migrations.48 The fortifications of Porthmion, located on the eastern frontier of the European Bosporus, were undoubtedly an important link in this chain.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Balandier, C. 2000: ‘The defensive Organization of Cyprus at the time of the city-kingdoms (8th century B.C. to the end of the 4th century B.C.)’. Report of the Department of Antiquity, Cyprus, 63–177. —. 2001: ‘The defensive network of Cyprus at the Hellenistic period and during the first centuries of Roman Empire (3rd century B.C.–3rd century A.D.)’. Report of the Department of Antiquity, Cyprus, 182–98. Beilin, D.V. 2006: ‘Antichnye ukrepleniya Evropeiskogo berega severnoi perepravy cherez Bospor Kimmeriisky’. In Zinko, V. (ed.), Bospor Kimmeriiskii i varvarskii mir v period antichnosti i srednevekov’ya. Oikos (Sbornik materialov konferentsii) (Bosporskie Chteniya 7) (Kerch), 11–14. Buiskikh, A.V. 2013: Arkhaicheskaya raspisnaya keramika iz Olvii (Kiev). Camp, J.McK. 1991: ‘Notes on the Towers and Borders of Classical Boiotia’. AJA 95.2. 193–202. Chandler, L. 1946: ‘The North-West Frontier of Attica’. JHS 46, 1–21. Cook, R.M. 1963: The Greeks in Ionia and the East (New York). Dolgorukov, V.S. 1982. ‘Ukrepleniya rannegrecheskogo goroda’. In Gulyaev, V.I. (ed.), Arkheologiya Starogo i Novogo Sveta (Moscow), 176–90. Dupont, P., Lungu, V. and Solovyov, S.L. 2009: ‘Céramiques anatoliennes du Pont-Euxin archaïque’. In Kopylov, V.P. (ed.), Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniya v basseine Chernogo moray v skifo-antichnoe i khazarskoe vremya (Rostov-on-Don), 22–27. Garlan, Y. 1985: ‘Fortifications et histoire grecque’. In Vernant, J.-P. (ed.), Problèmes de la Guerre en Grèce ancienne (Civilisations et Sociétés 11) (Paris), 245–60. Gritsik, E.V. 2004: ‘O datirovke zharoven iz Porfmiya’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Problemy khronologii i datirovki pamyatnikov, vol. 1 (St Petersburg), 152–56. Ilyna, Y.I. 2005: ‘Khiosskaya keramika iz raskopok na ostrove Berezani’. In Solovyov, S.L. (ed.), Borisfen-Berezan: Arkheologicheskaya kollektsiya Ermitazha (St Petersburg), 70–173. Kastanayan, E.G. 1983: ‘Porfmii’. Centre d’archéologie Méditerranéenne de l’Académie Polonaise des Sciences. Études et Travaux 26.13, 161–68. Kinch, K.F. 1914: Fouilles de Vroulia (Berlin). Nicholls, R.V. 1959: ‘Old Smyrna: the Iron Age Fortifications and Associated Reminds on City Perimeter’. Annual of the British School at Athens 53–54, 35–137.

45

 Tolstikov 2017a, 260–62.  Vinogradov 2008, 45, fig. 2; Vakhtina and Vinogradov 2001, fig. 1.1; 2012, fig. 4.1. 47  Vakhtina 2012, 26–28, fig. 4.1. 48  Vakhtina et al. 1980. 46

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Solovyov, S.L. 2013: ‘Narody Maloi Azii i problemy grecheskoi kolonizatsii Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. In Kovalenko, A.N. (ed.), Prichernomor’e v antichnoe i rannesrednevekovoe vremya (Rostov-on-Don), 62–77. Stolyarenko, P.G. 2013: ‘Novye dannye ob arkhaicheskoi oboronitel’noi stene Parfeniya’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Greki i varvary na evraziiskom perekrestke (St Petersburg), 52–57. Tolstikov, V.P. 1986: ‘L’apport de la fortification à l’histoire du Bosphore antique’. In Leriche, P. and Tréziny, H. (eds.), La fortification dans l’histoire du monde Grec (Actes du Colloque international La Fortification et sa place dans l’histoire politique, culturelle et sociale du monde grec, Valbonne, décembre 1982) (Colloques internationaux du Centre national de la recherche scientifique 614) (Paris), 167–77. —. 1997: ‘Descriptions of Fortifications of the Classical Cities in the Region to the North of the Black Sea’. Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 4.3, 187–231. —. 2015: ‘Novye materially k izucheniyu drevneishei istorii Pantikapeya: o vremeni osnovaniya apoikii I k lokalizatsii rannego temenosa’. Problemy Istorii, Filologii, Kul’tury 1 (47), 261–81. —. 2017a: ‘O vremeni osnovaniya I arkhitekturnoi srede rannego Pantikapeya po materialam noveishikh raskopok’. Trudy Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 88, 259–69. —. 2017b: ‘Ocherk gradostroitelnoi istorii tsentralnogo raiona Pantikapeya’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. and Tolstikov, V.P. (eds.), Pantikapei i Fanagoria. Dve stolitsy Bosporskogo tsarstva (Moscow), 69–83. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2012: ‘Pots versus People: Further Consideration of the Earliest Examples of East Greek Pottery in Native Settlements of the Northern Pontus’. In Hermary, A. and Tsetskhladze, G.R. (eds.), From the Pillars of Hercules to the Footsteps of the Argonauts (Colloquia Antiqua 4) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 315–53. Vakhtina, M.Y./M.Ju. 1997: ‘Fragmenty zharovni iz Porfmiia’. In Beletskii, S.V. (ed.), Pamyatniki stariny. Kontseptsii. Otrytiya. Versii (Pskov), 131–32. —. 2002: ‘Materialy domashnego svyatilishcha iz usadby bliz Porfmiya’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Pogrebal’nye pamyatniki i svyatilischa (St Petersburg), 94–98. —. 2003: ‘Archaic buildings of Porthmion’. In Bilde, P.G., Højte, J.M. and Stolba, V.F. (eds.), The Cauldron of Ariantas: Studies Presented to A.N. Ščeglov on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday (Black Sea Studies 1) (Aarhus), 37–54. —. 2006: ‘Ob arkhaicheskom Porfmii’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 13, 31–46. —. 2009: ‘Porfmii – grecheskii gorod u perepravy cherez Kimmeriiskii Bospor’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 22, 91–126. —. 2010: ‘Porfmii’. In Tunkina, I.V. (ed.), Pol Dubryuks. Sobranie sochinenii, vol. 1 (St Petersburg), 426–36. —. 2011: ‘Ob oboronitelnykh sooruzheniyakh i planirovke Porfmiya’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Naselenie, yazyki, kontakty (St Petersburg), 202–10. —. 2012: ‘Ob oboronitelnykh sistemakh Porfmiya’. Drevnosti Bospora 16, 24–37. —. 2017: ‘Stroitelnye kompleksy arkhaicheskogo Porfmiia’. Trudy Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 88, 245–58. Vakhtina, M.Y. and Vinogradov, Y.A. 2001: ‘Escho raz o rannei fortifikatsii Bospora Kimmeriiskogo’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Kolonizatsiya regiona, formirovanie polisov, obrazovanie gosudarstva, vol. 1 (St Petersburg), 41–45. Vakhtina, M.Y., Vinogradov, Y.A and Rogov, E.Y. 1980: ‘Ob odnom iz marshrutov voennykh pokhodov i sesonnykh mirgatsij kochevykh skifov’. VDI 1, 155–61. Vinogradov, Y.A. 2008: ‘Nekotorye itogi arkheologicheskikh isslkedovanii v raione akropolya Mirmekiya’. VDI 1, 42–54. Winter, F.E. 1971: Greek Fortifications (London).

BENDIS AGAIN Maya VASSILEVA

ABSTRACT The present paper turns to a well-known topic: the Thracian goddess Bendis. Both epigraphic and literary evidence has widely been presented and interpreted. However, most of the studies have been Athenian-orientated and have barely investigated the Thracian perspective. The goddess was worshipped mainly in Piraeus, Athens and Salamis, mostly by Thracian communities. As there is no evidence for worshipping Bendis in Inner Thrace this article argues in favour of the construction of a Thracian collective identity in a foreign, Greek milieu through the worship of this Thracian deity.

Gocha Tsetskhladze has researched numerous sites and areas throughout the Mediterranean. However, the Black Sea littoral has a special place in his studies. His archaeological research has led him even further inland in Europe and Asia. Yet, Greek colonisation and the relations between Greeks and locals remained the hallmark of his academic, scholarly and editorial career. That is why I am happy to offer my long-term friend a paper referring to Thracians in a Greek milieu. The literature on the Thracian goddess Bendis is copious and I will not repeat it here.1 Yet, scholarship has been focused on only a few main points. The discussion continues about the date and the reason for the introduction of Bendis’ cult to Athens, as well as about the two religious bodies there, one Thracian and one Greek. The cult of Bendis reappears in more general studies of Athenian religious associations.2 The latter have been considered mainly in connexion with the social structure of the polis, their relations to gens, phratries, the role of metoikoi and xenoi in the Athenian polis-system, etc.3 Thus, Western scholars have studied the Thracian goddess largely from an Athenian (Greek) point of view. On the other side are scholars who work in the field of Thracology. They tend to identify numerous representations of female figures (goddesses?) found in Thrace with Bendis, see her ‘translations’ with names of Greek goddesses in literary sources, or interpret her functions within the frame of Thracian beliefs and cult.4 However, no convincing evidence for the cult of Bendis exists in Inner Thrace. Both literary and epigraphic data on Bendis have been presented and discussed at length in a number of studies. A great portion of recent works is devoted to repeating older theses and opinions, finally choosing one of them to support or criticise.5 1

 Recently cited exhaustively and commented upon by Arnaoutoglou 2015 and Braund 2017.  Since Ferguson 1944. 3  For example Ismard 2010; Demetriou 2012. 4  Popov 1981. 5  Ultimately going back to Nilsson 1960, Ferguson 1944 and Parker 1996, among the more recent works. 2

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The date of the inauguration of the cult of Bendis in Athens seems to remain an open question. A common opinion is that it was 429 BC,6 although recent studies accept this date only as terminus ante quem.7 The two earliest documents that mention Bendis and Bendideion are dated respectively to 429/8 and 426/5 BC (IG I3 383 and IG I3 369). These are the regulations from Treasurers of the Other Gods to report the incomes of shrines and the loans from the sacred treasuries given to the polis. Both documents list Adrasteia and Bendis one after another, in the second case with the same amount of money, 86 drachmas, lent to the polis. The former text is viewed as produced in accordance with Kallias’ financial decrees, which a number of scholars date to 434 BC (IG I3 52).8 However, if we look through different republications of the inscriptions related to Bendis and at the translations offered for some of them, we notice a variety of dates suggested for the texts.9 In a number of cases the passages where the goddess or her festival is mentioned are fragmentary or her name is simply missing. So, attempts at any greater precision would be speculative. Even without considering the date of ‘Kallias’ decrees’, we can assume that Bendis’ cult was introduced in Athens earlier than 429 BC. The context of the above two inscriptions speak in favour of an already incorporated cult in the Athenian religious (and financial) system. The same holds true for the third early inscription, IG I3 136, which regulates sacrifices, money due and a cult statue of Bendis.10 This must have been inaugurated some time earlier, but how much earlier? The available evidence cannot provide an answer. The assumption of an earlier date would undermine the traditional view about the reason for this act of the Athenians: looking for an alliance with the Odrysian king Sitalkes.11 Literary and visual evidence indirectly support the popularity of the Thracian goddess in the Greek world before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War. Sometimes a fragment by Hipponax is neglected. The poet states that Kybebe (the Phrygian goddess Cybele) is named ‘a daughter of Zeus and Thracian Bendis’ (Hipponax fr. 127). ‘Others called her Artemis’, adds the late lexicographer (Hesychius s.v. κυβήβη). Such fragments are always problematic, but one cannot rule out a 6th-century BC acquaintance with the Thracian goddess. Another fragment, this time of Aristophanes, parallels her with Megale theos on Lemnos (fr. 384). Among the earliest visual representations of Bendis is her tagged image on a red-figured skyphos that is kept now in Tübingen. Current scholarship suggests a wide chronological range for this vessel: 475–425 BC.12 The other depiction usually brought into discussion, often considered earlier, is on a red-figured bowl now in Verona.13 However,

6

 Even an exact date is proposed (taken from the day of the festival): 19 Thargelion (Planeaux 2001, 179).  Garland 1992, 111; Arnaoutoglou 2015, 32–38. 8  Commentary at www.atticinscriptions.com/inscription/IG3/52. Cf. Mattingly (1990, 121–22), who suggests a later date of 422. 9  Compare the dates given at http://.epigraphy.packhum.org and www.atticinscriptions.com. 10  Also of debated date: between 432/1 and 411/10 (Garland 1992, 111); most commonly 413/2. Its fragments were found on Mounichia Hill where Xenophon reports a sanctuary of Bendis at the turn of the 4th century BC (Hellenica 4. 2. 11). 11  Most recently Janouchová 2013, 96–97. Another political argument in favour of an earlier date in Arnaoutoglou 2015, 32–39. 12  Gočeva and Popov 1986, 96, no. 2, late 5th century BC. 13  Gočeva and Popov 1986, 96, no. 1, 440–430 BC. 7

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the identification of the female figure on the tondo with Bendis cannot be proved. She holds two spears in her right hand, which is the main argument for accepting her as the goddess. Otherwise, she is dressed in a ‘Thracian’, or rather a ‘barbarian’ costume. Although these painted vases cannot be dated precisely, they could still point to an earlier, mid5th-century BC, acquaintance of the Greek audience with the Thracian goddess.14 Thus, the official acceptance of the cult of Bendis in Athens because of the alliance with the Odrysians seems less and less likely.15 The proposed military and political agreement could have heated up interest in the Thracian deity but would hardly have provoked the inauguration of a new cult (with special privileges as well: owning land for a sanctuary; IG II2 1283). A combination of factors was obviously in operation, the significant presence of Thracian metoikoi and slaves at Athens and Piraeus in the Classical period being one of them. Not only did many Thracian slaves live in Athens and Piraeus in the Classical period (as the general opinion goes!), but there was also a significant Thracian influence and presence in all social levels.16 The financial, political and personal interest of a number of influential Athenian citizens in Aegean Thrace and the area of the lower Strymon/Struma and Nestos valleys should be taken into consideration, as should intermarriages. Most scholars are focused on Kratinos’ fragment and the date of his play Thracian Women: in the 430s17 or ca. 420 BC. Maybe the most discussed fragment of Kratinos is the one where he tries to explain Bendis’ epithet dilonkhos, ‘with two spears’ (Kratinos fr. 80). A fragment from the same play explains κυβήβον as ‘possessed, inspired by a god’ (θεοφόρητος), which is interpreted by later and modern authors as inspired by the Mother of the Gods, or Phrygian Cybele (Kratinos fr. 82).18 The Anatolian connotation might be supplemented by Adrasteia listed next to Bendis in the above-mentioned inscriptions. The opening of Plato’s Republic (1. 327a, 328a, 354a) seems to be the most trustworthy literary evidence on the festival of Bendis in Piraeus. The passage is usually involved in the discussion about the two cultic associations, the Thracian and the Greek. The names epigraphically attested imply that metics and slaves participated in the organisation of Bendis’ festivities, although Athenian citizens are also indicated. The epigraphic data suggests that the cult was served mainly by the Thracian community, both in Piraeus and Athens, and possibly on Salamis too (five decrees of the 3rd century BC).19 A recent study concluded that the cult embodied the assemblage of Thracian ethne in Attica.20 Whether this was an intentional group identification through cult by the Athenian polis, as S.M. Wijma thinks,21 or a natural development in representation of Thracians living abroad is debatable. 14

 Even if Braund (2017, 580) is correct in assuming that the scene with Themis on the skyphos might have reflected an unknown mythological story, this would still allow some time for the subject to appear in paintings. This of course had no bearing on the date of the official acceptance of the cult in Athens. 15  Another political scenario in Arnaoutoglou 2015 (see n. 11). 16  Wijma 2014, 129–32. 17  Braund 2017, 577, with cited literature. 18  But not as a priest of Cybele as assumed by Braund (2017, 582). 19  See Ismard’s discussion (2010, 261–75) on the public or private aspects of the cult and the intervention of the polis magistrates. 20  Ismard 2010, 273; Garland 2001, 122. A single late 4th–early 3rd-century BC dedication to Bendis is known from a certain Daos who won the torch race in her honour, found at Maroneia/Kamaritzas, Laurion: IG II3 4591. 21  Wijma 2014, 132–33.

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A mid-3rd-century BC decree for the orgeons of Bendis requires that the sacrifices and other things should be according to Thracian tradition (literally ‘the fathers’ things’) and the laws of the city.22 In the previous line the same text mentions ‘the entire [Thracian] ethnos’. So, how should we understand Thracian traditions: were they those of the Thracians in Thrace, or those of the Thracian community (ethne) in Athens/Attica? I will argue below that the traditional way of worshipping Bendis in Athens is what is meant here. It was probably Herodotus’ passage about the gods worshipped by the Thracians that set the path for identifying Bendis with Artemis (Herodotus 5. 7). The other text usually quoted in considering Bendis is about Artemis Basilea’s being venerated by Thracian and Paieonian women (Herodotus 4. 33). The closeness of her probable sanctuary in Piraeus to that of Artemis Mounichia also played a role in the process.23 Those later commentators who explicitly identified Bendis with Artemis stood at the other end of this tradition. The ‘barbarian’, ‘Thracian’ costume of the goddess was quite appropriate for huntress attire, which naturally leads to the Artemis image. The depictions on vases do not show Bendis wearing the ‘Phrygian cap’24 as they do on all the reliefs and statues (mostly of Hellenistic period). The latter almost never show the two spears. We do not have a single image from Thrace that can be identified with any certainty with Bendis. Votive stelae and grave monuments with representations, very primitive, of a female figure in huntress dress with bow and arrow, were sometimes interpreted as Bendis.25 All of these are of Roman Imperial date. Here we should add the 89 rock-cut reliefs of Artemis(?) from Philippi and its vicinity.26 The concentration of these monuments along the middle and lower Axios, Strymon and Nestos valleys suggested to scholars that actually the Thracian goddess was hidden here under the Graeco-Roman disguise of Artemis.27 However, a new set of evidence has recently appeared. Graffiti and inscriptions in the Thracian language have been published from Zone (Mesambria?) and Samothrace.28 The former are dated to the second half of the 6th and the early 5th century BC; those from the island to the 5th–4th century BC.29 In one graffito from Samothrace the name of the Thracian goddess appears in the form of Βενζι, in the dative.30 The allophone /z/ of /d/ is not a surprise: it is well attested in Thracian.31 On another graffito the restored dative form is [Βεν]δει.32 On the basis of the linguistic analysis, C. Brixhe suggested the existence of a sanctuary of Bendis in this locality.33 Another site, not far from it, yielded graffiti 22

 IG II2 1283, l. 24–25; Demetriou 2012, 226.  Mentioned together by Xenophon, see n. 10. 24  Which is actually not Phrygian: Roller 1994, 249–51. 25  Some of these have recently been published as reliefs of Diana/Artemis: Manov 2008, nos. 97, 111, 184, 193, 194. 26  Discussed by Arnaoutoglou 2015, 29, with previous literature. 27  Popov 1981, 80–84. 28  Matsas 2004, 230–33; Brixhe 2006; Brixhe and Zournatzi 2015 added to the long-known stone inscription from Samothrace (Bonfante 1955). 29  Brixhe 2006, 124. 30  Brixhe 2006, 125, no. 3, fig. 3; 138–39. 31  Dimitrov 2009, 124, 131–32. 32  Brixhe 2006, no. 1. 33  See the caption of his fig. 3: Brixhe 2006, 125. The archaeologist of the site does not however mention the name of the Thracian goddess: Matsas 2004, 230–31. 23

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reading Metri which gave grounds to D. Matsas to assume the presence of a sacred place of Meter oreia, or Cybele.34 The excavations of the sanctuary of Apollo at Zone yielded nearly 300 graffiti, mostly dedications to the god or just inscribed with his name. The greatest number are in Thracian and the Thracian form of the divine name is attested: Αβολο. Brixhe attempted to define the formula of the dedications in which he finds a possible epithet of the god: υνεσο.35 The same epithet(?) is also found for Bendis on the graffiti from Samothrace.36 The sanctuary of Apollo at Zone also provided four stone inscriptions in Thracian, one being a bilingual Greek-Thracian inscription. All of them are very fragmented and almost impenetrable. The Greek text of the bilingual suggests that the long Thracian one is also a public document, probably a decree.37 As far as it can be understood, a possible name mentioned is Greek. Another type of evidence often used when considering the Bendis cult is theophoric personal names. Simple names, derivatives and compound names are attested.38 Bendis is known both as a feminine and masculine name, mostly of Roman period. The earliest occurrences, besides Attica, were borne by people from Aenos (Βενδιφάνης), 3rd–2nd century BC;39 Maroneia (Βενδις); 2nd–1st century BC; Lysimacheia and Troas (Βενδιδώρα, 3rd century BC);40 and one possibly referring to Byzantium (Βενδίδωρος) of Hellenistic date.41 It is worth noting that Maroneia yielded three stone inscriptions in Thracian dated to the 4th century BC: like that from Zone, they are very fragmentary and hard to understand.42 The close relations between the Odrysians and the Maronites have long been discussed. The concentration of Thracian names is in Maroneia, and, like those from the other Aegean cities, they are mainly documented in the Late Hellenistic and Roman periods.43 A Hellenistic inscription from the area of Byzantium mentions a certain Olympiodoros, son of Mendidoros,44 who won the torch race at the Bosphoria festival.45 Any conclusions about a connexion with the Bendis cult would be far-fetched. However, the case is interesting as a torch race is mentioned. The mechanism of giving theophoric names to children has recently been discussed by R. Parker. His examples show that a concentration of theophoric names at a certain site does not necessarily mean the existence of a cult there – and, vice versa, the cults of some divinities do not always produce new names.46 In the case of Bendis we see that names generated by the theonym prevailed in Aegean Thrace. This is also valid for the 34

 Matsas 2004, 232–33, fig. 3.  Brixhe 2006, 136–40; Brixhe and Zournatzi 2015, 288. 36  In the dative, υνεσο( ): Brixhe 2006, 138–39. 37  Brixhe and Zournatzi 2015, 257–69: IV. AΓΚ 6140 + AΓΚ 6143. 38  Masson 1988; Parissaki 2007. 39  An epitaph for a man from Aenos found at Chalcis, Euboea: LGPN IV, 67; Masson 1988, 7. 40  The first one is IG II2 9223, daughter of Berisades (unlikely that one of Kotys’ successors was meant); LGPN IV, 67; Masson 1988, 7. 41  Robert 1963, 64; Masson 1988, 7; LGPN IV, 68. 42  Loukopoulou et al. 2005, 476–78, E376–E378. 43  Parissaki 2007, 291–97. 44  The change Bendis/Mendis is attested elsewhere: Masson 1988, 10–11. 45  Masson 1988, 7; Russell 2017, 183–86. 46  Parker 2000, 69–70, 77–78. 35

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attestations of Roman Imperial date, of the 2nd–3rd century AD. Only further archaeological and epigraphic data could possibly locate a cult place of the goddess in any of these cities. Nevertheless, the number of these theophoric names suggests the popularity of Bendis in the area. Livy (38. 41. 1) mentions a temple of the goddess not far from Cypsela. If we combine the onomastic evidence with the very few finds of inscriptions in Thracian, we could expect cult places of Bendis at Maroneia, Zone and in Samothrace (already suggested for the latter).47 There is not a single epigraphic proof of the Bendis cult from inland Thrace from the pre-Hellenistic and Hellenistic periods. A number of theophoric names appeared mainly in the area of Philippopolis and present-day Pazardzhik in the 1st–3rd centuries AD.48 A compound toponym, Βενδιπαρα, (from the same region) (IGB III 1455) shows that not only personal names but also place names were generated from Bendis. A female compound name includes a morpheme designating ‘settlement’ as well: Δεβα-βενζις, also showing the change /d/ - /z/.49 Two more examples show this change in simple theophoric names: Βενζεις and Βενζης, both outside Thrace proper but in a Thracian context as the other names are Thracian.50 Variants with an initial M- can be seen from Thessalonica, Byzantium and Cyzicus.51 Because of the occurrences of Βενδιδώρα and Βενδίδωρος Parker assumes that Bendis was also ‘a goddess capable of “giving” children’.52 Thus, some healing functions could possibly be suggested for Bendis. Several of the above theophoric names are attested at the nymphaeum at the village of Ognyanovo (Saladinovo), 1st–3rd centuries AD. The same site yielded the variant Οενδις (IGB III 1347). This, combined with the image of Deloptes on Bendis reliefs, copying the iconography of Asklepios, could add arguments to Planeaux’s idea that it was Bendis’ curative abilities that led to the adoption of her cult in Athens in the 5th century BC.53 However, the chronological gap is too great, and, besides, Bendis-generated names appeared in other contexts as well. They turn up on a stele with a Bacchic scene (IGB III 956), on a votive plaque of the Thracian horseman (IGB II 861)54 and on a funerary stele with the image of the Thracian Heros (IGB III 1828). * * * The review of evidence on the cult of Bendis shows that there is no indication of it in Thrace proper in the pre-Hellenistic and Hellenistic periods. It is well documented in Piraeus, Athens and Salamis, and possibly in the cities along the north coast of the Aegean, Samothrace and and the Propontic shores. Probably an Anatolian-inspired goddess of the Mother Goddess type was venerated in Thrace, receiving her Thracian name, Bendis, only in a Classical-period foreign setting. 47

 See above n. 33.  Dimitrov 2009, 47–48. 49  From Laskarevo, south-western Thrace, IGB IV 2292; Detschew 1976, 121–22; Masson 1988, 9. 50  From Panticapaeum, northern Black Sea, and Kalindoia, eastern Macedonia: Masson 1988, 11. 51  Masson 1988, 10–11. 52  Parker 2000, 78. 53  Planeaux 2000–01, 179–82. 54  One of the very few examples from present-day northern Bulgaria. 48

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From the viewpoint of investigating emporia it has been suggested that foreign cults, Bendis’ included, mediated the relations of the Greeks with foreign populations.55 They were also instrumental in creating new collective identities.56 Many pages have been written on whether Athenian citizens or metics participated in the festivities of Bendis. The general opinion is that it was mainly the Thracian community in Piraeus and Athens that worshipped the goddess. Although metic- or slave-status can be assumed in many cases, the majority of the names mentioned in the 4th–2nd-century BC inscriptions referring to Bendis are Greek. All the epigraphic evidence on the cult is written in the Greek language. Thus, a new ‘Thracian’ identity was achieved in the middle ground. Going back to the question asked at the beginning about the ‘fathers’ traditions’ in worshipping Bendis, I would suggest that these were of the Thracians living in Attica. The rather primitive images of a huntress on stelae and rock-cut reliefs in southwestern Thracian lands in the Roman period, which might or might not represent Bendis, and the 1st–3rd-century BC theophoric names speak in favour of a secondary dispersion of the cult in Inner Thrace, probably under the influence of the identity already produced in the previous periods.57 This time Thracian names prevailed in the inscriptions. The functions of the goddess in Roman Imperial times might have been different from those in the 5th–3rd centuries BC, and very diverse at that. Maybe again a new group identity was formed, now under the Romans. I would suggest that Bendis was worshipped by Thracian communities in a foreign environment in pre-Hellenistic times. Not in small numbers, the Thracians were living in a Greek milieu and the goddess offered them the opportunity to create their own community there. Not surprisingly, the only sanctuary of Bendis with literary attestation in the pre-Hellenistic period was to be found on Mounichia Hill in Piraeus (Xenophon Hellenica 2. 4. 11).58 The same is true for the appearance of literacy, again in a foreign setting.59 It is curious that there is not a single stone inscription in the Thracian language found in inland Thrace to date,60 but a few were discovered in Maroneia, Zone and Samothrace, no matter how impenetrable they are so far. Living in the Greek literary environment stimulated Thracians to produce written documents in their own language. All known inscriptions from inland Thrace from the 4th century BC onwards are in Greek. Thus, writing in Thracian and worshipping a Thracian goddess, officially acknowledged at Athens at that, were part of constructing an identity of the Thracian ethne among the Greeks.

55

 Demetriou 2012, 217.  Demetriou 2012, 224. 57  In other words, they already knew that Bendis was a Thracian goddess. It is not by accident that most of these theophoric names appeared around a big urban centre such as Philipoppolis. 58  Xenophon Hellenica 2. 4. 11. See n. 10 above. So far it has not been confirmed archaeologically. 59  The mediation required bilingualism as well: Demetriou 2012, 221. That is why one of the inscriptions with a Thracian text from Zone is a Greek-Thracian ‘bilingual’: see n. 37 above. 60  Pace the curious undeciphered Kyolmen inscription, believed to be of 6th-century BC date: Dimitrov 2009, 3–13. A very short bilingual text exists on the façade of a stone-built tomb of the late 4th–early 3rd century BC: Dimitrov 2009, 17. 56

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Arnaoutoglou, I. 2015: ‘Cult Associations and Politics: Worshipping Bendis in Classical and Hellenistic Athens’. In Gabrielsen, V. and Thomsen, C.A. (eds.), Private Associations and the Public Sphere (Proceedings of a Symposium Held at the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 9–11 September 2010) (Scientia Danica. Series H, Humanistic, 8 vol. 9) (Copenhagen), 25–56. Bonfante, G. 1955: ‘A Note on the Samothracian Language’. Hesperia 24.2, 101–09. Braund, D. 2017: ‘The Goddess Bendis in Fifth Century Athenian Culture’. VDI 3, 574–98. Brixhe, C. 2006: ‘Zôné et Samothrace: Lueurs sur la langue thrace et nouveau chapitre de la grammaire comparée?’. CRAI, 121–46. Brixhe, C. and Zournatzi, A. 2015: ‘Corpus des inscriptions’. In Tsatsopoulou-Kaloudi, P., Brixhe, C., Pardalidou, C., Iliopoulou, S., Kaloudis, K., Galani-Krikou, M., Zournatzi, A., Tselekas, P., Veroupolidou, R. and Nikolaidou, D. (eds.), Archaia Zoni I: To iero tou Apollona (Komotini), 211–81. Demetriou, D. 2012: Negotiating Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean. The Archaic and Classical Greek Multiethnic Emporia (Cambridge). Detschew, D. 1976: Die thrakischen Sprachreste (Schriften der Balkankommission, Linguistische Abteilung 14), 2nd ed. (Vienna). Dimitrov, P.A. 2009: Thracian Language and Greek and Thracian Epigraphy (Newcastle-upon-Tyne). Ferguson, W.S. 1944: ‘The Attic Orgeons’. The Harvard Theological Review 37.2, 61–174. Garland, R. 1992: Introducing New Gods: The Politics of Athenian Religion (Ithaca, NY). —. 2001: The Piraeus: From the Fifth to the First Century B.C. (London). Gočeva, Z. and Popov, D. 1986: ‘Bendis’. LIMC 3, 95–97. Ismard, P. 2010: La cité des réseaux: Athènes et ses associations, VIe–Ier siècle av. J.-C. (Publications de la Sorbonne. Histoire ancienne et médiévale 105) (Paris). Janouchová, P. 2013: ‘The Cult of Bendis in Athens and Thrace’. Graeco-Latina Brunensia 18.1, 95–106. Loukopoulou, L., Parissaki, M.G., Psoma, S. and Zournatzi, A. 2005: Epigrafes tis Thrakis tou Aigaiou (Athens). Manov, M. 2008: Selishtniat zhivot v dolinata na Sredna Struma spored antichnite epigrafski pametnitsi ot IV/III v. pr. Hr.–III v. sl. Hr. (Razkopki i prouchnavia 38) (Sofia). Masson, O. 1988: ‘Les noms théophores de Bendis en Grèce et en Thrace’. Museum Helveticum 45.1, 6–12. Matsas, D. 2004: ‘I Samothraki stin proimi epochi tou siderou’. In Stampolidis, N.C. and Giannikouri, A. (eds.), To Aigaio stin proimi epochi tou siderou (Athens), 227–57. Mattingly, H. 1990: ‘Some Fifth-Century Attic Epigraphic Hands’. ZPE 83, 110–22. Nilsson, M.P. 1960: ‘Bendis in Athen’. In Nilsson, M.P., Opuscula selecta, vol. 3 (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska institutet i Athen, 8o, II.3) (Lund), 55–80. Parissaki, M.G.G. 2007: Prosopography and Onomasticon of Aegean Thrace (Meletemata 49) (Athens). Parker, R. 1996: Athenian Religion: A History (Oxford). —. 2000: ‘Theophoric Names and the History of Greek Religion’. In Hornblower, S. and Matthews, E. (eds.), Greek Personal Names. Their Value as Evidence (Oxford), 53–79. Planeaux, C. 2000–01: ‘The Date of Bendis’ Entry into Attica’. The Classical Journal 96.2, 165–92. Popov, D. 1981: Trakiiskata boginya Bendida (Sofia). Roller, L.E. 1994: ‘Attis on Greek Votive Monuments: Greek God or Phrygian?’. Hesperia 63.2, 245–62. Robert, L. 1963: Review of K. Lehmanm, Samothrace 2.1. The Inscriptions on Stone. Gnomon 35.1, 50–79. Russell, T.J. 2017: Byzantium and the Bosporus: A Historical Study, from the Seventh Century B.C. until the Foundation of Constantinople (Oxford). Wijma, S.M. 2014: Embracing the Immigrant: The Participation of Metics in Athenian Polis Religion (5th–4th Century BC) (Historia Einzelschriften 233) (Stuttgart).

FORGOTTEN MONUMENTS OF THE CIMMERIAN BOSPORUS Yurii A. VINOGRADOV

ABSTRACT The tumuli of the Cimmerian Bosporus were excavated in the 19th century. For the most part they are well known to modern scholarship, but some of them remain practically forgotten or have not received proper attention. The Yuz-Oba necropolis is very significant in this regard. All scholars now agree that this necropolis belonged to the Bosporan elite of the time when the kingdom flourished in the 4th century BC. But, in spite of a long history of study, our knowledge of this site is very limited. V.F. Gaidukevich believed that the tomb with a corbelled vault was the absolutely dominant type of burial structure at Yuz-Oba. Of cause, this type was very significant, but not absolutely predominant. Some other of these unique monuments must be remembered. A crypt with an arched vault was opened in Tumulus 6 of Yuz-Oba. The huge catacomb of the Ostry kurgan is especially important for our understanding of cultural and historical development of the Bosporus in this time.

The tumuli of the Cimmerian Bosporus are famous in scholarly literature. Practically all of them were excavated in the 19th century. For the most part they are well known: every archaeologist is aware of the brilliant finds from Kul-Oba and the magnificent architecture of the tomb of the Tsarskii (Royal) barrow. But this rule has exceptions, and some Bosporan tumuli are practically forgotten or have yet to receive proper attention. More than a century ago, E.H. Minns wrote: ‘I do not know of any Greek site surrounded by the rows and groups of barrows that occur in the neighbourhood of Panticapaeum and Phanagoria.’1 And he was right. I would like to pay attention to the kurgan necropolis of Yuz-Oba (‘Hundred Hills’ in the Tartar language), situated 4 km to the south of the modern city of Kerch – ancient Panticapaeum (Fig. 1). This necropolis is very significant for our understanding of the cultural and historical development of the Bosporus in the 4th century BC. Yuz-Oba was one of the most important ancient sites investigated by the Imperial Archaeological Commission of Russia in the second part of the 19th century.2 The bulk of these tumuli were excavated by A.E. Lyutsenko, director of the Kerch Museum of Antiquities, and the excavation materials are now to be found in the Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture of the Russian Academy of Sciences (IHMC RAS) in St Petersburg. All of them were published only quite recently.3 1

 Minns 1913, 422.  Vinogradov 2012a. 3  Vinogradov et al. 2012. 2

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Lyutsenko’s excavations at Yuz-Oba started in 1858 and were carried on very intensively until 1863 (Fig. 2).4 It was the outstanding Russian scholar M.I. Rostovtsev who first made his contributions in a study of this necropolis;5 later, K.E. Grinevich published a special article about Yuz-Oba,6 and V.D. Blavatskii, V.F. Gaidukevich and other Soviet scholars paid attention to the barrows of this necropolis. All of them agreed that YuzOba belongs to the Bosporan nobility of the 4th century BC, a time of prosperity for the Bosporan kingdom. But, in spite of the long history of study, our knowledge of this site is very limited: even we did not know the exact number of mounds excavated. Only in recent years has interest in the study of the necropolis noticeably increased,7 and now it is possible to suppose that Lyutsenko and other archaeologists investigated more than 30 barrows.8 Ancient tombs have been found in all tumuli of the necropolis, and they are of different types. Gaidukevich believed that the monumental chamber tomb with a corbelled vault was the absolutely dominant type of burial structure at Yuz-Oba.9 Of cause, this type was very significant, but not absolutely predominant. Some examples of such constructions are found in the drawings of two archaeologists (and good artists): K.R. Begichev and F.I. Gross (Figs. 3, 4). The origin of tombs with a corbelled vault in the Cimmerian Bosporus is a subject for discussion. Most likely, it was connected with a strong Thracian influence on the culture of the Bosporan elite of this time.10 But, I must repeat that tombs with a corbelled vault were not the most numerous constructions at Yuz-Oba. There were other structures of great scientific importance. We have archival drawings by Begichev and Gross of three mounds of Yuz-Oba, which belong to the category of forgotten monuments of Bosporus.11 1. Crypt with semi-circular vault, investigated by A.A. Bobrinsky in 1888–89 (Fig. 5). I believe that this had been discovered 60 years earlier by A.B. Ashik in the so-called tumulus on the land of Mirza Kekuvatskii.12 He made here very good finds, and we can suppose that a noble warrior was buried in this tomb. Bobrinsky found here no gold objects, but he fixed this tomb. Gross’s drawing shows us a construction with arched vault. In all probability, this vault is a false arch. In other words, it was constructed with a corbelled vault into which stone angles (terraces) were cut later. One interesting detail is connected with this chamber. On the western wall of the crypt we can see a false door or a decorative niche of unusual type. This detail is absolutely unique in Bosporan sepulchral architecture. For some reason the drawing of this tomb was published only a few years ago and has yet to become the subject of academic discussion.  Vinogradov et al. 2012, 108.  Rostovtsev 1914, 99–109; 1931, 148. 6  Grinevich 1952. 7  Fedoseev 2007; Vinogradov 2013; 2016. 8  Vinogradov et al. 2012, 130–31. 9  Gaidukevich 1949, 254; 1971, 274. 10  Rostovtsev 1922, 77; Gaidukevich 1949, 265–66; 1971, 271, 282–83; Tsetskhladze 1998, 55; Vinogradov 2017a, 127–28. 11  A selection of the main drawings of these authors was published recently: Vinogradov 2017b. 12  Vinogradov 2012a, 256, fig. 87, 259–60; 2012b; 2017a, 164–65, 409, fig. 31; 2017b, 80, 234–35; Vinogradov et al. 2012, 97–104, 212. 4 5

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2. A real arch was opened in Crypt 47 of Tumulus 6, Yuz-Oba, represented by Begichev’s much-published drawing (Fig. 6).13 Let me stress that this tumulus belongs to the last decades of the 4th century BC. This date is very important for our understanding of the cultural contacts of the Bosporus. Many scholars suppose that arch-buildings appeared in Greece only after the Eastern Expedition of Alexander the Great.14 Manolis Andronokos maintained that ‘it is absolutely certain that the Greeks knew all about vaulted constructions long before Alexander’s expedition’.15 But his point of view is very doubtful. This problem is connected with the origin of so-called Macedonian tombs. They are very typical for the Bosporus of the 3rd–2nd centuries BC,16 but Tomb 47 is not of Macedonian type. The planning of this chamber is utterly atypical. The dromos came to it from the long side. I do not know of any other example of such construction in the archaeology of the northern Black Sea region. I must stress again that this arch vault is one of the earliest in the Greek world. 3. The last mound I shall discuss is the Ostryi (Sharp) tumulus, Tumulus 10 of the necropolis.17 To my mind, it is especially important. It was one of the tallest tumuli of the Bosporus – the mound was more than 17 m in height. The stone revetment had an octagonal form with staircases from four sides: Gross’s drawing shows one of these constructions (Fig. 7). These staircases were made of good dressed stones. The height of the revetment is more than 2 m. It is absolutely unique among mounds of the Cimmerian Bosporus. Lyutsenko, the excavator of the mound, wrote in his report about fragments of a marble sarcophagus and of a Greek inscription, found by him in the burial mound.18 Unfortunately, he did not collect all of these pieces, but it is necessary to stress that no other mound at Yuz-Oba contained similar finds. The burial chamber of the Osrryi tumulus was also unique for the Bosporus of this time. It was a huge catacomb of Scythian type with a gable roof (Fig. 8). The huge pit, lined with good rustic dressed stones, came down to the entrance of the catacomb (Fig. 9). The entrance was closed by a wall made of well-dressed stones (Fig. 10). The size of the tomb is about 30 m², which is more, than the tomb of the Tsarskii (Royal) tumulus. Overall, this catacomb is one of the biggest sepulchral construction of the Bosporus. It was completely robbed, but some finds mentioned by Lyutsenko and the character of the masonry – the types of rustication used in accordance with a definite system – allows us to date it to the 4th century BC. I conjecture that the famous Bosporan king Leucon I (389/88–349/48 BC) was buried here. It is well known that he, not Spartocus, was the real founder of the ruling Spartocid dynasty in the Cimmerian Bosporus and Bosporan kingdom (Aelian Var. Hist. 6. 13).19 Ancient written sources aver that he 13  Rostovtsev 1922, 75, fig. 8; Gaidukevich 1949, 261, fig. 44; 1971, 279, Abb. 73; Vinogradov 2012a, 74; 2017a, 143–45 and fig. 32; 2017b, 56, 222–23; Vinogradov et al. 2012, 188. 14  Kurtz and Boardman 1971, 276; Boyd 1978, 89. 15  Andronikos 1987, 6. 16  Vinogradov 2014a; 2017a, 182–96. 17  Vinogradov 2012a, 80, 85–87; 2014b; 2017a, 153–56 and figs. 33–39; 2017b, 67–70, 245–47; Vinogradov et al. 2012, 72–83, 192–98. 18  Vinogradov et al. 2012, 76, 77. 19  Zavoikin 2013, 392–93.

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had good relations with Scythians (Polyaenus 6. 9. 4). Catacombs of similar type, but without gabled roofs, were very characteristic for the Scythians, and for the Royal Scythian culture of the 4th century BC.20 To sum up, it must be emphasised that Yuz-Oba is an important historical monument of the Bosporan kingdom of the 4th century BC. Probably, Bosporan citizens perceived these mounds in a somewhat similar way: namely, as a symbol of a bright and distinctive historical epoch, as a fully formed element of the landscape, breaking which, it seems, was strictly forbidden. I want to believe that modern archaeologists will intensify their efforts to explore this remarkable monument of the classical culture of the eastern Crimea. If we cannot understand properly the structure of the Yuz-Oba necropolis, our knowledge of elite culture in the 4th-century BC Cimmerian Bosporus will be very limited.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abramova, M.P. 1982: ‘Katakomby i sklepovye sooruzheniya yuga Vostochnoi Evropy’. Arkheologicheskie issledovaniya na yuge Vostochnoi Evropy. Trudy Gosudarstvennogo Istoricheskogo Muzeya 54, 9–19. Andronicos, M. 1987: ‘On the Macedonian Tombs’. Annual of the British School at Athens 28, 1–16. Boyd, T.D. 1978: ‘The Arch and the Vault in Greek Architecture’. AJA 82, 83–100. Fedoseev, N.F. 2007: ‘The Necropolis of Kul Oba and Juz Oba’. In Grammenos, D.V. and Petropoulos, E.K. (eds.), Ancient Greek Colonies in the Black Sea 2 (BAR International Series 1675) (Oxford), 979–1022. Gaidukevich [Gajdukevič], V.F. 1949: Bosporskoe Tsarstvo (Moscow/Leningrad). —. 1971: Das Bosporanische Reich (Berlin). Grinevich, K.E. 1952: ‘Yuz-Oba (Bosporskii mogilnik 4 veka do n.e.)’. In Gaidukevich, V.F. (ed.), Archeologiya i istoriya Bospora, vol. 1 (Simferopol), 129–47. Kurtz, D.C. and Boardman, J. 1971: Greek Burial Customs (London). Minns, E.H. 1913: Scythians and Greeks. A Survey of Ancient History and Archaeology on the North Coast of the Euxine from the Danube to the Caucasus (Cambridge). Olkhovskii, V.S. 1977: ‘Skifskie katakomby v Severnom Prichernomor’e’. Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 4, 108–28. —. 1991: Pogrebalno-pominalnaya obryadnost naseleniya stepnoi Skifii (7–3 vv. do n.e.) (Moscow). Rostovtsev [Rostovtzeff /Rostowzew], M.I. 1914: Antichnaya dekorativnaya zhivopis na Yuge Rossii (St Petersburg). —. 1922: Iranians and Greeks in South Russia (Oxford). —. 1931: Skythien und der Bosporus (Berlin). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 1998: ‘Who built the Scythian and Thracian royal and élite tombs?’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 17, 55–92. Vinogradov, Y.A. 2012a: Stranitsy istorii bosporskoi arkheologii. Epokha Imperatorskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii (1859–1917) (Simferopol/Kerch). —. 2012b: ‘Kurgan Mirzy Kekuvatskogo’. Drevnosti Bospora 16, 39–50. —. 2013: ‘Ob izuchenii kurgannogo nekropolya Yuz-Oba pod Kerchyu’. In Vakhtina, M.Y. (ed.), Fiditiya. Pamyati Yuriya Viktorovicha Andreeva (St Petersburg), 39–51. —. 2014a: ‘O sklepakh makedonskogo tipa na Bospore’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 30, 171–89. —. 2014b: ‘Ostryi ili Desyatyi kurgan nekropolya Yuz-Oba’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 30, 535– 52. 20

 Olkhvskii 1977, 108–09; 1991, 26–27; Abramova 1982, 9–10.

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—. 2016: ‘Yuz-Oba – nekropol bosporskoi znati. Kul’tura i khronologiya’. Rossiiskii arkheologicheskii ezhegodnik 5–6, 79–99. —. 2017a: ‘Kul’tura Bosporskoi elity pri Spartokodakh’. Bosporskie Issledovaniya 34, 112–223. —. 2017b: Drevnosti Bospora Kimmeriiskogo v risunkakh K.R. Begicheva i F.I. Grossa (po materialam Nauchnogo arkhiva IIMK RAN) (Simferopol/Kerch). Vinogradov, Y.A., Zinko, V.N. and Smekalova T.N. 2012: Yuz-Oba. Kurgannyi nekropol aristokratii Bospora 1: Istoriya izucheniya i topografiya (Simferopol/Kerch). Zavoikin, A.A. 2013: Obrazovanie Bosporskogo gosudarstva. Archeologiya i khronologiya stanovleniya derzhavy Spartokidov (Simferopol/Kerch).

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Fig. 1. Vicinity of Kerch (ancient Panticapaeum). Part of the map of 1837.

Fig. 2. Excavations of Yuz-Oba necropolis in 1859. Drawing by K.R. Begichev (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 3. Crypt 48 of Tumulus 5 of Yuz-Oba. Drawing by K.R. Begichev (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 4. Crypt 21 of Tumulus 15. Drawing by F.I. Gross (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 5. Crypt of the Mirza Kekuvatskii tumulus. Drawing by F.I. Gross (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 6. Crypt of Tumulus 6. Drawing by K.R. Begichev (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 7. Excavations of the Ostryi (Sharp) tumulus. The staircase of the eastern revetment. Drawing by F.I. Gross (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

Fig. 8. Section of the Ostryi tumulus. Drawing by F.I. Gross (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 9. Excavations of the mine of the Ostryi tumulus. Drawing by F.I. Gross (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

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Fig. 10. Entrance to the catacomb of the Ostryi tumulus. Drawing by F.I. Gross (Scientific Archive of the Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences).

ROUTE OF THE ‘PILGRIM’S ROAD’ IN NORTH-WESTERN ASIA MINOR: STATE OF THE ART AND NEW OBSERVATIONS Barbora WEISSOVA

ABSTRACT The present study examines the archaeological evidence pointing to the course of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ running through western Asia Minor. In particular, the segment analysed stretches between the nodal points of Chalcedon (part of Istanbul), Nicomedia (Izmit), Nicaea (Iznik) and Iuliopolis (Nallıhan). The archaeological evidence includes remains of road surfaces, bridges and milestones. The sources of the evidence are records of travellers and researchers, the results of the prospection in the field conducted in 2015 by the Iznik Survey Project, and outcomes of the least cost path analysis calculated between the nodal points. All the relevant features are discussed in their spatial environment, as allowed by the spatially referenced database created for the purpose of the study. All the digitised evidence as well as the most feasible results of the route are presented on synoptic maps.

INTRODUCTION The ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ represented an artery of Asia Minor, running south-eastwards from Constantinople as far as Antioch, where it turned to the south, heading to Jerusalem.1 The segment examined here crosses north-western Asia Minor and stretches between the cities of Chalcedon, Nicomedia, Nicaea and Iuliopolis. Although the name ‘Pilgrim’s Road’, as introduced in 1890 by W.M. Ramsay,2 exclusively and misleadingly points to its later date, it became a generally used term. Following this trend and bearing in mind that the name is not correct in its true meaning, it is used throughout this article without further discussion.3 The main aim of the study is to discuss some of the discrepancies between the reconstruction of the route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ as published by D.H. French in 1981,4 observations of travellers on its possible remains noted in the 19th century,5 new archaeological evidence collected during the Iznik Survey Project conducted in 2015 (ISP),6 and the results of the least cost path analysis calculated between the nodal points represented by the cities (henceforth LCPA).7 The study is by no means to be understood as a criticism of the great work of French, who devoted a considerable part of his research to the 1

 French 1981, 13.  Ramsay 1890. 3  For the discussion on the earlier date of the road and its persistency, see Weissova and Pavúk 2016. 4  French 1981. 5  von der Goltz 1896; von Diest 1898. 6  Weissova 2019 II, 135–40; Weissova et al. 2019, 29–31. 7  Weissova and Pavúk 2016; Weissova 2019 I, 219–41. 2

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Roman road system and milestones in Asia Minor and without whose work this study would not have been possible.8 It is meant as a complement to the discussion, including rectifications of some of the segments, as well as pointing to possible forks and deviations within the course following reconsideration of old evidence, and as witnessed by new. Road stations, as depicted on the maps (Figs. 1, 2), follow the spatial distribution as published in the Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World.9 Discussions about the identification of their precise allocations fall out the scope of the present study. An advantage of the work is a possibility of spatial analyses of the collected data, as all the available datasets were gathered, organised and analysed in a spatially referenced database in ESRI ArcGIS.10

SOURCES

AND

HISTORY

OF

RESEARCH

The existence of the road is firmly anchored in literary sources since the ancient times. The Itineraria11 list cities and road stations situated along the road and the only known Itinerarium pictum, the Tabula Peutingeriana,12 also depicts its course. Mentions of the existence of the road are furthermore scattered throughout other ancient literary sources (Strabo 13. 1. 10; Procopius De Aedificiis 5. 2. 6–13, 5. 3. 5–6, 5. 4. 1), but the account can be summed up as rather accidental. There are no doubts about the existence of the road, but questions concerning the precise identification of the nodal points listed in the Itineraria,13 the exact course of the road,14 not to mention the best practice when reconstructing a feasible path, are far from being unambiguously answered. These questions have evoked the interest of travellers and researchers since the 19th century. The travellers who contributed to the rectification of the segment of road examined here with their remarks on the remains of Roman pavements and bridges are C. von der Goltz15 and W. von Diest.16 The first attempts at reconstruction, however, were based on the names and distances stated in the ancient Itineraria. Comparison was made with modern settlements and the distances between them with the aim of identifying the nodal points.17 The early scientific studies entirely omitted remains of ancient roads identified in the terrain.18 Change came with the work of French.19 He thoroughly researched and 8

 For the series of freely available electronic monographs examining the Roman road system in Asia Minor and the milestones, see https://biaa.ac.uk/publications/item/name/electronic-monographs (consulted 02.02.2020). 9  Talbert 2000. 10  The licence was kindly provided by the Ruhr University Bochum, Institute of Archaeological Studies. 11  Itinerarium Antonini (Cuntz 1929, 20); Itinerarium Burdigalense (Cuntz 1929, 91–92). 12  Miller 1916, 655–58. 13  The issues connected with the identification of the locations of the road stations have been discussed elsewhere; the main problems are the differing names and distances listed in diverse Itineraria. 14  For the discussion on the design and character of the map, see a thorough study by Talbert 2014, 86–122. Although the Tabula Peutingeriana depicts the road, its topological character does not help to make precise the course of the road. 15  von der Goltz 1896, 407, 450, 451. 16  von Diest 1898, 11, 13, 17–18, 75. 17  Rennell 1831, 179–90; Ramsay 1890, 199–207. 18  The reconstruction of roads based solely on the determination of nodal points was criticised by S.F. Starr (1962, 5–6), who strongly recommended that prospection of the terrain be included, focused on identification of road pavements in order to specify the course. 19  French 1981.

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discussed the segment of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ leading through Asia Minor. The main advantage of French’s research was the prospection in the terrain. Based on his own observations along the course of the road, French described the remains of Roman pavements and bridges. He then combined the outcomes of the prospection with literary sources and epigraphic evidence, and reconstructed the route of the road. In a later monograph,20 French focused on milestones connected with the existence of the road. One more study relevant to the present topic needs to be mentioned, although not primarily examining the road system in north-western Asia Minor: one of S. Şahin’s compendia of inscriptions from the museum in Iznik,21 which offers a detailed map with the reconstructed course of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ between Dacibyza and Ceratae, i.e. including most of the route discussed in this article. In some earlier works, I have also discussed diverse aspects of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’.22

METHODOLOGY The methodological approach can be divided into four separate steps, briefly characterised as digitising of available datasets, prospection in the terrain, spatial analyses and evaluation of the results. The first step included definition of available features relevant to the reconstruction of the road, as identified when perusing the published evidence. The resulting features include nodal points, pavements of roads, bridges and epigraphic evidence. The epigraphic evidence is mainly represented by milestones, but other inscriptions regarding the topic were considered as well. The definition of the features allowed for their division into categories, followed by the creation of a spatially referenced database in ESRI ArcGIS designed for the purposes of the project. The prospection focused on the verification and spatial rectification of some of the digitised features. The terrain works were primarily focused on the hinterland of Nicaea, a micro-region of ca. 160 km² covering the lowland east of the Iznik Lake. The territory is defined by natural borders represented by the Samanlı in the north/north-east and by the Katırlı Mountains in the south.23 The prospection covered features situated in the microregion and some of the relevant points, especially bridges and remains of road surfaces, were rectified although situated out of the targeted area. The third step was analytical: using the LCPA between the nodal points represented by the cities. The aim was to confirm the route, especially in the cases where the archaeological evidence suggested conflicting reconstructions. The calculations were based on a smoothed elevation model,24 reclassified using tan(slope)/tan(1)25 in order to consider that the cost of travelling a slope is not a linear progression but increases more in line 20

 French 2013.  Şahin 1987, map in the attachment. 22  Weissova and Pavúk 2016; Weissova 2019 I, 223–27, 244–52. 23  For the precise definition of the micro-region, see Weissova et al. 2019, 24–26. 24  The model derives from the SRTM (Shuttle Radar Topography Mission) with the 1 Arc resolution (approximately 30 m), acquired on the 11th September 2000. The present elevation model is a result of the mosaic of the following tiles: n40e028, n40e029, n40e030, n40e031, n41e028, n41e029, n41e030 and n41e031. 25  Bell and Lock 2000, 88–89. 21

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with the comparative difficulty in traversing steep terrain. The reclassified raster was combined with a raster recalculating open waters and lakes as uncrossable for the route. The river beds underwent numerous changes, most likely due to the high seismic activity of the area,26 demonstrated inter alia by a number of Roman bridges detected in the region and standing in the midst of dry fields.27 Thus, the current courses are for the most part irrelevant when calculating the route of an ancient road. Therefore, the rivers were not excluded from the raster but left as weighted by the function tan(slope)/tan(1). The last part of the study was the evaluation of the data. In order to keep the study as objective as possible, it presents all the available evidence and offers feasible reconstructions, but does not choose one of them as the ‘correct’ one when not unambiguous. However, it offers a discussion on the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ of the suggested routes.

RESULTS The road is discussed from Chalcedon to Iuliopolis, divided into three segments by the ancient cities it ran through: Chalcedon to Nicomedia, Nicomedia to Nicaea and Nicaea to Iuliopolis. The Chalcedon–Nicaea section is discussed once more due to the diversification of the traffic in the 6th century. Features described within each of the segments are always mentioned in the direction from west to east and/or from north to south and include remains of road surfaces, bridges and milestones. The study is further accomplished with results of the LCPA. When describing the routes of the particular sections, I use modern names, permitting identification of the points on current maps. The maps in Figs. 1 and 2 subsequently depict the entire course of the road with all the discussed elements.

SEGMENT I: CHALCEDON

TO

NICOMEDIA (Fig. 1)

The first part of the road is relatively short of archaeological remains in situ, as the only mention of a road remain in this section was described by French.28 He observed a stretch of the Roman pavement situated about 5 km east of Gebze. In 1975, the road was about 1.7 km long, but in 2016, French himself described the pavement as ‘since long destroyed by urban and industrial development’. No bridges were identified in this area. In total, 13 milestones have been found in the section. One was discovered just 80 m from the sea south of Kadiköy,29 without specific information about the find context or circumstances. A cluster of nine milestones was identified further south-east, in the vicinity of Gebze. Of these, one was discovered north of Gebze on the road to Tusla,30 the remaining eight about 1 km north of the estuary of the River Dil, found within ancient 26

 For the Northern Anatolian Fault, which intersects the territory, see Hütteroth 1982, 38–41; Hütteroth and Höhfeld 2002, 37–42; Alpar and Yaltırak 2002, 329. For a list of earthquakes dated between the 1st century BC and 6th century AD and mentioned as disastrous by ancient authors, see Weissova 2019 I, 51–53. 27  Weissova 2019 I, 220, 225, 229. 28  French 2016, 15. 29  French 2013, no. 61. 30  Dörner 1941, 71, no. 50; French 2013, no. 62.

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remains identified as the mansio Libyssos.31 The last three milestones in the direction to Nicomedia were found during construction works of private houses, brought to museums by locals. Their geographical allocation is accordingly approximate. The results of the LCPA show the possible road right along the shores of the Sea of Marmara, as the analysis automatically snaps to the lowest available elevations. With an aim to convince the LCPA to shift further from the sea, I enlarged the high cost raster applied for water of some 400 m all around the shore, which drastically shifted the result some 12 km inland.

SEGMENT II: NICOMEDIA

TO

NICAEA (Fig. 1)

Von Diest described a section of road surface which starts about 2 km east of Nicomedia and goes to the south: ‘well preserved ancient road leading to Nicaea, entirely disappearing in the mountains … a row of beautifully arched stone bridges standing over the marshy stretches of the Kires river indicates the diligence of the construction.’32 Although the number is not further specified in the text, von Diest33 depicted three bridges in this section on the map attached to the text, which I adopted for the analysis. The existence of one bridge appeared also in later studies.34 The following section, crossing the Samanlı Mountains, offers several possible routes. Von Diest was convinced about the existence of the Roman road turning to the south at Yeniköy; on the map (Fig. 1) it is the easternmost section. He describes the road as follows: ‘Although there were no more remains of the road surface, the man-made causeway was possible to be followed over a long stretch.’35 At the same part, French expects the road to turn to the south not before Ihsanye. He describes intermittent patches of both Roman and Ottoman road surfaces observable running through the valley between Ihsanye and Senaiye. The Roman road appears again as a cutting in the slope east of the modern road right after Sarıağıl. The last section, about 500 m in length, is described very convincingly: ‘at ca. 2.25 km beyond Sarıağıl, the edge-stones, spine and surface of the road are well preserved on the west of the modern şose, the construction of which has cut sections through the Roman surface.’36 One more remain was observed south-east of Orhaniye, but the published information is bordered to the width of the paved road, at some points reaching 6 m.37 The remaining distance to Nicaea has not revealed any road remains. The north-western part of Nicaea’s hinterland encompasses two ancient bridges, Kuru Köprü38 and Karasu Deresi Köprüsü.39 The precise position of both was rectified during the ISP 15.

31

 French 2013, nos. 63a, 63b, 63c, 63d, 63e, 63f, 63g, 63h.  von Diest 1898, 75. Translated from original by the author. 33  von Diest 1898, map in the attachment. 34  It is most likely the same bridge, mentioned by Şahin 1974, 73; Foss 2000, 793. 35  von Diest 1898, 11. Translated from original by the author. 36  French 1981, 15. 37  François et al. 1993, 70–71. 38  Procopius De Aedificiis 5. 3. 5–6; Yalman 2000, 102. 39  Ermiş 2009, 246–48. 32

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Fig. 1. Route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ between Chalcedon and Nicaea.

Only two milestones in total can be connected with this road. The first was found south-east of Orhaniye,40 the second in the midst of the fields north-east of Nicaea. The outcome of the LCPA follows the Gulf of Izmit almost as far as Ihsanye where it turns sharply to the south. Just north of Ümmüye, the road turns west and continues as far as Şevketiye, where it takes a south-westerly direction and enters the hinterland of Nicaea. It turns to the south-east in order to reach the first bridge.

SEGMENT I–II: DIVERTED ROUTE (Fig. 1) The ‘Pilgrim’s road’ encountered a decisive change of course during the reign of the emperor Justinian I. Based on his regulations of the official traffic, the artery was diverted to an overseas road from Libyssos to Helenopolis and then to the south, through Basileinoupolis to Nicaea (Procopius Historia Arcana 30. 8; De Aedificiis 5. 2. 6–13). Speaking in terms of modern settlements, the road followed the strip between the Sea of Marmara and the hilly Kocaeli Peninsula as far as Gebze, then it crossed the Gulf of Izmit by the shortest sea route, reached land at Hersek and headed south through Valideköpri to Nicaea. The ISP 15 recorded a well-preserved Roman road surface just above the hinterland of Nicaea, but its construction is rather puzzling. The preserved length reaches 80 m, the width is about 2.5 m and every 1.65–1.95 m a step of some 10–15 cm height is built  François et al. 1993, 70.

40

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in, in order to overcome the slope. The road was obviously unsuitable for wheeled vehicles, but for pack animals it would be much more convenient than the steep slope. One more section, although interpreted by its discoverers41 as part of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ reconstructed by French, fits the diverted course. The published information gives its width as equal to 6 m, but the report does not mention the length. The section has not revealed any other remains of ancient road surfaces. During the ISP 15, we recorded the precise location of the Sultan bridge (Valideköprü) dated to the 16th century AD and arching over the Dracon river. Despite the later date, the bridge is situated at the most suitable place for crossing the stream. Since there must have been a bridge also in ancient times, I reconstruct it at the same place. Moreover, as confirmation of the assumption, the LCPA calculated between Helenopolis and Nicaea crosses the river at the point where the Ottoman bridge currently stands. The bridge might be identified with one of the two bridges mentioned by Procopius (De Aedificiis 5. 2. 6–13) as new constructions conducted by Justinian I within this segment.

SEGMENT III: NICAEA–IULIOPOLIS (Fig. 2) Within the whole segment, the observations of travellers and researchers confirm the remains of road surfaces; these do not conflict, rather they create quite a clear picture of the route. The road surfaces in the section between Nicaea and the Taşköpri bridge,42 the first ancient bridge identified in this section, were thoroughly discussed by von der Goltz43 and French.44 All the segments of the ancient road were recorded south of the modern road heading to Medetli. The precise position of the Taşköpri bridge and the following Constantine bridge45 were rectified during the ISP 15. The third bridge on the road was mentioned by von Diest as well as the road leading from the bridge towards Medetli.46 All the other remains localised east of Medetli were digitised from the work of French.47 The last two bridges situated at Iuliopolis were adopted from the Barrington Atlas.48 The milestones clustered along the expected route are 41 in total. The first one49 was discovered in the village of Karadin, brought by locals from the fields. The second50 was recorded as a spolium in Osmaneli. The next milestone51 was found in situ, 1.5 km north-west of Medetli, and correlates with the remains of the road. It belongs to a cluster of six milestones in total; however, all the others have not been found in situ and their original allocation is not known.52 The next three clusters of milestones were located around Gölpazarı (13),53

 François et al. 1993, 70–71.  von der Goltz 1896, 451; von Diest 1898, 13; Foss 2000, 793; Weissova 2019 II, 137, 139. 43  von der Goltz 1896, 407, 450–51. 44  French 1981, 16. 45  Weissova 2019 II, 137, 139. 46  von Diest 1898, 17. 47  French 1981, 16–17. 48  One of the bridges can be identified with that mentioned by Procopius (De Aedificiis 5. 4. 1). 49  French 2013, no. 69. 50  French 2013, no. 70. 51  French 2013, no. 72a. 52  French 2013, nos. 71, 72b, 72c, 73a, 73b. 53  French 2013, nos. 74, 75a, 75b, 75c, 75d, 75e, 75f, 76, 77, 78a, 78, 79, 80. 41 42

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Fig. 2. Route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ between Nicaea and Iuliopolis.

in as well as east of Sarıhacılar (five)54 and around Himmetoğlu (ten).55 The remaining two are single finds. As none of the milestones was located in situ; their common locations include cemeteries, fountains, private properties such as gardens and houses, public buildings such as mosques, and fields. However, it is probable that they were not carried for long distances and as such outline the route of the road. The last three milestones identified in Iuliopolis were found in situ. The route based on the LCPA follows the archaeological remains as far as the region of Medetli and then it turns to the south, following the River Sangarios to Iuliopolis.

DISCUSSION The course of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ between Chalcedon and Nicomedia, although the archaeological remains have been entirely destroyed, is in its rough outlines indisputable. The road followed the strip of flat land between the shores of the Sea of Marmara and the mountains of the Kocaeli Peninsula. Within this section, the computational analysis of the least cost path did not help to elucidate the road’s precise course, since the calculated route goes either directly along the shore or it crosses the hills of the Peninsula. 54

 French 2013, nos. 81, 82, 83, 84a, 84b.  French 2013, nos. 85, 86a, 86b, 86c, 87a, 87b, 88a, 88b, 88c, 89.

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The route within the second section is certain between Nicomedia and the northern foot of the Samanlı Mountains. At this point, the observations in the terrain, as published by von Diest and French, suggest two different routes, entering the mountains through valleys situated 5 km from each other. The LCPA did not help to clarify this issue, as the results of the analysis run through a third valley, located between the two mentioned. When comparing observations, the details described by French are more persuasive: his descriptions include sections of road surfaces, unlike von Diest, who merely observed a man-made earthen bank going through the valley. However, the length of the bank reaches almost 9 km which is, in my opinion, unlikely to be mistaken for a natural phenomenon. Considering these facts, I tend to interpret both of the routes as parts of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’, most probably at different times. As the area is geologically unstable, some of the strong earthquakes could have caused changes which required the road to be shifted. Following these thoughts, the possible scenario is that the road observed by von Diest predates the one described by French, because the pavement of the road had already ceased to be present by the end of the 19th century. It was either entirely destroyed or never paved on the first place. In case of the latter, von Diest observed the Early Roman or even Hellenistic embankment. For a full reconstruction of the road outlined by von Diest, the results of the LCPA were used for the second half. The remains observed by French allowed a full reconstruction of the road leading to the hinterland of Nicaea. The remains of the pavement dated to the Roman and Ottoman periods point to its use for more than a millennium, either interrupted by the regulation of traffic in the 6th century AD or continuing to function simultaneously with the diverted road. The diverted course of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ from Helenopolis to Nicaea is reconstructed based on the LCPA, as there were no remains of road surfaces detected along the expected route as far as the hinterland of Nicaea. The road discovered in the slopes just above the hinterland is only 2.5 m wide and it overcomes the incline with the help of low steps. Such a construction was not made to be used by carriages, but by (pack) animals and pedestrians. The section might have been part of the diverted course, possibly a shortcut avoiding the main road frequented by carriages. Whatever reconstruction one considers, all the roads met in the hinterland of Nicaea. Based on the rectified position and orientation of the two ancient bridges, it was possible to specify the course through the hinterland. The bridge in the north is oriented east to west, which indicates that it allowed the river to be crossed in an east–west direction. Since the Karasu enters the hinterland from the east, it is conspicuous that the road should have been coming from the west – otherwise, the bridge would not be necessary. The second bridge, situated near the city, is oriented north–south. Thus, the road was at this point heading directly towards the northern gate of the city. Considering these facts, the reconstruction runs more than 1.6 km west of the obelisk of Cassius, in literature notoriously interpreted as situated along the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’.56 As the ISP 15 recorded also the precise position of the obelisk, the vicinity of both seems to be highly 56  Pococke 1745, 123, pl. 61; von Diest 1898, 11; von der Goltz 1896, 444; Texier 1862, 109–10; Schneider 1943, 7, tab. 1–2; Şahin 1979, no. 85; Merkelbach and Stauber 2001, 159–63; Lang 2003, 163.

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improbable. However, it is not excluded that another road led past the obelisk, connecting the hinterland with the main road. The route between Nicaea and Iuliopolis revealed a number of surface remains and five ancient bridges, which clearly outline the segment between Nicaea and the Köroğlu Mountains. A considerable part of the road, however, crosses the mountainous plateau reaching over 1300 m above sea level, and this route is confirmed by observations of its remains only in the two valleys situated within the mountains. The LCPA did not help to elucidate this section, as the reconstructed path follows the road as far as the mountains and then it turns to the south and runs along the Sangarios river. Although seemingly an easier path, it was not suitable for a stable connexion for a supra-regional road, as the territory represents the natural flood plains of the Sangarios, regularly impassable.

CONCLUSION The study brought to light several new views and observations concerning the route of the ‘Pilgrim’s Road’. The course of the first segment between Chalcedon and Nicomedia was confirmed as published by French, without any deviations suggested by the new evidence. The segment between Nicomedia and Nicaea disclosed the possibility of three roads crossing the Samanlı Mountains, most likely used at different times. As the remains of the road observed by von Diest have revealed no pavement but an earthen embankment, they might be interpreted as the Early Roman or even Hellenistic route. All the later constructions which would leave such conspicuous traces were also paved. The valley crossing the Samanlı Mountains 5 km westwards brought to light intermittent patches of Roman road surfaces. In my opinion, through this valley passed the main route of the supra-regional ‘Pilgrim’s Road’ from the Roman Middle Imperial period to the Early Byzantine. By the end of the 6th century, the road was shifted by official diversion of traffic 27 km to the west as the crow flies. All the roads, however, met north of Nicaea. The reconstruction of the road based on bridges from the hinterland of Nicaea excluded the generally accepted fact that the obelisk of Cassius stood along its course. From the location and orientation of the bridges, the obelisk was situated about 1.6 km to its west. Analysis of the segment between Nicaea and Iuliopolis analogically confirms the reconstruction introduced by French, enriching the road of several bridges and road remains described by the travellers. The LCPA applied between the nodal points was only partially helpful for the reconstruction of the roads. The slope of the terrain was not always the decisive parameter when choosing routes for Roman supra-regional roads, as the section crossing the Köroğlu Mountains clearly demonstrates. However, the results of the LCPA calculated when examining the route through the Samanlı Mountains could be partially used for the reconstruction of the southern part of the road suggested by von Diest. The entire course of the road dated to the 6th century is based solely on the LCPA, as there is a lack of archaeological evidence. The study clearly demonstrates that the observations of road surfaces and bridges, identified and measured in the terrain in order to allow their depiction on the map, are priceless when analysing ancient roads. Their combination with the LCPA offers a powerful tool for reconstruction of feasible road routes.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Alpar, B. and Yaltırak, C. 2002: ‘Characteristic Features of the North Anatolian Fault in the Eastern Marmara Region and its Tectonic Evolution’. Marine Geology 190, 329–50. Bell, T. and Lock, G. 2000: ‘Topographic and Cultural Influences on Walking the Ridgeway in Later Prehistoric Times’. In Lock, G. (ed.), Beyond the Map: Archaeology and Spatial Technologies (NATO Science Series, Series A, Life Sciences 321) (Amsterdam/Oxford), 85–100. Cuntz, O. 1929: Itineraria Romana I: Itinerarium Antonini Augusti et Burdigalense (Leipzig). von Diest, W. 1898: Von Tilsit nach Angora: Forschungsreise zweier preußischen Stabsoffiziere im Frühjahr 1896 (Gotha). Dörner, F.K. 1941: Inschriften und Denkmäler aus Bithynien (Istanbuler Forschungen 14) (Berlin). Ermiş, Ü.M. 2009: İznik ve Çevresi Bizans Devri Mimari Faaliyetinin Değerlendirilmesi (Dissertation, Istanbul University). Foss, C. 2000: ‘Map 52 Byzantium’. In Talbert, R.J.A. (ed.), Map by Map Directory to Accompany the Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (Princeton/Oxford), 785–95. François, V., Geyer, B. and Lefort, J. 1993: ‘Prospection dans la région de Bursa 1992’. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı 11, 65–72. French, D.H. 1981: Roman Roads and Milestones of Asia Minor 1: The Pilgrim’s Road (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph 3; BAR International Series 105) (Oxford). —. 2013: Roman Roads and Milestones of Asia Minor 3: Milestones 4. Pontus et Bithynia (with Northern Galatia) (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Electronic Monograph 4) (London). —. 2016: Roman Roads and Milestones of Asia Minor 3: Milestones 9. An Album of Maps (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Electronic Monograph 9) (London). von der Goltz, C. 1896: Anatolische Ausflüge (Berlin). Hütteroth, W.-D. 1982: Türkei (Wissenschaftliche Länderkunden 21) (Darmstadt). Hütteroth, W.-D. and Höhfeld, W.-D. 2002: Türkei: Geographie, Geschichte, Wirtschaft, Politik (Darmstadt). Lang, G. 2003: Klassische antike Stätten Anatoliens 2: Larisa-Zeleia (Norderstedt). Merkelbach, R. and Stauber, J. 2001: Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten II. Die Nordküste Kleinasiens (Marmarameer und Pontos) (Munich). Miller, K. 1916: Itineraria Romana: Römische Reisewege an der Hand der Tabula Peutingeriana (Stuttgart). Pococke, R. 1745: A Description of the East, and some other Countries 2.2: Observations on the Islands of the Archipelago, Asia Minor, Thrace, Greece, and some other Parts of Europe (London). Ramsay, W.M. 1890: The Historical Geography of Asia Minor (London). Rennell, J. 1831: A Treatise on the Comparative Geography of Western Asia, vol. 2 (London). Şahin, S. 1974: Neufunde von antiken Inschriften in Nikomedeia (Izmit) und in der Umgebung der Stadt (Dissertation, Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster). —. 1979, 1987: Katalog der antiken Inschriften des Museums von Iznik (Nikaia), 2 vols. (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 9–10) (Bonn). Schneider, A.M. 1943: Die Römischen und Byzantinischen Denkmäler von İznik-Nicaea (Istanbuler Forschungen 16) (Berlin). Starr, S.F. 1962: The Ancient Roads of Asia Minor: Expedition 1961 (Dissertation, Yale University). Talbert, R.J.A. (ed.) 2000: Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (Princeton/Oxford). —. 2014: Rome’s World: The Peutinger Map Reconsidered (Cambridge). Texier, C. 1862: Asie Mineure: Description géographique, historique et archéologique des provinces et des villes de la Chersonnèse d’Asie (Paris). Weissova, B. 2019: Regional Economy, Settlement Patterns and the Road System in Bithynia (4th century BC - 6th century AD): Spatial and Quantitative Analysis, 2 vols. (Dissertation, Freie Universität Berlin). Weissova, B., Brigand, R. and Polla, S. 2019: ‘The Hinterland of Nikaia/Nicaea/Iznik. Analyzing the Hellenistic, Roman, and Late Antique Bithynian Landscape through Remote Sensing and GIS Techniques’. eTOPOI Journal for Ancient Studies 8, 21–49. Weissova, B. and Pavúk, P. 2016: ‘On Persistency of the Main Communication Routes from Prehistory until Today’. TÜBA-AR 19, 11–21. Yalman, B. 2000: Nikaia–İznik (Istanbul).

ROMAN COLCHIS, IBERIA AND ALANI: SOME NOTES AS APOLOGIA Everett L. WHEELER

ABSTRACT Three notes address recent views concerning Roman troops in Colchis, Euxine piracy and the Alan raid of AD 135. Part I shows that AE 2003, 579 does not substantiate a new Roman disposition in Colchis under Hadrian and extension of the empire to Pityus. Use of Ptolemy’s unique Ponticus Cappadocicus (Geography 5. 6. 5–7) for assessing administrative changes to Polemonid Pontus under the Julio-Claudians is also questioned. Part II defends a view that the disposition of Roman forces in the Euxine at BJ 2. 366 reflects Josephus’ confusion of permanent Roman forces with the Virdius Geminus’ Syrian vexillatio sent to suppress Anicetus’ revolt (AD 69). The Sarmatian Aorsi’s attempts at expansion on the Lower Danube and in the western Crimea, seen in ILS 986 (Ti. Plautius Silvanus Aelianus) and AE 1996, 1357 (Crimean Mangup), did not result in stationing Roman troops at Tyras, Chersonesus and Panticapaeum under the Flavians. Part III examines recent views of the Alan raid of 135. A re-dating of the Armenian Vologaeses I’s embassy to Hadrian (Dio 69. 15. 2) to ca. AD 126 permits appreciation of the raid’s larger international context, including the Parthian crisis early under Antoninus Pius, commemoration of an Iberian prince at Rome, and Pius’ expansion of Iberia. Iberian grievances with Rome from Trajan’s Parthian War and a long-standing border dispute with Armenia prompted the raid.

A scholar, whose own intellectual roots descend from Rostovtzeff, rejoices in celebrating a Colchian, who once dreamed of offering a new Minns (Scythians and Greeks [1913]). Indeed, who has done more in recent decades to both integrate the Black Sea world into the larger framework of Classical Studies than the honouree or, since the departure of the esteemed Otar Lordkipanidze, to promote interest in ancient Georgia? My interactions with the honouree for nearly 30 years render my own paltry contribution to this volume of homage more meaningful. A few notes on Roman Colchis seem only appropriate. Three papers call for comment in view of my own work on the Cappadocian army and the eastern Euxine: a new comprehensive study of the legio XV Apollinaris, a Cappadocian legion based at Satala (Armenia Minor) from ca. AD 119 but with Euxine vexillationes at Trapezus, Pityus and possibly Sebastopolis/Dioscurias;1 an update on Euxine deployments from the Cappadocian army in the Notitia Dignitatum ca. 401 (Or. 38, dux Armeniae);2 and an assessment of the classis Pontica, once based at Trapezus.3 Part I addresses Vitale (2013), who rejects the notion of a limes Ponticus on the eastern Euxine 1

 Wheeler 2000; 2012a, 638–39.  Wheeler 2012a. 3  Wheeler 2012b. 2

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coast and believes a distinct command (from at least Hadrian on) supervised the nationes of Colchis; Part II responds to Columbo (2015): his reassertion of von Domaszewski’s date of AD 66 for the state of Roman forces in Agrippa II’s speech at Josephus BJ 2. 366–387 leads to contrived connexions between suppression of eastern Euxine piracy and the activities of the Moesian governor Ti. Plautius Silvanus Aelianus (CIL 14. 3608; ILS 986); finally, Part III addresses the Alan raid of AD 135, as interpreted by Schottky (2014) and Juntunen (2013). The latter’s redating of the embassies at Cassius Dio 69. 15. 2 to ca. AD 126 throws new light on the feud between Hadrian and the Iberian king Pharasmanes II, thus permitting a broader context for the Alan raid. Bruce Mitford’s massive study of the Cappadocian frontier and Transcaucasia, which merits detailed commentary, must be postponed for another venue.4

I A new inscription of Fl. Arrianus’ predecessor as Cappadocian governor, T. Prifernius Paetus Rosianus Geminus (cos. ca. AD 125) offers a detailed list of the territories in his provincia: leg(ato) pr(o) pr(aetore) divi Hadriani] / [prov(inciarum) Cappad]ociae Isauriae Lycao[niae Arm]enia[e Mi]noris Po[nti ---] / [--- compl]urium nationum.5 No parallel epigraphical enumeration of territories for the Cappadocian command exists for either Arrian or subsequent Cappadocian governors, although before Trajan’s division of Vespasian’s massive Galatia-Cappadocia complex in AD 111, lists of the provincia’s components sometimes occur.6 For Vitale the individual components of the Galatia-Cappadocia complex retained their validity as provinces (eparcheiai) and catalogues of their elements in Ptolemy’s Geography merit credence, despite another’s scepticism of their continued administrative function. Use of the plural (provinces) in epigraphical lists of the GalatiaCappadocia complex’s components confirms the argument; absence of an extended list  Mitford 2018. See my review forthcoming in The Classical Journal.  AE 2003, 579, ll. 3–5. Discussion of the text at Cerere (2003), whose restoration [--- compl]urium nationum Vitale (2012, 159; 2013, 252) accepts. His governorship dates to AD 127/8–129/30 (Eck 1983, 164–67, 217) or ca. AD 128/9–130/1 (Rémy 1989, 211–13, no. 168). Vitale 2013 essentially recycles Vitale 2012, 154–61. 6  Texts collected at Rémy 1989, 190–92, no. 157A (Caesennius Gallus, cos. a. inc.; governor AD 80/1–82/3), 194–95, no. 159 (L. Antistius Rusticus, cos. suff. AD 90; governor ca. AD 91/2–93/4), 203–04, no. 163 (C. Iulius Quadratus Bassus, cos. suff. AD 105; governor AD 107/8 or 108/9–110/1). M. Iunius Homullus (cos. suff. AD 102) governed only Cappadocia AD 111/2–113/4 (Rémy 1989, 205 no. 164), while a list in the much discussed ILS 1017 (Pisidian Antioch) for the Galatian praetorian governor ca. 111/2–113/4, L. Caesennius Sospes (cos. suff. AD 114: Rémy 1989, 145–47, no. 108), includes (ll. 7–8) both Pontus Polemonianus and Armenia (scil. Minor). If so – and the prospect seems unlikely – the consular governor of Cappadocia temporarily lost his second legion, XVI Flavia Firma at Satala. Cf. Wheeler 1977, 143–44. Galatian-Cappadocian diplomata of AD 100 and 101 designate the provincia as only either Galatia et Cappadocia or Cappadocia: see Eck 2007, 200–01; likewise in a new text from Pisidian Antioch of C. Antius A. Iulius Quadratus, legatus in the early AD 80s probably under Caesennius Gallus (Uzunaslan 2017, especially 52–53; cf. Rémy 1989, 64–66, no. 49; ILS 8819, Pergamum). Vitale (2012, 242–45) defends the accuracy of Sospes’ text from the perspective of logistical preparations for Trajan’s Parthian War (AD 114– 117), tacitly assuming (like others before him) that the war was planned years before an actual casus belli (the Armenian succession), but he ignores the significance of the consular Cappadocian governor’s lost of a second legion. Mitchell (1993 II, 151) correctly warns of inconsistencies in the lists. Rémy attractively suggests (1986, 71) inclusion of Armenia in Sospes’ text as a stonecutter’s error. Use of Polemonianus, rather than Polemoniacus, is unique to ILS 1017. 4 5

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represents an abbreviation of pars pro toto.7 Thus for Vitale, the addition of compl]ures nationes in Paetus’ list signifies a new component of his command, since it cannot refer to previous appointments, as in the case of I.Ephesos 3. 1538 (Quadratus Bassus) or I.Ephesos 3. 713 (Pompeius Falco), whereby natio would be equated with provincia. Yet he ventures no restoration for the lacuna Po[nti ---] preceding [--- compl]urium nationum.8 This lacuna, greatly affecting the meaning assigned to compl]urium nationum, mitigates the whole argument. Nevertheless, he thinks that Arrian’s list of Colchian tribes (Periplus 11) clarifies Paetus’ compl]urium nationum. For Vitale, the Colchian segment under a Cappadocian governor did not continue the Euphrates limes, as it lacked a ‘fixe Grenzlinie’. Rather, it formed a distinct command (Sonderamt), which exerted direct Roman control over client-kings of the interior and essentially all of Colchis. Thus M. Valerius Maximianus as praepositus orae gentium Ponti Polemoniaci 9 during Verus’ Parthian War (AD 161–166) confirms Paetus’ complures nationes, detailed at Arrian Periplus 11.10 Alternatively, however, if Periplus 11 mimics ethnographic lists common in geographical treatises,11 to which the genre of a periplus belongs, the passage lacks any value for defining Arrian’s provincia or Paetus’ complures nationes. Vitale’s views are problematic for numerous reasons. Roman forts on the eastern Euxine coast as a ‘limes Ponticus’, a phrase absent in literary and epigraphical sources, dates to Lekvinadze.12 In some ways an eastern ‘Pontic limes’ merits the same scepticism as Bujskich’s dubious invention of a north-western Pontic limes.13 Vitale, an apparent novice to the Roman strategy debate, treats as a new discovery the existence of an ‘open frontier’ (a term unknown to him), in which scattered military installations blocked only key points, although especially in the East (including 7  Vitale 2012, 246–48; contra Eck 2007, 200. But not all cases accord with Vitale’s view: the singular appears at AE 1972, 151: pro]vinciae Ca[ppadociae, Galatiae, Armeniae Minoris] for M. Hirrius Fronto Neratius Pansa (cos. ca. AD 76, governor ca. AD 78/9–79/80: Rémy 1989, 188–90, no. 156) and at AE 2009, 1577, a new text of Antius A. Iulius Quadratus from Tyre. The list for Quadratus Bassus (I.Pergamon 8. 3. 21; Rémy 203, no. 163, text 1) names components without use of a word for ‘province’. A text of Pansa’s legate, Ti. Iulius Celsus Polemaeanus (cos. suff. 92), uses the plural ἐπαρχειῶν (I.Ephesos 7. 2. 5012; Rémy 1989, 39, no. 24, text 1). Vitale (2012, 248, n. 1476) discounts as a stonecutter’s error the singular in the parallel Latin version of this text (ILS 8971). Notable: the plural in Paetus’ text, [prov(inciarum) Cappad]ociae etc., is a restoration. Even so, retention of some identity of individual eparcheiai in larger composite provinces would solve the puzzle of ILS 1076: in late AD 160 L. Neratius Proclus, legatus of the legio XVI Flavia Firma at Samosata in Commagene (since AD 72/3 combined with Syria) took vexillationes in Syriam, thus movement within the same larger province from one eparcheia (Commagene) into another (Syria proper). For the date see Weiss 2007, 167–72. All three components of the provincia Syria are listed in another Pergamene inscription for Quadratus Bassus: IGR IV 374. Mitford (2018, 71, n. 65), unaware of Weiss 2007, dates Neratius’ vexillatio to 139. 8  Vitale (2012, 160; 2013, 252–54) rejects Cerere’s alternative explanation (2003, 17) of compl]urium nationum, which posits Paetus’ reorganising activity in Lycaonia and Isauria now Cappadocian, since these areas are last previously attested in Galatia (ILS 1017: Sospes’ governorship, above n. 6), and reappear in AD 144 combined with Cilicia as a new province, the Three Eparchies: cf. below at n. 47. 9  AE 1956, 124. 10  Vitale 2012, 161; 2013, 252, 253–55; contra Wheeler 1999, 216: only indirect Roman control of inland Colchis. 11  For example, Mela 1. 106–117; Pliny NH 6. 15–17, 19–22, 29. 12  Lekvinadze 1969. 13  Bujskich (1994); contra Zubar 1995. The term persists among some Limesforscher: for example, Lordkipanidse and Braund 1991, 335; E. Kakhidze 2008, 306; Zerbini 2012, 44–45 (the concept but not the phrase); Gabrelia 2015.

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the Cappadocian frontier) geography could reduce the need for a continuous line of forts. Certainly not all limites constituted a defensive system or a border, although Vitale ignores the existence of ‘internal limites’, such as Rome tolerated in Isauria and against the Sanni/Tzanni in the mountains south-east of Trapezus – at least until Justinian.14 A Roman dream of the Black Sea as a ‘Roman lake’, replicating the empire of Mithridates VI Eupator, floundered when Julius Caesar’s candidate Mithridates of Pergamum died trying to gain the Bosporan throne (46 BC) and Polemo I of Pontus fell ca. 8 BC fighting the (Sarmatian?) Aspurgiani east of Lake Maeotis.15 Rome subsequently relied on indirect rule through client-kings in Pontus, the Bosporan kingdom and to some extent Cappadocia to control the eastern Euxine, until the annexations of Cappadocia in AD 17 and Pontus in AD 64. Neither geography nor the strategic situation demanded a continuous line of forts and garrisons in Colchis. As known, Rome used scattered coastal installations to check piracy (prominent in the Augustan age and the late 2nd century before the barbarian deluge of the 3rd) and to maintain communications, as frequent storms, contrary winds and currents, and rare anchorages rendered coastal voyages difficult. Indeed except for Sebastopolis/Dioscurias, Roman forts at Pityus, Phasis and Apsarus were not directly on the coast but slightly inland on a river or a canal – a testament to the lack of anchorages. Further, these forts, establishing a Roman ‘presence’, monitored the most important local tribes, of which those closest to the coast were under clientkings from at least Trajan on.16 No road connected Roman forts in Colchis, as transport and communication were primarily by sea.17 Likewise no formal boundary (so far as known) marked off Roman territory in the immediate vicinity of forts from that of the local peoples – not an unusual phenomenon in the eastern empire. Roman installations in Colchis faced the Euxine. An external threat from beyond the Caucasus is unattested before the Late Empire and Iberia in eastern Georgia was also a client-kingdom.18 The Borani raids in AD 254 and 258 came by sea, as did in all probability  Vitale 2013, 241–43, 254. On the terms limes and ‘internal limites’, see Wheeler 1993, 24–30, 28–29 with nn. 81–82; 2007, 248; 2017, 164–65. Vitale correctly rejects (242, n. 8) Isaac’s view that a limes was a frontier district, not a line of forts (1992, 409), but overlooks the strong rebuttal of Isaac by Drijvers (2011, 14–26) on Ammianus’ use of the term. 15  Wheeler 2007, 240, 242; on the continued influence of Mithridates VI Eupator on the Polemonids, see Primo 2010, who (169, 171) would date Polemo I’s death to AD 8–10 and that of his wife and successor Pythodoris to 38. Primo has misread Baldus 1983, who reasserts 33 as the year of Pythodoris’ passing. Here the traditional date of ca. 8 BC for Polemo I’s death will be retained. 16  Trajan appointed Iulianus, king of the Apsilae: Arrian Periplus 11. 3. The Suani (Soanes) of modern Svaneti, between the upper Inguri river and the Caucasus and east of the Apsilae and Abasgi, had threatened Dioscurias in the Hellenistic period (Tsetskhladze 2003, 12); Strabo 11. 2. 19 exaggerates their power. Pliny (NH 6. 30), no doubt relying on earlier sources, calls them unsubdued, but Arrian’s silence about them in the Periplus is significant. Contrary to Vitale’s view, they were not under Roman supervision directly or indirectly; cf. Wheeler 2013, 321. Later they fell under Laz control and were a bone of contention in the Roman-Sasanid wars in the 6th century. For a recent survey of the Suani in Late Antiquity, see Berndt 2012. 17  Mitford (2018, 404–05) uncritically accepts all information in the Peutinger Table and the even more problematic and textually uncertain Ravennate Cosmographia, although he notes the absence of a coastal road in the Antonine Itineraria; Kakhidze (2008, 303) believes that a road ran from Apsarus to Sebastopolis/ Dioscurias. 18  On the myth of a Sarmatian threat to Colchis and Transcaucasia, still a staple among some Georgian, Armenian and also a few Western scholars, and largely based on assumptions, inter alia equating Sarmatians with repeated incursions of Huns, Khazars, etc. in later Armenian and Georgian sources (unconfirmed in Graeco-Roman texts), see Wheeler 1994–96, 59 with n. 35; 2013, 324–26. Iberian kings instigated the Alan 14

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the Heruli in AD 275–276.19 Indeed Rome abandoned central Colchis to the Lazi after AD 258. Troops at Sebastopolis/Dioscurias, Phasis and Apsarus were perhaps gone after AD 254: the Borani in AD 258 and the Heruli in AD 275 faced no opposition from Roman forces in Colchis. Likewise the classis Pontica disappeared in the 3rd century and no standing Euxine fleet existed in the 4th and 5th centuries.20 A Roman return to Colchis came only under Diocletian or Constantine I at Pityus and probably Apsarus. Central Colchis, now Lazika, remained outside direct Roman control. The newly raised legio I Pontica at Trapezus by AD 283–305 (ILS 639), replacing occasional 2nd-century vexillationes of the Cappadocian legions, reflected concerns raised by the Borani and Heruli raids. Under Theodosius I, Colchis was considered outside the empire (Pacatus Pan. Lat. 2 [12]. 14. 2). Central Colchis between the Inguri (anc. Chobus) and Çoruh (anc. Acampsis) rivers saw no Roman troops before the wars of the 5th–6th century.21 Vitale rehearses the known on the function of Roman installations in Colchis. His originality lies in attempting to delay Roman control of the Colchian coast until Hadrian (Paetus’ complures nationes as the supposed first evidence) and then to expand it already inroads of 36 and 135 via the Darial Pass for political reasons. Views that the Rhine legion I Minervia (based at Bonn) campaigned north of the Caucasus to the Terek river(?) during Verus’ Parthian War (ILS 4795; see Eck 2017, 230–31 for a new reading of the last line) require the dubious equation of the inscription’s Alutus, a Dacian river, with the Alonta of Ptolemy Geog. 5. 9. 12 and lack an historical context: Sarmatians or others north of the Caucasus have no role in that war, in which the I Minervia operated in southern Armenia and northern Mesopotamia (ILS 1098; cf. 1097). Such an exotic expedition could hardly have escaped the notice of Lucian, Cornelius Fronto and other sources. More realistically, the geographical confusion of a soldier from the Lower Rhine produces uncritical modern speculation: for example, recently Mitford 2018, 73, n. 70; Sauer and Pitskhelauri 2018, 275. For discussion and bibliography, see Wheeler 1977, 256, n. 116; 1994–96, 70–71. Braund (1991a, 218) would have this legion (implausibly) in Albania late under Hadrian; Kerler (1970, 43, n. 39) speculates that this legion was in Iberia in the 140s fighting the Alani, based on H.A. Pius 5. 5 and I.Estremo Oriente 4, although an Iberian war with the Alans at this time is unattested and unlikley, as argued at Wheeler 1977, 248–58, refuting Carrata Thomes 1958. On the non-historicity of H.A. Pius 5. 5, see also below n. 87 and text with n. 170. Note also Wheeler 2012a, 645, n. 97 on other improbable conjectures about the role of Roman forts on the eastern Euxine in controlling the Darial Pass, Iberia and Albania. 19  Discussion, sources and bibliography at Wheeler 2000, 304–05; 2012a, 632, 634–36. A claim that Huns destroyed Pityus in the AD 370s lacks textual or archaeological support: Wheeler 2012a, 636, n. 60. In the continued uncertainty of mid-3rd-century chronology, Glas (2014, 126–28) now dates the second Borani raid to AD 256. Mitford (2018, 416, n. 17) would have an unattested Bosporan king, Sauromates V, attack Colchis via the Maroukh Pass in AD 282 – not a likely line of advance from the Bosporan kingdom. His confusion with the Heruli in AD 275–276? A supposed raid of Franks during Probus’ reign (AD 276–282), beginning in the Euxine and extending throughout the Mediterranean (Pan. Lat. 8 [5]. 18. 3; cf. Zosimus 1. 71. 2; H.A. Probus 18. 2–3), has nothing to do with Colchis despite the views of Dundas and Tavadze 2009. The panegyirist’s reference to Pontus need not indicate Lazika or settlement of Franks there. 20  Wheeler 2012b, 147 with n. 117. 21  Discussion and references at Wheeler 2012a, 634–35, 644, where Zosimus 2. 33. 1 on supposed Roman troops at Phasis under Constantine I is discredited. Similarly, Rome withdrew from the Crimea between Maximinus Thrax (AD 235–238) and the late 3rd century, except for a brief re-occupation of Chersonesus ca. 250: Wheeler 2012b, 147 with n. 114. Aurelian’s abandonment of Dacia was not the only Roman territorial retrenchment in the mid-3rd century. Speculation (for example, Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Kakhidze 2015, 190) of a 2nd-century Roman fort at Petra (north of modern Batumi), site of a 6thcentury fort, is as yet unfounded archaeologically and unattested in literary sources. A 4th-century villa rustica and baths scattered in this area (see E. Kakhidze 2008, 328, n. 34) could indicate Roman (veteran?) settlements (from troops at Apsarus?), but may actually be Laz or Romano-Laz sites, as this area north of the Acampsis was Laz and not Roman territory: Wheeler 1999, 216, misinterpreted at Vitale 2012, 157, n. 932. Braund (1994, 275) postulates that the Laz operated a port at Bathys Limen (modern Batumi) for export of leather and meat to the Roman army, but evidence is lacking: see Wheeler 2012a, 633, n. 44.

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under Hadrian beyond Sebastopolis/Dioscurias, the terminus of Arrian’s provincia (Periplus 17. 2), through evidence from Ptolemy’s Geography, as if an uncertain strategic situation in Colchis demanded it.22 After the revolt of Anicetus in AD 69, no Colchian ‘crisis’ is on record until the Borani attacked in AD 254.23 Some local Pontic support for Anicetus’ raiding (Tacitus Histories 3. 47. 2: adscitis gentibus, quae Pontum incolunt) need not indicate Colchian involvement. Anicetus later bought protection from the king of the (otherwise unattested) Sedochezi on the Chobus (modern Inguri) river. Virdius Geminus, commanding a legionary vexillatio, then purchased his surrender from the Sedochezi.24 Potential unrest in Colchis, as in any frontier area, cannot be completely discounted, but it also should not be exaggerated into a siege atmosphere. Policing non-urban peoples should not be equated with blocking major invasions. Scholarly notions of excessive 22  Vitale (2013, 245) raises a false issue about the definition of epikrateia at Periplus 17. 2. It can only mean provincia in this passage, as he later (247) concedes. 23  Syncellus (Chron. 671, p. 435. 18 Mosshammer) records activity of Septimius Severus in Colchis or Lazika in the context of Severus’ Parthian Wars (AD 195, 197–198), listing this item just before his reference to Severus’ victory over Claudius Albinus at Lugdunum (197). Severus’ presence in Colchis is otherwise unknown. Braund (1994, 204) believes that Severus campaigned there, but why and against whom? A role for Colchis/Lazika in the civil war with Pescennius Niger (AD 193–194) is also unattested and unlikely, as the Cappadocian legions did not support Niger: see Wheeler 2000, 269–70 24  Tacitus Hist. 3. 48. 2; Colombo (2015, 659) would have the Heniochi, Roman allies since AD 58, and the Colchians (no tribe specified) participate in Anicetus’ raids. Mitford (2018, 39) speculates that the legions IIII Scythica and XII Fulminata supplied the vexillatio; Saxer (1967, 20–21) envisages a more broadly based detachment also with elements of V Macedonica, X Fretensis and XV Apollinaris. For Columbo (2015, 659–60), Virdius’ vexillatio consisted of Roman troops in the Bosporan kingdom, Chersonesus and Tyras, which (as shall be shown in Part II) did not exist in AD 69.

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piracy and barbarian inroads prompting the annexations of Pontus in AD 64 and conversion of procuratorial Cappadocia into an imperial consular province with legions ca. AD 70 have no basis.25 Eastern Euxine piracy will be addressed in Part II. Arrian’s threat to exterminate the Sanni (mountaineers, not pirates) south-east of Trapezus for non-payment of taxes, represents idle posturing. No such campaign is known. Arrian’s allusions to the Alan threat of AD 135 in his Tactica of AD 136 and no doubt detailed in his lost Alanica, from which the fragment Acies contra Alanos (a battle plan; no actual confrontation is attested) derives, suggests posterity would have been informed of his operations.26 Besides, the Sanni/Tzanni, not inhabitants of Colchis proper, remained a problem into the Late Empire. Any Sanni campaign of Arrian did not solve the problem.27 Outposts and watch-towers at Pityus, Sebastopolis and possibly Apsarus, typical on the outskirts of Roman forts, monitored local movement.28 Arrian’s notes (Periplus 9. 3–5) on a double ditch around the fort at Phasis, the fort’s conversion from earthen walls and wooden towers to brick, and placement of artillery reflect selfpromotion rather than an imminent threat: demonstration of the Cappadocian governor’s diligence in carrying out Hadrianic policy, further seen in Arrian’s order to extend the fortifications to the naval station and the canaba. That work, if executed, postdated Arrian’s brief visit. Rebuilding earlier forts in brick or stone characterised Hadrian’s frontier policy and artillery had long been a standard feature of Roman forces.29 Precautionary fortification was characteristically Roman regardless of the perceived reality of a threat. The double ditch, not mentioned for forts at Apsarus and Sebastopolis, could even reflect drainage issues in the extremely marshy area of Phasis. Further, the urge to consider the locals of Colchis as exclusively crude, hostile barbarians should be resisted. Phasis was a major port, questionably associated in some sources with ‘Indian’ trade, but that issue cannot be addressed here. Besides a possible Hellenistic kingdom in central Colchis, Vani (ancient Surium: Pliny NH 6. 13; Surion: Ptolemy 25

 See Wheeler 2012b, 131–41 and 2017, 162, rebutting Bosworth 1976, 70–72 (and others, cited at Wheeler 2012b, 134, n. 61, 140, n. 90) on the annexation of Pontus, and Speidel (2014, 630) on Cappadocia. Use of generic terms, such as ‘barbarians’ (Suetonius Vesp. 8. 4) or geographical designations like ‘Bosporans’ or ‘Colchians’ (Josephus BJ 2. 366), rather than specific tribes or states, should immediately raise suspicions about accuracy. Siege atmosphere: Giardina 1996, 127–28, following Braund 1989, 39. 26  Arrian Acies 4. 3, 7; 11. 2; 44. 1, 3; Wheeler 1978; 2004, 309–10 with n. 2. 27  Arrian Periplus 11. 2. The Ophis river, east of Hyssi Portus, separated the Sanni from Colchis: Periplus 8. 1; cf. Anon. Periplus 38 Diller. It was an ethnic/geographical border, not a Roman provincial boundary, as Vitale (2012, 157, l. 926) correctly notes. Colchis, however, could be a fluid geographical concept. Earlier Greek views (for example, Xenophon Anabasis 5. 3. 2) extended Colchis as far west as Cerasus. On conjectures about a Sanni campaign and the stationing of five cohorts at Apsarus (‘five’ is probably a scribal error), see Wheeler 2012a, 651, 654, 657–60. 28  Pityus (3rd/4th century): Wheeler 2000, 303, n. 258; Mitford 2018, 551, no. 103. Sebastopolis (ca. AD 175–ca. 211?): Wheeler 2012a, 638. Apsarus: Wheeler 2012a, 652; cf. Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Kakhidze 2015, 190. 29  It should be emphasised that Arrian’s Periplus is a literary work, combining his retractatio of older works with a memoir of his inspection of eastern Euxine sites in his provincia and speciously including Hadrianic allusions and themes. He did not circumnavigate the Euxine. Reference to the death of Cotys II of the Bosporan kingdom (Periplus 17. 3; AD 131/2) affords a dramatic date for the treatise, but a date of publication is unknown. Bosporan affairs, administered via governors of Bithynia-Pontus and Moesia Inferior, lay outside Arrian’s provincia. See Wheeler 1977, 198–211; 2012a, 635, n. 55; 2012b, 126, n. 27. Carrata Thomes 1958, 20, n. 10, followed by Buonocore 1982, 308, n. 13, conjectures that Arrian’s inspection of Euxine sites and artillery at Phasis aimed at deterring Iberian expansion; cf. Part III at n. 158 below.

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Geography 5. 10. 6?) and Dioscurias/Sebastopolis (modern Sukhumi) were sophisticated Hellenistic sites. The latter flourished in the Hellenistic era as an emporion for trade with peoples beyond the Caucasus via the Klukhor Pass and the Kodori (ancient Hippis) river valley. An intaglio gem from near Sukhumi (2nd century?) depicts three Abasgi(?) notables with their names inscribed in Greek. The Lazi by the 4th century had major fortified cities at Rhodopolis, Cotais/Kytaeion (modern Kutaisi) and Archaeopolis (modern Nokalakevi). A silver bowl inscribed in Greek ‘from King Pacorus’, found at Daskovska in the Majkob district of the northern Caucasus, may derive from the Pacorus, whom Antoninus Pius named king of the Lazi.30 Roman troops in Colchis begin with Vespasian (or perhaps Nero: see below). Pliny (NH 6. 12, 14) knew both Apsarus and Sebastopolis/Dioscurias as castella, although whether the garrisons were auxilia or legionary vexillationes is unknown. Excavations at Apsarus now confirm that an earth-timber fort (not brick as at Phasis), including a bath, dates from the second half of the 1st century.31 A date for the original earth-timber fort at Phasis (if Roman and not Polemonid or local), unknown to Pliny, could be Flavian or Trajanic. Vitale,32 however, would see these forces as outside the empire on the false notion of long-term Roman detachments at Harmozica in Iberia, Gorneae in Armenia and even a station at Büyük Taş in Albania (Azerbaijan), besides posts in the Crimea at Chersonesus, Charax and Panticapaeum in the Bosporan kingdom. Roman long-term postings in the Crimea, unattested before Trajan and Hadrian, will be addressed in Part II. Vitale perpetuates a scholarly myth about Roman garrisons in Armenia and Transcaucasia.33 Roman aid in strengthening Iberian fortifications on the south-eastern side of Mtskheta (not at Harmozica proper) in AD 75 had nothing to do with blocking the Darial Pass ca. 60 miles to the north. The work need not have involved a Roman military detachment. Neither a commander nor a unit is mentioned in the relevant inscription, which certainly does not indicate permanent stationing of troops in Iberia. Indeed 30  Pacorus: H.A. Pius 9. 6; silver bowl: SEG 15 858; I.Extremo Oriente 21; Wheeler 2000, 303 with n. 360; 2012a, 633; cf. another silver bowl found 2005 in a context of the 2nd–4th century at Achmarda (near Gagra, Abkhazia) and inscribed: Ἐγὼ Πάκουρος ὁ βασιλεὺς τοῖς ἀ|νμοῖς ἔδωκε (SEG 56 1842 bis). A second silver bowl of a king Pacorus in Colchis or its environs would discount a view that Pius’ appointee over the Laz was the Armenian king Aurelius Pacorus (ca. AD 140–164 or 161–164), as some (for example, Chaumont 1976, 147–48; Schottky 2010, 209–10) allege. Mitford (2018, 71) conjectures a date of AD 142 (the year after Pharasmanes II of Iberia visited Rome) for Pacorus’ appointment. The ever delicate Roman control of Armenia renders most improbable that a Parthian/Armenian Arsacid would be entrusted with the rule of the Laz in Colchis. On Archaeopolis, see Everill et al. 2017; 2018; Hellenistic kingdom?: references at Wheeler 2013, 321; Vani: for example, Lordkipandize 1991; Kacharava and Kvirkvelia 2009; Dioscurias: Wheeler 2012a, 637 (with bibliography); Gabelia 2015; intaglio: Braund 1994, 196, fig. 14. By the Late Roman period the Abasgi perhaps extended their territory as far north as Candripš/Gantiandi (10 miles north-west of modern Gagra), where a basilica has yielded a fragmentary Greek inscription (6th century?): [ΑΒ]ΑϹΓΙΑϹ (see Khroushkova 2006, 51–52 with pls. 23a–b). 31  Heil’s assertion (1997, 157) that the first Roman bases in Colchis cannot be dated ignores Pliny and archaeology; Bennett’s conjecture (2002, 302) that Corbulo put Roman troops at Apsarus during his Armenian campaigns (AD 55–63) is fanciful. On Apsarus, see Wheeler 2012a, 649–53 (with bibliography), to which should be added, for example, A. Kakhidze et al. 2002; E. Kakhidze 2008; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and E. Kakhidze 2015; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski 2016; Mamuladze et al. 2016; and Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski et al. 2018 (unaware of Wheeler 2012a). 32  Vitale 2013, 245–46. 33  A brief rebuttal of this myth at Wheeler 2017b, 162, n. 14, 165, n. 40.

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no Roman units were ever posted in Iberia for long-term service until Valens in the AD 370s.34 The enigmatic inscription of a centurion of the legio XII Fulminata (from ca. AD 70 a Cappadocian legion based at Melitene) on the lofty plateau of Büyük Taş (or Bejuk Dasch), three miles from the Caspian Sea and 44 miles south-west of Baku, does not prove Roman garrisoning of the site at some point between AD 83 and 96 (Domitian’s damnatio memoriae is unknown). Undateable dilapidated efforts at fortification, if ancient, seem un-Roman. Besides, a small isolated detachment could hardly counter a major raid of Alans or others from north of Caucasus via the Derbent Pass and at this date a regular centurion rather than a primipilaris, praefectus or a praepositus is an unlikely commander of a legionary vexillatio extra provinciam. Indeed the text attests the centurion’s presence but not a unit’s. Nor in the fragile state of Roman-Parthian relations after the Neronian agreement (not a foedus) of AD 66 would the Arsacid rulers of Armenia have tolerated Roman troops on their north-eastern doorstep and facilitated communications with the Cappadocian governor through their territory. A diplomatic mission of the centurion is not out of the question.35 Armenia represents a special case, as it was annexed and combined as a provincia with Cappadocia in AD 114–116. Otherwise, however, Roman troops were only occasionally stationed in Armenia to prop up Roman-installed kings. A prefect and centurion, presumably with an auxiliary cohort, are found ca. AD 51 at Gorneae, the summer residence 34  I.Extremo Oriente 1; CIL 3. 133; Wheeler 2013, 327–29 with new commentary: Rome strengthened existing Iberian fortifications (Strabo 11. 3. 5), rather than construction of a new fort; on Valens, see Wheeler 2012a, 657. For example, Stückelberger and Graßhoff (2006, 543, n. 189) think that fortifications at Harmozica guarded the Darial; similar confusion at Schottky 2014, 95. Zerbini (2012, 42) would have Roman detachments at Mtskheta and even at the Darial Pass under Vespasian and again during Arrian’s governorship. If so, how did the Alani use the Darial in AD 135? No doubt Arrian’s visit to Iberia after the Alan inroad would have involved a military escort, if Themistius (Or. 34. 8, 32–34; cf. 34. 20) can be accepted, but there is room for scepticism: Wheeler 1977, 245–46; 1994–96, 69 with n. 71; Syme 1982, 200; Giardina 1996, 117, n. 89. Hadrian’s problematic gift of a quiquagenaria cohors (not a standard unit of the Roman army) to Pharasmanes II (H.A. Had. 17. 11) at an unknown date, but often assumed a post-Alan raid event to protect the Iberians from the Alans and/or to temper Pharasmanes’ ambition (Carrata Thomes 1958, 22–23; Bosworth 1977, 230 with n. 54; Bennett 2002, 306; Schottky 2014, 95) requires an emendation of the text, not justified by the manuscript, to read a 500-man cohort. Braund (1991a, 214–15; 1994, 232) prefers to see a group of Roman engineers; Giardina (1996, 111–12) would emend the text to read that Hadrian sent Pharasmanes not an elephant and a 50-man cohort, but a cohort of 50 elephants. After all, this is the Historia Augusta! The Radamistus affair in Armenia in AD 51 (see text with n. 36 below) does not speak for a Roman cohort’s effectiveness in preventing problems. 35  AE 1951, 263; Mitford 2018, 562, no. 124; Wheeler 1994–96, 63–64; Vitale (2013, 246, n. 37) erroneously puts the text’s Fundort north of Baku. Mitford’s highly speculative discussion of the text (2018, 562–63), largely following Grosso 1954, 118–22, omits Heidenreich 1983, whose observations (214: Lagerplatz for only 20–30 men) contradicts Mitford’s more generous assessment of the site. Zerbini (2012, 42) also posits a vexillatio of the XII Fulminata; likewise Schottky (2014, 95–96), although he correctly notes that the inscription’s Fundort in no way indicates control of the Derbent Pass. Despite Halfmann (1986, 42) and Migliorati (2004), followed by Gregoratti 2013, 533, an Alan or Albanian expedition of M. Hirrius Fronto Neratius Pansa in the mid 70s, based on uncertain restorations to AE 1968, 145, is dubious: see Heil 1989. Other views of Schottky must wait for Part III. Interpretations of this unique text from Azerbaijan further illustrate the dubious tendency to posit isolated Roman units in strategically exposed positions; cf. the faulty attempt to put a Roman unit deep in Colchis at a presumed site for Mochora (Notitia Dignitatum Or. 38. 38), discussed at Wheeler 2012a, 642–44. Centurions could undertake diplomatic missions: for example, C. Velius Rufus, another centurion of the XII Fulminata, missus in Parthiam in AD 73 (ILS 9200). Braund (1991b, 422) suggests an exploratory mission for the centurion.

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of Armenian kings, when Pharasmanes I of Iberia engineered the deposition and murder of his brother Mithridates, the Armenian king (reigned AD 36–ca. 40, ca. 41–51), in favour of his own son Radamistus. If a full cohort, it mysteriously disappears in the fiasco of the Cappadocian procurator Iulius Paelignus’ attempt to restore order and the Syrian governor Ummidius Quadratus’ efforts to avoid Parthian intervention.36 In AD 59 Domitius Corbulo left 1000 legionaries, three auxiliary cohorts and two alae to bolster rule of the newly enthroned Tigranes VI. For how long is unknown, but they had probably departed before Tigranes attacked neighbouring Adiabene, a Parthian client-kingdom, in AD 61. Two legions (possibly IIII Scythica and XII Fulminata) hastened to Tigranocerta to defend Tigranes from a Parthian counterattack and were withdrawn the same year. After the agreement of Rhandeia (AD 63), the legio III Gallica remained at Kharpert until AD 64–65 before its return to Syria.37 Likewise vexillationes of the Cappadocian legions XII Fulminata and XV Apollinaris garrisoned the new Armenian capital of Kainepolis/Vałarshapat AD 164–193, initially to prop up the rule of the pro-Roman Sohaemus (reigned ca. AD 140–161? and/or 164–185?), but these vanished by AD 193, if not sooner. Unclear is whether manpower needs elsewhere or a more secure rule of Sohaemus’ presumed successor Vologaeses II changed the situation.38 Other assumed Roman garrisons in Armenia39 have no basis in any literary or epigraphical text. If Flavian garrisons in Colchis (for Vitale) lie outside the empire, he would also deny rule of the Colchian coast to the Polemonids. Dio’s assertion (59. 12. 2) that Polemo II (reigned AD 38–64), inherited his ancestral realm is rejected as proof that he ruled Colchis; likewise he discounts Strabo’s explicit statement (11. 2. 18) that the realm of Pythodoris (died AD 33), Polemo I’s widow and later wife of Archelaus I of Cappadocia, included Pharnacea (later Cerasus), Trapezus and Colchis, all of which Polemo I had governed. Proof comes from the enigmatic Pontus Cappadocicus, attested only at Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 5–7, where under this rubric appear two sections of coastal cities: first, designated as along the Sidene (cf. Pliny NH 6. 11), Ischopolis, Cerasus, Pharnacea (the same site as Cerasus but given different coordinates), Hyssi Portus and Trapezus; then, along the Cissii (cf. the mouth of the Cissa river west of the Apsorrus [scil. Apsarus] river), Pityus, Rhizus and others up to Apsarus. Geography 5. 6. 4 limits Pontus Polemoniacus to the coast west of Pontus Cappadocicus between the mouth of the Thermodon river and the city Hermonassa. Further, Ptolemy, writing in the AD 150s, treats Colchis as a distinct region. Its coast stretches from the mouth of the Corax (modern Bzyb) river in the north  Tacitus Ann. 12. 44–50; see Wheeler 1996, 267–69; 2017, 164.  Tacitus Ann. 14. 26. 2; 15. 1. 2, 15. 3. 1, 15. 5. 3–6. 2. Two legions of AD 61: Speidel 1998, 166; Kharpert: CIL 3.6742, 6742a; ILS 232; Mitford 2018, 520–21, no. 25. For the chronology of the first phase of the Armenian war, AD 54–61, see Wheeler 1997, making sense of Tacitus’ confusing annalistic presentation. We omit troops in Armenia after its annexation and union with Cappadocia and Armenia Minor AD 114–116: legio IIII Scythica at Artaxata in AD 116 (AE 1968, 510; Mitford 2018, 553, no. 107) and likewise VI Ferrata (AE 1968, 511) or the I Italica (Mitford 2018, 553–54, no. 108). A procurator Augusti Armeniae maioris, T. Haterius Nepos, later prefect of Egypt (AD 120–124), is also known: ILS 1338 with Birley 2005, 321–22. 38  Details and references at Wheeler 2000, 299–301; cf. 2017, 165, n. 40. An inscription of ca. AD 200 from Harmozica (AE 2002, 1509), attesting the daughter of an Armenian king Vologaeses as the wife of the Iberian king Amazapus, demolishes Schottky’s speculations and conjectures (2010) on the Armenian king list in the Antonine period and especially his arguments for the non-historicity of a Vologaeses II. 39  For example, Bennett 2006, 81. 36 37

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to the mouth of the Phasis in the south (Geography 5. 10. 1–3). The coordinates of the city of Phasis (72° 30 ´, 44° 45 ´) curiously match the latitude forming the northern border of Cappadocia at Geography 5. 6. 1.40 Problems here abound: inter alia, Strabo’s silence and the extent to which Ptolemy the geographer reproduces actual Roman provincial organisation. Strabo, aware of Roman annexation of Cappadocia in AD 17, claims ignorance (real or feigned?) of the specifics of the new province’s organisation. Hence an argument that Ptolemy’s Pontus Cappadocicus postdates Strabo (died AD 23/4), who does indicate (without details) that a similar term had roots in earlier geographers.41 To follow the arguments of Marek and Vitale, based on Ptolemy’s Pontus Cappadocicus, Tiberius’ annexation of Cappadocia in AD 17 and dethroning of Archelaus (reigned 36 BC–AD 17), included taking Pharnacea/ Cerasus and Trapezus from Pythodoris’ Pontic realm and presumably also Colchis. But if in the politically sensitive climate of Archelaus’ demise Strabo chose silence, his assertion (11. 2. 18) that Pythodoris ruled those two cities and Colchis before AD 17 is no doubt true. Left unclear is whether (in their view) the authority of the procurator of the new province of Cappadocia actually extended to the city Phasis, as Ptolemy (Geography 5. 6. 1, 5. 10. 3) would imply.42 Vitale considers (as noted) Flavian garrisons outside the empire. Despite the absence of direct evidence, Marek and Vitale infer that Caligula in AD 38 restored Cerasus and Trapezus (if they were taken away in AD 17) to Polemo II (Pythodoris’ grandson) as king of Pontus: both Trapezus and Cerasus began new eras with the annexation of Pontus in AD 64 and a Pontic cohort and Polemo’s fleet, both now Romanised, were still based at Trapezus in AD 69.43 Thus for Marek and Vitale, the creation of Pontus Cappadocicus, an ephemeral arrangement of 21 years (AD 17–38), made such an impression that Ptolemy inserted it in his Geography of the AD 150s, thereby falsely conflating past and contemporary situations. For Vitale, ‘contemporary’ in this section of Ptolemy Geography means Hadrianic.44 40

 Vitale 2013, 247–48. Nothing can be argued about the extent of Pontus Polemoniacus from Aur. Vict. 5. 2. Primo’s discussion of the Polemonids (2010) does not address rule of Colchis. 41  Strabo 12. 1. 4: οἱ δὲ τὴν πρὸς τῷ Πόντῳ Καππαδοκίαν, cf. Dio 54. 24. 5. 42  Possible dynastic intrigues of Archelaus in Armenia, one likely cause (inter alia) of his fall, might have demanded loss of territory as punishment, although paradoxically in the next year (AD 18) Germanicus installed Pythodoris’ son and Archelaus’ step-son, Zeno, as the Armenian king Artaxias III. See Wheeler 2016, 181–82 with n. 79 for bibliography. Recent arguments (Eck 2007, 194–95, 199; Speidel 2014, 628) that the initial Cappadocian governor was not a procurator, but a praefectus under the Syrian governor’s command are unproven and unlikely: Wheeler 2017b, 162–64. 43  Tacitus Hist. 2. 47. 2–3; Aliquot and Caillou 2014, 62–63; Marek 1993, 55, 59, 62, 79; Vitale 2012, 151–54; 2013, 245–48. Marek (1993, 59) assumes that Armenia Minor, added to Archelaus’ Cappadocia in 20 BC, was also annexed in AD 17 as part of procuratorial Cappadocia, although alternatively (lacking explicit evidence) it could have been assigned to Pythodoris, whose grandson Cotys received it from Caligula. Braund (1994, 173–74) believes Pythodoris retained Colchis. No evidence supports Bennett’s contention (2006, 81) that Caligula in AD 39 dethroned Cotys, who received eventually also a part of ‘Arabia’ (Sophene?) and was still ruling ca. AD 41 (Tacitus Ann. 11. 2. 9. 1–2; Dio 60. 8. 1; Wheeler 2002a, 109–12). Pythodoris’ first husband, Polemo I, had ruled Armenia Minor (Dio 49. 33. 2), until Augustus took it away to penalise his support of Marcus Antonius. Armenia Minor as an eparcheia begins with its annexation in AD 71/2: Marek 1993, 79. On Cotys, see recently Nigdelis 2017. 44  Marek 1993, 79–80; Vitale 2013, 247–48. Vitale’s preference for the date of Strabo’s death (AD 23/4) as the terminus post quem for creation of Pontus Cappadocicus would reduce its existence to only about 15 years (AD 23–38). It seems more likely, as Vitale initially notes (2013, 247), that such a territorial rearrangement, if historical, would date to the annexation of Cappadocia in AD 17. The dates of the first edition

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Moreover, the historicity of Pontus Cappadocicus should not be doubted, because Ptolemy includes in Pontus Polemoniacus the city of Polemonion, absent in Strabo. Polemo II founded it on the former site of Side.45 From a different perspective, however, Ptolemy’s inclusion of Polemonion updates Strabo but does not prove the historicity of Pontus Cappadocicus. A similar chronological overlap (for Vitale) also can be discerned in Ptolemy’s Colchis (Geography 5. 10). The last site in Ptolemy’s list for the coast of Pontus Cappadocicus, as the description progresses from west to east, is a Sebastopolis (72° 20 ´, 44° 45 ´), which follows Apsorros and the mouth of the Apsorros river (Geography 5. 6. 7). Vitale identifies it with the Sebastopolis (modern Sukhumi) on the northern Colchian coast. Yet in his account of Colchis, in which description of the coast moves from north to south, Ptolemy notes ‘Dioscurias or Sebastopolis’ at 5. 10. 2 (71° 10 ´, 46° 45 ´).46 For Vitale inclusion of the additional name Sebastopolis echoes Arrian Periplus 10. 4 and indicates insertion of Hadrianic material to update an older source. Further proof of Ptolemy’s use of Hadrianic material is seen in his failure to note the subtraction of Lycaonia and Isauria from Cappadocia to form the new province of the Three Eparchies (Cilicia, Lycaonia, Isauria). Although the first attested governor of this province, A. Claudius Charax (AD 144/5– 146/7) falls under Antoninus Pius, Vitale would push the province’s creation to late under Hadrian: the new inscription of Prifernius Paetus shows him the last Cappadocian governor known to have Isauria and Lycaonia in his provincia.47 Doublets in Ptolemy are known. Alexandri arae (3. 5. 26: 80°, 51° 30 ´) appear in Sarmatia Europaea, west of the Tanais (Don) river, just south of the mythical Rhipaean Mountains, and Alexandri columnae (5. 9. 15: same coordinates) occur in Sarmatia Asiatica, north of the Darial and Derbent passes – probably identical sites reported from different perspectives.48 Besides the well-known coastal Trapezus (5. 6. 5), Ptolemy also notes (probably in error) an otherwise unknown inland Trapezus (5. 6. 11) in Pontus Cappadocicus mediterraneus near Cordyle.49 But Sebastopolis offers a potential triplet. Although Ptolemy’s placement of Dioscurias is beyond dispute, the addition of ἡ καὶ Σεβαστόπολις, missing in two of the four earliest manuscripts (saec. XIII), is not accepted in Müller’s edition.50 The coordinates of the Sebastopolis of 5. 6. 7 place it on the same of Strabo’s Geographica and his later revisions, besides his often curious ‘silences’, remain controversial and cannot be discussed here. On these issues, see Syme 1995, 356–67; Engels 1999, 17–40; Biffi 2012. Ptolemy’s unrevised use of Hadrianic data: Vitale 2012, 146; 2013, 253; more on this below. 45  Ptolemy Geog. 5. 6. 4; Vitale 2012, 153–54. Scepticism: Jones 1971, 511: Pontus Cappadocicus as ‘a figment of Ptolemy’s imagination’. Contra Marek 1993, 79 with n. 543, followed by Vitale 2013, 247. The quotation does not appear in the 1998 reprint of the 1937 first edition; cf. Jones 1998, 428, n. 45. Braund (1994, 178) supports Jones’s view. 46  Description of Colchis from north to south was possibly traditional among some geographers: cf. Strabo 11. 2. 14, citing Artemidorus of Ephesus. 47  Charax: Rémy 1989, 345–46, no. 305; Vitale 2012, 146, 307–13, correcting Rémy 1986, 78–81, who would have Isauria detached and joined to Lycia-Pamphylia under Commodus or Septimius Severus. Vitale extends the province’s existence, later under the name Cilicia alone (pars pro toto), into the era of Severus Alexander. The new province put the important road from the Cilician Gates to Tarsus under a single governor. Magie (1950, 660), followed by Rémy (1986, 78–79), connects creation of the province to the Parthian crisis early under Pius (discussed in Part III). If so, Vitale’s Hadrianic connexion becomes more tenuous. 48  Wheeler 1977, 64. 49  Stückelberger and Graßhoff (2006, 519 with n. 109) bracket this item. 50  Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006, 540 ad 5. 10. 2; Müller 1901, 921 ad 5. 8. 2.

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latitude (44° 45 ´) as the city Phasis, but its longitude (72° 20 ´) puts it 10 ´ to the west and, like the city Phasis, south of the Phasis river’s mouth (72° 30 ´, 45°). Arguments that the city Phasis was once called Sebastopolis were refuted long ago.51 Vitale’s identification of this Sebastopolis with Dioscurias not only has Ptolemy’s list jump over central Colchis from the area of the Apsarus river on the south-eastern Euxine coast to Dioscurias on the north-eastern, but he fails to observe that the coordinates of Dioscurias (71° 10 ´, 46° 45 ´) and the Sebastopolis of 5. 6. 7 (72° 20 ´, 44° 45 ´) differ. Further, Ptolemy’s errors and textual problems are overlooked. As already noted, besides the Trapezus doublet, Ptolemy gives Pharnacea and Cerasus, the same site, distinct names and coordinates; in his west-east progression of Pontus Cappadocicus’ sites Hyssi Portus (modern Surmene) comes between Pharnacea and Trapezus, although Hyssi Portus is east of Trapezus. Melitene, base of the legio XII Fulminata, curiously appears as part of Armenia Minor – the situation in the 4th century, but not the 2nd.52 If Ptolemy (5. 6. 7) correctly puts the site Apsorros (Apsarus) south of the mouth of a major river, he confuses the Apsarus, a minor mountain stream, with the mighty Acampsis (modern Çoruh).53 Between the mouth of the Apsorros and Sebastopolis (the final item of sites in Pontus Cappadocicus) Ptolemy offers a confused list of rivers and their sources: first, apparently the Apsorros’ tributaries, the Glaucus and the Lycus; then an entry for the sources of the Lycus. A satisfactory solution cannot be attempted here.54 Arrian’s Periplus is of no help. Either Ptolemy has garbled his source(s) or part(s) of the text is missing. Stückelberger and Graßhoff, taking the Lycus as the modern Kelkrit, since Sebastopolis is listed after the reference to the sources of the Lycus, identify Sebastopolis as the city south of the Lycus, modern Sulusaray – an absurdity in the west to east progression of the list.55 Another Sebastopolis (5. 6. 9) in Pontus Galaticus, explicitly noted as ‘the other’, must be Sebasteia (modern Silvas) for Stückelberger and Graßhoff,56 but Sebastopolis (modern Sulusaray) for Vitale,57 who would thus deny Sebasteia’s appearance in Ptolemy. Errors and textual uncertainties do not inspire confidence in the historicity of Ptolemy’s ephemeral Pontus Cappadocicus. As Trapezus and Cerasus celebrated their inclusion in the empire by establishing a new era in AD 64 (annexation of Pontus), why did they not do so earlier in AD 17, when (on the arguments of Marek and Vitale) they originally became part of Roman Cappadocia? For Trapezus, however, the new era could also represent its new status as a liberum oppidum (Pliny NH 6. 11). To follow the geographical and administrative logic of the Marek/Vitale endorsement of Pontus Cappadocicus’ historicity, Apsarus, Phasis and Dioscurias/Sebastopolis, components of Pontus Cappadocicus, lie inside the empire, thus eliminating Vitale’s argument that Flavian posts at Apsarus and Sebastopolis were outside the empire. Indeed Ptolemy’s placement of the 51

 See bibliography at Wheeler 2012a, 643.  Ptolemy Geog. 5. 7. 5; cf. Wheeler 2012a, 625. 53  Ptolemy’s use of the plural, ekbolai, does not indicate that he posited the river’s multiple mouths. The plural with singular meaning is conventional: LSJ9 s.v. VII. 54  See Müller’s valiant attempt at a commentary: 1901, 869–70. According to Pliny (NH 6. 13) the Glaucus, a tributary of the Phasis (modern Rioni), enters the Phasis 70 miles from the mouth of the Apsarrus (viz. the Acampsis/modern Çoruh). 55  Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006, 517, rejected by Vitale 2012, 148, n. 6. 56  Stückelberger and Graßhoff 2006, 517, n. 100. 57  Vitale 2012, 156, n. 923. 52

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city Phasis, apparently south of the river, does not correspond to 2nd-century reality. Arrian’s fort at Phasis was north of the river.58 Ptolemy, not a cartographer of Roman provincial administration, wrote as a mathematically-inspired geographer. His treatment of Colchis as a separate entity, a surprise to Vitale, was common among geographers, and does not support Vitale’s implication59 that the Colchian coast was a Roman Sonderamt. Colchis as a whole was never a Roman province. Before the Late Empire only the coast comes into question and after the mid3rd century central Colchis, Lazika, was independent. The bizarre character of Ptolemy’s Colchis should also be noted. It includes the interior but only the northern coast down to the Phasis river. Ptolemy’s attempt at cartographical projection, however, distorts reality. The Phasis, never an ancient or modern political border, served as the boundary between Europe and Asia in some of the earliest Greek geographical notions (for example, Herodotus. 4. 45. 2; Aeschylus apud Arr. Periplus 19. 2). Could Pontus Cappadocicus be an unknown geographer’s artificial construct or Ptolemy’s modification thereof?60 Yet Ptolemy, no doubt aware of the Phasis’ traditional role as a geographical border, modifies it. The Phasis is not explicitly the border between Colchis and Pontus Cappadocicus. No geographical feature marks Pontus Cappadocicus’ northern border, but rather an imaginary line of latitude (44° 45 ´) running from Amisos through the site of the city of Phasis to the Moschi Mountains at longitude 73° 30 ´ east of that city (5. 6. 1, 5. 10. 3). Interior sites of Colchis (5. 10. 6) are outside the empire. Further, Vitale does not raise the question of when Dioscurias became Sebastopolis, first attested at Pliny NH 6. 14. In Asia Minor the well-known fondness for renaming Greek cities in honour of Augustus is evident. For Sebastopolis candidates are limited to the Polemonids. Strabo (died AD 23/4), unaware of the change, knew the site only as Dioscurias (for example, 11. 2. 14, 16). His silence suggests Pythodoris rather than her husband Polemo I (died ca. 8 BC). A parallel is known: she renamed her own capital Sebaste (formerly Cabeira/Diospolis, after AD 64 Neocaesarea).61 Strabo’s ignorance of the new name would date it after AD 17 (or 23/4), when (in Vitale’s view) Pythodoris allegedly lost Colchis to the new Pontus Cappadocicus. Thus Vitale’s rejection of Pythodoris’ rule of Colchis (Strabo 11. 2. 18) and Colchis as part of Polemo II’s ancestral realm (Dio 59. 12. 2) seems unjustified. Ptolemy’s Pontus Cappadocicus, fraught with errors and textual uncertainties, remains an enigma, which Marek and Vitale’s arguments have not solved. Pontic military and naval forces, if more were known, would confirm the assertions of literary sources. Such forces existed. A remnant of the Pontic army probably survived as a cohors I Pontica equitata c.R. in the Flavian era.62 After Corbulo’s installation of Tigranes VI in 59, Polemo II with Pharasmanes I of Iberia and Aristobulus (king of Armenia Minor since AD 54) was assigned to monitor Armenia’s northern and north-western borders. Polemo’s forces participated in Caesennius Paetus’ disastrous campaign of AD 62 and 58  Arrian Periplus 9. 1. On the various locations of Phasis from frequent changes in course of the Rioni, see Wheeler 2012a, 640–41 (with bibliography). 59  Vitale 2013, 247–48. 60  Cf. text above with n. 41. 61  Strabo 12. 3. 36; Wheeler 2012a, 637; 2012b, 139. 62  AE 2014, 1391 (Beirut); Aliquot and Caillou 2014, who conjecture that it later formed part of the cohors I Flavia c.R. equitata in Syria in the late 1st century.

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Corbulo’s offensive the following year (Tacitus Annals 14. 26. 2; 15. 6. 3, 15. 25. 3, 15. 26. 2). In AD 69 Licinius Mucianus ordered the bulk of the Pontic forces to Byzantium, leaving only a cohort and a naval contingent at Trapezus, the base of Polemo’s fleet – a vacuum that facilitated Anicetus’ revolt (Tacitus Histories 2. 83. 2; 3. 47. 2–3). Anicetus, the former prefect of Polemo II’s fleet and familiar with the Colchian coast, probably had dealt with local tribal rulers in the past. Otherwise, his ability to seek refuge with the king of the Sedochezi (Tacitus Histories 3. 48. 1) is too fortuitous. On one view, Pliny’s castella at Sebastopolis and Apsarus (NH 6. 12, 14) would indicate Polemonid forts later occupied by the Romans: the usage of Latin castella was not limited to Roman camps/forts.63 Since Strabo knew only a city, not a fort at Phasis, perhaps the original fort was Polemonid. As dangerous as some believe Colchis was, a major port could hardly lack defences.64 Such views invite scepticism and counter-speculation, although attributing Roman garrisons at Sebastopolis, Apsarus and possibly Phasis to Corbulo goes too far, as does a claim that Polemo’s Pontus was a de facto military district from AD 57.65 Nevertheless, although nothing can be said about Sebastopolis and Phasis, material evidence from Apsarus is suggestive. To consider only pre-Trajanic coins and architecture (although late 1st-century ceramic evidence is also present), excavations have found stray coins of Nero inside and outside the Late Roman fort, including a hemi-drachma of Nero (AD 58/9, Caesarea) and a denarius of Vespasian (AD 72, Asia). Aes of Domitian are also reported besides a bronze coin (denomination unspecified; dated AD 42–44) of Agrippa I of Judea – the only such specimen known in Georgia. Further, a Severan-era hoard of 42 silver coins from the area of the oven in the south-western corner of the Late Roman fort contained four drachmas of Polemo II, a denarius of Tiberius (Lugdunum?) and one of Vespasian (Rome).66 It should be emphasised that Apsarus was not unknown or uninhabited before the Roman occupation. Burials (5th–4th centuries BC) in the area are known, besides a coin of Antigonas Gonatas (reigned 277–239 BC) and amphorae of that era.67 Coins of Nero do not prove Roman occupation of the site under that emperor, although those of Tiberius and Agrippa suggest Apsarus’ broader connexions under Polemo II, whose four drachmas in the hoard exceed those of any other ruler until the eight of Septimius Severus.68 More intriguing, the fort’s late 1st-century bath was built over the site of an earlier structure, which the most recent excavators interpret as an unfinished building. Monumental square columns and some architectural details of the earlier structure were incorporated in the bath. A stylobate of the earlier building is also attested.69 Proof of a Polemonid structure? A. Kakhidze,70 rejecting the possibility

63

 Braund 1989, 33; 1994, 178, n. 36.  Strabo 11. 2. 17, for example; Wheeler 2012a: 640. Ptolemy does not distinguish forts from urban sites. 65  Heil 1997, 157; Bennett 2002, 302; 2006, 86 (contra Wheeler 2012b, 139–41); E. Kakhidze 2008, 327, n. 18; Vitale 2013, 245–46. 66  Plontke-Lüning et al. 2002, 92; A. Kakhidze et al. 2002, 259; Plontke-Lüning and Geyer 2003, 28, 29; Plontke-Lüning 2003, 9; 2005, 139, 140; E. Kakhidze 2008, 311–12; Wheeler 2012a, 651, n. 126; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Kakhidze 2015, 179. A new hoard (silver and bronze, Hadrian–Septimius Severus, all from the Caesarea mint) from near the Fundort of the first was reported in summer 2018. 67  Plontke-Lüning 2003, 9; A. Kakhidze et al. 2002, 255. 68  Tables of the hoard at Plontke-Lüning and Geyer 2003, 28 and Plontke-Lüning 2005, 139. 69  Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Kakhidze 2016, 60–63. 70  A. Kakhidze 2008, 327, n. 18. 64

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of a Polemonid fort, asserts that no Polemonid material exists at Apsarus, but fails to specify how a late Neronian Roman structure would differ from a Polemonid. Further, whatever the origin of this unfinished building, even if Polemo’s coins in a Severan-era hoard are disregarded, a Polemonid garrison at Apsarus need not have occupied the same site as the later Roman fort. Before recent excavations established that the Late Roman modified an earlier earth-timber fort, some believed that the Roman fort of Arrian’s day was located elsewhere.71 A supposed unfinished building under the bath leads to wild speculation of a connexion of Apsarus as a base for Nero’s planned campaign against the Albani, thwarted by Vindex’s revolt in AD 68.72 As argued elsewhere, the plan, which had nothing to do with the Alani, was real: troops were in motion; even a new legion (I Italica) was raised. Rome’s client Iberia was the proposed base of operations.73 In the absence of sources problems immediately arise: first, when did Nero (or his advisors) postulate the plan and second, how was a Roman army to reach Iberia, not coterminous with Roman territory, without transgressing Armenia, now under a Parthian Arsacid king? Tiridates I’s permitting a major Roman army through his realm would no doubt push the new Roman-Parthian ‘friendship’ too far. Third, who was to command the expedition? Corbulo, recalled from his command in AD 66 and a suicide (Dio 63. 17. 5–6), has no known connexion with the Albani expedition. Even the disposition of Corbulo’s legions in AD 64–66 is uncertain: two (III Gallica, VI Ferrata) apparently returned to Syria, but stations of the V Macedonica and XV Apollinaris are unknown, although auxilia were still posted opposite Armenia in AD 69.74 Corbulo’s recall roughly coincided with the outbreak of a Jewish revolt and the ambush of the Syrian governor Cestius Gallus in AD 66, which diverted attention, talented generals and legions away from the eastern Euxine. In fact, after Corbulo no governor of Galatia is attested until AD 68/9 and none for Cappadocia until AD 70(?) or 73/75.75 Apparently, Cappadocia and garrisons on the Colchian coast lacked a governor for four to six years. Roman occupation or retention of Polemo’s troops (now under Roman command) at Polemonid forts in Colchis can reasonably be posited following the annexation of Pontus in AD 64. A late Neronian phase at Apsarus thus has some plausibility, but does not necessarily require the insertion of Roman troops. When Licinius Mucianus transferred the bulk of the former Pontic forces to Byzantium in AD 69 (Tacitus Histories 2. 83. 1–2), 71

 Gregory 1996, 21, cited at Wheeler 2012a, 651 with n. 128.  Tacitus Hist. 1. 6. 2; Suetonius Nero 19. 2; Dio 62. 8. 1; Karasiewicz-Szczypiorski and Kakhidze 2016, 62–63. 73  Wheeler 1977, 117–23; 1993, 31–33; 1994–96, 62–66; 2012b, 137–41; 2017, 162. 74  Tacitus Hist. 2. 6. 2; Wheeler 2012b, 138 (with bibliography). Mitford (2018, 36–42) on the years AD 63–72 is muddled and self-contradictory. 75  Galba appointed L. Nonius Calpurnius Asprenas as a pretorian governor of Galatia and Pamphylia (Rémy 1989, 142–45, no. 107), but his authority (so far as known) did not extent to Cappadocia or Pontus Polemoniacus. M. Ulpius Traianus (pater) is often conjectured the first consular governor of Cappadocia, but the first attested is Cn. Pompeius Collega (ca. AD 75/6–77/8: Rémy 1989, 187–88, no. 155). See Eck 1970, 2–4, 115–18 with n. 20; 1982, 287 with n. 20; Wheeler 1977, 139–43. Eck (1970, 119; 1982, 293) would have Collega in place by AD 73/4. Whether the annexed Pontus was added to Galatia in AD 64 and Galatia was separated from Cappadocia in AD 64 or 67 does not solve the problem of no knowledge of governors. On the organisational status of Pontus, see Rémy 1986, 43; Marek 1993, 62 with n. 421; Heil 1997, 148–49; Vitale 2012, 242, n. 1441; cf. Wheeler 2017b, 164 with n. 35. 72

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the Polemonid forts in Colchis would have been abandoned. Thus the Flavian castella at Apsarus and Sebastopolis (Pliny NH 6. 12, 14) represented a Roman re-occupation of those sites at some point in the AD 70s. Yet a major role for Apsarus in the proposed Albani expedition is unlikely. Topography precluded passage from Apsarus into Iberia for large armies despite the false impression from modern maps. Nor is any such movement attested for Antiquity. Apsarus’ significance lay in offering the best anchorage for ships sailing east before encountering the dangerous mouth of the Acampsis. Even so, Apsarus, so far as known, was never a base of the classis Pontica. If Armenian territory was to be avoided for the Albani expedition, the only access to Iberia lay from Colchis through the Phasis–Kura portage via Sarapanis in the Colchian interior, Pompey’s route in 65 BC, going from Iberia to Colchis.76 Roman activity in the eastern Euxine can be posited for AD 66–68, but how much and under whose command is elusive. In any case, there is little reason to doubt Polemo II’s rule of the Colchian coast and the likelihood of Pontic garrisons at sites later Roman forts. Vitale’s attempt to find another Hadrianic relic in Ptolemy is also dubious. Inclusion of Pityus at Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 6 as part of Pontus Cappadocicus leads to an argument that Hadrian extended the empire’s border from Sebastopolis to Pityus soon after Arrian’s visit to Sebastopolis ca. 131, possibly as early as AD 132. If so, why did Arrian not mention it in the Periplus and associate himself with an extension of the empire?77 Proof allegedly comes from Procopius’ mention of Pityus and references to Roman client-kings in Colchis, which echo Arrian. Yet Vitale is unaware that Procopius’ ‘archaeology’ of Colchis, involving a tacit polemic against Arrian (both the Periplus and probably also the Alanica), is not to be trusted. Even his view of 6th-century religion among the Abasgi, seen as pagan tree-worshippers, is inaccurate. Christianity was flourishing in Abkhazia with construction of numerous churches. A date of AD 132 has no support in Procopius.78 Textual issues and archaeological evidence again lead to problems. Just as Ptolemy erroneously inserted Hyssi Portus between Pharnacea and Trapezus (noted earlier), the first site after Trapezus, going east, and the first of that section called ‘along the Cissii’ is a disputed reading in the manuscript (Geography 5. 6. 6). It appears after Trapezus and before Rhizus, precisely where one would expect either Hyssi Portus or the Ophis river. Vitale, although aware of the problematic reading, follows the preference of Stückelburger/ Graßhoff for Πιτυοῦς.79 As with the Sebastopolis of Pontus Cappadocicus, Ptolemy inserts an absurdity in the list of south-eastern Euxine sites: Pityus lies ca. 40 miles north of Sebastopolis/Dioscurias on the north-western Colchian coast.

76  Pompey: Plutarch Pomp. 34. 5–35. 1; Dio 37. 3. 1–7. On all these matters, see Wheeler 2012a, 649–50, 653–57 (with detailed discussion and bibliography). 77  Vitale 2012, 156; 2013, 249; cf. n. 29 above on publication of the Periplus. 78  Procopius Bell. 8. 4. 2–4; cf. 8. 2. 16, a reference to Trajan and Roman troops in Colchis, which Vitale missed. Tree-worship: Bell. 8. 3. 14 with Khroushkova 1989, 2683; Procopius’ use of Arrian: Wheeler 1977, 267–72. 79  Vitale 2012, 147. Stückelburger and Graßhoff 2006, 514 ad 5. 6. 6, accepting the reading of Χ (Vat. gr. 191, saec. XIII: the only MS of the recension Ξ), but note Πιτυοῦσα Ω (the assumed archetype of two sub-groups of MSS), Ὀπιοῦς Α (Vat. Palatinus gr. 388, saec. XV; printed in the editio princeps); Müller (1901, 868) conjectured Ὀφιοῦς, an attempt to reconcile Ptolemy with other sources (for example, Arrian Periplus 8. 2, Anon. Periplus 38 Diller). Braund (1994, 199) denies that Pityus appears in Ptolemy. Pityus appears as Pithiae in the Notitia Dignitatum Or. 38. 32.

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Even if Stückelburger and Graßhoff’s reading is accepted, little recommends that Ptolemy’s bizarre placement of Pityus is Hadrianic. Located east of the mouth of the Corax (modern Bzyb) river, the valley of which gave access to passes over the northwestern Caucasus (cf. the trade advantages of Dioscurias), ‘Great Pityus’ (Strabo 11. 2. 14) – whether a colony of Dioscurias or a native settlement is unknown – flourished in the 2nd–1st centuries BC. Although the city’s location (Lidzava, 6 miles south-east on the coast?) remains unknown, finds in the area, including amphorae and coins (2nd century BC) from Sinope, Crimean Chersonesus and Phrygian Laodicea, attest its connexions.80 The Heniochi destroyed Great Pityus at an unknown date (Pliny NH 6. 16), probably when they migrated from above north-western Colchis to the Pontic-Armenian-Iberian borderlands on the interior of the coast between Apsarus and Hyssi Portus. From AD 58 on they were Roman allies.81 The Borani in AD 258 destroyed a Roman stone fort at Pityus, built in the mid 2nd century at a different location from the Hellenistic city and suitable for ca. 500 men. For some, oak timbers found beneath the west gate of this fort in an admittedly thin cultural layer suggest earlier wooden fortifications (not necessarily a fort); scattered coin finds then arouse enthusiasm for a Hadrianic fort.82 Pityus has yielded ca. 1400 coins, of which the vast majority date to the Severan era and the Tetrarchy or later. Scattered finds show a dupondius of Augustus, a bronze of Amastris and a drachma of Polemo II (dated AD 56/7); a gap exists until Hadrian: a tetradrachma and four didrachmas, to which may be added a sestertius of Cotys II of Bosporus, four coins of Antoninus Pius and 20 others of emperors from L. Verus to Commodus and rulers (including Sauromates II of Bosporus). Four additional Hadrianic didrachmas derive from a mid-3rd-century hoard, which includes no coins of Pius.83 Nine Hadrianic coins, some of which remained in circulation long after AD 138, and the disputable interpretation of the oak timbers under the west gate hardly prove a Hadrianic fort at Pityus. As at Apsarus and perhaps Phasis, any wooden fort, if there was one, could be local in origin (even Polemonid?) and not Roman. Indeed the Antonine date of the stone fort stands on shaky ground. A heavily restored text from a 3rd-century rubble pile is made to yield a consular date of AD 152.84 80  Lüning 1987, 65; Tsetskhladze 1998, 21, 70, n. 136. Vitale (2013, 251, n. 60), citing Braund 1994, 69, n. 133 on finds of 5th-century BC Sinopean drachmas, confuses Pityus with the site of Pichvnari, north of modern Batumi. 81  Tacitus Ann. 13. 37. 3: gens ante alias socia Romanis; Arrian (Periplus 7. 3) knew a palace of the Heniochi’s king Anchialus on the Prytanis river; Wheeler 2012a, 648. There is no basis for dating the sack of Pityus to ca. AD 77 (Braund 1994, 176) or to connect the Heniochi’s migration with problems in the Crimea and Lower Danube in the AD 60s (Braund 1989, 31), on which see Part II; Gregory (1996, 11) dates the sack to AD 68–69, apparently thinking it part of Anicetus’ revolt. Kiessling (1913, 260–70) puts the migration in the reign of Tiberius at the earliest, assuming (not necessarily correctly) that Pliny records more recent information than Pomponius Mela. See also Wheeler 2012b, 132–33. 82  Lüning 1987, 65; Dondua and Lortkipanidse 1980, 41; Gregory 1996, 11–13. Both Bennett (2002, 306) and Mitford (2018, 419) grossly exaggerate the volume of the earliest numismatic evidence; Braund (1994, 198) finds the evidence for a wooden fort insufficient. 83  Dundas and Lortkipanidse 1980, 42–43, whose imprecise presentation does not clearly distinguish stray finds from hoards. Twenty-one other stray finds said to date from the end of the 2nd century cannot be identified. 84  Speidel and Todua 1988, 209–11: [- - -]P’ C’ [- - -]/ d(onum) [d(edit)]/ Glab[rione et Homulllo co(n)s(ulibus)]. Not in AE. Mitford (2018, 419) claims the coins show Romans at Pityus even before Hadrian, as if the area was deserted and/or Colchian natives could not also use Roman coins.

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Advocates of a Hadrianic fort at Pityus fail to provide a motive/excuse for extension of the empire, which would contradict Hadrian’s policy against expansion.85 Neither Arrian, who gives only a bare reference to Pityus as an anchorage (Periplus 18. 1), nor any other source suggests urgency to establish a Roman garrison there. As already noted, no Sarmatian threat to Colchis can be demonstrated for Hadrian’s reign or at any other time.86 Antoninus Pius, rather than Hadrian, expanded the empire in Britain, Germania Superior and Raetia, although in these cases advancing the limes responded to hostilities. Such is not the case with Pityus and Colchis.87 Creation (for unknown reasons) of the Roman fort at Pityus may well date to Pius (sic communis opinio) despite the notably minimal number of Pius’ coins. The numismatic evidence suggests a flourishing fort only in the Severan era. Pityus as part of the Cappadocian command in Pius’ reign, the time of Ptolemy’s authorship, would make sense, if the Stückelburger and Graßhoff reading of Ptolemy Geography 5. 6. 6 be accepted, but it is hardly a Hadrianic relic. A Hadrianic fort at Pityus is unproven on present evidence. Ptolemy’s bizarre location of Pityus, like that of Sebastopolis, in the enigmatic Pontus Cappadocicus still awaits an adequate explanation. As argued here, Vitale’s extremely problematic efforts to find Hadrianic relics in Ptolemy’s portrayal of Pontus Polemoniacus and Colchis do not justify assertions that Rome only began to administer the Colchian coast under Hadrian. Rather, as shown, Roman garrisons at Apsarus, Sebastopolis and possibly Phasis continued Polemonid monitoring of the eastern Euxine as part of Pontus Polemoniacus within the provincia of Cappadocia. Flavian garrisons at these sites, not outside the empire, belonged to an open frontier. Nor does Arrian’s Periplus indicate that his tour of inspection was exceptional in any way or took him outside the empire: his provincia and the empire ended at Sebastopolis (17. 2), as there was yet no Roman fort at Pityus, which by Late Antiquity was recognised as a terminus of the empire (Theodoret HE 5. 34. 8). Further, a precise date for the beginning of Roman relations with various Colchian tribes is elusive, although the Heniochi were already Roman allies in Corbulo’s offensive of AD 58 against Tiridates (Tacitus Annals 13. 37. 3). For other tribes Rome no doubt built on Polemonid foundations, implied by the familiarity with the Sedochezi of the former prefect of the Pontic fleet Anicetus (noted above). Trajan had already appointed a king for the Apsilae and Colchians (unspecified) attended Trajan’s conference at Satala or Elegeia in AD 114 at the beginning of his Parthian War. Anchialus, king of the Heniochi and Machelones, still ruling ca. AD 131, even merited special gifts.88 A view that Paetus’ complures nationes indicates an Hadrianic innovation and extension of the Cappadocian command to 85

 Bennett 2002, 306; Vitale 2012, 156; 2013, 249.  On speculative attempts to link the ‘Gonio Treasure’ from near Apsarus with the Alani in AD 135, see Wheeler 2012a, 655 with n. 144. 87  A recent summary of these events at Speidel 2017, 259–62, although he dubiously wishes to connect the creation of a fort at Pityus with supposed Roman action against the Alani (H.A. Pius 5. 5), unattested in other sources, at some unknown location and date. The attack of the Tauroscythi against Olbia (H.A. Pius 9. 9) did not involve the Alani. As argued long ago (Wheeler 1977, 257–58), in a source like the Historia Augusta information unconfirmed in other sources demands caution. Roman operations against the Alani at Pius 5. 5 merit the same incredibility as the alleged Jewish revolt at Pius 5. 4, also not otherwise known and unlikely. See further Part III, text with n. 170. 88  Apsilae: Arrian Periplus 11. 3; AD 114 conference: Dio 68. 18. 2; Eutropius 8. 3. 1; Festus Brev. 20; Jerome Chron., in Schoene, Eusebius Chron. I, 163; Jordanes Rom. 267; cf. Wheeler 1977, 215–19; Anchialus: Dio 68. 19. 2; Arrian Periplus 7. 3; 11. 2. 86

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Colchis seems dubious. All Cappadocian governors before Paetus would have had dealings with Colchian tribes. Vitale’s case for a Sonderamt is reduced to the meaning of complures nationes (an official designation? or Paetus’ self-promotion in a career inscription?) and whether Valerius Maximianus’ post as praepositus orae gentium Ponti Polemoniaci really can be related to Paetus’ complures nationes. A possible parallel to a conception of the Pontic and Colchian tribes as a unit (unknown to Vitale) lies in Constantine’s designation in AD 336 of Hanniballianus as rex regum et Ponticarum gentium or ruler of Armeniam nationesque circumsocias – apparently part of his plans for reorganisation of the north-eastern frontier and a war with the Sasanids. Hanniballianus, however, never commanded an army or even assumed the post. The most recent assessment argues that Hanniballianus could not rule areas assigned to Constantius (later II), Asia and Oriens, and thus he was intended as a ‘superclient-king’ of Lazika, Iberia and ‘the Satrapies’ (Sophene).89 On this view Roman posts on the Euxine coast under the dux Armeniae (Notitia Dignitatum Or. 38), were inside the empire and under Constantius, although the definition of Ponticae gentes and nationes circumsociae is far from clear. Justinian’s reorganisation of the north-eastern frontier in AD 528 should also be noted: creation of a new magister militum for Armenia, Pontus Polemoniacus and the gentes (Cod. Just. 1. 29. 5), but here gentes refers explicitly to the Late Roman components of the former Hellenistic kingdom of Sophene (south-western Armenia). Possibly, Paetus’ complures nationes does not refer to Colchis at all. An equation of nationes and gentes could suggest Sophene, over which Rome had claimed a protectorate since the Pompey’s defeat of Tigranes II (66 BC).90 But this point cannot be pressed. Vitale’s case for a Sonderamt to command Roman garrisons on the Colchian coast and to control client-kings of the interior must now rest on interpretation of Valerius Maximianus’ post during Verus’ Parthian War (AD 161–166) as praepositus orae gentium Ponti Polemoniaci. Praepositus, by definition a Sonderamt, designated a temporary (often emergency) command, possibly by a primus pilus, if legionary vexillationes were involved, or a praefectus or tribunus militum otherwise. The rank is first attested under Hadrian: the primus pilus T. Pontius Sabinus, sent to Britain with 3000 legionary vexillationes in AD 122, and Plaetorius Celer, a primus pilus dispatched to Apsarus ca. AD 123 with Pannonian auxilia.91 Valerius Maximianus, previously a prefect of a cohors I Thracum and then tribune of the cohors I Hamiorum c.R. in Britain, came east with the British governor M. Statius Priscus, summoned to restore order on the Upper Euphrates after the defeat and death of the Cappadocian governor M. Sedatius Severianus at Elegeia in AD 161, when the Parthians seized Armenia. His post probably continued under Priscus’ successor, C. Iulius Severus.92 Indeed another Pontic praepositus is known for the late AD 170s, 89  Rex regum: Anon. Val. 35; Polemius Silvius 1. 35 (MGM, AA IX: Chron. Min. I, 522); Armeniam: Epit. de Caes. 41. 20; Mosig-Walburg 2005; cf. Wheeler 2012a, 634, n. 50 for a different view of Hanniballianus. 90  See Wheeler 2002a; 2017, 165. 91  Pontius Sabinus: ILS 2726; Saxer 1967, 27–28, no. 47; cf. 122–23; Celer: ILS 2660; PIR V2 699; Wheeler 2012a, 657–59. The unknown rank of Virdius Geminus, in command of vexillationes in the revolt of Anicetus, was probably primus pilus. If so, Virdius (not Pontius Sabinus) would be the first primus pilus to command vexillationes from different legions, a rarity before the reign of Marcus Aurelius. 92  AE 1956, 124; PME V 23; Rémy 1989, 222–24, no. 173 (Statius Priscus, governor AD 161/2– 162/3), 224–26, no. 174 (Iulius Severus, governor ca. AD 163/4–165/6). On Maximianus’ career at this point, see Birley 2017, 73–76.

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Ti. Plautius Felix Ferruntianus, a former tribune of the legio I Italica, named praepositus vexillationibus Ponticis aput Scythia et Taurica to watch the north-western Euxine during operations on the Lower Danube.93 For Vitale, Maximianus’ function was to relieve the Cappadocian governor of duties for Colchis, so that he could concentrate on the Euphrates frontier. Overlooked is the wartime situation. Certainly Statius Priscus’ priority was recovery of Armenia from the Parthians and (as noted) the rank of praepositus indicates an emergency. A regular post of praefectus orae gentium Ponti Polemoniaci, which Vitale’s case for a Sonderamt demands, is unknown.94 Marek takes orae gentium Ponti Polemoniaci as proof that under Marcus Aurelius Maximianus’ charge included the entire coast of Pontus (its northern Anatolian shores besides Colchis): the coast was a separate administrative entity from Pontus Mediterraneus. If so, Maximianus’ duties, not confined to Colchis, were tied to a specific provincia. Thus Maximianus did not command the classis Pontica, which under Trajan seems to have become a lower ranking praetorian fleet independent of a provincial governor and probably based at Sinope, not part of provincia Cappadocia. As argued elsewhere, distinction of a commander of an ora maritima from the admiral of a fleet is false. The two functions were combined, particularly since fleets, never permanently at sea, required terrestrial bases; control of the coast neutralised hostile fleets. Arrian’s fleet in the Periplus and the likely naval forces under Maximianus were a classis Cappadocica.95 Nor need orae gentium refer specifically to Colchis rather than a collective of all peoples of the Pontic coast. Romans tended to speak of peoples rather than territory.96 Maximianus received dona militaria for distinguished service in the Parthian War, but any notion that he saw combat should be rejected. Rather, Maximianus’ dona recognised his outstanding work in supply and logistics, paralleled by the award of dona to L. Aurelius Nicomedes, praefectus vehiculorum in the same war.97 Trapezus, the major supply base of Roman forces on the Upper Euphrates since AD 55–56, when Corbulo first connected that city with Satala via the Ziganne Pass over the Pontic Alps, also formed the pivot connecting Roman forces on the Euphrates with those in Colchis. Grain from the Bosporan kingdom besides meat and leather from the Lazi in Colchis came through Trapezus, which also afforded the point of disembarkation for troops coming by sea to reinforce the front on the Upper Euphrates. As generally agreed, Maximianus’ activities lay in logistics and supply, not policing the natives.98 His similar service in the Marcomannic 93

 ILS 2747; Saxer 1967, 42–43, no. 74, 91–92, no. 268; Sarnowski 1995, 323–24.  Vitale 2012, 161; 2013, 254. Mitford (2018, 419) posits (without evidence) a regular post: Pius’ Laz king Pacorus would have been subject to a Roman praefectus orae gentium. Similar posts on the Danube under Augustus and Tiberius are known: ILS 1349 (praefectus civitatium Moesiae et Treballiae); cf. ILS 2737. 95  See Wheeler 2012b, 128–31, 143–46; Vitale (254, n. 75) distinguished coastal from naval commands. The title classis Cappadocica is unattested. 96  Wheeler 1993, 27 with n. 77 for bibliography. 97  AE 1956, 124: don(is) don(ato) bello Phart(ico) [sic]; Orosius (7. 15. 2) uniquely traces the Parthian army’s path in AD 161 as Armenia, Cappadocia, Syria: hence Kienast’s conjecture (1966, 117) of a Parthian invasion of Pontus Polemoniacus, including Colchis and Trapezus, but confirmation of an attack on Cappadocia is lacking in other sources and Parthian aims seem limited to Armenia and Syria. The problem is resolved, if Cappadocia is understood as Sophene, which stood under a Roman protectorate supervised by the Cappadocian governor: see Wheeler 2002a, 117–18. On dona for Aurelius Nicomedes, see Wheeler 2000, 302, n. 248. 98  Bibliography collected at Wheeler 2000, 295 with n. 211; 2012a, 645 with n. 97. Braund (1994, 173–74, 275, 278–79) attributes the rise of the Lazi to their role in supplying the Cappadocian army. But 94

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Wars further exploited his logistical expertise.99 Further, improvement of logistics and supply for Trajan’s Parthian War motivated abandonment of Trapezus as the base of classis Pontica (if it ever was the base of that fleet) for points farther west like Sinope and Amastris.100 Maximianus could have been just as busy along the coast at points west of Trapezus as in Colchis, particularly as no known unrest in the eastern Euxine is on record. If pirates were a problem, they could also be found west of Trapezus. As noted (above n. 24), Anicetus’ support in AD 69 was not necessarily in Colchis. Finally, Maximianus was a praepositus, a temporary rank for an emergency situation, in which the Cappadocian army, probably demoralised, had suffered a disastrous defeat and lost its commander. The wartime demands of increased supply and movement of reinforcements to retake Armenia from the Parthians demanded a special appointment and no regular post to supervise Colchian tribes is attested before or after Maximianus. Objections can also be raised against Vitale’s claim101 that Paetus’ compl]urium nationum and Maximianus’ emergency Sonderamt indicate Rome’s direct control of the Colchian interior and its client-kings. Such runs counter to the very concept of a client-king in the Roman structure of international relations and the advantage of control through influence rather than the expense of annexation. Individual provincial governors or their subordinates did not control client-kings, although as the ‘men on the spot’ they probably had more dealings with them on minor issues than the emperor or administrators in Rome.102 Whatever contacts Paetus had with Colchian tribes and their rulers (so far as known) were not something new or a Hadrianic innovation. Suspicion mounts that Paetus’ compl]urium nationum is only padding to the curriculum vitae of a career inscription, in which exaggerations do occur.103 Whether one wishes to call the open frontier on the Colchian coast a limes Ponticus is really irrelevant. The term is a modern scholarly construct.

II Colombo 2015 undertakes a new analysis of Josephus’ survey of Roman provincial forces (BJ 2. 361–387), part of Agrippa II’s speech to deter Jewish revolt in AD 66. Ritterling’s Flavian date of AD 75 for the disposition, corresponding to dedication of the templum Pacis and possibly publication of BJ Book 2, has become the communis opinio, despite von Domaszewski’s advocacy of AD 66.104 Colombo’s reassessment, largely grain from the Bosporan kingdom via Trapezus should not be viewed as the exclusive source of food supplies for the Cappadocian army. The area of Nicopolis in Armenia Minor was also fertile and the port Amisus also had a direct road to Satala. See Wheeler 2012b, 142 with nn. 96–97. 99  Birley (2017, 76) posits that he brought a unit with him from Britain in AD 161, thereby gaining extensive experience in moving troops long distances. 100  Wheeler 2012b, 143–44. Braund (1991a, 217) conjectures Apsarus as Maximianus’ base. 101  Vitale 2013, 251. 102  Cf. Wheeler 1993, 29 with n. 87. 103  For exaggerations in the career inscription of Ti. Plautius Silvanus Aelianus (ILS 986), see Wheeler 2011, 204–05 with n. 142; cf. 2012b, 135, n. 65. A similar view at Colombo 2015, 661, although ignorant of Wheeler 2011. 104  Ritterling 1924–25, 1261–63, 1272; von Domaszewski 1892; cf. Saxer 1967, 91; Wheeler 2012b, 131–32 with n. 48, 134–35; templum Pacis: Josephus BJ 7. 158–161; Dio 66. 15. 1. Various speculations about Josephus’ source(s), whether an official document(s) or personal informants, remain unfruitful; Colombo (2015, 655–57) offers only new conjectures.

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independent of von Domaszewski’s views, seeks to refute Ritterling’s date and his view of legionary locations, especially on the Rhine and the Danube, and to uphold Josephus’ accuracy (BJ 2. 366–369) about the situation in the Euxine against Wheeler 2012b. For Colombo, no data in Agrippa’s speech postdate AD 69, although he concedes anachronisms: eight legions on the Rhine (2. 377), Dacian attacks on Illyricum (Moesia) (2. 369) and piracy of the Heniochi during Anicetus’ revolt (2. 366). Evaluation of Rhenish issues, including the date of the legio VII Gemina’s departure for Spain (Colombo: AD 78; Ritterling: AD 74/5), must be left for others.105 For present purposes deciding the debate for AD 66 or 75 matters less than Josephus’ accuracy. Frequent movements of legions between AD 66 and AD 75 muddy the waters of any attempt at a final solution. Further, from one perspective, Colombo’s generous pardon of Josephus’ piae fraudes (inclusion of post-AD 66 events) invalidate his arguments for a disposition of AD 66 and Colombo refutes himself. Curiously, Josephus’ survey excludes not only Syria, but also Moesia, Pannonia, Raetia and Noricum. For Colombo (without accounting for Syria), Josephus omits Raetia and Noricum (garrisoned by auxilia), because Josephus was only interested in legions. The cryptic 2000 phrouroi in Thrace, which have befuddled commentators, must be auxilia, as Thrace, annexed in AD 46, had no legions in AD 66 and 2000 is too small for the exercitus Moesicus.106 If Josephus’ is really only concerned with legions, why did he mention the 2000 phrouroi? Colombo contradicts his own argument. Nevertheless, Josephus’ conception of the Balkans exclusively in terms of Thrace and Illyricum in Agrippa’s speech could betray an Augustan source predating the formation of Pannonia and Moesia as provinces.107 Dacian raids on Pannonia, explicitly attested (Dio 54. 62. 2: 10 BC), for Colombo108 were checked by legions from Moesia, not yet a provincia in 10 BC or even a real entity; only an Illyrian command existed at that point.109 Josephus’ supposedly contemporary Dacian raids on Illyricum (BJ 2. 369) – for Ritterling an outright error – become for Colombo a pia fraus: Josephus’ use of a rumor circulating in Gaul about Dacian and Sarmatian attacks on Pannonia (Tacitus Histories 4. 54. 1); he modified it to Dacians alone to void confusing two different groups of Sarmatians: the Romanfriendly Iazyges and the hostile Rhoxolani. No Dacian raids south of the Danube occurred between 15 and 69.110 BJ 2. 366–367 offers Josephus’ next excusable pia fraus: a fleet of 40 ships and 3000 hoplites have now rendered peaceful an unnavigable and wild Euxine, beset with piracy 105  Colombo 2015, 653–56; cf. 665–68, an appendix (special pleading?) on the length of phases of the tres militiae. 106  BJ 2. 368; Colombo 2015, 659 with n. 70, although his distinction of phrouroi (auxilia) from tagma as ‘legion’ in Josephus seems contradicted at BJ 5. 243–244. Unknown to Colombo, identification of the Thracian phrouroi as auxilia is already at Saxer 1967, 91, n. 497. For another view of the phrouroi, see Wheeler 2012b, 135, n. 64. 107  Wheeler 2012b, 135 with n. 63 on Josephus’ accuracy about Moesia and Pannonia elsewhere in the BJ; cf. Arrian’s ethnic description of the Middle and Lower Danube, Anabasis 1. 3. 1–2, which corresponds to that of his own time rather than Alexander’s. 108  Colombo 2015, 650. 109  On Moesia (not a significant geographical or ethnic concept) as an artificial Roman creation, see bibliography at Wheeler 2010b, 1209 with n. 56; 2011, 197 with n. 119, 199–200. 110  Colombo 2015, 650–53, who fails to acknowledge that the absence of Dacian raids was already noted: Wheeler 2011, 207–08; 2012b, 135.

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from unruly Heniochi, Colchians, Tauri and Bosporans.111 As argued elsewhere,112 Josephus not only has misrepresented the state of commerce and interconnectivity in the Euxine, but also has transferred the situation of the Augustan age, as described by Strabo and other sources, to the Neronian era. The fleet of 40 ships (as generally assumed) is the classis Pontica, a Flavian creation, based at Trapezus;113 the 3000 hoplites are Josephus’ error for the vexillatio under Virdius Geminus, dispatched in AD 69 to suppress Anicetus’ revolt: his mistaken substitution of a temporary for a permanent situation. Roman forces on the eastern Euxine coast under the Cappadocian governor’s command never numbered anywhere near 3000. In fact, the number 3000 approximates a conventional size for a legionary vexillatio extra provinciam.114 Yet Colombo imagines – from his own literary analysis of Josephus and antiquated scholarship – an entirely different scenario for Plautius Silvanus’ activities as Moesian governor, Roman vexillationes in the Crimea, Euxine piracy and Virdius Geminus. Valid arguments of 2012 need not be rehearsed here in extenso to refute a fantasy, but allegations of historical and bibliographical ignorance merit a response. Conjectures and erroneous information cannot constitute a rebuttal.115 The much discussed career inscription of Ti. Plautius Silvanus Aelianus (ILS 986) has elicited numerous interpretations, to which Colombo adds his (far from definitive) own. As governor of Moesia (AD 60–66/7), Plautius supervised the transfer of 100,000 ‘Transdanuvians’ into Moesia, then, after dispatch of ‘the majority’ of his army (parte magna) to the Armenian front, he checked a Sarmatian movement (apparently not the Rhoxolani), whereby he arranged the return of sons of Bastarn and Rhoxolan kings and brothers of Dacian kings from an unknown fourth party (hostibus); further, he received hostages, compelled the homage of hitherto unknown or hostile kings to the signa on the bank of the Danube, and relieved a Scythian siege of Chersonesus in the Crimea.116 The inscription, best read as in ascending and chronological order, dates the Sarmatian problems and the Scythian siege of Chersonesus after AD 62, the departure of legio V Macedonica to Armenia (Tacitus Annals 15. 6. 3). Plautius’ transfer of 100,000 ‘Transdanuvians’ perhaps anticipated the Sarmatian problems, but cannot be shown part of their later resolution.117 Thus Sarmatian issues and the siege of Chersonesus fall in the

111  Colombo 2015, 660: ‘Il leggero anacronismo degli Ἡνίοχοι e dei Κόλχοι menzionati in riferimento al 66 corrobora quanto abbiamo già detto circa le incursion dei Daci.…’ 112  Wheeler 2012b, 124–41. 113  Wheeler 2012b, 124–26. 114  Wheeler 2012b, 141; Corbulo in AD 59 supported Tigranes VI in Armenia with 1000 legionaries, three auxiliary cohorts and two alae (Tacitus Ann. 14. 26. 2): 3500, if the auxilia units were all quingenary; T. Pontius Sabinus’ vexillatio from three legions to Britain in AD 122 numbered 3000: ILS 2726. 115  Colombo 2015, 660, n. 91: ‘Tutto ciò sfugge a Wheeler (2012) 131–41….’ 116  Here will be summarised views of Wheeler 2011, 203–05 with bibliography (a paper unknown to Colombo despite its citation in the 2012 paper he attacks); only aspects relevant to Colombo’s views will be discussed. Colombo (2015, 662) would date Plautius’ governorship AD 56–65 – much too long; preferable is ca. AD 60–66/7, as Conole and Milns 1983, 186 (so too, Sarnowski 2006, 85), who date Plautius’ predecessor, T. Flavius Sabinus (Vespasian’s brother), ca. 53–60. On compelling foreign homage to the signa, see Wheeler 2009, 262–64. 117  A parallel transfer of ‘Transdanuvians’ occurred about the same time in Pannonia under L. Tampius Flavianus and for unknown reasons. See Wheeler 2011, 245 with n. 143. Such transfers seem to reflect policy rather than disguising migrations.

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period AD 62–66/7, particularly as the surviving form of Tacitus’ Annals, which breaks off with events of AD 66, contains no report of Plautius’ activities.118 Plautius’ exaggeration that the majority of his army had been sent to Armenia leads Colombo to trace the history of the legio IIII Scythica, dispatched in AD 56/7.119 The legio VII Claudia from Dalmatia soon replaced it in Moesia. Thus the transfer of the IIII Scythica under Plautius’ predecessor, Flavius Sabinus, cannot be counted as a decrease in Plautius’ forces. Plautius lost the V Macedonica in AD 62, but still had VII Claudia and VIII Augusta. Losing one of three legions hardly constitutes a pars magna. Contrary to Ritterling, Colombo would have the IIII Scythica under Corbulo AD 56/7–59 on the Armenian front, rather than being sent to Syria to replace the X Fretensis, transferred to Corbulo’s forces. Tacitus does not mention IIII Scythica in the Armenian campaigns of AD 57–59; it is explicitly first attested in Cappadocia under Caesennius Paetus in AD 62 (Tacitus Annals 15. 7. 1). Colombo conjectures various duties for the IIII Scythica in Armenia and Cappadocia to compensate for Tacitus’ silence.120 Unnoticed is that with the end of the first phase of the war in AD 59, when Tigranes VI was installed in Armenia and Corbulo assumed the governorship of Syria, soldiers of the IIII Scythica, who had served five years beyond the 25-year norm, were discharged to inhabit the new Neronian colonia at Tarentum in 60 (Tacitus Annals 14. 27) – more likely if the IIII Scythica was in Syria (as generally agreed) than in Armenia or Cappadocia.121 Just as dubious as Colombo’s views of the IIII Scythica are attributions of the Danubian problems to the Rhoxolani and the siege of Chersonesus to the Tauri. Plautius’ text is explicit: Scytharum quoque rege{m} a Cherronensi, | quae est ultra Borustenen, opsidione

118  Lica’s case (2000, 153), emphasising Tacitus’ silence, merits qualification from Tacitus’ annalistic method to combine events from previous years into a later one: see Wheeler 2011, 203, n. 139. Colombo (2015, 663–64), ignoring Lica’s valid argument about Tacitus, contrives a reading of Plautius’ text as a single campaign, in which ll. 16–22 supplement with more details ll. 9–15; the unknown kings (for Colombo) are Rhoxolani, but the Rhoxolani had been known since the time of Mithridates VI Eupator (for example Strabo 7. 3. 17); Colombo’s reading would have Plautius rescuing Rhoxolan hostages from other Rhoxolani, as Vinogradov (1994, 165–69 already observed). Colombo’s date of ca. AD 60 for these events (four or five years before Lucan’s death in spring AD 65) derives from an unconvincing argument that references to Sarmatians and Dacians in Lucan’s Pharsalia echo contemporary Danubian developments. Syme 1987 is cited in support, but Syme rejects the historical value of such exotic references; cf. Danelia 2009 on trendy exotic themes in Valerius Flaccus. 119  Colombo (2015, 666) would possibly keep the IIII Scythica in Moesia until AD 57/8, but see Speidel 1998, 193, no. 56 (a work unknown to Colombo) for a different view of Q. Etruvius Capreolus’ career. Dispatch of the IIII Scythica in AD 55 is also possible: see below. 120  Tacitus Ann. 13. 8. 1, 39. 1; Colombo 2015, 661–62. Ritterling’s supposed error (1924–25, 1225, 1672), that the whole legio X Fretensis left Syria to join Corbulo’s forces, is based on Tacitus Ann. 13. 35. 2, where only a vexillatio (decimanorum delectis) appears in Corbulo’s battle array. Colombo generalises from a single passage relevant to a specific point of time. The remainder of the X Fretensis could have been elsewhere in Corbulo’s command. Ritterling did not necessarily err. 121  See Speidel 1998, 196, nos. 70 (Salvius Celer: AE 1969–70, 133), 71 (M. Iuventius Maecus: AE 1980, 351). A colonia of veterans in AD 60, held in service five years beyond their expected date of discharge, could suggest the IIII Scythica’s dispatch to the east in AD 55, not 56/7. There would be no cause to retain men in service after AD 55, if marching orders for Syria came only in AD 56/7. Colombo is also unaware of the re-assertion of Werner Schur’s chronology of the first phase of the Armenian war, which is used here, at Wheeler 1997 and the exposure of the frequently supposed lax discipline of Syrian legions as a topos at Wheeler 1996. Colombo accepts the topos as reality.

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summoto.122 Colombo presents no valid arguments to revise views of 2011 and 2012, summarised with slight expansions here.123 The mysterious fourth party, the holder of Bastarn, Rhoxolan and Dacian hostages, could also be the besieger of Chersonesus. The most likely candidate is the Sarmatian Aorsi, whose vast confederation stretched from the Tanais (Don) to the Dnieper at this point. Pressure from the Aorsi had shoved the Rhoxolani farther west and south, consequently pushing the Sarmatian Iazyges into the Great Hungarian Plain at some point between AD 20 and 49. A king Spadines of one branch of the Aorsi had supported Pharnaces II of Bosporus against Asander (47–46 BC) with supposedly 200,000 cavalry (Strabo 11. 8. 5). Olbia fell under Aorsi control or at least a protectorate ca. AD 64–ca. 81, where a king Pharzoios and presumably his son Inismeios stuck coins in their own names replete with tamga signs. A rich royal grave at Porogi on the Dniester has been excavated.124 A fragmentary honorific decree of an unknown city, found in 1984 at Mangup in the Crimea (9 miles east of Chersonesus), may shed further light on these issues.125 The unnamed honorand at his own expense undertook an embassy to Moesia seeking relief from a drought-induced grain shortage. At some later point when war threatened, he undertook another embassy, presumably again to Moesia, and obtained a symmachia, which resolved the threat to his city. A third embassy then took him to the ‘greatest kings of Aorsia’ (ll. 23–24: τοὺς μεγίστους τῆς Ἀορσίας βασιλέ|[ας - - -]). Adventurous restorations of Vinogradov, some accepted by the commentator in AE, posit the text as a decree of Olbia and insert the name of Plautius Silvanus Aelianus.126 The restoration Αἰ]λιαν[ὸ]ν seems secure. The accusative plural after πρὸς demands a second name, for which that of Flavius Sabinus becomes likely. Thus the embassy for grain would date ca. AD 60, precisely when Plautius succeeded Sabinus in the Moesian governorship. Although it is well-known that stones can move, assignment of the decree to Olbia seems bizarre, when the Fundort is 9 miles from Chersonesus. Even so, problematic are two embassies to Moesian governors, when Chersonesus since Augustus had stood under the protectorate of the Bosporan king.127 A fragmentary inscription cannot answer all questions. Clear, however, is that Late Scythian sites on the west coast of the Crimea were destroyed and burned in the mid1st century, as were some farms in the chora of Chersonesus. Romans had nothing to do with this destruction, nor can it be demonstrated that Plautius or any Roman forces went 122  ILS 986, ll. 24–25; Colombo 2015, 663–64; Wheeler 2012b, 132; cf. AE 2005, 1340 (Panticapaeum; an anonymous panegyric of ca. AD 194 under Sauromates II) at ll. 29–30: a distinction of campaigns against Scythians (if the restoration Σκύ]θας is correct) from those against the Tauri. Romans also knew the difference: Tauri, not Scythians, murdered a praefectus cohortis and numerous auxiliaries, returning from the campaign of AD 49 against the ex-Bosporan king Mithridates VIII: Tacitus Ann. 12. 17. 3; Wheeler 2012b, 132, n. 50. On the Tauri, see recently Khrapunov 2018. 123  Wheeler 2011, 203–04; 2012b, 129, n. 41, 135–36 with n. 68. 124  On the Aorsi, see most recently Istvánovits and Kulcsár 2017, 106–09; cf. 91–92. 125  AE 1996, 1357. 126  Line 8: πρὸς τοὺς τῆς Μυ[σίας ἠγουμένους Σαβεῖον καὶ Αἰ]λιαν[ὸ]ν ἄνδρας μεγίστους; Vinogradov 1994, 166–68. 127  Strabo 7. 4. 3; see bibliography at Wheeler 2012b, 135, n. 66. The obscure meaning of Pliny’s reference to Rome granting Chersonesus libertas (NH 6. 85) may not indicate a Flavian date or a connexion with the Scythian siege. A Bosporan protectorate did not exclude Chersonesite contacts with Rome, but the complex relations of Chersonesus, the Bosporan kingdom and Rome cannot be discussed here.

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to the Crimea at this time.128 The symmachia of the decree, a result of the second embassy, need not denote military action rather than support or the threat of armed intervention. Likewise in Plautius’ text summoveo (ll. 24–25, quoted above at n. 122) seems a rather weak verb for actual combat. As Plautius stresses how he guarded the Danube bank (in ripam quam tuebatur, l. 17), a Roman expedition north of the Danube also seems excluded. Under Augustus and the Julio-Claudians, if a Roman general crossed the Danube, he boasted about it (for example ILS 8965).129 Further, except for Plautius’ text, Scythian problems in the Crimea are unknown at this time. Cotys I of Bosporus’ military efforts lay on the north-eastern coast of the Euxine, as he extended Bosporan rule southward and suppressed the piracy of the Achaeans.130 Pliny (NH 4. 80) knew the Aorsi as a Scythian people somewhere north of the Danube. The branch of the Aorsi in the area of the Tanais had been Roman allies during the bellum Bosporanum (AD 44–49) in the Kuban against Mithridates VIII. An Aorsi king Eunomes had even negotiated with Claudius about the surrender of Mithridates (Tacitus Annals 12. 15. 2–21). From one perspective, the Aorsi would not qualify as the unknown or hostile kings, who paid homage to the signa on the Danube’s bank in Plautius’ text. Yet the Aorsi were a large tribal confederation probably with numerous kings (and kinglets).131 The branch active in the AD 60s–80s north-west of the Euxine could be unfamiliar to the Romans. Indeed the Aorsi kings in this area, who controlled Olbia for almost 20 years, are unattested in literary sources. In sum, the accomplishments of Plautius involved astute diplomacy. The threat of Roman military intervention sufficed, just as earlier the reputation of Rome’s might had been enough to win over the Aorsi king against Mithridates and his Siraci supporters (Tacitus Annals 12. 15. 2). Apparently it worked again. The unknown Aorsi king’s siege of Chersonesus was raised and the unnamed Chersonesite ambassador engaged in further negotiations with Aorsi kings.132 Plautius checked a southward thrust of the Aorsi both toward the Danube and into the Crimea – only a brief reprieve, given Rhoxolan raids into Moesia in AD 68–70. Significantly, however, the Olbian coins of the Aorsi kings, limited to the north-western Pontic interior, did not circulate in the Crimea.133 Since Plautius did not go to Chersonesus and certainly left no garrison there, what evidence supports a contention of Roman vexillationes in the Euxine in AD 66 other than possible Romanised Pontic garrisons in Colchis (noted in Part I)? Numerous efforts 128  See Sarnowski 2006, 87–88, who accepts Olbia as the source of the Mangup decree. Colombo (2015, 658–59 with n. 78) rejects Sarnowski’s views, but offers no arguments refuting them. He also ignores the Mangup decree and the Aorsi, although both are mentioned by Sarnowski and Wheeler 2011, 204, n. 140; 2012b, 129, n. 41, and 136–37 with nn. 68 (a catalogue of desperate attempts to prove that Plautius or a Moesian expeditionary force went to the Crimea), 72–73. 129  Conole and Milns (1983, 186–87), followed by Sarnowski (2006, 88), envisage a trans-Danubian campaign even up to the Borysthenes (Dnieper), but Plautius’ reference to the Borysthenes is probably only a geographical reference to emphasise the distance of Chersonesus from Moesia. Conole and Milns imagine co-operation of the Iazyges in the Great Hungarian Plain with the Aorsi, but no evidence supports this conjecture. 130  See references at Wheeler 2012b, 133, n. 57. 131  Cf. the sceptuchi of the Alans in AD 36: Tacitus Ann. 6. 33. 2. 132  Vinogradov’s restoration Ουβαμιον as the name of a supposed Aorsi king is dubious (AE 1996, 1357, line 23). 133  See Istvánovits and Kulcsár 2017, 109 with n. 322.

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have attempted to connect Plautius’ text and BJ 2. 367.134 Colombo’s 2015 position represents a modification and vain defence of views from 2009 already found faulty.135 The 2009 version posited Josephus’ 3000 hoplites as vexillationes of 1000 each from the Moesian legions V Macedonica, VII Claudia and VIII Augusta, but no members of the VII Claudia and VIII Augusta are attested on duty in the Crimea or elsewhere in the Euxine at any time. Moesian vexillationes in the 2nd and 3rd centuries, attested at Chersonesus and Charax in the Crimea besides Tyras and Olbia came from the I Italica and the XI Claudia, supported by some auxilia.136 The 2015 version, without explicit reference to specific legions and appealing to the speculations (not evidence) of Carl Patsch that in spring AD 66 Moesian troops from VII Claudia and VIII Augusta garrisoned Tyras, Chersonesus and the Bosporan kingdom, adds conjecture to conjecture in positing Roman troops in the Bosporan kingdom from the end of the Mithridatic War in AD 49. Thus for Columbo Josephus’ 3000 hoplites represent contingents from Tyras, Chersonesus and the Bosporan kingdom.137 Chersonesus can be dismissed immediately: Plautius did not go there or leave troops and the first epigraphical evidence dates to Trajan. Legionary vexillationes at Chersonesus and Charax date to the AD 170s or later.138 Tyras is only speciously more problematic. A letter of Septimius Severus, dated AD 201 and guaranteeing Tyras’ immunitas from customs duties, shows a new local era began in AD 56/7. Roman coins circulated there from ca. AD 50.139 Although the new era is often assumed to represent Rome’s annexation of Tyras (presumably as part of Moesia), corroborating evidence is lacking and no Roman troops are attested there until AD 115/6 under Trajan (a vexillatio of the V Macedonica140). Tyras did not house a detachment of the cohors II Hispanorum in AD 105 as part of the garrison of Moesia Inferior. Legionary vexillationes at Tyras and Olbia begin with Trajan and Hadrian.141 Only Colombo’s wishful thinking attests Roman troops in the Bosporan kingdom after the Mithridatic War ended in AD 49. Evidence for Roman troops in the Bosporan kingdom, of which Chersonesus and and Charax were not formally a part, comes exclusively from Panticapaeum: three inscriptions of auxilia. Thus Colombo again refutes himself in stipulating that Josephus’ 3000 hoplites must be legionaries, as no evidence attests that legionaries were ever stationed at Panticapaeum. Iulius Aquila, a Bithynian procurator, who commanded in the final stage of the Mithridatic War, had no legionaries 134  For example, Heil (1997, 153) conjectures that Plautius left a garrison at Chersonesus, citing BJ 2. 367; Saxer (1967, 91) envisages that Josephus’ 3000 hoplites combine the forces, post-AD 70, of both the Moesian and the Cappadocian commands. 135  Colombo 2009, 102 with n. 46; 2015, 657–59. Contra Wheeler 2011, 205, n. 144; 2012b, 136, n. 69. 136  See Saxer 1967, 89–92; Sarnowski 1995. An undatable Latin text (Chersonesus?) mentions a miles of the V Macedonica: IOSPE I2 549. 137  Patsch 1933, 166, 168; Columbo 2015, 657–59. 138  AE 2000, 1280 (IOSPE I2 562); the earliest evidence for the post at Charax is Hadrianic (AD 120): IOSPE I2 674); Sarnowski 2006, 92; cf. Saxer and Sarnowski at n. 136 above. 139  ILS 423; Heil 1997, 152 with nn. 35–36; Samoylova 2007, 453. 140  AE 1990, 868 141  Conole and Milns (1983, 186) imagine that the date AD 56/7 reflects Flavius Sabinus’ expedition to Tyras against Sarmatians(?), Carpi(?) or Costobocci(?), but there is no evidence. An improved reading of P. Lond. 2851 (‘Hunt’s pridianum’) eliminates part of the cohors II Hispanorum at Tyras in 105: see bibliography at Nadel 1982, 176–77 with n. 7; for evidence of vexillationes at Tyras and Olbia, see Samoylova 2007, 458; Wheeler 2011, 213 with n. 168.

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to leave at Panticapaeum; equestrians in this era could not command legionaries.142 Of the three inscriptions two concern a cohors Cypria (IGR I 895 [ILS 8874; IOSPE II 293; CIRB 726], late 2nd/early 3rd century?; IGR I 896 [ILS 9161; CIRB 691], mid2nd century?), often identified with a cohors IIII Cypria c.R., attested in Dacia and Moesia Superior in the 1st century, but unknown later. The third inscription concerns an unnumbered cohors Thracum (IGR I 894 [IOSPE II 290, CIRB 666], late 2nd/early 3rd century?), which could be a Bosporan rather than a Roman unit. As argued elsewhere, supposed connexions of any of these units with Bithynia-Pontus, hanging from the narrowest of threads, are unlikely. Some would have these units reflect the obscure bellum Bosporanum at some point AD 191–235, which involved a vexillatio of the Lower Moesian legio I Italica.143 In any case, Colombo’s fantasy of Roman troops in the Bosporan kingdom in AD 66 has no basis in literary or epigraphical sources. Finally, the revolt of Anicetus and eastern Euxine piracy present the next imaginary scenario of Colombo’s fantasy, in which the Heniochi became partners in raiding with Anicetus in AD 69 – a pia fraus for a situation of AD 66.144 On piracy little can be added to the survey of 2012. As shown there, the prolific piracy of the Augustan age described by Strabo and others had dissipated: that of the Zygi is subsequently unknown; no depredations by the Heniochi are on record after their migration to the south-eastern Euxine; and Cotys I seems to have terminated that of the Achaeans. Although piracy had once flourished on the south-eastern Euxine coast and the area of Apsarus centuries earlier, the chief perpetrators in the Augustan age and later came from tribes north of Colchis proper on the Euxine coast and inhabitants of the eastern coast of Lake Maeotis. Josephus’ vague assertion of Colchian piracy is inaccurate, as is his inclusion of the Bosporans. He pretends that the Bosporan kingdom did not exist (BJ 2. 366–367). Bosporan kings had campaigned against pirates since the reign of Eumelus (310/309–304/3 BC), who suppressed the piracy of the Heniochi, Tauri and Achaeans.145 Josephus’ association of the Heniochi with the Tauri and the Bosporans would indicate that his source placed them in their earlier location in north-eastern Colchis before their migration to the Colchis-Armenian borderland. Among geographers often repeated are older, antiquated ethnographical lists. Pliny and even Ptolemy retained the older placement of the Heniochi in northern Colchis, whereas Arrian (correctly) only knew them in their southern location.146 Colombo enriches his fantasy by denying the service of the Heniochi in Corbulo’s offensive of AD 58: at Tacitus Annals 13. 37. 3 the corrupt Insochi should be read as 142  Colombo 2015, 658; on Aquila see Wheeler 2012b, 123 with n. 20. Tacitus Ann. 12. 17. 3 (the Tauri’s massacre of troops en route home from the campaign in the Kuban; cf. n. 122 above) does not prove that Roman troops were stationed in the Bosporan kingdom, as Colombo (2015, 660) contends. 143  See Wheeler 2012b, 144–45 with nn. 108–09; Ivantchik 2014, 189–90; bellum Bosporanum: AE 1991, 1378 (Preslav, Bulgaria) with Sarnowski 1991. Vitale (2013, 246) erroneously writes of a non-existent cohors VI Cypria. Ivantchik, unaware of Wheeler 2012b, would date the bellum Bosporanum to ca. AD 230, in an effort to connect the cohors Thracum of IGR I 894 with a Thrakkikou tagma in a new inscription from Tanais (AE 2013, 1356), but his belief that Roman forces would have served under a Bosporan commander is most dubious, as are other views concerning IGR I 895–896. These matters must be pursued elsewhere. 144  Colombo 2015, 659–60; cf. text with n. 111 above. 145  Wheeler 2012b, 133–34 with nn. 55–61; Eumelus: Diod. 20. 25. 2–3. 146  Pliny NH 6. 14, 30; Ptolemy Geog. 5. 9. 25 (in Asian Sarmatia); cf. Arrian Periplus 11. 2; Kiessling 1913; and nn. 24, 81 above. Buonocoro (1982, 307) erroneously reads Moschi for Heniochi at Arrian Periplus 11. 2.

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Moschi.147 As briefly noted,148 the Moschi were an early ethnic group inhabiting the later Iberian-Colchian borderland and the western Cyrus river valley. Topographical names reflect their presence: for example, the Moschian Mountains (Little Caucasus, Surami Ridge, Lixi Mountains, Yalniscam Dagh), separating Colchis from Iberia, and perhaps even the Iberian capital Mtskheta. The Moschi formed one element in the ethnogenesis of the later Caucasian Iberians – a linguistic and historical quagmire, which cannot be broached here.149 Indeed they paid taxes to the Achaemenid Persians, served in Xerxes I’s army in 480 BC (as did other tribes of that region) and continued to be named in various ethnographical lists. Arrian does not know them. Procopius, however, treats them (Meschi) as a small, viable people long subject to the Iberians without reference to their military capabilities, which in all probably had disappeared by the 6th century. In view of Procopius’ archaising tendencies, did he note as Meschi descendants of the original Moschi, or name inhabitants of the former Moschi’s territory?150 Interpreting Tacitus’ corrupt Insochi as Moschi makes little sense historically, particularly as the Heniochi became the chief power in the interior Iberian-ColchianArmenian borderlands from the mid-1st–late 2nd century. Tacitus’ praise of the Insochi for outstanding service to Rome (Ann. 13. 37. 3: gens ante alias socia Romanis) would better fit the Heniochi.151 Virdius Geminus’ suppression of Anicetus’ revolt forms the climax of Colombo’s fantasy. In noting the quick suppression of the revolt, which he dates August–October 69 (although November also seems possible), a resort to Sachkritik discounts that the vexillarii from the Syrian command could have marched to Trapezus and the Euxine coast and completed their mission in the given time frame. Rather, he images that Virdius, apparently an officer in Syria or in Vespasian’s Judean command, did make the long trek to the Euxine coast, where he rendezvoused with vexillationes of the Moesian army stationed in the northern Euxine. On this scenario, one must suppose (Colombo is silent on the matter) that dispatches were sent – simultaneously with Virdius’ own departure – to Tyras, Chersonesus and Panticapaeum, the logistics of the vexillationes were instantaneously arranged, and the rendezvous at Trapezus(?) occurred on time. Colombo’s scenario defies credence and is bereft of even probability. As demonstrated here, no Roman troops and certainly not legionaries were stationed at Tyras, Chersonesus and Panticapaeum in AD 66 or even 69. Virdius’ command of vexillationes from the Moesian army

147  Colombo 2015, 660, n. 91, where it is alleged that I arbitrarily substituted Heniochi for Moschi at 2012b, 133, but once again he exposes his ignorance of the bibliography and the history of the Euxine and Transcaucasia. The emendation Heniochi for Insochi dates to Caspari 1911 and is generally accepted by knowledgeable scholars: for example, Kiessling 1913, 272–73; Magie 1950, 1413, n. 44; cf. Wheeler 2013, 319, n. 3. A lapsus calami at Wheeler 2012b, 133, attributing the Achaeans to Josephus’ list of pirates, is correctly castigated, but such hardly discredits the larger argument. 148  Wheeler 2012b, 133, n. 38, but ignored by Colombo. 149  See Lordkipandize 1996, 141–53; Knauß 2008, 55, n. 437. A mistranslation of Strabo 11. 2. 1 (describing Colchis) in a new English rendering (Roller 2014, 477) should be noted: ‘lying at the foot of the Caucasian (or Moschikan) Mountains’ should be more correctly: ‘Caucasian and Moschikon Mountains’. 150  Herodotus 3. 94. 2; 7. 78; Procopius Bell. 8. 2. 24–26; Colombo 2015, 660, n. 91, who believes that Procopius’ Meschoi confirms the reading Moschi at Tacitus Ann. 13. 37. 3. Procopius’ accuracy about Colchis is suspect: see above text with n. 78. 151  On Heniochi-Roman connexions, see text at n. 78 above; Kiesslng 1913, 269–72.

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is a phantom.152 In sum, Colombo’s reconstruction of connexions between Josephus’ view of the Euxine situation in AD 66 and the deeds of Plautius Silvanus Aelianus has no basis in the reality of the available evidence.

III The political context and date of the AD 135 Alan inroad, for which Arrian’s own Acies contra Alanos details a potential battle plan, chiefly derives from a fragment of Xiphilinus’ epitome (11th century) of Cassius Dio printed as Dio 69. 15. 1 in modern editions.153 Other sources allude to Arrian’s supposed activities with the Iberians and the Caspian Gates (the Darial Pass, Persian Dar-i Alān, ‘Pass of the Alans’).154 A fragment of Dio, printed as 69. 15. 2 (not from Xiphilinus), occurs in the Excerpta Ursiniana (no. 55) from Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus’ On Embassies (10th century). The fragment concerns Hadrian’s reception of embassies at Rome: one from the Iazyges in the Great Hungarian Plain to confirm peace and another from a king Vologaeses complaining about Pharasmanes, apparently the Iberian king Pharasmanes II. Placement of the fragment as Dio 69. 15. 2, an editorial assumption, posits Vologaeses’ reaction to the Alans, a sizeable force (not a small raiding party), who seriously pillaged Albania and Media (scil. Atropatene) and grazed Armenia and Cappadocia, before a Vologaeses bought them off and Arrian scared them away presumably somewhere east of Satala.155 Hence notices in the Historia 152  Colombo 2015, 659–60. Here can be retracted a criticism of Speidel 2014, 628 at Wheeler 2017b, 163, n. 18: Josephus’ 3000 hoplites were Syrian legionaries, but not in the way Speidel images: Virdius’ troops were vexillationes in an emergency, not permanently stationed troops. 153  The earliest MS (Parisiensis Regius 1715, ca. 1289) for Zonaris (12th century), also relying on Dio, agrees at 11. 24 with Xiphilinus: the raiders are Alans, although some editors, following other MSS, print ‘Albani’, thus having the Albani pillaging their own county; cf. Wheeler 1994–96, 76, n. 59. Dio dates the raid after conclusion of the Jewish War (Bar-Kochba’s revolt), which ended for the most part in AD 135. Although Hadrian as Imperator II for the Jewish War dates (as now known) to AD 136, other evidence supports AD 135: see Wheeler 1977, 227–28; 2004, 309, n. 1; cf. Bosworth 1977, 218 with n. 5. Unaware of the date of Hadrian’s Imp. II, both Juntunen (2013, 109, 125) and Schottky (2010, 209; 2014, 93–94) suggest other dates: the former, AD 136; the latter, a two-year invasion AD 134–136, a duration that Dio in no way justifies. Inclusion of the Cappadocian army on coins (EXER(CITUS) CAPPADOCIAE SC), issued AD 134/5–138, as a late addition in a series of legends for provincial armies may obscurely commemorate Arrian’s efforts: Wheeler 1978, 252–53 with nn. 7–8; Bennett (2002, 306) erroneously dates these to AD 129. 154  Themistius Or. 34. 8, 20, 32–34; Lydus Mag. 3.53. The pass can only be the Darial, as the Derbent, favoured by Schottky (2014, 95–101 in a fantastic reconstruction of events; see below), was never called the Caspian Gates in Graeco-Roman sources. See Wheeler 1977, 57–61; 1994–96, 64 with n. 50; contra Kettenhofen 1996, 13–14 (with disputable attributions). Efforts (for example, Chaumont 1976, 146; Juntunen 2013, 124, n. 51) to reconcile the Graeco-Roman evidence with accounts of raids in the 8th-century Moses of Chorene (History of the Armenians 2. 50 and 2. 65 = pp. 191–93, 210–12 Thomson) will not be addressed and have little to recommend them: Wheeler 1977, 236–38; cf. n. 18 above; likewise the supposed diarchy in Iberia from the mid-1st to the mid-2nd century in the Georgian tradition (Leontius the Bishop’s History of the Kings of K‘art‘li (8th century?: Thomson 1996, 52–65) is historically indefensible; cf. Schottky’s speculative commentary: 2014, 86–91. 155  Cappadocia here may indicate some part of Sophene: cf. Wheeler 2002a, 109, 117–18. On the possible route of the Alan raid, see Wheeler 1977, 238–39, 241–42. Themistius’ claim (Or. 34. 8) that Arrian drove the Alans from Armenia should be read in its 4th-century context, when the former Cappadocian army stood under a dux Armeniae (Notitia Dignitatum Or. 38). Arrian’s mobilisation, presumably from Satala, rebuts Juntunen’s claim (2013, 126) that Armenia was not invaded. Estimates of the size of Arrian’s mobilisation against the Alans begin with ca. 11,000; Vologaeses III of Parthia (Chronicle of Arbela, pp. 24–28

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Augusta on Hadrian and Pharasmanes and/or the Iberians offer a context for the Alan inroad: Pharasmanes did not attend Hadrian’s conference of client-kings in AD 129 (Had. 13. 9; 21. 13), nor did the king of the Albani.156 An exchange of gifts between Pharasmanes and Hadrian (Had. 17. 11–12) thus becomes an attempt to mend strained relations.157 From this perspective, Arrian’s neutral reference (Periplus 11. 2) to the Zydreitae as subjects of Pharasmanes even acquires a sinister tone.158 But the plot thickens with Excerpta Ursiniana no. 56, Dio 69. 15. 3, printed as 70. 2. 1. Here Pharasmanes, his wife (Phr[---), son and an entourage of Iberian nobles visit Antoninus Pius at Rome, where the Iberian monarch is permitted to sacrifice on the Capitol, set up an equestrian statue in the temple of Bellona, put on a military display of Iberian skills and receive an expansion of his kingdom. The occasion merited inclusion in the Fasti Ostienes. A date, spring AD 141, recorded on fragment Og, is now established from military diplomata.159 Curiously, Pius reversed sour relations under Hadrian to the Iberian king’s profit. Much remains unknown. Extraordinary is that a Roman client-king (Pharasmanes) initiated an act that damaged two other Roman clients (Albania and Armenia), heightened

Kawerau) supposedly assembled 20,000 to oppose them in Gorydene: see Wheeler 2017a, 111 with n. 37 for bibliography; cf. Wheeler 1994–96, 69. 156  The site of the conference is uncertain. See Mitford 2018, 68–70 with nn. 61–62, where he (like others, for example Buonocore 1982, 306) posits Satala and disputes some recent reconstructions of Hadrian’s itinerary for AD 129; cf. Juntunen 2013, 127, n. 61. Bosworth’s dating of the conference to 131 (1977, 228, n. 44) is a misreading of Magie 1950, 621. Braund (1991a, 212) rejects a collective gathering: Hadrian met kings here and there en route – unlikely if the kings of Armenia and Parthia were invited; Birley’s list of attendees (1997, 225) is most generous. Definite is only who did not come: the kings of Iberia, Albania, Armenia and Parthia. Understandable is Osrhoes of Parthia’s absence: attendance would only have validated the Roman pretense of Parthia as a Roman client, symbolised by possession of the Parthian throne taken by Trajan (H.A. Had. 13. 8; cf. Pius 9. 7). Besides, his coins cease in AD 128/9; perhaps he was dead. Vologaeses of Armenia’s absence could be explained similarly, particularly as Vologaeses’ rule was a concession in AD 116, not a voluntary Roman choice (Dio 75. 9. 6). Juntunen (2013, 125) thinks he attended. H.A. Had. 21. 11 establishes only Hadrian’s recognition of the status quo in Armenia and has no connexion with Hadrian’s personal conference with Osrhoes in AD 123. See Wheeler 2010a, 44 with n. 140; 2012a, 659, n. 160. 157  Braund’s date for the gift exchange after AD 129 but before the Alan raid (1991a, 213–15) is rejected by Giardina 1996, 118, n. 91. Bosworth (1977, 230), Wheeler (1977, 245–46), Buonocore (1982, 308–09, 311–12) and Fündling (2006, 659) put the exchange after the raid, although some gifts AD 129–135 are also possible: Had. 17. 11–12 and 21. 13 may not report the same gifts (Wheeler 1977, 226, n. 37); a silver vessel from Harmozica depicting Hadrian’s favourite Antinous, if (as Braund assumes) a diplomatic gift, can only date to AD 130–138 (Braund 1991a, 214; 1994, 236, pl. 18). Contrast Buonocore’s elaborate chronology of the gift exchange with Syme 1981, 278–79: dismissal of the exchange at Had. 17. 11–12 as another fantasy of the H.A. 158  On the Zydreitae, possibly relatively recent immigrants and non-Georgian speakers from the northwestern Caucasus, see Wheeler 1977, 156 with bibliography. The motive for a concentration of an unknown number of cohorts at Apsarus ca. AD 131 (Arrian Periplus 6. 1) is unclear. Scribal error accounts for the ‘five’ in Arrian’s text, unrealistic for the fort’s size. As Apsarus was Rome’s closest point of contact with Iberian territory, the troops could represent a Roman ‘presence’ and a subtle threat in the context of declining Roman-Iberian relations. Apsarus, however, could not be, as many wrongly image, a base of operations against Iberia. See Wheeler 2012a, 654–70; cf. n. 27 above for similar views on Apsarus as a base against the Sanni. 159  AE 1959, 38; RMD 5. 392, 395 with Eck and Weiß 2001, 258–59; cf. H.A. Pius 9. 6; Fronto Ad M. Ant. Imp. 2. 2. 3 (p. 110 van den Hout, p. 303 Haines), where Fronto (writing in 161) erroneously associates the Iberian visit with his own suffect consulship (July/August 142: Eck and Weiß 2001, 255); Juntunen (2013, 110) and Schottky (2014, 100–01) are unware of Eck and Weiß 2001; likewise Mitford (2018, 71) and Gregoratti (2013, 534), misdating the visit to AD 140 and to AD 144 respectively.

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tensions with Rome’s major rival, Parthia, and then received an enlargement of his realm. Pharasmanes’ motive elicits wild speculations: Pharasmanes acted with Roman approval to distract Parthia during the Jewish War (AD 132–136);160 Dio makes Pharasmanes a scapegoat for a raid that the Alans themselves initiated.161 More commonly, the Historia Augusta’s Hadrian-Pharasmanes feud is trivialised: the exchange of gifts resolved a squabble.162 Hence the Alan raid, a surprise, results from an Iberian-Albanian border dispute that Arrian settled. This view privileges Themistius’ suspect account (Or. 34. 8) of AD 384, conflating the careers of two Stoics: Arrian and Q. Iunius Rusticus (cos. suff. 133, cos. ord. 162; never the governor of an Eastern province). Themistius actually puts Arrian’s visit to Iberia and the Caspian Gates before the Alan raid; Arrian arranged borders for the Iberians and the Albani after driving the Alani from Armenia. Advocates of the border dispute thesis do not consider that any Iberian-Albanian hostilities (if they occurred) could be the result, not the cause, of the Alan raid. Rather, they infer a connexion, not explicit in Themistius, between the Alans and a supposed border dispute. The Alazon river formed the border of Iberia and Albania (Pliny NH 6. 29), not a fuzzy demarcation as some contend, and no fortifications in the area are known. But a detailed rebuttal of Braund’s faulty case for a long-standing Iberian-Albanian border has appeared elsewhere.163 Nevertheless, new advocates espouse the border dispute thesis. Schottky develops an elaborate scenario, whereby the Alan raid of AD 135 copied that of AD 72 (Josephus BJ 7. 244–251): entry via the Derbent Pass and an exit via the Darial. Iberia, controling the Derbent in AD 72, lost it after Trajan annexed Armenia in AD 114, when it fell under either direct Roman control or that of Albania, and regained it after Roman abandonment of Armenia in AD 116; subsequently, Albania disputed Iberian control, leading Pharasmanes to instigate the Alan raid; after Arrian restored the Derbent to the Albanians, Antoninus Pius reversed Arrian’s decision, thus the increase in Pharasmanes’ realm.164 Needless to say, much here is fantasy. Iberian control of the Derbent Pass is unattested and geographically unlikely from the configuration of the Caucasus. Iberians could only maintain control, if permitted access through Albanian territory, unless they did so via the Darial Pass and a route north of the Caucasus, traversing the territory of peoples, whom possession of the Derbent was alleged to block. Roman troops at the Derbent (even in Late Antiquity) are more of a phantom than similar suppositions about the Darial. The idea of Iberian possession of the Derbent derives from interpretation of Josephus BJ 7. 245, where an Alan inroad, which damaged Media (not necessarily Atropatene) and Armenia in the early AD 70s, came from Alan negotiations with a king of the Hyrcanians, who opened a pass to admit them. Details of this Alan raid have been addressed elsewhere with an endorsement that this invasion came from the eastern  Fündling 2006, 702; cf. Braund 1991a, 218 on possible Roman approval of the raid.  Braund 1994, 64–65; contra Wheeler 1994–96, 66–68. 162  Braund 1991a, 215, 218–19; 1994, 232–33, with many adherents; Fündling 2006, 659. Contra Wheeler 1994–96, 66–70; 2012a, 654, n. 141. 163  Braund 1991a, 217–18; 1994, 227, 233 (alleging an unclear Iberian-Albanian border), followed by Juntunen 2013, 125–26, but Braund elaborates on Bosworth 1977, 229; contra Wheeler 1994–96, 66–70; cf. Syme 1982, 200; Giardina 1996, 117, n. 89. 164  Schottky 2014, 95–102; contra Bosworth 1977, 230, who speculates that Pius confirmed Arrian’s arrangements. 160 161

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branch of the Alan confederation, not those in the area of the Tanais (Don), as Josephus, omitting Albania, mentions only Media and Armenia.165 Josephus’ supposed equation of the Hycanian ruler with the king of Iberia, still current among some scholars, originates with a dubious etymology: the Greek and Latin names for the Iberians and the Hyrcanians derive from the Armenian term for the Iberians, but developing differently from its singular and plural forms. Certainly it cannot be established that either the Romans or Josephus learned the names of the Iberians and Hyrcanians from Armenians.166 Schottky’s imaginative 165  See Wheeler 1977, 124–30; 1994–96, 63–65; Bosworth 1976, 68–69, although imagining that the Alans on the Tanais circumvented the Caspian Sea, followed by Halfmann 1986, 42 and Gregoratti 2013, 531–32, who assumes Josephus’ Media is Atropatene. Advocacy of the eastern Alans goes back to Täubler 1909, 18–19. A raid of the Dahae and Sacae from east of the Caspian ca. AD 53 into Parthian territory (Hyrcania) (Josephus AJ 20. 89–91) parallels that of the Alans in the 70s. Josephus’ references to Alans at the Tanais and Lake Maeotis reflect the frequent confused identification, current since the Alexander historians, of the Tanais with both the Don and the Syr-Darya and the Aral Sea with Lake Maeotis: Olbrycht 1998, 191 with n. 85, 199. Hartmann’s recent discussion of the Alan raid of the AD 70s and Hyrcania (Hartmann 2016, 395–417), bibliographically myopic, has dubious merit in facilely equating Josephus’ Hyrcanian king with the Iberian and positing use of the Darial; likewise Dąbrowa 1989, 70; contra Hauser 2016, 439. Dąbrowa (1989, 70) posits two Alan raids: ca. AD 72 and 75. Braund’s attempt (1994, 227) to attribute the destruction of Iberian Dedoplis Gora and Dedoplis Mindori (ca. AD 100) – probably from an earthquake – to the Sarmatians in the AD 70s is erroneous: Knauß 2008, 52, n. 413; Wheeler 1994–96, 65; 2013, 328. 166  See Marquart (Markwart) 1895, 632–33, citing a confused ethnographical list of peoples at Mela 3. 41 for support; cf. Wheeler 1994–96, 64 on Mela. Later, Marquart (1931, 78) abandoned his 1895 interpretation for a view that the Hyrcanians controlled the Derbent Pass in the early AD 70s, but his etymology has lived on. See Wheeler 1977, 124–25; Bosworth 1976, 69 with n. 42. Schottky (2014, 95) cites Gagoshidze 2008, 14, as if the equation of Iberian and Hyrcanian kings in Josephus is an established fact, but Gagoshidze offers only a version of Marquart’s views.

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reconstruction of the AD 135 Alan inroad hardly convinces, nor can its details be substantiated from the available evidence. For Juntunen (2013), a festering Iberian-Albanian border dispute prompted the Armenian king Vologaeses’ dispatch of an embassy to Hadrian to complain about Pharasmanes and problems on Armenia’s northern border. Juntunen’s placement of Excerpta Ursiniana no. 55 (Dio 69. 15. 2) before the Alan inroad is not a new idea.167 His date of ca. AD 126 meets the requirement that Hadrian be at Rome, but its accuracy depends on his discussion of the date of peace with the Iazyges and reconstructing the career of Q. Marcius Turbo. Others must evaluate his treatment of Turbo and the Iazyges. Several of Juntunen’s arguments are also problematic. Only his views of Albania and the identity of Vologaeses can be addressed here. Dio (69. 15. 1) asserts that Albania severely suffered from the Alan raid, but Pharasmanes’ motive for the raid remains unknown and Albania may have been unanticipated collateral damage rather than the intended target. An Iberian-Albanian border dispute does not explain the raid’s continuation into Media (scil. Atropatene), Armenia and the threat to Cappadocia – no doubt also unintended. The border dispute thesis depends on combining the suspect account of Themistius with the equally questionable assertion of the Historia Augusta (Had. 21. 13) that the Albanian king declined to attend Hadrian’s conference in AD 129. For Juntunen,168 the Albanian and Iberian kings were the only invitees to decline the invitation, but he omits Osrhoes of Parthia and assumes that Vologaeses (for him the Armenian king) attended. The Iberian and Albanian absence is attributed to their refusal to submit their border dispute to Hadrian’s arbitration.169 Had. 21. 13 constitutes one of only three references to the Albani in the Historia Augusta. The other two feature the Albani in lists of exotic peoples: an offer from the Albani, Iberians, Bactrians and Tauroscythians(!) to rescue Valerian after his capture by Sapor I in 260 (Val. 4. 1) and, in an obviously fictitious speech, the Albani with the Iberians and Armenians expression veneration for Aurelian (Aurel. 41. 1) – incredible, as the Albani, Iberians and the Armenians had been under Sasanid Perian control since Sapor I’s campaigns in Trancaucasia probably in AD 251. Indeed the Bactrians also appear at Had. 21. 14, immediately following the reference to the Iberians and the Albani, as seekers of Roman amicitia from Hadrian. Suspicion mounts that Had. 21. 13–14 offers yet another invention of the Historia Augusta, particularly as that creative author has most probably transferred a Roman check on the Alans (events of AD 135) and a Jewish revolt (the Bar-Kochba War of 132–136) from Hadrian’s reign to that of Pius – both, major events, reduced to brief notes.170 Juntunen, however, thinks that the Albani, ‘traditionally a vassal of Media Atropatene’, in Hadrian’s reign were under Parthian control – a view contradicting his position that

167

 Wheeler 1994–96, 70 with nn. 72–73; 2012a, 654 n. 141; Carrata Thomes (1958, 31) dated the embassy to AD 132–133 and identified Vologaeses as the Armenian king. 168  Juntunen 2013, 125–26. 169  Juntunen 2013, 125–26; but cf. n. 156 above for reasons behind a Parthian and Armenian absence. Braund (1991a, 213) speculates that their non-attendance stemmed from uncertainty following the death of Osrhoes, but a date for his passing (AD 128/9) in based solely on survival of his coins. 170  See references at n. 87 above. The Tauroscythians, victims of Goth and Alan expansion in the 3rd century, appear only at H.A. Pius 9. 9 and Val. 4. 1.

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the Albanian king was a Roman client invited to Hadrian’s AD 129 conference.171 Media Atropatene had ceased to be a political entity at some point during Augustus’ reign. Artabanus II perhaps was its last ruler, before becoming the Parthian king of kings (reigned AD 10/1–38); subsequently the area belonged to the Parthian kingdom of Media.172 Any vassalage of Albania to the Media or Media Atropatene is unattested in the Hellenistic or Roman periods, although geography tied the two areas and Parthian coins circulated in Albania. Parthians in fact recruited Sarmatians and others north of the Caucasus as mercenaries via the Derbent Pass.173 Tacitus asserts (in the present tense) that both Iberia and Albania were under Roman protection and the Albani no doubt appeared at Trajan’s AD 114 conference of client-kings at Satala or Elegeia, when he appointed their new king.174 Their absence from Hadrian’s AD 129 conference, if not a fiction of the Historia Augusta, would, nevertheless, not be surprising. Pompey had brought them in fidem in two campaigns (66–65 BC), but Marcus Antonius had to re-establish their loyalty through a campaign of Canidius Crassus in 36 BC. They co-operated with Rome and Iberia in the conquest of Armenia in 36, but, absent from Corbulo’s Armenian operations AD 55–59, they were even suspected of pro-Parthian sympathies and offering aid to Tiridates in 58 (Tacitus Annals 13. 41. 1). Hence a motive for Nero’s Caucasian expedition. The Domitianic inscription of the centurion of the XII Fulminata in Azerbaijan might indicate negotiations for their renewed Roman loyalty, which Trajan then confirmed. After the Alan raid of AD 135 they again disappear in Graeco-Roman literary sources until Late Antiquity: no role in Verus’ Parthian War (AD 161–166).175 Like Juntunen’s view of the Albani, his arguments that the Vologaeses of Dio 69. 15. 2 is the Armenian Vologaeses I merit scepticism. Views are divided between the Armenian and the Parthian Vologaeses III.176 If the Chronicle of Arbela’s account of the AD 135 Alan raid merits credence (n. 155 above), Dio’s Vologaeses must be the Parthian, although that case should not be pressed, especially for an embassy ca. AD 126. Juntunen, however, erroneously attempts to eliminate Vologaeses III and to assert Mithridates IV as Osrhoes’ successor and new rival to Vologaeses III on the basis of the emissions of various mints: thus Mithridates IV, ruler of the northern sectors of the Parthian empire adjacent to Armenia, would be the pertinent Arsacid most concerned with Rome. For Juntunen, Mithridates’ sphere of control cut off Vologaeses III from Roman contact. But Mithridates IV was not Osrhoes’ brother (as supposed) and a new analysis (not unproblematic) of the political function of the mints at Ecbatana and Seleuceia on the Tigris argues that

171

 Juntunen 2013, 125, falsely citing Bosworth 1977, 229.  Hartmann 2016, 398–400, 422 with n. 100; Hauser 2016, 439, 477. 173  Tacitus Ann. 6. 33. 2–3; cf. Wheeler 1977, 107: a collection of references to recruitment of peoples north of the Caucasus as mercenaries by various rulers and states. 174  Tacitus Ann. 4. 5. 2; cf. Wheeler 2017b, 163, n. 18; Trajan’s appointment: Eutropius 8. 3. 1; Festus Brev. 20. 175  See discussion with bibliography at Wheeler 1994–96, 68 with nn. 68–70; 2013, 324 with nn. 15–16. Aid to Tiridates?: Tacitus Ann. 13. 41. 1; cf. Schur 1923, 65–66; Bosworth 1976, 73–74; Gregoratti 2013, 528. Nero’s Caucasian expedition: text at nn. 72–73 above; XII Fulminata: text at n. 35 above. 176  Juntunen 2013, 124–25. Armenian: von Gutschmid 1885, 146–47; Magie 1950, 1528, n. 2; Chaumont 1976, 145–46; Schottky 2014, 94–95. Parthian: Bosworth 1977, 219, n. 9 (with a lapsus calami that the Armenian Vologaeses was appointed by Hadrian in AD 114); Birley 1997, 287; Mitford 2018, 71, n. 64. 172

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Mithridates IV, the king of Media, never claimed to be the Parthian king of kings.177 Yet a Parthian embassy of ca. AD 126 would have come from Osrhoes, with whom Hadrian had parleyed in AD 123. Juntunen’s views about Mithridates IV and the mints are irrelevant to support a date of ca. AD 126. Despite his own arguments, however, Juntunen may be right: a plaintiff Vologaeses in ca. 126 would be the Armenian. Juntunen’s redating the embassy of Dio 69. 15. 2 elevates the Alan inroad from an Iberian miscalculation in a border dispute to the status of a lengthy international crisis largely obscured in surviving sources. In all probability the Parthian crisis in Pius’ early years, usually assumed only to concern the Armenian succession, should not be divorced from the repercussons of the Alan raid of AD 135. The Parthians can hardly have been pleased about damage to their own territory (Media Atropatene) and that of their Arsacid cousins in Armenia, while the instigator, Pharasmanes, a Roman client, was not penalised. Syme’s astute observation has not received the attention it deserves: C. Bruttius Praesens’ brief governorship of Syria in AD 136 or 137, anomalous in his already distinguished career (including governorship of Cappadocia ca. 121/2–123/4 at the time of Hadrian’s conference with Osrhoes), reflected the need for an experienced man on the spot in a Parthian crisis.178 Coins of AD 139 in a series highlighting Roman provinces reasserted Roman authority over Armenia and Parthia and Pius designated a new Armenian king of unknown name – disputed whether Aurelius Pacorus or Sohaemus – at some point between AD 140 and 144. He prevented a Parthian invasion of Armenia (a reaction to Pius’ Armenian appointment?) via a letter (date unknown).179 Further, Pius denied Vologaeses III’s request for return of the Parthian throne, snatched by Trajan.180 Iberian-Roman relations were mended only with Pharasmanes’ visit to Rome in AD 141. Surely this occasion featured the erection of a cenotaph to the Iberian prince Amazapus, son of Mithridates II (successor of Pharasmanes I before AD 75) and the younger brother of a (supposed) Mithridates III, ruling at the time of Trajan’s Parthian War. Commander of an Iberian contingent in Trajan’s forces, he died apparently hors de combat at Nisibis, captured in AD 115, and was buried on the spot. A metrical inscription

177  Juntunen 2013, 124–25, unaware of Hartmann’s new stemma of the late 1st- and 2nd-century Arsacids: 2010, 593–98. On the Ecbatana mint and the supposed error of so many rival Parthian kings, see Hauser 2016. 178  Syme 1981, 277; 1982, 42–43, followed by Rémy 1989, 210; contra Dąbrowa 1998, 97–98. 179  Provincial series: BMCRE IV, 203 nos. 1272–1273 (Armenia); RIC III, 105, no. 586 (Parthia); new Armenian king: RIC III, 110, no. 619; H.A. Pius 9.6; the vexillatio of Neratius Proclus can no longer be associated with this crisis: n. 7 above; possible repercussions of the crisis in administration of southern Asia Minor: text with n. 47 above. For arguments (not definitive) favouring Pius’ appointment of Aurelius Pacorus, see, for example, Chaumont 1976, 146; Schottky 2010, 209; 2014, 101, who imagines an unattested Parthian invasion of Armenia in AD 138, which Vologaeses I did not survive. Juntunen (2013, 126) notes Vologaeses I’s probable disappointment at Pius’ favourable treatment of Pharasmanes at Rome, but this Vologaeses seems already dead in AD 141. 180  H.A. Pius 9. 7; Fronto (n. 159 above) notes Parthian and Iberian envoys at Rome in the year of his consulship (AD 142), both heeping praise on Pius in a diplomatic context. The occasion for requesting return of the Parthian throne? But Fronto, writing 20 years later (AD 161), apparently conflates Iberian with Parthian envoys, as the Iberians in Rome are only known for AD 141. Simultaneous visits of Iberians and Parthians at the early AD 140s would have been rather awkward in the context or aftermath of a Parthian crisis. Braund (1993) takes Fronto’s note as the earliest literary reference to spoken Georgian, but Fronto amalgamates the language used (Parthos etiam et Hiberos sua lingua), implying Georgians and Parthians spoke the same language. Parthians would not speak Georgian.

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from the monument survives.181 Although Pharasmanes II’s relationship to Amazapus is unknown, as is his date of accession, a familial connexion (nephew? if Pharasmanes was Mithridates III’s son) can be postulated.182 Juntunen’s date of ca. AD 126 for the embassy of Dio 69. 15. 2 would put him in the throne before that year. Commemoration of the Iberian prince, the Alan inroad of AD 135 and the extension of Pharasmanes’ realm may not be unrelated. As a Roman client, the Iberians were obligated to support Roman foreign policy and military efforts. They did so in AD 36, acting at Tiberius’ urging with Albanian and Alan aid, to install Mithridates (Pharasmanes I’s brother) on the Armenian throne, and alone ca. 41 for his second enthronement. In AD 58 they served with Corbulo in Armenia and the next year received guardianship of a portion of Armenia’s northern border after the installation of Tigranes VI.183 Thus service with Trajan in AD 114–117 need not be exceptional. But Iberia as a Roman client did not share a border with the Roman empire and even access from Roman territory could be difficult. If Rome provided protection against Parthian expansion, Iberia’s geographical disposition permitted it a certain degree of independence few other client-states enjoyed. Although not demonstrable on present evidence, Iberia perhaps received Roman subsidies to encourage its loyalty.184 For some, Pharasmanes II aimed at asserting Iberian independence from Rome – an extreme view.185 In the end, however, Pharasmanes obtained what he wanted – extension of his realm. But where? Dio records Pius’ expansion of Pharasmanes’ realm on the occasion of his visit to Rome in AD 141 and a speculative restoration of the fragment of the Fasti Ostienses would reflect that.186 Opinions differ on whether Pharasmanes received a piece of Colchis or Armenia, as Pius appointed new kings in both areas.187 A case can be made for either. 181  IGR I 192 (IG 14. 1374, IGUR III, 1151). Despite speculation about a reburial (Cagnat ad IGR I 192; Braund 1994, 231), it seems unlikely that Romans had the bones or that the Parthians would have willingly surrendered them after retaking Nisibis in AD 117 and suffering from the Alan raid of AD 135, although various scenarios for their recovery could be conjectured. The stemma of Iberian kings after Pharasmanes I (dead before AD 75) and Pharasmanes II (dead after 141) can only be reconstructed from Amazapus’ epitaph and the Harmozica text of 75 (n. 34 above). 182  Pharasmanes II: PIR2 P 342. An Amazapus, son of Mithridates II, may appear in an uncertain line of the Harmozica text (I.Extremo Oriente 1: n. 34 above; Wheeler 2013, 327, n. 27), but this Amazapus would not fit the youth implied in the cenotaph. Other royal Iberian Amazapi are known: for example, AE 2002, 1509; Res Gestae Divi Saporis, Middle Persian ll. 30–31, Parthian l. 25, Greek l. 60. 183  Josephus AJ 18. 97; Tacitus Ann. 6. 33–35; 11. 9. 1–2, 11. 8. 1; 14. 23. 3, 14. 26. 2. Gregoratti (2013, 527) claims Tiberius instigated Alan support in the campaign of AD 36. Both Dąbrowa (1989, 70, n. 59) and Gregoratii (2013, 530) see the Iberian protectorate of part of Armenia in AD 59 (Tacitus Ann. 14. 26. 2) as a permanent territorial gain for Iberia, which the Rhandeia agreement of AD 63 yielding the Armenian throne to Tiridates I negated – hence an Iberian motive for the Alan raid of the early AD 70s. But there is no reason to think the Iberian protectorate was intended to be more permanent than that assigned to other Roman client-kings for other parts of Armenia adjacent to their kingdoms. 184  Wheeler 2013, 327 with n. 26, 328. Difficulty of access: Wheeler 2012a, 654–57. Roman protection: Tacitus Ann. 4. 5. 2. 185  Carrata Thomes 1958, 20; Bosworth 1977, 228; contra Wheeler 1977, 223–25. 186  Dio 70. 2. 1 (69. 15. 3); Nesselhauf’s restoration of FO fr. Og ll. 3–5 (1958, 224), [-----] Pharasman[es rex Iberorum --- cum filio] | [---]e uxore Phr[---, cui Imp. Antoninus Aug. regnum] | [amplius] reddidit. V k. Apr.[---], is accepted at Eck and Weiß 2001, 258, but not printed at AE 1959, 38 or Schottky 2014, 100. 187  Lazika or Colchis: Carrata Thomes 1958, 24, n. 28 (simultaneously with Pius’ appointment of Pacorus as king of the Lazi; cf. n. 30 above); Syme 1981, 278, n. 30; Giardina 1996, 118, n. 91; Gagoshidze 2008, 21 (rule of the Zydreitae and access to Euxine confirmed); similarly, Schottky 2014, 93, but see Wheeler 2012a, 633, n. 46: no Iberian access to the Euxine. Armenia or Colchis: Braund 1994, 234. Armenia:

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Iberian culture began to infiltrate eastern Colchis from the 4th century BC and the fort Sarapanis on the Colchian side of the Phasis–Kura river portage was Iberian.188 Control of the Zydreitae (Arrian Periplus 11. 2), begun at an unknown date, marked a new stage of Iberian western expansion, but the Zydreitae inhabited the interior and not part of the Colchian coast. Pius’ concession of some part of the Colchian interior to Pharasmanes is quite plausible. Nevertheless, a stronger case can be made for Armenia. A vetus odium (Tacitus Annals 13. 37. 3), which charactered Iberian-Armenian relations, may help to explain Pharasmanes II’s instigation of the Alan raid of AD 135. Only a summary of a more detailed discussion can be offered here.189 At issue was control of the Armeno-Georgian marchlands, particularly Chorzene/*Cholarzene (Klarjet‘i) and Gogarene (Gurgark‘), roughly the area east of the Moschi Mountains, north of the Araxes, south of the Cyrus and west of Lake Lychnitis. Indeed Artemidorus of Artemita (apud Strabo 1. 3. 21) ascertained that the Araxes had been the original border of Iberia and Armenia. But Artaxias I of Armenia at some point after Roman recognition of his independence from the Seleucids (188 BC) annexed both these regions, which remained nominally Armenian until the Roman-Sasanid partition of Armenia in AD 387, when Gogarene returned to Iberia.190 Rome had always rewarded Iberia in some way for assistance with Armenian affairs: in AD 36 and again in AD 41, an Iberian mounted the Armenian throne; Pharasmanes I received a protectorate of probably at least part of the disputed borderlands in AD 59, when Corbulo installed Tigranes VI in Armenia; but Iberia (so far as known) received nothing from Trajan in AD 114–117, in a war that cost the life of an Iberian prince. Perhaps circumstances at the time of the hasty concession of Armenia to Vologaeses in AD 116 did not permit compensation to the Iberians. From an Iberian perspective, Pharasmanes II’s displeasure with Rome (and Hadrian) can thus be explained besides the belated commemoration of Amazapus at Rome and an extension of Pharasmanes’ realm. A border dispute lay behind the Alan raid of AD 135, but it was a centuries-long row with Armenia. If Juntunen’s redating the embassy of Vologaeses to ca. AD 126 is correct, Iberian-Armenian differences were already simmering at that time and reached a boiling point in AD 135. Details are unknown, especially what Pharasmanes hoped to gain from the raid. The Alans turned east down the Cyrus river valley instead of heading directly south into Gogarene to avoid pillaging territory that Iberia claimed as its own. Armenia, not Albania, was the real target, although where in Albania and how much of it was pillaged is unclear. On this view, Pius’ extension of Iberian territory (some part of Gogarene and/or Chorzene?) came at Armenia’s expense and probably coincided with Pius’ designation of a new Armenian king – no doubt further infuriating Parthian wrath from Alan damage to Media. Hence the Parthian crisis early in Pius’ reign. Further details are elusive in the present state of the evidence. Wheeler 1977, 225, 247–48; 1994–96, 67. Derbent: Schottky 2014, 101–02; but see text with n. 164 above. 188  See Wheeler 2012a, 633, n. 44; 2013, 321 with bibliography. Sarapanis: Strabo 11. 2. 17, 3. 4; Leontius History of the Kings of K‘art‘li 24, p. 34 Thomson. 189  See Wheeler 1977, 73–74, 114–15, 222–23, 228–29, 247; 2013, 321. 190  On Late Roman Gogarene, see now Schleicher 2017; cf. Hewsen 1990–91.

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This view, however, fits the pattern of Iberian-Armenian relations in la longue durée and again emphasises a further pattern of Iberian-Sarmatian co-operation rather than hostility. Iberian-Sarmatian relations, rather than a matter of barbarians at the gates, reveal intermarriage and Sarmatian assimilation into the upper ranks of the Iberian elite – not dissimilar to a trend in the Bosporan kingdom. Like the Rhine and the Danube frontiers, the Caucasus represented a zone of interaction.191

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Saxer, R. 1967: Untersuchungen zu den Vexillationen des römischen Kaiserheers von Augustus bis Diokletian (Epigraphische Studien 1; Bonner Jahrbücher Beiheft 18) (Cologne/Graz). Schleicher, F. 2017: ‘Die Gogarene im ausgehenden fünften Jahrhundert. Politische Handlungsspielräume und Pragmatisme’. Anabasis 8, 226–57. Schottky, M. 2010: ‘Armenische Arsakiden zur Zeit der Antonine. Ein Beitrag zur Korrektur der armenische Königsliste’. Anabasis 1, 208–24. —. 2014: ‘Vorarbeiten zu einer Königsliste Kaukasisch-Iberiens. 3. Pharasmanes II. und Xepharnug’. Anabasis 5, 86–106. Schur, W. 1923: Die Orientpolitik des Kaisers Nero (Klio Beiheft 15) (Leipzig). Speidel, M.A. 1998: ‘Legio IIII Scythica, its Movements and Men’. In Kennedy, D. (ed.), The Twin Towns of Zeugma on the Euphrates: Rescue Work and Historical Studies (Journal of Roman Archaeology Suppl. 27) (Portsmouth, RI), 163–204. —. 2014. ‘Connecting Cappadocia. The Contribution of the Roman Imperial Army’. In Cojocaru, V., Coşkun, A. and Dana, M. (eds.), Interconnectivity in the Mediterranean and Pontic World during the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Pontica et Mediterranea 3) (Cluj-Napoca), 625–40. —. 2017: ‘Antoninus Pius, das Militär und der Krieg. Epigraphische Korrekturen zur literarischen Überlieferung’. In Michels, C. and Mittag, P. (eds.), Jenseits des Narrativs: Antoninus Pius in den non-literarischen Quellen (Stuttgart), 255–68. Speidel, M.P. and Todua, T. 1988: ‘Three Inscriptions from Pityus on the Caucasus Frontier’. Saalburg-Jahrbuch 44, 56–58. Stückelberger, A. and Graßhoff, G. (ed. and trans.) 2006: Klaudios Ptolemaios, Handbuch der Geographie, 3 vols. (Basel). Syme, R. 1981: ‘Hadrian and the Vassal Princes’. Athenaeum 59, 273–83. —. 1982: ‘The Career of Arrian’. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 86, 181–211. —. 1987: ‘Exotic Names, Notably in Seneca’s Tragedies’. Acta Classica 30, 49–64. —. 1995: Anatolica: Studies in Strabo, ed. A. Birley (Oxford). Täubler, E. 1909: ‘Zur Geschichte der Alanen’. Klio 9, 14–28. Thomson, R. (trans.) 1978: Moses Khorenats‘i, History of the Armenians (Cambridge, MA). —. 1996: Rewriting Caucasian History: The Medieval Armenian Adaptation of the Georgian Chronicles (Oxford). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 1998: Die Griechen in der Kolchis (historisch-archäologischer Abriß), trans B. Böttger (Schwarzmeer-Studien 3) (Amsterdam). —. 2002: ‘Black Sea Piracy’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and de Boer, J.G. (eds.), The Black Sea Area in the Greek, Roman and Byzantine Periods (= Talanta 32–33 for 2000–2001) (Amsterdam), 11–15. Uzunaslan, A. 2017: ‘A New Inscription Honoring C. Antius A. Iulius Quadratus’. Anadolu 43, 37–63. Vinogradov, Y.G. 1994: ‘Ocherk voenno-politicheskoi istorii sarmatov v. I v. n.e.’. VDI 2, 151–69. Vitale, M. 2012: Eparchie und Koinon in Kleinasien von der ausgehenden Republik bis ins 3. Jh. n. Chr. (Asia Minor Studien 67) (Bonn). —. 2013: ‘Kolchis in der Hohen Kaiserzeit: Römische Eparchie oder nördlicher Außenposten der Limes Ponticus?’. Historia 62.2, 241–58. Weiss, P. 2007: ‘Militärdiplome und Reichsgeschichte: Der Konsulat des L. Neratius Proculus und die Vorgeschichte des Partherkriegs unter Marc Aurel und Lucius Verus’. In Haensch, R. and Heinrichs, J. (eds.), Herrschen und Verwalten: Der Alltag der römischen Administration in der Hohen Kaiserzeit (Kölner historische Abhandlungen 46) (Cologne), 160–72. Wheeler, E.L. 1977: Flavius Arrianus: A Political and Military Biography (Dissertation, Duke University). —. 1978: ‘The Occasion of Arrian’s Tactica’. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 19, 351–65. —. 1993: ‘Methodological Limits and the Mirage of Roman Strategy, Part I’. Journal of Military History 57, 7–41. —. 1994–96: ‘A New Book on Ancient Georgia: A Critical Discussion’. Annual of the Society for the Study of Caucasia 6–7, 51–78. —. 1996: ‘The Laxity of Syrian Legions’. In Kennedy, D. (ed.), The Roman Army in the East (Journal of Roman Archaeology Suppl. 18) (Ann Arbor), 229–76.

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—. 1997: ‘The Chronology of Corbulo in Armenia’. Klio 79, 383–97. —. 1999: ‘From Pityus to Zeugma: The Northern Sector of the Eastern Frontier 1983–1996’. In Gudea, N. (ed.), Roman Frontier Studies 1997 (Proceedings of the XVIIth International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies) (Zalau), 215–30. —. 2000: ‘Legio XV Apollinaris: From Carnuntum to Satala—and beyond’. In Le Bohec, Y. and Wolff, C. (eds.), Les légions de Rome sous le Haut-Empire (Actes du congrès de Lyon, 17–19 septembre 1998) (Collection du Centre d’études et de recherches sur l’Occident romain n.s. 20) (Lyons/Paris), 261–308. —. 2002a: ‘Southwestern Armenia as a Roman Frontier: Sophene 188 B.C.–299 A.D.’. In Hovannisian, R. (ed.), Armenian Tsopk/Kharpert (Costa Mesa, CA), 87–122. —. 2002b: ‘Roman Treaties with Parthia: Völkerrecht or Power Politics?’. In Freeman, P., Bennett, J., Fiema, Z. and Hoffmann, B. (eds.), Limes XVIII (Proceedings of the XVIIIth International Congress of Roman Frontiers Studies Held in Amman, Jordan, September 2000) (BAR International Series 1084) (Oxford), 287–92. —. 2004: ‘The Late Roman Legion as Phalanx, Part I’. In Le Bohec, Y. and Wolff, C. (eds.), L’armée romaine de Dioclétien à Valentinien Ier (Actes du Congrès de Lyon, 12–14 septembre 2002) (Collection du Centre d’études et de recherches sur l’Occident romain n.s. 26) (Lyons/ Paris), 309–58. —. 2007: ‘The Army and the Limes in the East’. In Erdkamp, P. (ed.), A Companion to the Roman Army (Malden, MA/Oxford), 235–66. —. 2009: ‘Shock and Awe: Battles of the Gods in Roman Imperial Warfare, Part I’. In Wolff, C. and Le Bohec, Y. (eds.), L’armée romaine et la religion sous le Haut-Empire (Actes du quatrième Congrès de Lyon, 26–28 octobre 2006) (Collection du Centre d’études et de recherches sur l’Occident romain n.s. 33) (Lyons/Paris), 225–67. —. 2010a: ‘Polyaenus: Scriptor Militaris’. In Brodersen, K. (ed.), Polyainos: Neue Studien/Polyaenus: New Studies (Berlin), 7–54. —. 2010b: ‘Rome’s Dacian Wars: Domitian, Trajan, and Strategy on the Danube, Part I’. Journal of Military History 74, 1185–227. —. 2011: ‘Rome’s Dacian Wars: Domitian, Trajan, and Strategy on the Danube, Part II’. Journal of Military History 75, 191–219, 614–16. —. 2012a: ‘Not.Dig., Or. 38 and Roman Deployment in Colchis: Assessing Recent Views’. In Cabouret, B., Groslambert, A. and Wolff, C. (eds.), Visions de l’Occident romain: Hommages à Yann Le Bohec (Collection du Centre d’études et de recherches sur l’Occident romain n.s. 42) (Lyons/Paris), 621–76. —. 2012b: ‘Roman Fleets in the Black Sea: Mysteries of the classis Pontica’. Acta Classica 55, 119–54. —. 2013: Review of Furtwängler et al. 2008. Ancient West and East 12, 318–29. —. 2016: ‘Parthian Auxilia in the Roman Army, Part I: From the Late Republic to c. 70 A.D.’. In Wolff, C. and Faure, P. (eds.), Les auxiliaires de l’armée romaine: Des alliés aux fédérés (Collection du Centre d’études et de recherches sur l’Occident romain n.s. 51) (Lyons/Paris), 171–222. —. 2017a: ‘Parthian Auxilia in the Roman Army, Part II: From the Flavians to the Late Empire’. Revue Internationale d’Histoire Militaire Ancienne 5, 103–38. —. 2017b: ‘Roman-Armenian Borders, Part I: The Upper Euphrates Frontier’. In Hodgson, N., Bidwell, P. and Schachtmann, J. (eds.), Limes XXI (Proceedings of the 21st International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies held at Newcastle-upon-Tyne in August 2009) (Archaeopress Roman Archaeology 25) (Oxford), 160–68. Zerbini, L. 2012: ‘Soldati romani ad Oriente del Mar Nero’. In Wolff, C. (ed.), Le métier de soldat dans le monde romain (Actes du cinquième Congrès de Lyon, 23–25 septembre 2010) (Collection du Centre d’études et de recherches sur l’Occident romain n.s. 42) (Lyons/Paris), 39–45. Zubar, V. 1995: ‘Zum römischen Militärorganisation auf der Taurike in der zweiten Hälfte des 2. und Anfang des 3. Jahrhunderts’. Historia 44, 192–203.

MIDAS’ GORDION UND DAS ÜBRIGE KLEINASIEN: ÜBERLANDROUTEN ALS INDIKATOREN FÜR KONNEKTIVITÄT* Anne-Maria WITTKE

ZUSAMMENFASSUNG Auf der Basis von direkten und indirekten archäologischen bzw. schriftlichen, aber auch bildlichen Zeugnissen und unter Beachtung von einer vermutlichen, z.T. bis in die Jetztzeit sogar nachgewiesenen longue durée wird versucht, ausgehend von Gordion den Verlauf eisenzeitlicher Überlandrouten in Kleinasien – als pars pro toto im Themenkreis „Konnektivität“ – detaillierter nachzuzeichnen. Gordion wurde als Zentralort aufgrund seiner Lage und politisch-wirtschaftlichen/ sozio-kulturellen Bedeutung für die behandelte Phase gewählt. Auch aktuelle Befunde zu vermeintlich innergordischen Straßenabschnitten kommen kurz zur Sprache. ABSTRACT Based on direct and indirect archaeological and literary evidence as well on iconographic testimonies, and with a supposed longue durée in mind that partially can be taken down until the present time, an attempt is made to pursue the progression of the Iron Age overland routes in Asia Minor in more detail – as a pars pro toto of the topic ‘connectivity’. Gordion was chosen as the starting point due to its position and political-economic and social-cultural importance as the central site during the phase under discussion. Current finds allegedly concerning internal Gordian road segments are also briefly discussed.

EINLEITUNG Unser Jubilar hat sich in besonderer Weise um ‚Konnektivität‘ im weitesten Sinne verdient gemacht, als pars pro toto mag der Titel der von ihm herausgegebenen Zeitschrift „Ancient West and East“ dienen. Zu seinen besonderen Forschungssujets zählen Anatolien und in Sonderheit Phrygien, wie durch die Tagung „The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD“ (2015) und die Veröffentlichung der Vorträge unter dem Titel „Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period“ (2019) aktuell unter Beweis gestellt wurde. Dieser Beitrag möchte ein mit allen angesprochenen Aspekten verbundenes Thema aufgreifen und einige der kleinasiatischen sog. Überlandrouten mit ihren Verzweigungen ansprechen, auf denen sich im Wesentlichen die direkten Verbindungen abspielten, besonders im Hinblick auf die Forschungsrelevanz, ihren (früh-)eisenzeitlichen Verlauf zu verifizieren. Die Bedeutung solcher anatolischen Landwege hat bereits 1961 Judy * Für die Einladung, an dieser FS mitzuwirken, danke ich James Hargrave. Für hilfreiche Anmerkungen bin ich James Osborne und Jonathan Hall zu Dank verpflichtet.

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Birmingham in der Nachfolge von David George Hogarth (1909) u.a. hervorgehoben.1 Sie durchzogen einerseits die große Landmasse in unterschiedliche Richtungen und verbanden andererseits das an drei Seiten vom Meer umgebene Kleinasien über Hafenorte sowie nach Osten über Furten und Pässe mit dem Rest der damals bekannten Welt. Als Herrschaftsinstrument dienten die Straßen, wie die in ihrer Echtheit umstrittene Inschrift aus Beyköy (s.u.) illustrieren könnte, der infrastrukturellen Erschließung einer politischen Einheit sowie ggf. der erworbenen bzw. eroberten Gebiete, und sie standen in Zusammenhang mit Militäreinsätzen, dem Transport von Beute und Tribut, wurden aber auch für den Nachrichtentransfer genutzt oder, z.B. in der hethitischen Großreichszeit, zu religiös motivierten Rundreisen des Herrscherpaares. Allerdings ist diachron kennzeichnend für Kleinasien eher eine politische Zersplitterung, die nur während der Hethitischen Großreichzeit und dann wieder unter den Achaimeniden durch Oberhoheit über große Teile Kleinasiens kaschiert wurde. Deshalb waren es neben diesen politischmilitärischen Aspekten vor allem die wirtschaftlichen Anreize von Rohstoffvorkommen, wie z.B. Metalle,2 und sonstigen natürlichen Ressourcen sowie des Güteraustausches allgemein, dass sich aus regionalen Streckenabschnitten zusammenhängende ‚Fernstraßen‘ entwickelten, deren prominentestes Beispiel die sog. Persische Königsstraße zwischen Susa und Sardeis3 und weiter an die Ägäisküste sein dürfte, die in vielen Abschnitten aber auf deutlich älteren Trassen verlief. Wie kamen also im 18. Jh. v. Chr.4 historisch bezeugte assyrische Kaufleute nach Kaneš und Hattuš? Welche Wege wählten im 13./12. Jh. die Hethiter, um in die in hethitischen Quellen erwähnten westlichen Länder oder z.B. nach Millawanda/Miletos, das einen entsprechenden Zerstörungshorizont zeigt, zu gelangen? Wie erreichte, um ein altgriechisch abgefasstes literarisch-fiktives Beispiel anzuführen, die in der Ilias überlieferte Bitte aus Troia all die kleinasiatischen (und altbalkanischen) Hilfsvölker, dass sie von König Priamos im Kampf gegen die Griechen benötigt würden, und welchen Weg nahmen die Kontingente und ihre Heerführer jeweils dorthin?5 Wie kamen im 8. Jh. Demodike, die angeblich griechische, myth-historische Gemahlin König Midas’, von Kyme nach Gordion (oder Kelainai?), wie der Thron des Midas von Gordion oder die Gaben des lydischen Herrschers Gyges von Sardeis in das Heiligtum von Delphi, die Herodot dort gesehen haben will? Ein Rundgang um Kleinasien auf der Karte zeigt die Knotenpunkte, wo Seerouten, denen sicherlich – wie allen Wassertransporten, auch auf Flüssen und Seen, zu allen Zeiten wenn möglich – der Vorzug gegeben wurde,6 ihre Fortsetzung entlang der Flusstäler (Flüsse nicht immer nachweislich schiffbar) zumeist ins Innere Kleinasiens fanden. Dazu zählen im Wesentlichen (von Südosten im Uhrzeigersinn) das Pyramos- und Saros-Tal 1  Birmingham 1961, 185 mit Anm. 1. – Ferner: van Dongen 2013; Ponchia 2008; Efe 2007; Woudhuizen 2014; Alparslan und Doğan-Alparslan 2018; Kozal 2018; Vaessen im Druck (für die freundliche Vorabüberlassung des Manuskripts möchte ich mich bei Rik Vaessen bedanken). 2  Offenbar bereitet die Kartierung antiker Metallvorkommen erhebliche Schwierigkeiten, wenn man z.B. die Karten von Zangger et al. 2016, 54; Massa und Palmisano 2018, 83; und Wittke 2019, 112; vergleicht. – Yener 2000. 3  Vgl. Hdt. 5. 52–53; Wittke et al. 2007, 87. 4  Wenn nicht anders angegeben, beziehen sich alle Daten auf v. Chr. 5  Vgl. van Dongen 2013, 50. 6  Vgl. u.a. von Bredow 2012.

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mit Adana, das Kydnos- (via Tarsos zur Kilikischen Pforte), das Kalykadnos- (via Laranda nach Nordosten bzw. Norden), das Kestros- (via Parḫa/Perge u.a. in die fruchtbare Elmalı-Ebene), das Xanthos- (nach Norden via Lykien und Karien zum Maiandros), das Maiandros- (von Millawanda/Miletos bis nach Phrygien), das Kaystros- (von Apasa/ Ephesos Richtung Tmolos-Südseite), das Meles- (mit Smyrna), das Hermos- (mit Neonteichos und Sardeis), das Kaikos- (mit Elaia und Pergamon), das Euenos- (nahe Adramyttion, Richtung Mysien), das Rhyndakos- (von der Propontis Richtung Phrygien) und Makestos- (von der Propontis Richtung Süden/Sardeis), das Sangarios- (problematische, nicht untersuchte Mündungssituation, große Bedeutung für Inneranatolien, besonders Phrygien), das Billaios- (Tieion, Richtung Paphlagonien/in hethitischer Zeit Pla), das Halys- (problematische, nicht untersuchte Mündungssituation, große Bedeutung für Inneranatolien), das Lykastos- (mit Amisos), das Iris- und das Thermedon-Tal (beide im Kontext mit Amazonen in der griechischen Mythologie überliefert) und das Lykos-Tal (mit Trapezus), letztere alle auch Wege in oder durch die Pontischen Gebirgszüge.7 Über diese noch maritim geprägten Kontaktzonen erschloss (und erschließt) sich mittels fortführender Landrouten Kleinasien mit seinen unterschiedlichen geographischen Zonen, den ausgeprägten Randgebirgen mit nicht sehr zahlreichen bequemen Durchlässen, den Hochplateaus und vielfältigen Siedlungskammern. Die wichtigsten Landverbindungen von Osten bzw. Südosten ins Innere Kleinasiens waren a) im Norden der relativ spät bezeugte Weg von Urartu via Altintepe Richtung Boğazköy/Ḫattusa, b) von Assyrien/Urartu über den Euphrat bei Malatya/Meliddu via Gürün/Til Garimmu mit Verzweigungen weiter nach Westen, Südwesten, Nordwesten in der Mitte, sowie c) im Süden die Route über die Amanische Pforte, wo sich einige Wege von Osten bzw. Süden und Nordosten kommend, trafen.8 Beobachten lassen sich unterschiedliche Genesen von Routen, die auf den Entwicklungsimpuls abzielen: erfolgte er von ‚außen‘, also von den Rändern nach ‚innen‘, oder umgekehrt von Inneranatolien Richtung ‚Ränder‘? Beide Varianten lassen sich historisch begründen. Von ‚außen‘ entspricht der Fortsetzung von Seerouten mit entsprechenden Hafenorten als Knotenpunkte bzw. Fortsetzung von Landrouten aus dem mesopotamischlevantinischen Raum jeweils ins Innere Kleinasiens. Von ‚innen‘ zeigt den Ausgang einer Route von einem Ort oder einer Region. Es konnte sich dabei um eine rein inneranatolische Route handeln, denkbar ist ferner, dass sie sich bis an einen (oder mehrere) ‚Rand‘ (‚Ränder‘) weiterzog, denkbar ist auch, dass beide Varianten zum Zuge kamen und sich irgendwo trafen (z.B. von Tarsos via Kilikische Pforte nach Norden zum Halys, von Ḫattusa an den Halys nach Süden, ‚Treffpunkt‘ Kültepe/Kaneš). Eisenzeitlichen Nachweisen, z.B. aus dem phrygischen Gordion zwischen den beiden Teilen des Citadel Mound 9 oder aus dem lydischen Sardeis,10 bzw. solchen aus der voraufgehenden  Vgl. auch jeweils Talbert 2000, s.v.  Vgl. Talbert 2000, s.v. sowie Wittke et al. 2007, 39; Wittke 2004. 9  Voigt 2011, 1082–83; Rose und Darbyshire 2011; Gordion-Gesamtplan ebenda vor S. 1. 10  Freundliche Mitteilung ihres Zitates von 2011 von Annick Payne am 9.7.2018: „However, there is very little archaeological evidence for the Lydian form of any major road, although some surfaces of the Lydian east-west connection, as well as other roads have now been excavated at Sardis. The emerging picture suggests that major roads were graveled, while smaller piazzas and lanes were not paved, but we have no information as to their width or depth.“ – Cahill 2010, 15, Abb. 15; Roosevelt 2009, s.v. routes. 7 8

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hethitischen Periode und davor, von mit Kopfsteinpflaster oder Platten belegten Straßen innerorts, werden in der Forschung zunehmend Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt. So bestanden z.B. in Kültepe/Kaneš innerhalb des Karum-Teiles die einigermaßen rechtwinklig angelegten, in Ost-West-Richtung zum Stadthügel hin ausgerichteten Straßen z.T. aus gestampfter Erde, z.T. waren sie gepflastert (mit darunterliegender Abwasserkanalisation) und breit genug für Wagenverkehr.11 Auch einige regionale befestigte Straßen sind bekannt, z.B. zwischen Milet und Didyma (ca. 15 km). Überlandrouten lassen sich dagegen in Kleinasien m.E. nur mit Hilfe unterschiedlicher Methoden und Quellengattungen auch für die Eisenzeit nachweisen oder zumindest sehr wahrscheinlich machen. Dabei spielen an erster Stelle die naturräumlichen Gegebenheiten12 wie die bereits angesprochenen Randgebirge (= natürliche ,Grenzen‘), einzelne Berge und Gebirge im Inneren mit entsprechenden Siedlungskammern, gut erreichbare Pässe, Flusstäler und Furten eine Rolle, durch die sich eine erstaunliche Konstanz und Kontinuität bei diesen ‚natürlich gewachsenen‘ Straßen13 von der (Vor-)Karums- über die Spätbronze-, Früheisenzeit bis in die achaimenidische, hellenistische und römische Phase hinein aufzeigen lässt.14 Sie dauert teilweise bis heute an, wie das Beispiel der Trassenführung über die sog. Kilikische Pforte, die das anatolische Plateau mit dem östlichen Mittelmeer verbindet, verdeutlicht. Dazu kommen Karawanenwege im Sinn von direkten ortsverbindenden ‚ausgetretenen‘ (Esels-) Pfaden und ‚echte‘, also im Auftrag z.B. des Königs15 angelegte, nach Bedarf befestigte Straßen (‚proper roads‘), die ggf. auch Wagenverkehr erlaubten.

QUELLEN Ihre Existenz lässt sich neben wichtigen geo- und topographischen Beobachtungen durch die diachrone Auswertung direkter und indirekter archäologischer sowie schriftlicher Quellen, die teilweise ineinandergreifen, zeigen. Da die eisenzeitliche Befundlage bisher nur mäßig ist, gilt es zukünftig im Rahmen der These einer longue durée der Routen zur Unterstützung einen Blick einerseits auf die voraufgehende großreichszeitliche hethitische Phase16 zu lenken (und davor17) sowie andererseits auf die sich der phrygischen Hochphase des 8./7. Jh. anschließenden lydischen, persischen, vielleicht auch hellenistischen und römischen Perioden18 auf Hinweise abzuprüfen. Ein vielversprechendes Erarbeitungsmodell, das die methodisch unterschiedlich gewonnenen Informationen (einschließlich Archäologie und Historische Geographie) kombiniert, hat Gojko Barjamovič vorgestellt.19 Rik Vaessen denkt in eine vergleichbare Richtung, wenn er die kartierten 11

 https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d2/K%C3%BCltepe_0877.jpg/800px-K% C3%BCltepe_0877.jpg = gepflasterte Straße aus der Unterstadt von Kültepe/Kaneš, allerdings hethiterzeitlich. Ferner Özgüç 2003. – Für die Karum-Zeit und davor vgl. Barjamovič 2011, passim. 12  Erol 1983. 13  Vgl. die Bezeichnung „geographisches Straßennetz“ Anatoliens bei Alparslan und Doğan-Alparslan 2018, 234, das vermutlich etwas Vergleichbares bezeichnen soll, dort allerdings auf die osmanische Periode bezogen. 14  Karumzeitlich: Faist 2001; Wittke et al. 2007, 39, 41, 85, 87, 113, 119, 135. 15  Zu Nachweisen z.B. aus der hetitischen Großreichszeit s.u. Anm. 37. 16  Vgl. u.a. Weeden und Ullmann 2017. 17  Vgl. Massa und Palmisano 2018. 18  Unstrittig ist die Quellenlage für die römische Zeit am besten: vgl. Talbert 2000; Heinz 2003. 19  Barjamovič 2011, 70, Abb. 4.

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wichtigen Siedlungen Westkleinasiens der Spätbronzezeit mit dem Straßennetz ab der achaimenidischen Zeit unterlegt.20 M. Alparslan und M. Doğan-Alparslan überprüfen Angaben aus der osmanischen (mit Karte S. 234), der römischen (mit Karte S. 235) und der voraufgehenden Epoche der assyrischen Handelskolonien, um Straßen und Routen der hethitischen Zeit näher zu kommen.21 Zu den direkten archäologischen Zeugnissen sind vor allem die bereits erwähnten gepflasterten Straßen(-abschnitte) zu zählen,22 sonstige Arbeitsspuren,23 aber auch Abdrücke von Wagen, die sich auf felsigen Passagen im Laufe der Zeit eingegraben haben.24 Zu den indirekten archäologischen Quellen, auf die analog zu den Schriftquellen zumeist in der Forschung Bezug genommen wird, sind einerseits hethitische Steinreliefs bzw. Reliefs hethitischer sowie späthethitischer Zeitstellung, (west-)phrygische Fassaden und sonstige ‚Immobilien‘ wie z.B. phrygische und lydische Tumuli (vgl. z.B. Gordion, Tyana?, Tatarlı?, u.a. Sardeis), wenn sie als Straßen- und vielleicht zugleich als Grenzmarkierung dienten, was bisher bei nur wenigen als gesichert gelten darf, zu zählen. Ferner Objekte, die mit dem Transportwesen in engerer Verbindung stehen, wie z.B. Wagenmodelle oder auch metrologische Funde wie auswärtige Gewichtssysteme,25 andererseits gehören alle ‚gewanderten‘ ‚Fremd‘-Objekte dazu sowie erkennbare externe Einflüsse (oder gar Übernahmen) auf ‚interne‘ Architektur, ferner Plastik, Keramik, Kleinfunde und anderes mehr. Als Beispiel mag das im sog. späthethitischen Raum gelegene Ivriz-Felsrelief mit phrygischen Kleidungs-Accessoires und assyrisierenden Komponenten dienen. Zu den direkten Schriftquellen zählen solche Zeugnisse, die konkret auf die Einrichtung oder Nutzung einer Straße eingehen. Dazu zählen u.a. (nicht unbedingt) zeitgenössische Inschriften (wie hethitische26 und hieroglyphenluwische [= HL-] Inschriften, s.u.) sowie Straßenerwähnungen in sonstigen altorientalischen Quellen,27 aber auch in der griechischen Literatur, wie z.B. Routenbeschreibungen in Herodots Historien aus dem 5. Jh. In Herodot 5. 52. 1 schreibt er über die Verbindung zwischen Susa und Sardies/ Sardeis: „Überall auf dem Weg (hodos) gibt es königliche Raststätten und vortreffliche Unterkünfte. Die Straße führt überall durch bewohntes, sicheres Land.“28 Bereits in der Karum-Zeit (MBA) waren die Karawanenwege (inkl. Schmuggler-Routen) von Aššur in den Inneren Halys-Bogen nach Ḫattusa und bis an den Sangarios durch schriftlich erfasste kleinere Wegestationen (wabaratūm) und größere Handelsniederlassungen (karūm) gegliedert.29 In diesen Kontext gehören außerdem Angaben z.B. für Karawanenführer, zu 20

 Vaessen 2017, 76, Abb. 1 und 2.  Alparslan und Doğan-Alparslan 2018, 233. Allerdings beziehen sich die Autoren u.a. auf eine RoutenKartierung von M. Forlanini, Kleinasien. Das Hethitische Reich im 14. bis 13. Jh. v. Chr., die als B III 6 im Rahmen des TAVO schon 1992 publiziert wurde. Vgl. auch die kurze Passage bei Pavúk 2015, 90–91. 22  Z.B. Barjamovič 2011, 21, Abb. 2: „Paved road of Hittite date south of Boğazköy“. 23  Vgl. Grewe 1998, 11, Abb. 5: antike Arbeitsspuren bei Anazarbos; Abb. 6: antike Arbeitsspuren bei Hierapolis Kastabala. 24  Wagenspuren: z.B. in Westphrygien, im sog. Phrygian Valley/Phryg Vadisi: Wittke 2006, 11, Abb. 25  Massa und Palmisano 2018; van Dongen 2013. 26  Das Beispiel einer hethitischen Beschreibung topographischer Merkmale an einer Route (§1–3) bei Alparslan und Doğan-Alparslan 2018, 236–37 (basierend auf Lorenz und Rieken 2007). 27  Ponchia 2006. 28  Übersetzung nach: Feix 1988. 29  Vgl. den Kartierungs-Vorschlag „Anatolia c. 1880 B.C.“ von Barjamovic 2017, 318, Abb. 23.2 (basiert auf Barjamovič 2011). – Ferner Barjamovič 2011, 60, Karte 3: „The Old Assyrian Trade Routes in Cappadocia“ 21

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Furten, Brücken, ggf. Fähren (für deren jeweilige Nutzung Abgaben entrichtet werden mussten) sowie zu (bewachten) Pässen und sonstigen markanten Besonderheiten auf einem Weg30 bzw. die noch vorhandenen Relikte (z.B. von Brücken, allerdings bisher nicht aus der Spätbronze- oder Früheisenzeit). In der in ihrer Echtheit zwar umstrittenen, kürzlich zugänglich gemachten, bisher ggf. längsten spätbronze-/früheisenzeitlichen HL-Inschrift Beyköy 2,31 wohl aus dem frühen 12. Jh. und wenn, dann offensichtlich nach dem Zusammenbruch der hethitischen Vorherrschaft von Ḫattusa verfasst (S. 40–41), erwähnt der Großkönig Kubantakurunta III.32 von Mirā (und Arzawa) in §12f., dass er „made a road (harwan-) in Kuwaliya (to) Pitassa (and) what(ever) land: Sallapa (and) Masa-town, and a road into the divine land.“ Den Regierungsbezirk Kuwaliya im Land Mirā lokalisieren die Autoren33 in der Region um Afyon, wo auch der Fundort der Inschrift Beyköy liegt, im späteren sog. Westphrygien. Von dort führten die erwähnten Routen zum einen nach Pitassa/Pedassa im Süden (bzw. Südosten) und angrenzend an Tarḫuntassa, nach Südwesten, wo Šallapa mit dem späteren Salbacus mons/Salbake34 verbunden wird, und nach Westen (bzw. Nordwesten), wo Māsa-Stadt im späteren Mysien verortet wird. Das ‚göttliche‘ Land (§ 13) wird identifiziert mit dem regionalen Zentrum bzw. der Kultstadt heth. Ištanuwa/luw.: Aštanuwa im Ša/eḫiriya-/Sangarios- (mod. Sakarya-)Bogen, die noch nicht sicher lokalisiert wurde, aufgrund der Verbindung mit dem Sangarios aber in dessen Nähe, vielleicht sogar in der Region um Gordion vermutet wird,35 oder der Provinz Ḫab/palla, jeweils nordöstlich von Beyköy gelegen. Mit „divine“ ist in der Inschrift allerdings auch das Land Tarḫuntassa im Süden charakterisiert. Man mag mit den einzelnen Lokalisierungsvorschlägen der Autoren nicht übereinstimmen,36 beachtenswert ist aber – immer vorausgesetzt, die Inschrift ist echt – zum einen die Erwähnung der Anlegung bzw. des Ausbaus von Straßen, was auch von hethitischen Großkönigen, wie beispielsweise Tudḫalija IV., Zeitgenosse von Kubantakuruntas Vater Masḫuitta, im späten 13. Jh., für erwähnenswert erachtet

sowie 36–37, Tabelle 5: „Locations and prices of inns attested in the Old Assyrian texts“, und 411, Tabelle 39: „Suggested locations of the main Anatolian toponyms attested in the Old Assyrian texts“. 30  Vgl. Barjamovič 2011, 22 Tabelle 2: „References, locations and prices of bridges, fords and ferries in Anatolia during the Old Assyrian Period“ und 24 Tabelle 3: „Amounts in grains of silver paid by Assyrian traders at guard posts.“ 31  Zangger und Woudhuizen 2018, 23. – Die Echtheit dieser HL-Inschrift eventuell aus der Übergangsphase zwischen Bronze- und Eisenzeit ist in der Forschung umstritten: vgl. Vorwort der Herausgeber 9–11. – Zur Lage von Beyköy vgl. Wittke et al. 2007, 39, sowie eine Ansicht des Siedlungshügels in Zangger et al. 2016, 59, Abb. 3. Aus der unmittelbaren Nähe von Beyköy wurden auch Reliefs und Inschriftenreste bekannt: Ehringhaus 2005, 35–37 mit weiterer Literatur. 32  Je nach Transkription und moderner Sprache gibt es unterschiedliche Konventionen bei den Personennamen, Geographika etc., die hier nicht vereinheitlicht werden können. Im Wesentlichen nach dem Lexikon Der Neue Pauly, Bd. 3. 33  Auch zum Folgenden Zangger und Woudhuizen 2018, 32. 34  Zur Lage des Salbake mons vgl. Talbert 2000, 65 B3: weit im Südwesten, in hethitischer Zeit in der Kontaktzone zwischen Mirā und den Lukka-Ländern, später Karien/Lykien. Zu anderen Lokalisierungsvorschlägen von Šallapa, zu denen auch Sivrihisar zählt (s.u.), vgl. Kryszeń 2012. 35  Forlanini 1987, 115. 36  Vgl. z.B. die Karten von Starke 2002a und 2002b; Wittke et al. 2007, 23, 33 Karte A, 39. – Kuwaliya/ Kuwalja/Kuwalua, hier in der Gegend um Afyon angesetzt, wird auch mit dem südwestlich, an einer alten Handelstrasse und an einem alten Nebenfluss des Maiandros gelegenen Beycesultan identifiziert. Zu Beycesultan am Übergang von der Spätbronze- zur Früheisenzeit vgl. Mac Sweeney 2010.

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wurde.37 Zum anderen ist die Vorstellung einer für das frühe 12. Jh. bezeugten Verbindung nach Osten über den Sangarios, an dem auch Gordion lag, von Wichtigkeit. Zu den indirekten schriftlichen Testimonien, auf die zumeist in der Forschung Bezug genommen wird,38 sind all die Beobachtungen zu rechnen, die Hinweise auf Kontakte jedweder Art (politisch/diplomatisch, militärisch, wirtschaftlich, religiös) beinhalten und sich auf eine denkbare, aber nicht konkret beschriebene Route beziehen. Dazu gehören z.B. Nachweise über die transportierten Güter,39 z.T. mit schwerem Gewicht (z.B. Metalle), die ihrerseits auf Wege hinweisen, die durch ihre Ausstattung (entsprechender Unterbau, Deckschicht, Sicherung der Ränder, Kanalisationseinrichtungen, um Unterspülungen zu vermeiden usw.) zumindest streckenweise Transportwagen befahren konnten, sog. „proper roads“, aber auch Hinweise auf Truppenbewegungen bzw. kriegerische Auseinandersetzungen, wie sie aus hethitischen Quellen bekannt sind. Dazu treten hethiterzeitliche Steinreliefs mit Beischriften (z.B. Yalburt, Beyköy?, Karabel), „landscape monuments“, die, abgesehen von ‚rein‘ sakralen Plätzen, u.a. als Grenz- oder Straßenmarkierung dienen konnten,40 und in der Eisenzeit z.B. i.d.R. immobile HL-Inschriften41/ Reliefs mit vergleichbarer Aufgabe sowie phrygische Inschriften auf exterritorialem Gebiet (z.B. in Tyana, Bayındır, Daskyleion). Überschneidungen der beiden Quellengattungen treten in Bezug auf Orte auf. Sie konnten schriftlich bezeugt an Routen liegen,42 unterstützend womöglich auch eine longue durée in der Namenskontinuität – lautlich (z.B. Ikkuwanija → Ikonion → Konya; Šaḫirija → Sangarios → Sakarya nehri) oder inhaltlich (roter Fluss u.Ä.) – zeigen, und in Zusammenschau Itinerarien bilden – als solche sicher die am meisten verbreitete Form geographischer Orientierungshilfe –, ohne dass die antike ‚Straße‘ nachzuweisen wäre. Dagegen kann die archäologische Hinterlassenschaft von Siedlungsplätzen, vor allem in vorteilhafter Lage (Lagerstätten, Natursteine, ganzjährige Niederschläge, Flussläufe, Waldvorkommen, gute landwirtschaftliche Nutzflächen u.Ä.), die erkennbar Routen untergliederten, wichtige Hinweise für den jeweiligen Straßenverlauf liefern. Sie geben zumeist auch Auskunft, wenn Routenverläufe sich änderten (z.B. in der Zeit der römischen Vorherrschaft43) und wenn mit einer solchen Änderung die Auf- oder Abwertung eines Ortes einhergehen konnte, weil er geopolitisch und/oder geostrategisch wichtig/unwichtig wurde (Beispiel Gordion, das seine Knotenpunktfunktion an Ankara verlor, während Konya/Ikonion/Ikkuwanija sie kontinuierlich innehatte). In diesem Beitrag werden neuere Grabungsplätze mit einbezogen, von denen zukünftig wichtige Erkenntnisse in Bezug auf das Thema zu erwarten sind oder bereits geliefert wurden.

37  Zur Anlage von Straßen vgl. Zangger, Woudhuizen 2018, 32. Davon ist auch in der Yalburt-Inschrift §§ 27–28 die Rede: Woudhuizen 2004, 28 mit Anm. 1: freundliche schriftliche Auskunft von Fred Woudhuizen, 7.4.2018. 38  Z.B. van Dongen 2013. 39  Faist 2001; Barjamovič 2011. 40  Zur Verbreitung vgl. Ehringhaus 2005, Karte im hinteren Umschlag. 41  Zur Lokalisierung und Datierung der Inschriften vgl. Payne 2012, XII. 42  Z.B. Erwähnungen in karumzeitlichen Quellen einzelner Kolonien (karūm) und Stationen (wabartūm); Erwähnungen von großköniglichen Rundreisen in hethitischer Zeit, z.B. das „Festival of Speed“: Haas 1994, s.v.; Erwähnungen von Ortsnamen in mittel- und neuassyrischen Quellen: Bagg 2007; 2011. 43  Wittke et al. 2007, 153, 159, 197 Karte B, 203.

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Angesprochen werden sollen der Vollständigkeit halber auch je ein Beispiel einer indirekt bzw. direkt bezeugten bildlichen Darstellung: zum einen die Erwähnung einer Landkarte der bekannten Erde (pinax chalkos) bei Herodot (5. 49), zum anderen die Kartenskizze des Golfs von Taras/Tarent (sog. Soleto-Karte) auf einem Ostrakon des 5. Jh.44 Zwar wurde bisher kein vergleichbarer Fund (z.B. Zeichnung oder Mosaik usw.) aus dem hier behandelten Zeitraum bekannt, deren Existenz ist aber nicht auszuschließen, zumal die Möglichkeiten, geographisches Wissen zu vermitteln in der Antike äußerst vielfältig waren.45

DAS

EISENZEITLICHE

GORDION

UND DIE

ROUTEN

Um das Thema einzugrenzen, wurde als Ausgangspunkt für die Betrachtung einiger Routen das mitten in Zentralanatolien gelegene (früh-)eisenzeitliche Gordion46 gewählt. Dafür sprechen einerseits die schriftlichen Quellen, die über die ‚internationalen‘ Kontakte in (fast) alle Himmelsrichtungen Auskunft geben, ferner die Ausdehnung phrygischgordischer Kultur, nicht nur weit nach Osten in den Halysbogen (Kaman-Kalehöyük, Boğazköy, Alaca Höyük, Pazarlı, Kerkenesdağ), sondern auch nach West-Phrygien, nach Nordwesten (Daskyleion), nach Süden bis in den pisidischen Raum und Südosten (Tyana), die belegt ist durch die Verbreitung von Schrift und Sprache, signifikanter phrygischer Keramik, Stufenaltäre, Megaron-Bauform (z.B. in Kaman-Kalehöyük; Kerkenesdağ, Kuşaklı?), die Sitte der Tumulusbestattung in Holzkammern, und/oder mit entsprechendem Inventar, z.T. später in kulturellen Mischformen (z.B. Tatarlı, Bayındır, Tyana) und andererseits die Lage von Gordion an einer der wichtigsten, alten und lang nachzuweisenden Ost-West-Überlandrouten [= Route 1], was Schriftquellen unterschiedlicher Zeitschnitte nahelegen. Zudem wurde dort während der frühen Untersuchungen unter R.S. Young angeblich einer der eher raren archäologischen Nachweise einer gepflasterten Straße erbracht. Damit ist nicht die bereits erwähnte auf dem Citadel Mound gemeint, sondern die sog. Main Road, die von Ankara kommend zwischen den Tumuli hindurch Richtung Sangarios führt, diesen östlich des Citadel Mound überquerte, zwischen ihm und der Lower Town im Norden verläuft und zwischen dem heutigen Flusslauf und der Outer Town weiter nach Südwesten führt.47 Diese als (früh-)eisenzeitlich bezeichnete Straße wurde seinerzeit von Young in Vorberichten der 50er und 60er Jahre des 20. Jh. erwähnt,48 während sie in den neuen Publikationen zu Gordion keine direkte Erwähnung findet. Die Nachfrage beim Team der Gordion-Grabung unter Leitung von C. Brian Rose erbrachte umfassende Auskünfte und Klarstellungen von Gareth Darbyshire, 44  Van Compernolle 2012. Die Echtheit der Tonscherbe ist erwiesen, ob die Einritzungen zeitgenössisch sind, ist aber umstritten, doch sind solche ‚Notizen‘ durchaus vorstellbar, erinnert sei an den athenischen Ostrakismos (Brenne 2018). 45  Wittke, Geographische Konzepte, in Vorbereitung. 46  Zu zeitgenössischen assyrischen und späteren klassischen Quellen zu Midas als historischer, mythhistorischer und mythischer Person vgl. aktuell Grace 2018; Vassileva 2018. 47  Vgl. Übersichtsplan von G.H. Pizzorno und G. Darbyshire in Rose 2012, 30, Abb. 2.1. Sowie Abb. in http://sites.museum.upenn.edu/gordion/history/achaemenid. 48  Zusammenstellung von Gareth Darbyshire: „The (brief) published references to the Gordion road excavations appeared in: Young 1956, 266, pl. 95, fig. 55; 1957, 319, pl. 87, fig. 1; 1958, 139, 140; 1962, 153, n. 3; 1963, 348–49; 1968. F. Starr also surveyed and excavated the Gordion roads in 1961, as part of a regional study, and he presented his findings in Starr 1962, 30–33.“

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die zeigen, dass es sich (bisher) nirgends um (früh-)eisenzeitliche Befunde handelt und man bestenfalls von Hinweisen auf ein ‚vorrömisches‘ Straßensystem sprechen kann. 49 Trotzdem bleibt m.E. festzuhalten, dass, eventuell auch im Zusammenhang mit der mehrfachen, i.d.R. natürlich begründeten Verlagerung des Flussverlaufs,50 sich die wahrscheinlich vorhandenen, wenn auch (bisher) nicht belegbaren Straßenverläufe in Gordion und seiner direkten Umgebung immer wieder verändert haben dürften; denn unzweifelhaft lag Gordion, vermutlich seit hethitischer Zeit (oder sogar schon davor51), an einer ‚Verbindungslinie‘, die von Mesopotamien via Kelainai bis an die westkleinasiatische Küste (Smyrna, Ephesos, Milet) reichte, in phrygischer Zeit als Hauptort, später als eine Station an der sog. persischen Königsstraße, die bis in die römische Kaiserzeit genutzt wurde. Weitere Ausfallstraßen52 waren Ausgangspunkte für die Routen 2–5, deren Streckenstationen u.a. auch über früheisenzeitliche Befunde verfügen, und die im Folgenden angesprochen werden sollen. Mittels (mehr oder weniger) zeitgenössischen schriftlichen und/oder archäologischen und sonstigen (z.B. naturwissenschaftlich basierten) Quellen zeigen sich die historisch 49

 Das Folgende nach persönlicher Kommunikation mit Gareth Darbyshire, Gordion Archive, University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology am 19.2.2018 und mit seiner freundlichen Genehmigung zum Abdruck: „Prof. Young’s published statements dealing with the roads and their chronology at Gordion are misleading and they do not convincingly match the excavation records or current knowledge, which is why I am including here a short summary, based on the excavation records as well as publications. Two (or, doubtfully, three) road-phases have been detected at Gordion. In the excavation records (but not the publications), these were sometimes labelled Road A (or Road 1), Road B (or Road 2), and Road C. – Road A/Road 1: This is the latest of the road phases and the best understood. It was (and is) impressively preserved in places, and it has been extensively investigated by field survey and excavation. This is the road that Young illustrates in his publications (see photograph in Young 1957, pl. 87, fig.1), and the one that he describes in the most detail. Please be advised that this road is surely a Roman construction. It is not a Persian road (the ‘Persian Royal Road’) as Young continued to maintain (and even though he conceded that ‘it may well have been in use as late as Roman times’, see Young 1958, 139). No closely datable artifacts were found associated with Road A’s constructional fabric (although a late Roman coin of the early 4th century AD was found stratified on the road surface). Nevertheless, the road is of characteristically Roman type (see Starr 1962): around 6.5 m wide, edged on both sides by a curb of large stones, with evidence for a gutter trench beyond the curbs; the paving consists of a layer of heavy rubble blocks surfaced with a layer of loose gravel, and with a raised central spine; the foundation is a bedding fill of stony clay. This road is surely the main Roman highway between Ancyra to the east and Colonia Germa to the west. Like other Roman roads in Asia Minor, it generally followed an established pre-Roman route – as the pre-Roman tumuli along the road bear witness – and so in this sense it provides insights into pre-Roman road systems. – Road B/Road 2: The earlier road-phase, Road B, was a discrete horizon, stratified directly beneath Road A. It was identified in only one excavation area (near Tumulus K-II, on the hillslope from Tumulus MM down to the river plain); consequently it is much less well understood than Road A. Please be aware that most of the many road excavation trenches did not penetrate to Road B’s depth, and so it is uncertain how extensive Road B actually was. Nevertheless, one other trench (near to Tumulus MM) that did penetrate deep enough failed to show Road B. Road B is of simpler construction than Road A, consisting of a layer of gravel and sand around 20 cm thick or more. Some 6th century BC pottery from its bedding (see Young 1958, 139) provides a terminus post quem for the road’s construction – and so it could be a Persian road. (Note that Young appears to have conflated the evidence for Road A and Road B in Young 1958, 139, because the ‘fairly large stones’ he mentions as being part of Road B’s bedding are in fact part of Road A.) – Road C: It is doubtful (then and now) whether this, the earliest road-phase, was actually a road at all. Stratified directly beneath Road B, it may simply be part of Road B’s bedding, or even naturally deposited material. Directly beneath Road C lay the natural ground surface.“ 50  Marsh 2012, besonders 42 mit Abb. 3.3: Schematic diagrams of the evolution of the Sakarya river plain. 51  Vgl. u.a. Barjamovič 2017; 2010. 52  Marsh 2012, 42: Abb. 3.3.B.

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relevanten phrygisch-gordischen politischen, wirtschaftlichen, religiösen Kontakte oder zumindest Verbindungen in der materiellen Kultur, die hier im Einzelnen nicht ausgeführt werden können, die sich aber in den Routen spiegeln.53 Daraus ergeben sich: Die (Haupt-)Route 1 von Gordion nach Osten mit folgenden Stationen:54 Gordion – Yenidoğan und Hacıtuğrul Höyük55 – Ankara56 – Hattusa/Boğazköy. Von dort weiter nach Südosten vorbei an Uşaklı Höyük,57 Kerkenesdağ Richtung Alişar und Çadır Höyük,58 dann Çalapverdi – Kültepe/Kaneš oder Kululu (?). a) Von diesem Knotenpunkt gab es eine Weiterführung nach Osten via Gürün/TilGarimmu – Malatya/Meliddu – Euphratüberquerung etc.59 sowie b) eine Weiterführung nach Süden via Tuḫana/Tyana/Kemerhisar60 (mit dem LBA– EIA Fundort Kınık Höyük61) – Porsuk/Zeyve Höyük62 – Kilikische Pforte – Tarsos – Adana63 – Amanische Pforte mit weiteren Verzweigungen und c) eine Weiterführung nach Südwesten via Tuhana/Tyana/Kemerhisar – Laranda (vorbei an Karadağ und Kızıldağ64) zum Kalykadnos-/Göksu-Tal (mit Kinet Höyük).65 Die (Haupt-)Route 1 von Gordion nach (Süd-)Westen zeigt folgende Stationen:66 Gordion – Pessinus67 – vorbei an Tartalı – Kelainai (Apameia/Kibotos) – Kydrara. Sie berührte oder verzweigte sich eventuell nach Afyon/Akroinos und Beyköy (sog. Westphrygien) sowie später nach Beycesultan.68

53  van Dongen 2015, 598–601 (englisch: van Dongen 2018, 284–85); Wittke 2004; Wittke et al. 2007, 33 B, 39, 51, 53. 54  Herodot 5. 52 erwähnt auf diesem Abschnitt explizit (von West nach Ost): nach Phrygien – durch eine bewachte Halys-Furt (= pylai), dann erreicht man Kappadokien bzw. Kilikien mit zwei Pässen; der schiffbare Euphrat bildet die Grenze zwischen Kilikien und Armenien. – Zum Straßenverlauf vgl. Wittke 2014, 745–65 und den Vorschlag in: Wittke et al. 2007, 87: nach Susa kommt sowohl die Route über die sog. Kappadokische als auch über die sog. Kilikische und Amanische Pforte infrage. Zur reichhaltigen Literatur zu Herodots Historien vgl. u.a. Klinkott und Kramer 2017. – Zum Verlauf nach Osten allgemein: Wittke 2014. – Orte ohne Angaben: vgl. Wittke 2004, 295–366 (geographischer Katalog) sowie zur Lage Wittke et al. 2007, s.v. 55  Vgl. Yamashia et al. 2013; Wittke 2004, 335, 366. 56  Von Ankara führte, wenn auch vielleicht nicht früheisenzeitlich, eine Abzweigung nach Südosten sowie nach Konya. 57  D’Agostino und Orsi 2016. 58  Çadır Höyük Excavation Project, c/o Sharon Steadman. 59  Vgl. Wittke et al. 2007, 39; 41; zum Vergleich: ebenda 87; 197 B. 60  „Tuwanuwa / Tuwana / Tyana, now identified with the modern town of Kemerhisar, is located at the junction of two routes, the first one coming from the valley encompassed by the Melendiz Dağları and the Pozantı Dağı, the second one coming from the Aegean coast and running across the northern side of the plain.“: d’Alfonso et al. 2017, vgl. Anm. 17. 61  Zum antiken Straßensystem der Area vgl. d’Alfonso et al. 2010; 2014; 2015. 62  Beyer 2010. 63  Forlanini 2013. 64  Ehringhaus 2014, 14–30. 65  D’Alfonso et al. 2017, 15: aus der Region der Bor-Ereğli-Ebene kamen Gold, Silber, Zinn, Eisen, Alabaster und Marmor. 66  Herodot 5. 52. 2 erwähnt auf diesem Abschnitt explizit: Phrygien, Lydien sowie in 5. 52–54 Ephesos und mehrfach Sardies/Sardeis. 67  Tsetskhladze 2018a. 68  Mellaart und Murray 1995; Dedeoğlu und Abay 2014, 1–39.

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a) Von Kelainai gab es eine Weiterführung via Sardeis – Karabel-Pass.69 Hier zweigte auch eine Route nach Abasa/Ephesos ab, an der in der Nähe von Metropolis der Grabungsort Bademgediği Tepe, heth. Puranda?70 nebst einer alten Kultstätte liegt. Der andere Weg führte nach Smyrna. b) Eine weitere Weiterführung folgte dem Lauf des Maiandros71 entlang nach Abasa/ Ephesos oder Millawanda/Miletos. c) Von Kelainai aus dürfte eine Route weiter nach Süden (Lukka-Länder/Lykien) in das Xanthos-Tal bzw. via Bayındır72 nach Limyra geführt haben. Die Route 273 führte von Gordion nach Nordwesten via – [Midaion/Karahöyük] – Dorylaion/Şarhöyük74 Richtung Bosporos bzw. nach Daskyleion und in die Troas bzw. zu den Dardanellen. Von Dorylaion dürfte es eine Abzweigung nach Süden Richtung Midas-Stadt und Beyköy, also Westphrygien, gegeben haben.75 Route 3 verband Gordion mit dem Süden,76 namentlich Konya und Umgebung,77 wobei es doch fraglich erscheint, ob es eine direkte Verknüpfung zwischen beiden Orten gab78 oder ob man via Afyon nach Konya gelangte und dann weiter via Laranda – Mut – Kilise Tepe,79 dem Kalykadnostal folgend, Silifke/Seleukeia/Ura(?) und damit das Mittelmeer erreichte. Dieser ‚natürlichen‘ Transitstrecke zwischen dem Zentralanatolischen Plateau und dem Mitteleer ist von der Forschung besondere Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken, da zwischen Mut/Klaudiopolis und Silifke/Seleukeia ein großer Stausee, der „Kayraktepe  Von Herodot 2. 106. 2 gesehen; er spricht von zwei in Fels gemeißelten Darstellungen (typos en petrēsi) des ägyptischen Pharao Sesostris: die oben erwähnte sowie eine weitere auf dem Weg von Ephesos nach Phokaia, jeweils mit Inschrift. Karabel: Darstellung des Königs Tarkasnawa von Mirā, 13. Jh. 70  Meriç und Öz 2015. 71  Auch von hier Abzweigung nach Süden den Marsyas-Fluss entlang via Çine-Tepecik (u.a. Fund eines hethitischen Siegelabdrucks sowie mykenischer Keramik): Günel 2015. 72  Şare 2010. 73  Im Zusammenhang mit dem Fund einer Tontafel bei den Ausgrabungen in Büklükale, am Westufer des Halys gelegen und anscheinend ein Knotenpunkt auf dem Weg nach Westen, befasst sich Mark Weeden ebenfalls mit der allerdings hethiterzeitlichen (wohl frühes 14. Jh.) Geographie dieser westlichen Region und macht verschiedene Routenvorschläge – Sivrihisar/Sallapa?/Spaleia? und Şarhöyük/Dorylaion werden z.B. als Stationen erwähnt –, die z.T. sich in den modernen Straßen wiederfinden und nur z.T. mit den hier vorgetragenen Verläufen korrespondieren, vor allem, weil sie südlich von Gordion das Plateau queren: Weeden 2013, 20. 74  Sivas 2018; Baştürk 2018, 143 mit Anm. 70–71; Darga und Starke 2003. 75  Dass jeder neue Fundplatz Veränderungen der Interpretationen von ‚Grenzen‘ und Routen mit sich bringen kann, zeigen z.B. die Rettungsgrabungen in „Seyitömer Höyük“ in der Lignite Company’s reserve zone (Kohle-Gewinnung, an der Route zwischen Dorylaion/Şarhöyük und Kotiaeion/Kütahya gelegen, mit eisenzeitlichen Befunden: https://www.chnt.at/how-we-are-using-new-technology-at-an-old-excavation-the-seyitomermound-salvage-excavation-project/ – Bilgen 2011; Coşkun 2011. 76  Bahar und Koçak 2008. 77  Matessi et al. 2016. 78  Laut Ehringhaus 2005, 46–48 folgt die neuzeitliche Fernstraße von Afyon nach Konya ungefähr dem Verlauf einer antiken Karawanenstraße, die auch die Hethiter nutzten; hier wurden HL-Inschriften gefunden: ein großreichzeitlicher Inschriftenstein aus Köylütoluyala (47–48) und eine große InschriftenStele in Zweitverwendung zwischen den Orten Çay und Sultandağ (48), Datierung umstritten: 13. oder 12. Jh. 79  Bouthillier et al. 2014. 69

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Dam“, mit Flutung 2018 (?) geplant ist/war, der u.a. auch Kilise Tepe betreffen wird.80 Dort befindet sich auch das hethitische Keben-Felsrelief. Route 4 von Gordion richtete sich nach Südosten. Enge, schriftlich und materiell bezeugte phrygische Kontakte zu Tabal und anderen sog. Späthethitischen Fürstentümern legen eine direkte Verbindung zwischen Gordion und dem Südosten nahe, aber erkennbare Routen führen über Ankara, was die (alte) Frage nach dem Verhältnis von Gordion und Ankara aufwirft. Route 5 bezeichnet den Weg von Gordion nach Norden, bisher nur belegt nach Dümrek (Heiligtum),81 aber vielleicht weiterführend, nördlich entlang dem Lauf des Sangarios grob nach Nordwesten folgend, via Gordioukome/Iuliopolis, wo z.B. später die sog. Pilger-Route von Damaskos nach Byzantion/Istanbul bis in die ottomanische Zeit verlief.82 Südlich des Sangarios, nordwestlich von Dümrek liegt der Fundplatz Aktepe.83 Ansonsten scheint sich aber im Norden von Gordion, wo der Barrington Atlas z.B. die Landschaft Gordiane (Talbert 2000, 86 C3; in hethitischer Zeit vielleicht Grenzregion zwischen Kalasma und Masa84) verzeichnet, offenbar (bisher) eisenzeitliche terra incognita zu befinden.

SCHLUSSBETRACHTUNG Es konnten hier nur einige Hinweise unterschiedlicher Fachdisziplinen in Bezug auf vorstellbare Routen und ihren jeweiligen Verlauf,85 ausgewiesen durch die zitierten Fundplätze mit eisenzeitlichen Befunden, zur Sprache gebracht werden. Doch durch deren Auswertung und durch sorgfältiges Zusammentragen aller vorgeschlagenen Komponenten wie direkte und indirekte Quellen sowie (weitere) gezielte Untersuchungen jeweils vor Ort müssten sich nach und nach (früh-)eisenzeitliche kleinasiatische Überlandrouten verifizieren lassen, wenn sie in den Fokus genommen werden. Das Thema ‚Konnektivität‘ in seiner ganzen Breite ist ein omnipräsentes Gegenwartssujet und findet in Folge auch in der Antikenforschung vermehrt Aufmerksamkeit. In unserem Zusammenhang weisen die ersten altassyrisch bezeugten Kontakte des 20.–18. Jh. zwischen Mesopotamien und Kleinasien, besonders dem Inneren Halysbogen, auf friedlichen wirtschaftlichen Austausch, der über Karawanen auf entsprechenden Routen mit Zwischenstationen abgewickelt wurde. Mit der Genese und Expansion des Hethiterreiches, 80  Vgl. „The Lower Göksu Archaeological Salvage Survey Projekt“ since 2013: Şerifoğlu et al. 2014; 2015; 2016. – Für das „The Upper Göksu valley“, speziell zur Bronze- und Eisenzeit vgl. Elton 2006, 332; 2008, 238–39. 81  Vgl. Vassileva 2018, 71. 82  Vgl. Talbert 2000, 86; zu prähistorischen Fundplätzen aus der Region: Onur 2014, 66, ohne qualifizierende Angaben, aber mit Verweis auf http://www.tayproject.org. – Belke 1984, 181–82: seit prähistorischer Zeit besiedelt, angeblich auch phrygisch. In diesem Gebiet wurde der Sakarya/Sangarios mehrfach gestaut, u.a. durch den Sarıyar Stausee, so dass relevante Orte unter Wasser sind: „Iuliopolis is thought to be under the dam lake of Hasan Polatkan. Necropolis on the surrounding hills are being excavated by an archaeological team of Museum of Anatolian Civilizations at Ankara.“ 83  Mit frühphrygischer Keramik erwähnt in: Grave et al. 2005, 149–60; 2012. 84  Wittke et al. 2007, 23, D1. 85  Dass noch viele weitere, regionale (Teil-)Strecken existierten bzw. in der Forschung vorgeschlagen wurden/werden, ist nicht extra zu betonen, vgl. z.B. Schachner 2011. Pavúk 2015, Abb. 6: „possible communication routes…“.

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das aus dem Inneren Kleinasiens operierte und nicht bzw. erst gegen Ende, auf Verbindungen zur See ausgerichtet war, werden unterschiedlichste Kontaktebenen sichtbar: weitreichende Handelsbeziehungen, militärische Operationen, diplomatische Missionen, politisch-religiös motivierte Reisen des Herrscherpaares im gesamten wachsenden Reich – all das verlangte Infrastruktur, all das verlangte Wege über Land, die nach dem politischen Niedergang der Hethiter nicht schlagartig verschwunden sein dürften. Welches Interesse hatte ‚Phrygien‘ an Verbindungen innerhalb des als phrygisch bezeichneten (politischen?, Wirtschafts-?, Kultur-)Raumes (z.B. Gordion – Ankara, Gordion – Westphrygien), welches an Verbindungen nach ‚außerhalb‘, welches hatten die ‚anderen‘ an Kontakten mit Gordion vice versa, wofür ‚Straßen‘ jedweder Art benötigt wurden? Für Phrygiens (ebenfalls wie die hetitische eine innerkleinasiatische) Genese – die wohl in und um Gordion ihren Ausgang nahm (vorstellbar sind mehrere ‚phrygische und phrygisierende Fürstentümer‘ in einer insgesamt wohl sprachlich vor allem luwisch und durch andere anatolisch-autochthone Sprachen geprägten, nachhethitisch-politischen Umgebung, innerhalb derer sich Gordion als primus etablierte86) – fehlen bisher Hinweise auf militärisch getragene Expansion (keine Waffen/Bewaffnung in den Gräbern oder Siedlungen, späte wenige Darstellungen von Kriegern; keine entsprechenden ‚innerphrygischen‘ Zerstörungshorizonte. Allerdings wüssten wir über die hethitischen Expansionen und Kriegszüge, politischen Neuordnungen ohne die Schriftquellen auch nicht viel. Für das midaszeitliche Gordion87 – unter der Voraussetzung, dass Midas = Mita und Phrygien = (Teil-)Mušku ist – zeigen schlaglichtartig die historischen Quellen intensive Kontakte mit den sog. Späthethitischen Fürstentümern (z.B. Tyana, auch Fundort phrygischer Funde), mit Assyrien, evtl. mit Urartu. Hinweise aus assyrischen Testimonien auf Konflikte im späthethitischen Raum (u.a. eroberte ‚Burgen‘; assyrisch-muškäische Scharmützel in Mitas Gebiet) legen nahe, dass Mita/Midas sich schließlich Sargon ‚unterwarf‘. HL-Quellen zeigen Unterstützungsersuchen der Späthethiter bei Mita, aber keine militärische Hilfeleistung seinerseits. Die Auseinandersetzungen in Tabal sind unsicher und gehören in einen nachmidaszeitlichen Kontext.88 Dagegen finden sich phrygische Produkte (und ihre Nachahmungen), soweit sie sich erhalten haben (u.a. Keramik und wohl Metallarbeiten) – ein Gutteil dürfte aus vergänglichem Material gewesen sein (z.B. Textilien)89 – auch weit entfernt (u.a. Bayındır, Pisidien, Kemerhisar/Tyana, Kerkenes Dağ, Pazarlı, Daskyleion, kleinasiatische Westküste; Delphi?). Ferner phrygische Impulse (u.a. Tatarlı, Ivriz), phrygische Inschriften (bisher ziemlich) unbekannten Inhalts, Ausbreitung der (alt- und neu-)phrygischen Sprache mit langer Lebensdauer; es findet sich die Ausbreitung der Göttin Matar, vor allem nach Westen, als Kybele bis nach Rom, aber auch in den Süden Kleinasiens, ohne dass entschieden werden kann, ob mit ihr religiöse Vorstellungen, von denen in ihrer phrygischen Ausformung nicht viel erschlossen werden konnte, wanderten. Spärlicher sieht es mit eisenzeitlichen ‚Importen‘ aus, wie eine gewisse Beeinflussung in der Urbanistik und

 Wittke et al. 2007, 33.  Auch zum Folgenden: Wittke 2004, 106–30. 88  Wittke 2004, 53–55 u.ö. 89  U.a. Marston 2017. 86 87

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Reliefplastik aus dem späthethitischen Raum usw. Eher spät zu datieren sind lydische und griechische Funde in Gordion. Schwer zu greifen bzw. ununtersucht ist das gesamte Thema Rohstoffe, aber auch Phänomene wie z.B. wandernde Handwerker, Sklaven und vieles mehr. So lässt sich bis auf Weiteres immer noch häufig schwer verifizieren, dass es diachron gesehen zu Entwicklungen von Routen kam, die von den Seehäfen bzw. aus Mesopotamien ins Innere des Landes führten, wo sie auf solche trafen, die von innerkleinasiatischen Zentralen wie Kaneš/Kültepe, Ḫattusa/Boğazköy, Gordion, Ankara ausgingen und die entsprechende (gewachsene oder neu angelegte) Zwischenposten, häufig in Tagesentfernungen, berührten. Dass die Überlandrouten, über Jahrhunderte gewachsen, existierten, beweisen erkennbare Ausbreitungen von „Erfindungen“ seit dem Neolithikum (wie u.a. Kupfermetallurgie, Eisengewinnung), die Kleinasien in alle Richtungen traversierten, vor allem zwischen Mesopotamien/Nordsyrien/Ägypten und Europa (via Nordwesten und via kleinasiatischer Westküste bzw. umgekehrt, aber auch über den Kaukasos nach Norden), oder von Kleinasien ihren Ausgang nahmen90 einerseits sowie deren Fortbestand bzw. Ausbau ab der Perserzeit und besonders in der römischen Epoche andererseits, nunmehr nachweislich als durchgehende Verbindungsrouten (besonders Route 1).91 Nachtrag (28.2.2020): Mit überzeugenden Argumenten haben m.E. E. Zangger (‘James Mellaart’s Fantasies’. Talanta 50 [2018], 125–82) und F.W. Woudhuizen (‘Arguments for the Authenticity of the Luwian Hieroglyphic Texts from the Mellaart Files’. Talanta 50 [2018], 183–212) dargelegt, dass es sich bei der oben zitierten Inschrift Beyköy 2 (vgl. Anm. 31) um keine Fälschung von J. Mellaart handelt.

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Ponchia, S. 2006: ‘Mountain Routes in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions, Part II’. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 15, 193–271. —. 2008: ‘Looking for Itineraries in Central Anatolia in the First Millennium B.C.’. In Strobel, K. (Hrsg.), New Perspectives on the Historical Geography and Topography of Anatolia in the II and I Millennium B.C. (Eothen 16) (Florenz), 253–80. Roosevelt, C.H. 2009: The Archaeology of Lydia, from Gyges to Alexander (Cambridge). Rose, C.B. (Hrsg.) 2012: The Archaeology of Phrygian Gordion, Royal City of Midas (University Museum Monograph 136; Gordion Special Studies 7) (Philadelphia). Rose, C.B. und Darbyshire, G. (Hrsg.) 2011: The New Chronology of Iron Age Gordion (University Museum Monograph 133; Gordion Special Studies 6) (Philadelphia). Şare, T. 2010: ‘An Archaic Ivory Figurine from a Tumulus Near Elmali: Cultural Hybridization and a New Anatolian Style’. Hesperia 79, 53–78. von Schnurbein, S. (Hrsg.) 2010: Atlas der Vorgeschichte: Europa von den ersten Menschen bis Christi Geburt, 2. Aufl. (Stuttgart). Şerifoğlu, T.E., Mac Sweeney, N. und Colantoni, C. 2014: ‘The Lower Göksu Archaeological Salvage Survey Project: Preliminary results of the first season’. Anatolica 40, 71–92. —. 2015: ‘Lower Göksu Archaeological Salvage Survey Project, The Second Season’. Anatolica 41, 177–89. Şerifoğlu, T.E., Mac Sweeney, N., Collar, A., Colantoni, C. und Eve, S. 2016: ‘Lower Göksu Archaeological Salvage Survey Project, The Third Season’. Anatolica 42, 1–17. Sivas, T. Tüfekçi 2018: ‘Excavations at Dorylaion/Şarhöyük in Phrygia Epiktetos’. In Tsetskhladze 2018b, 99–128. Stampolidis, N.C., Maner, Ç. und Kopanias, K. (Hrsg.) 2015: Nostoi: Indigenous Culture, Migration and Integration in the Aegean Islands and Western Anatolia During the Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages (Istanbul). Starke, F. 2002a: ‘Das Hethitische Großreich und seine Nachbarn im 13. Jh. v. Chr.’. In Die Hethiter und ihr Reich: Das Volk der 1000 Götter (Ausstellungskatalog) (Stuttgart), 306–07. —. 2002b: ‘Die hethitischen Nachfolgestaaten und ihre Nachbarn im 12.–8./7. Jh. v. Chr.’. In Die Hethiter und ihr Reich: Das Volk der 1000 Götter (Ausstellungskatalog) (Stuttgart), 308–09. Starr, S.F. 1962: The Ancient Roads of Asia Minor: 1961 Expedition (Yale). Talbert, R.J.A. (Hrsg.) 2000: Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (Princeton/Oxford). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2018a: ‘Introduction’. In Tsetskhladze 2018b, 1–24. —. (Hrsg.) 2018b: Pessinus and its Regional Setting, vol. 1 (Colloquia Antiqua 21) (Löwen/Paris/ Bristol, CT). Vaessen, R.A 2017: ‘Western Anatolia and the Aegean During the Late Bronze Age. A View from the Gulf of Izmir’. In Żebrowska, K., Ulanowska, A. und Lewartowski, K. (Hrsg.), Sympozjum Egejskie: Papers in Aegean Archaeology, Bd. 1 (Warschau), 67–78. —. im Druck: ‘Routes and Roads in Western Anatolia and the Eastern Aegean at the End of the Second Millennium BC’. In Vandeput, L., Massa, M., Baird, D., Gorkay, K., Haldon, J.F. und Mitchell, S. (Hrsg.), Pathways of Communication: Routes and Roads in Anatolia from Prehistory to Seljuk Times (Cambridge). Van Compernolle, T. 2012: Topografia e insediamenti nella Messapia interna. Ricerche e studi storicoarcheologici a Soleto (Lecce) e nel territorio (Agri e chorai tra Magna Grecia e Etruria 5) (Pisa). van Dongen, E. 2013: ‘The Overland Route: Intra-Anatolia Interaction ca. 1000–540 BC and the Transmission of the Alphabet’. Ancient West and East 12, 47–70. —. 2015: ‘Phrygien’. In Wittke, A.-M. (Hrsg.), Frühgeschichte der Mittelmeerkulturen. Historischarchäologisches Handbuch (Der Neue Pauly Suppl. 10) (Stuttgart/Weimar), 593–604. —. 2018: ‘Phrygia’. In Wittke, A.-M. (Hrsg.), The Early Mediterranean World, 1200–600 BC (Brill’s New Pauly Suppl. 9) (Leiden/Boston), 281–87. Vassileva, M. 2018: ‘King Midas and Pessinus’. In Tsetskhladze 2018b, 65–76. Voigt, M.M. 2011: ‘Gordion’. In Steadman, S.R. und McMahon, G. (Hrsg.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia (Oxford), 1069–94. Weeden, M. 2013: ‘A Hittite Tablet from Büklükale’. Anatolian Archaeological Studies 18, 19–35.

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Weeden, M. und Ullmann, L.Z. (Hrsg.) 2017: Hittite Landscape and Geography (Handbuch der Orientalistik 121) (Leiden/Boston). Wittke, A.-M. 2004: Mušker und Phryger: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte Anatoliens vom 12. bis zum 7. Jh. v. Chr.: Kommentar zur TAVO-Karte B IV 8 ‘Östlicher Mittelmeerraum und Mesopotamien um 700 v. Chr.’ (Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients. Reihe B, Geisteswissenschaften 99) (Wiesbaden). —. 2006: ‘Phrygia, Kayaların Efendileri’. Arkeo Atlas, 8–24. —. 2014: ‘Überlegungen zur Lage von Pteria’. In Gaspa, S., Greco, A., Morandi Bonacossi, D., Ponchia, S. und Rollinger, R. (Hrsg.), From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond, dedicated to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday on June 23, 2014 (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 412) (Münster), 745–65. —. 2019: ‘The “Golden” Midas: Phrygian Metalwork in Early and Middle Iron Age’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (Hrsg.), Phrygia in Antiquity: From the Bronze Age to the Byzantine Period) (Proceedings of an International Conference ‘The Phrygian Lands over Time: From Prehistory to the Middle of the 1st Millennium AD’, held at Anadolu University, Eskişehir, Turkey, 2nd–8th November, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 24) (Löwen/Paris/Bristol, CT), 109–22. —. in Vorbereitung: Geographische Konzepte. Wittke, A.-M., Olshausen, E. und Szydlak, R. 2007: Historischer Atlas der antiken Welt (Der Neue Pauly Suppl. 3) (Stuttgart). —. 2010: Historical Atlas of the Ancient World (Brill’s New Pauly Suppl. 3) (Leiden/Boston). Woudhuizen, F.C. 2004: Luwian Hieroglyphic Monumental Rock and Stone Inscriptions from the Hittite Empire Period (Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Kulturwissenschaft 116) (Innsbruck). —. 2014: ‘Geography of Western Anatolia’. In Faranton, V. und Michel Mazoyer, M. (Hrsg.), Homère et l’Anatolie, Bd. 2 (Paris), 119–36. Yamashia, M., Tsumura, H., Hayakawa, Y.S. und Metin, M. 2013: ‘Archaeological Surveys at Hacıtuğrul Höyük in Central Anatolia’. Anatolian Archaeological Studies 18, 37–41. Yener, K.A. 2000: The Domestication of Metals. The Rise of Complex Metal Industries in Anatolia (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 4) (Leiden/Boston/Köln). Young, R.S. 1956: ‘The Campaign of 1955 at Gordion: Preliminary Report’. AJA 60, 249–66. —. 1957: ‘Gordion 1956: Preliminary Report’. AJA 61, 319–31. —. 1958: ‘The Gordion Campaign of 1957’. AJA 62, 139–54. —. 1962: ‘The 1961 Campaign at Gordion’. AJA 66, 153–68. —. 1963: ‘Gordion on the Royal Road’. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 107.4, 348–64. —. 1968: Gordion: A Guide to the Excavations and Museum (Ankara). Zangger, E., Mutlu, S. und Müller, F. 2016: ‘Die Luwier: Bindeglied zwischen Mykenern und Hethitern’. Mitteilungen aus dem Heinrich-Schliemann-Museum Ankershagen 10/11, 53–89. Zangger, E. und Woudhuizen, F. 2018: ‘Rediscovered Luwian Hieroglyphic Inscriptions from Western Asia Minor’. Talanta 50, 9–56.

RESULTS OF RECENT ARCHAEOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS OF ARCHAIC TIEION Şahin YILDIRIM

ABSTRACT The ancient city of Tieion is located in the western region of the southern Black Sea littoral, next to the Billaos river (Filyos) which was considered the border between Bithynia and Paphlagonia. It is known as a Milesian colony, which was founded in the second half of the 7th century BC. It is believed that this colony was established by a priest called Tios. Ionian pottery, excavated on the Acropolis of Tieon, dated to the 7th/6th century BC, confirms the written sources which tell us that Miletus founded the city. An important harbour, Tieion was situated on the Black Sea trading route, with fishing, wine production and grain cultivation to the fore. With its still visible remains of the ancient harbour, its temple on the Acropolis, baths and theatre, it appears as a typical Roman city. One of the most important building projects introduced by the Romans was a sophisticated water supply system. As a result of recent excavations carried out in the vicinity of the Acropolis, the ruins of various buildings from the foundation periods of the city were encountered. These structures are underground pits, round, oval and rectangular in form. During investigations conducted in and around them, Wild Goat Style pottery of the last quarter of the 7th century BC and locally produced dark grey, black and brown wares, some of which were handmade, were also uncovered. The archaeological strata just below the colonial levels yielded fragments of a Late Geometric terracotta horse figurine and a large amount of local pottery. Thus, concrete evidence of Greek colonisation of the southern Black Sea has been acquired.

INTRODUCTION Located on the Turkish Black Sea coast in the district of Filyos near modern Zonguldak, Tios, or rather ancient Tieion, was described by Strabo as ‘a city that has nothing worth of mention’ (12. 3. 5). Tios all but alone of ancient Greek sites on that coast has not been despoiled by modern settlement. It is also a rare example of a site located on the southern Black Sea coast where archaeological excavation has continued for many years. In this respect, the data collected there are of great importance for archaeological studies in the Black Sea region. According to the geographer Marcian, the Billaios (Filyos) river, which flows into the Black Sea from East Tieion, constitutes a border between the regions of Bithynia and Paphlagonia, and the city of Tieion was built upon a peninsula nearby which extends towards the Black Sea (Fig. 1). Pliny the Elder (NH 6. 2. 5), like Marcian, wrote that the western border of Paphlagonia started with the Billaios river. On the other hand, Arrian mentions (Periplus Ponti Euxini 13. 5. 5) that there was distance of about 20 stades between Tieion and the Billlaios.

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Fig. 1. View of the Acropolis and the Billaios river valley.

Ancient authors are the primary source regarding the formation of the city. According to Strabo (12. 3. 5), a tribe named the Caucones was living near the Parthenios river prior to the colonial period. The Byzantine author Eustathius (ad 2. 2 855) wrote that Tios was the capital of the Caucones, who had roots in Paphlagonia.1 Both modern and ancient sources are almost of the same opinion that the city was founded by colonists from Miletus.2 Athenaeus is one of the ancient sources that refers to Tios-Tieion as a Greek colony-city which was founded by Miletus. According to him (Deipnosophistae 8. 331), production of a ‘Fossil Fish’ took place both in Heraclea and in a Milesian Pontic colony, namely Tios. Another source which mentions the Milesian background of the city is Arrian (Periplus 13. 5. 5), who described Tieion as ‘a Greek city with Ionian origins’. According to Arrian, this settlement was a ‘colony of the Milesian people’.3 Many sources mention that the city was founded by the people of Miletus who were ruled by a priest called Tios.4 Stephanus of Byzantium (624. 20) notes, by referring to Herennius Philon’s Ethnika, that the founder of the city was a priest called Tios who was from Miletus. Tios the priest was depicted especially in the autonomous coins of the Roman era, which explains his significance for the city. Archaeological evidence that Tios-Tieion had been a colony of Miletus was revealed during excavation on the Acropolis. Attic pottery in both red- and black-figure techniques and, especially, Ionian ceramics of the Archaic period expose the link between Tieion and Miletus.5 The ceramics found in the Acropolis will be elaborated in detail below. 1

 Öztürk 2013a, 147.  Atasoy 2008, 91; 2015b; Bean 1979; Crow-Hill 1995, 251; Esen 2003, 197; Marek 2003, 609; Öztürk and Sönmez 2008, 134; Öztürk 2008, 63–65; 2012; 2013a, 147; A. Jones 1983; Ruge 1936, 856; Robert 1937, 270; Yıldırım 2015, 271; 2017a, 210. 3  Öztürk 2008, 64. 4  Marek 1993, 16; Atasoy 2008, 91; Öztürk 2008, 64. 5  Atasoy and Yıldırım 2011, 2; Atasoy and Erpehlivan 2015, 202–03; Yıldırım 2017b, 469–70. 2

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Like many other colonial cities in the Black Sea, Tios was set right by a peninsula with a natural harbour. Located on the eastern side of the harbour, the Billaios was an important water course that enabled commerce with the hinterland. The Billaios originates near Kreteia/Flaviopolis.6 It is 228 km in length.7 Greek colonial activities served as the basis for rivers flowing into the Black Sea to be systematically used as important commercial waterway. The majority of cities along the Black Sea coastline were located close to river valleys or water courses that flowed into the sea, with protected natural harbours, at geopolitically strategic points or where communication with the hinterland was realised quite easily. River commerce has a privileged place in most southern Black Sea cities. In addition to big rivers like the Sangarios, Billaios, Parthenios, Halys and Iris, small streams also had a transport potential in certain seasons. However, architectural and archaeological proof of river commerce in the Roman period has been found only by the Billaios river, which, as I have said, flows into the Black Sea near Tios.8

SETTLEMENT ORGANISATION The ancient city of Tios-Tieion consists of two sections; namely the Upper City (Acropolis) and Lower City. The Acropolis is the supreme peak in the city’s topography and contains certain archaeological strata from the city’s foundation period. According to the finds, the city was first established on the Acropolis and expanded slowly to cover an area of 60 ha. In the Lower City, mainly Roman and Byzantine structures have been found. Some of these constituted coastal fortifications, two bath houses (one near the agora and the other close to the ancient harbour), an aqueduct, a theatre, temple terrace, church remains, basilica, road remains, a vaulted gallery, a cistern, an ancient harbour and a pier. 9

ACROPOLIS (UPPER CITY) At 400 m in length and 100 m in width, the Acropolis is like a peninsula that moves towards the Black Sea from east to west. This peninsula consists of four different terraces that gradually rise from west to east from 30 m and continue up to 75 m.10 Archaeological evidence regarding the foundation of the city is mainly found on the east terrace of the Acropolis, an areas regarded as the ‘first acropolis’ (Fig. 2). Excavations hereabouts since 2006 have yielded archaeological remains which date back to the 7th and 6th centuries BC. Remains from the last quarter of the 7th century BC at the earliest show that the colonial-period settlements were limited to the terraces of the Acropolis. That being said, it is observable that they started to expand in Late Classical period on the first terrace, though actual growth and expansion of the city starts in the Hellenistic period and

6

 Öztürk 2012, 96; Robert 1937, 180; Küçükali 2008.  Büyüksalih et al. 2005, 2. 8  Yıldırım 2017a, 210–13. 9  Atasoy 2015a; Yıldırım 2017a, 219–24. 10  Yıldırım 2017a, 216. 7

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Fig. 2. Tios Acropolis.

reaches a peak in the Roman era. Both archaeological and architectural evidence show that the Acropolis and its surroundings started to change in terms of function in the Late Archaic period. As of the mid-5th century, according to this data, military and civil functions gave way to religious structures. Religious architectural elements, which are observed in every corner of the Acropolis, offering bowls and ceramic figurines, show that the first and second terraces had an architecture of a religious nature from the Archaic period until the Roman era.11

GREEK COLONIAL-ERA SETTLEMENT Pit-houses Many remains from various periods have been found on the Acropolis excavation started in 2006 (Fig. 3). Architectural remains from the period of the city’s establishment were encountered with the removal of the rubble from the collapse caused by an earthquake in 2015 which destroyed the mediaeval city walls. Moreover, remains of four building were revealed during excavations on the first terrace, located in the eastern side of the Acropolis, which date back to the 7th and 6th centuries BC. From their size, it seems that these structures had been used as pit-houses; two of them are rounded, the other two rectangular. They had earthen floors and were located very close to one another. All had two separate fire destruction layers, the first dated to the late 7th century BC by the burnt South Ionian pottery sherds of the Orientalising period found in this strata. Examination of numerous Ionian kylikes and some Attic ceramics indicates that the second destruction layer, which covers a much larger area, dates to the second half of the 11

 Yıldırım 2017a, 216–17; Atasoy and Yıldırım 2015.

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Fig. 3. The pit-houses on the Acropolis.

6th century BC. It has not been determined whether this fire was related to the Persian invasion or not. After this later fire, the structures fell into ruin and lost their function. 14 C tests are underway on the carbon pieces gathered from the two destruction layers. Located on the north-eastern side of the Acropolis, right below the ruins of a bastion which was most likely built during Genoese rule, various ceramics from the Orientalising and Archaic periods were encountered. The bastion’s lack of foundations helped to preserve the earlier remains. After the ruined wall was cleared, a round structure of 3 m (area 7 m2) was discovered: P1. The preserved height of its wall is about 40 cm. The roughly worked stones of the walls of the building were placed in a single course (see Fig. 3). Remains of another round structure (P2), dating to the Archaic period, were discovered on the eastern side of the Acropolis in 2018 between the fortification wall and other Hellenistic walls related to that fortification (Figs. 4, 5). A trench set in this area enabled the discovery of a structure considerably better preserved than other Archaic dwellings, particularly its walls in comparison with those of the round dwellings located in the north-eastern side of the Acropolis. However, during construction of the Hellenistic fortification, the eastern part of the main wall was demolished. This small round structure is 3 m in diameter (area 7 m2) and with a single course of rubble stone masonry. The height of the preserved wall is about a metre. The flat stone located right at the centre of its floor is most likely linked with a wooden pole supporting the roof. Both structures were created by covering the interior of the holes in the ground with a single course of stones. The remains of rectangular structures were also discovered on the Acropolis, but they were in much poorer condition than the round ones. Of the three structures, only part of a corner of one survives. Located right by the Hellenistic walls, this structure (P3) was severely damaged when the fortification wall was constructed. The preserved part

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Fig. 4. Pit-houses of circular plan.

Fig. 5. Plan of pit-houses P2 and P3 and the iron workshop.

measures 3 × 1.5 m. Most likely, the interior was covered with rough-hewn stone in a single course (see Fig. 3). Of the other rectangular P4 structure, only a side wall 3 m in length and metre-long wall risers on two corners of the side wall’s north-eastern side survive. The measurement of the core of the wall, organised in a single course, is about 40 cm.

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The primary reason for the severe damage was excessive settlement on the Acropolis. The thickness of the cultural layers of Archaic-period dwellings set upon the Acropolis is not great: from the rock bottom to the current ground is about 2–3 m, in which rest many remains from the Archaic, Classical, Hellenistic, Roman, Byzantine, Genoese and Seljuk periods. The first major damage to the main walls of the Archaic period occurred during the Hellenistic period as a result of the construction of the fortification and other building work. Yet the major damage took place in the centre of the eastern terrace. A large Roman cistern, a Middle Byzantine church and church-related structures, which were located in this terrace, completely destroyed the ruins of the Archaic period as well as the foundations which were at the bedrock level. Roman architecture can readily be observed on the second terrace of the Acropolis. The foundations of the terrace reached down to the rock. During construction of the Roman temple, the whole terrace was re-planned and reconstructed. Hence, the number of remains discovered from the Archaic period is very limited. However, the number of late-period structures found on the third and fourth terrace of the Acropolis is less than on other terraces. In years to come, the third and fourth terraces will be investigated. Archaeological studies conducted in the northern Black Sea region show that, except for the Taman Peninsula, the first colonists inhabited roofed or flat-roofed pit-houses or semi-pit-houses,12 rectangular, oval and round. Here, Olbia and Berezan are especially interesting among the Archaic settlements of the region: about 40 pit-houses were discovered around an avenue in Olbia, and more than 200 in Berezan.13 The history of pit-houses in Berezan dates from the late 7th century BC until the last quarter of the 6th century BC. The houses there have no specific plan.14 Pit-houses from the Archaic period have also been encountered in important settlements such as Panticapaeum15 and Chersonesus,16 and in such centres as Gorgippia, Myrmekion, Tyramba, Nymphaeum, Nikonion and Kerkinitis.17 Elsewhere in the southern Black Sea round dwellings were found in the course of excavation in the fortress area of Sinope.18 Debate about the origins, purpose and use of these structures continues. G.R. Tsetskhladze relates those in the northern Black Sea region to the many similar dwellings in areas where local people dwelt. Also, that there were many small pits used for waste disposal or storage.19 Stone-based residences discovered during excavations at Porthmion in the northern Black Sea, show that pit-houses were not the only form of dwelling.20 No pit-houses have been discovered in Ionia, which is the origin of the majority of the colonists. Yet it is understood that the architecture of pit-houses is not dissimilar to Anatolia.21 There are many similar architectural structures in various cultures and eras. We should not expect the first colonists, whose numbers were low, to build magnificent 12

 Tsetskhladze 2004; 2005a, 97.  Tsetskhladze 2004, 232; 2005a, 97. 14  Tsetskhladze 2004, 232; 2005a, 97; Solovyov 1999. 15  Tolstikov 1992; Treister 2002, 152. 16  Zolotarev 1998. 17  Tsetskhladze 2004. 18  Doonan et al. 2017, 179, 181, 193. 19  Tsetskhladze 2005a, 99. 20  Vachtina 2003. 21  Tsetskhladze 2000. 13

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Fig. 6. Archaic iron workshop.

Fig. 7. Slag fragments from iron workshop.

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public or private structures in stone. It would have been much more logical and practical to accommodate themselves to regional conditions and to share the architectural style of the local community. It is very likely that the first examples of residential architecture were pit-houses and semi-pit-houses which are specific to the Black Sea region. These pit-houses continued until stone dwellinghouses replaced them in the 6th century BC.22

Iron Workshop(?) During the 2019 excavations of the northern terrace of the Acropolis, a structure that most likely belonged to an iron workshop was discovered 1 m from P2, situated on the bedrock. There is a furnace of oval plan within it (Fig. 6), in turn containing quantities of ash and iron slag (Fig. 7). The furnace and channel parts were placed in a pit, just like the pit-houses. The channel, on the other hand, was covered. Part of this furnace structure was situated below the remains of a wall that dates to the Hellenistic period. Thus, we were unable to measure the furnace completely. The diameter of the furnace is about a metre and the furnace is made of irregular angular stones. The eastern side of the furnace is better preserved. The preserved height of the workshop is 67 cm. On the eastern side of the furnace lies a channel (2.5 m in length, 30 cm in width) made of schist stones. The top of the channel is also covered with schist stone plaques. To determine the actual function of this structure, a small part of the Hellenistic-era walls will be removed. Metallurgical finds of the Archaic period were discovered in Berezan23 (northern Black Sea) and Apollonia Pontica24 (western Black Sea), but these were copper slags whereas Tieion yielded iron slags. Metallurgical research in and around Tieion is still very limited. There is no information yet of nearby mineral deposits or mineral ores. Studies of these topics will continue in the upcoming years.

FINDS East Greek Pottery Excavations of the eastern terrace of the Acropolis between 2015 and 2019 yielded about 200 pieces of East Greek ceramics dated to the Orientalising period; most were produced by South Ionian workshops, with Miletus the commonest place of origin, and only a few in North Ionia.25 According to initial investigations by M. Vakhtina, based on the 2019 excavations, there is Milesian, Chian, Clazomenian and North Ionian pottery as well as locally produced ceramics. In addition, rare pieces of Corinthian skyphoi and aryballoi of the Archaic period were found on the Acropolis. Some Archaic Attic black-glazed ceramics, a much lesser quantity than the others, were also found.

22

 Tsetskhladze 2000; 2004, 253–62; 2005a, 99.  Tsetskhladze 2005a, 98. 24  Damyanov 2018. 25  Atasoy and Erpehlivan 2015, 202. 23

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Fig. 8. The example of Middle Wild Goat 2 pottery from the first layer of structure P2.

Fig. 9. Ionian bowl from the Archaic houses.

Fig. 10. Archaic eyed kylix from the second layer of structure P1.

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Fig. 11. Piece of Archaic Ionian bowl.

Wild Goat Style has an important role in East Greek pottery. R.M. Cook categorised it as Early, Middle and Late. The majority of these wares were produced in or near Ionia.26 South Ionia takes the lead with Middle Wild Goat.27 The oldest pieces found on the Acropolis date to the last quarter of the 7th century BC. Stylistically, these are classified as South Ionian Middle Wild Goat II (Fig. 8). Such pottery was found particularly during the excavation of round dwellings around the Acropolis in 2018–19, on the ground level bedrock which consists of rolled earth. These dwellings had twice been affected by fire. The earlier fire destruction layer, belonging to the 7th century BC, is at the lowest ground level of the house. The Middle Wild Goat II ceramics were found in it. Again, kylikes associated with South Ionia, especially with Samos and Miletus, are of paramount importance for East Greek pottery. Ionian kylikes dating to the 7th–mid6th century BC are the most numerous East Greek ceramics on the Acropolis (Fig. 9).28 There are different types in Tieion and some of them are depicted with eyes (Fig. 10). Among amphorae, Chian examples with a white undercoat are common. Some examples, which were used for storage, date to the late 7th century BC.29 The origin of the bird bowl is disputable; there is only one example of them at Tieion (Fig. 11). Recent studies to determine the main production centre of these wares suggest that some centres in North Ionia could be prominent.30 A comprehensive project to investigate East Greek pottery on the eastern terrace is underway. Its results will be published by Vakhtina and the present author. 26

 Cook 1933–34, 2; 1946, 93–95; 1992, 255; Kerschner and Schlotzhauer 2005.  Cook and Dupont 1998, 51–52. 28  Atasoy and Erpehlivan 2015, 202–03; Schlotzhauer 2001, 123–24; Cook and Dupont 1998, 129. 29  Sezgin 2012, 83–136. 30  Dupont 1986, 61–63; Jones 1986, 661; Kerschner et al. 2002, 63–72, 149. 27

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Fig. 12. Phrygian pottery pieces from the Acropolis.

Grey Ware We have found much East Greek pottery in the round and rectangular dwellings. Additionally, many locally produced ceramics were encountered in and around them. This pottery was decorated with brush-painted zigzag, triangular and checker motifs, usually in dark grey, black or dark brown clay. The majority lack any adornment. Finger-printed embossed motifs on tape were also observed on some. Such ceramics can be found in all the Archaic archaeological layers in the Acropolis. Unlike finds of local pottery from excavations in the northern Black Sea region, the grey ware with brush-applied geometrical decoration discovered at Tieion is of high quality (Fig. 12). Grey ware usually consists of kitchenware, drinking cups and storage containers. Most of these pieces have traces of polishing. The ratio of mica in coarse kitchenware is higher than in other wares. Another local ceramic type found in the Acropolis, less numerous than grey ware, is named ‘black ware’. In terms of clay, decoration and technique, it is very similar to the Buckelkeramik wares that were found in the VIIb2 level in the Balkans, Thrace and Troy during the Early Iron Age. Excavation of a Byzantine cistern structure took place in 2019 on the western side of the Acropolis. A vaulted cloister enabled transportation to the cistern from the Acropolis; after it collapsed, the cloister was filled with the earth that came from the Acropolis. Much Orientalising East Greek pottery and grey ware were found in this fill. Of particular interest is a body fragment of a dark grey ware. There is a Phrygian inscription on it that reads either EIES or EGES (Fig. 13). A. Avram thinks that this is Old Phrygian and it is believed to date to the 8th–7th centuries BC. The inscription will be published by B. Öztürk. Many ceramic sherds bearing Phrygian letters have been found during excavations at Gordion, the Phrygian capital. The majority of these ceramics date to the 8th–7th centuries BC.31 31

 Young 1969; Brixhe and Lejeune 1984.

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Fig. 13. Pottery sherd inscribed in Old Phrygian.

Almost all grey ware on the Acropolis came from the layers that date to the 7th–6th centuries BC. It was found in the same context as Greek colonial-era ceramics, which leads us to think that the colonists in Tios and local Proto-Phrygian communities were in direct communication with one another and that they enjoyed good relations. However, it is too early to be certain about this. The quantities of pottery on the Acropolis from the Orientalising and Archaic periods and the local grey ware are very similar. Grey ware is commonly found in Central and Western Anatolia.32 This is directly related to the presence of Phrygians in the region. Such pottery was present across a large geographical area throughout the Middle and Late Iron Age, some of it surviving until the Hellenistic and Roman periods.33 It was also found in the hinterland of the southern Black Sea. According to the research of R. Matthews in Paphlagonia, Bithynia’s eastern neighbour, this pottery was the most prominent Iron Age group among all other south-west Paphlagonian finds.34 Matthews regards this as a reflexion of Phrygian culture upon the northern side of Anatolia.35 Much East Greek pottery of the 7th and 6th century BC as well as various Phrygian ceramics were discovered by E. Akurgal in the course of his excavations in Sinop. This has been interpreted as proof of good relations with the interior.36 That being said, this ware was found during excavations in Hadrianoupolis and Cimistine, which is 80 km from Tieion.37 Also, similar ceramic remains were found near  Kealhofer et al. 2010.  Henrickson 1994; 2005; Henrickson et al. 2002; Sams 1994; Stewart 2010, 49–50; Toteva 2007, 53, 59. 34  Matthews 2009, 153. 35  Matthews 2009, 153. 36  Kan Şahin and Laflı 2012; Kan Şahin et al. 2013. 37  Kan Şahin and Laflı 2012; Kan Şahin et al. 2013. 32 33

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Heraclea Pontica and in the İnönü Cave. H. Ekmen, who conducted the latter excavation, argues that these finds are related to the cultures of Troy VIIb1 and VIIb2. He notes that they might be related to the migration from the Balkans to Anatolia which took place in the Late Bronze Age–Early Iron Age.38 As a result of the Gordion excavations, some Early Iron Age handmade ceramic were found in pit-houses.39 Their discovery suggests that the Phrygians might have come from the Balkans, like the Thracians.40 In an archaeological context, on the southern Black Sea coast, grey ware was first encountered at Tieion. The Phrygian inscription and the Phrygian motifs (checker, zigzag, triangles) are very crucial to Tieion grey ware, which is closely related to Phrygian culture. Detailed research on Tieion black and grey wares continues. The Black Sea littoral has yielded another handmade ceramic which looks like the black ware in Tieion. Some experts on the northern Black Sea region regard this as a barbarian ceramic, readily found in both the northern and western Black Sea. It is thought that this common pottery type was related to the local people of the northern Black Sea.41 It is found in many cities such as Histria/Istros,42 Odessos,43 Tomis,44 Apollonia Pontica,45 Berezan46 and Olbia.47 Its origins are still under debate.

Terracotta Figurines Two terracotta horse-head figurines have been found in the lowest archaeological layer of structure P1 on the eastern terrace of the Acropolis (Fig. 14). The first figurine must be a local product. The neck and part of the head are preserved. The eye is painted and the upper part of the figure with the ears is broken. The nose and mouth extend forward, but most parts are broken and missing. The only preserved part is the eye. The iris is painted in black in the centre of the almond-shaped eye. (Painted eyes of this shape can also be observed on vase-painting of the 7th century BC.) There is a horizontal incised line group right below the eye. The ‘zigzag’ decoration on the horse’s neck is in three courses, right below the horizontal line group. The second figurine is made in a mould. The transition from the neck to the head is preserved. The mane is depicted behind the head in the form of a rectangle. The mane on top of the head is broken and the ears are shaped by hand. The eye, which is located right in front of the horse’s left ear, is highlighted with engraving. The nasal part is depicted in a straight way. There is an oval bulge on the left of the nose with a diameter of 0.7 cm. Most probably, a piece has fallen off. Maybe it belonged to a group of horses,  Ekmen et al. 2019, 274.  Tsetskhladze 2005b, 214. 40  Voight 1994, 285. 41  Tsetskhladze 1998, 44–47; 2004, 262–68. Various ancient sources state that many local communities lived around the Black Sea such as the Thracians, Getae, Cimmerians, Scythians, Mariandyni, Tibareni, Eneti, Chalybes, Macrones, etc. (Tsetskhladze 1998, 44–50). 42  Dimitriu 1966, 54–56. 43  Toncheva 1967, 173. 44  Arsenie 2000–01. 45  Panayotova et al. 2014. 46  Marchenko 1988, 131; Solovyov 1999, 43–58. 47  Marchenko 1988, 131; Solovyov 1999, 43–58. 38 39

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Fig. 14. Terracotta horse figurines from the first layer of structure P1.

like the bronze figurines which date to the Late Geometric period. The figurine is covered with black glaze. The horse figures48 found on the ceramics of the Middle Geometric period started to become part of funeral scenes by appearing on urns, amphorae and krater-like vases in the Late Geometric.49 Especially in the middle and in the last quarter of the 8th century BC, it was very common to see horse figures in the form of a silhouette. Also, the mane was depicted more vividly, and the nose was long in the form of a trumpet.50 The iconographic qualities of horse figures on vases became apparent and common on the bronze horse figures in the 8th century BC.51 Also in the 8th century BC, the pyxides found in Athenian cemeteries during the Geometric period had a lid with a horse-head figurine handle on it.52 This became very common in the last quarter of the century. The fact that horse figurines became more common is interpreted as a sign of the hero cult that was revealed by the funeral scenes and chariot races depicted on vases. This is covered by Homer in the Iliad. There are some questions about the horse figurines in Tieion, most notably their dating. That the black-glazed horse figure shows some significant resemblance with pieces of the Late Geometric period is very interesting. However, archaeological data indicate the last quarter of the 7th century BC as terminus ante quem. Studies on the specific dating of this group of finds continue. 48

 Coldstream 2003, 54–56, fig. 24a.  Coldstream 2003, 88–101, figs. 33a, 34a, 35d, 37a–d. 50  Mitten 1967, 4–18, fig. 3. 51  Coldstream 2003, 129, 156, figs. 48 a–b, 58b; Mitten 1967, 4–18, fig. 3; Voyatzis 1992, 259–79, figs. 1–5. 52  Young 1939; Bohen 1988, 8–12, 74–76; 1992. 49

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CONCLUSIONS Evidence from the first terrace of the eastern Acropolis of Tieion provides significant outcomes in terms of the archaeology of the southern Black Sea. The first systematic data on Greek colonisation here was collected in Tieion and the dwellinghouses found there show that the settlers used pit-houses, as in some settlements in the northern Black Sea. Except for examples found in Samsun, Akalan53 and Sinop,54 the East Greek ceramics, especially those that date to the Middle Wild Goat II stage, found in a stratigraphic layer in Tieion are the first. Various ceramic pieces suggest that one of the local communities that lived on the south-western Black Sea coast was Phrygian. Moreover, the piece with Old Phrygian lettering is the first inscription. There are many finds that indicate the existence of Phrygians in the interior of the region in the 7th century BC. The closest to Tieion was 25 km distant, in Gökçebey, where excavation yielded a bronze fibula of the Phrygian period (Fig. 15).55 Another bronze object, an omphalos bowl (6 cm in height, 25 cm in diameter), was found in a tumulus very close to Gökçebey and it was added recently to the inventory of the Gökçebey Çanakçılar Museum (Fig. 16). This piece is dated by its iconography to the 8th–7th centuries BC.56 Pieces of Phrygian ceramics of 8th-century BC date have been found in the Great Göztepe tumulus in Safranbolu.57 Also, the Phrygian impact can be seen in the rock tombs thereabouts. This distinct characteristic is observed especially in the triangular frontal façade of the 4th-century BC rock tomb in the Karakoyunlu village in the Soğanlı Valley.58 The founders of Tieion were inevitably influenced by the predominant Phrygian culture. Hence the Phrygian god Zeus Syrgastes59 was the most significant cult of ancient Tieion because of the powerful interaction with the local culture.60 The impact of this cult can be seen on the city’s Roman-period coins. The Phrygian ceramics and inscription discovered among colonial-period finds should also be evaluated in this context. Many scholars such as Boardmann and Tsetskhladze have presented evidence to confirm Miletus’ leadership in Tieion’s Acropolis and Greek colonisation of the southern Black Sea during the third quarter of the 7th century BC.61 On the other hand, there are debatable finds such as the black-glazed horse figurine that resembles those of the Late Geometric period. However, almost all finds from the Acropolis that point to the Greek colonisation period are dated to the 7th and 6th centuries BC. The Greeks may have conducted unsystematic expeditions of discovery before settlement, as they did during the colonial period.62

53

 Cummer 1976, 53–57, pl. 7.  Akurgal 1956, 48; Akurgal and Budde 1956, 4–7; Boysal 1959, 13–14. 55  An emporion dating back to the Roman period was unearthed during the excavations carried out in 2012 and 2013 along the Billaios river in Gökçebey Üçburgu. The most interesting find was a bronze Phrygian fibula. This shows us that the river and its surroundings were used from early times: Yıldırım 2017a, 209–14. 56  Muscarella 1971, 49, pl. IV, fig. 9. 57  Yıldırım 2019. 58  von Gall 1966, 73–82; Johnson 2010, 353; Vassileva 2012, 145; 2015, 93–94; Yıldırım 2018, 1307. 59  Avram 2016; Marek 2016, 509. 60  Öztürk 2013b, 331–32; 2018, 722. 61  Boardman 1991; 1999, 245–67; Tsetskhladze 1994, 123–26; 1998, 19; 2011, 96. 62  Akurgal 1956, 49. 54

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Fig. 15. Phrygian fibula from the Gökçebey-Üçburgu emporion.

Fig. 16. Phrygian bronze bowl from Gökçebey.

Finds gathered from the Halys basin show that the Greeks had some relations with the Black Sea even before the 7th century BC.63 Studies on the Acropolis of Tieion will be conducted on the third and fourth terraces where traces of mediaeval architecture are rare. We believe that the fourth terrace, right above the cistern on the coast, has more data on the Greek colonial era. Once the excavations make more progress, we hope to collect more data and to interpret this period in more detail, which will pose various questions about the southern Black Sea. 63

 Manoledakis 2018; Summerer 2008, 262–67; 2009, 188.

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—. 2000: ‘Note on semi-pithouses and handmade pottery from Gordion’. In Avram, A. and Babes, M. (eds.)‚ Civilisation grecque et cultures antiques périphériques: Hommage à Petre Alexandrescu à son 70e anniversaire (Bucharest), 165–70. —. 2004: ‘On the Earliest Greek Colonial Architecture in the Pontus’. In Tuplin, C.J. (ed.), Pontus and the Outside World. Studies in Black Sea History, Historiography and Archaeology (Colloquia Pontica 9) (Leiden/Boston), 225–78. —. 2005a: Anayurtları Dışındaki İonialılar’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Karadeniz’in Tarih ve Arkeolojisi Üzerine Bazı Gözlemler, ed. S. Atasoy (Istanbul). —. 2005b: ‘Early Iron Age Societies of the Black Sea region and Anatolia: Some Observations’. In Çilingiroğlu, A. and Darbyshire, G. (eds.), Anatolian Iron Ages 5 (Proceedings of the Fifth Anatolian Iron Ages Colloquium held at Van, 6–10 August 2001) (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara Monograph 31) (London), 211–16. —. 2011: ‘The Scythians: Three Essays’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Black Sea, Greece, Anatolia and Europe in the First Millennium BC (Colloquia Antiqua 1) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 95–139. Vachtina, M.J. 2003: ‘Archaic Buildings of Porthmion’. In Bilde, P.G., Højte, J.M. and Stolba, V.F. (eds.), The Cauldron of Ariantas: Studies Presented to A.N. Ščeglov on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday (Black Sea Studies 1) (Aarhus), 37–54. Vassileva, M. 2012: ‘The Rock-Cut Monuments of Phrygia, Paphlagonia and Thrace: A Comparative Overview’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), The Black Sea, Paphlagonia,Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford), 243–52. —. 2015, ‘Phrygia and the southern Black Sea littoral’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian Lands Between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 91–96. Voight, M.M. 1994: ‘Excavations in Gordion 1988-1989; the Yassihöyük Stratigraphic Sequence’. In French, D.H. and Çilingiroğlu, A. (eds.), Anatolian Iron Ages 3 (Proceedings of the Third Anatolian Iron Ages Colloquium held at Van, 6–12 August 1990) (British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, Monograph 16) (London), 265–93. Voyatzis, M. 1992: ‘Votive riders seated side-saddle at early Greek sanctuaries’. Annual of the British School at Athens 87, 259–79. Yıldırım, Ş. 2015: ‘Tios Roma Tiyatrosu/ The Roman Theater of Tios’. In Atasoy and Yıldırım 2015, 271–95. —. 2017a: ‘Tios-Tieion: Söylenecek Çok Önemli Bir Şeyi Olmayan Kent’. Trakya Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Dergisi 7/14, 206–42. —. 2017b: ‘Tios-Tieion 2015 Yılı Kazı Çalışmaları’. In 38. Kazı Sonuçları Toplantısı, vol. 1 (Ankara), 465–78. —. 2018: ‘Gökbel Köyü Hamas Kıranı Tümülüsü’. Hitit Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü Dergisi Sayı 2, 1295–319. —. 2019. ‘A Great Tumulus from Paphlagonia’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Atasoy, S. (eds.), Settlements and Necropoleis of the Black Sea and its Hinterland in Antiquity (Selected Papers from the Third International Conference ‘The Black Sea in Antiquity and Tekkeköy: An Ancient Settlement on the Southern Black Sea Coast’, 27–29 October 2017, Tekkeköy, Samsun) (Oxford), 226–43. Young, R. 1939: Late Geometric Graves and a Seventh-Century Well in the Agora (Hesperia Suppl. 2) (Athens). —. 1969: ‘Old Phrygian Inscriptions from Gordion: Toward a History of the Phrygian Alphabet’. Hesperia 38, 252–96. Zolotarev, M.I. 1998: ‘Rannie etapy gradostroitel’stvav Khersonese Tavricheskom’. Khersonesskii Sbornik 9, 26–35.

GREEK POTTERY OF THE 7TH–6TH CENTURIES BC ON BILSK FORTIFIED SETTLEMENT Stanislav ZADNIKOV and Iryna SHRAMKO

ABSTRACT Bilsk (otherwise Belsk, in Russian) settlement is the only native settlement in the northern Black Sea region to which products from Greek centres had been supplied for three and a half centuries continuously. Among other settlements of the Scythian era, Bilsk is distinguished by the stability of its trade relations with Greek poleis, which had formed already in the last quarter of the 7th century BC. In the case of the Bilsk archaeological complex we cannot talk about the accidental presence of Greek products before the era of colonisation. Materials from many years of excavation demonstrate the regular supply of various Greek products brought in amphorae, as well as a fairly wide range of prestigious tableware for local nobles. Most difficult and debatable remains the early period of Graeco-native relations. In this regard, analysis of Greek pottery of the 7th–6th centuries BC found in the Bilsk city-site, which for centuries remained the largest consumer of Greek products east of the Dnieper, is important.

A BRIEF HISTORY

OF THE

COLLECTION

Greek pottery, represented by fragments of amphorae and table vessels, was first discovered at Bilsk during the excavations of V. Gorodtsov in 1906.1 Among the fragments found, he identified some types of tableware: ‘prochus, askos, situla, cups and lamps’, and also fragments of Milesian amphorae of the 7th century BC, correlating them with the samples found by E. von Shtern on Berezan island.2 Planned large-scale work on the settlement began only half a century later. In 1958, the joint efforts of scholars from Kharkov/Kharkiv and Moscow universities (B. Shramko and B. Grakov) laid the foundation for comprehensive study of the ancient city. Greek pottery discovered during excavation of ash-hill3 (zolnik) 12 were attributed from the middle of the 6th to the the middle of the 5th centuries BC.4 Among the selected samples were fragments of Chian amphorae with a swollen neck and so-called Protothasian amphorae. V. Blavatsky attributed tableware, represented by a fragment of a mortar and three fragments of painted vessels, to Attic (mid-6th century BC) and Corinthian (first half of the 6th century BC) production. One of the fragments depicting braids is of Ionian manufacture of the 6th century BC.5 1

 Gorodtsov 1911, 154–55; B. Shramko 1996; Onayko 1966, 61, no. 143, table V.  Gorodtsov 1911, 155. 3  A zolnik is a place where grey ash was poured regularly onto abandoned farmsteads or residential estates. It resembles a small hill. 4  Grakov and Elagina 1958, 15–16. 5  Grakov and Elagina 1958, 15–16. 2

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Fig. 1. North Ionian plate from the barrow 1/1965 of the Skorobir burial ground.

Pottery from zolnik 11 was studied by Blavatsky and I. Zeest. B. Shramko highlighted one fragment. It preserved the image of the legs of ‘... running animals, possibly deer, ... part of the foreleg of one and part of the hind leg of another animal’. B. Grakov dated it to ‘the first half of the 6th or even 7th century BC’.6 On the Eastern Fortification of the Bilsk city-site the first examples of Greek pottery were discovered in 1960.7 Later, starting in 1964, this fortification was investigated by B. Shramko. The results of many years of field work and the study of the research materials are reflected in a large number of his publications.8 Many years of excavation of an area of some 50,000 m2 yielded about 7000 fragments of Greek amphorae and fragments of tableware, of which more than 1000 pieces were taken for permanent storage. To form a more complete picture of the ancient settlement B. Shramko simultaneously conducted excavations of burial grounds in which Greek dishes were also found. From the excavations of those years a plate of North Ionian production (Fig. 1), discovered in mound 1/1965, is of especial note.9 A significant part of Greek pottery found on the site in the 1960s–1970s was identified by N. Onayko and Zeest.10 Ceramic material was obtained in the late 1970s–early 1980s by I. Brashinsky and V. Nazarchuk. Since 1987 I. Shramko has been exploring the Bilsk city-site, and in 2005 S. Zadnikov joined the study of it. In 2013 work was resumed on the Eastern Fortification and in the Skorobir burial ground.11 Thirty years of excavation at the Western Fortification  B. Shramko et al. 2018, 122–23.  Onayko 1966, 4, table V, 2. 8  B. Shramko 1973; 1975a; 1975b; 1987; 2016. 9  B. Shramko 1994, fig. 5.1. 10  B. Shramko 1987, 125. 11  I. Shramko 2019a. 6 7

GREEK POTTERY OF THE 7TH–6TH CENTURIES BC ON BILSK FORTIFIED SETTLEMENT 879

investigated six zolniks and various land-plots between them, residential and religious objects were discovered, and a huge collection of objects from the 8th–first half of the 5th century BC was formed.12 Based on the materials obtained and stratigraphic observations, four chronological horizons were identified, as well as several periods in the formation of the Bilsk settlement.13 An important result of the study was the recovery of a significant amount of Greek material; this showed that Greek imports had already started to enter the settlement in the third quarter of the 7th century BC.14 It is important to emphasise that, from this point onwards, all the chronological horizons at Bilsk contain examples of Greek pottery.15 New excavations of burial mounds in the Skorobir necropolis have expanded the collection of Greek pottery with new examples of amphorae and tableware.16 From 1992 to 2006 the territory of the Great Fortification was investigated by a joint Ukrainian-German expedition.17 During excavations of mounds and two settlements within the site of the fortification, Greek pottery of the 6th century BC was also found. Greek ceramics of the period of interest to us were also discovered in zolnik 7, which for several years was studied by the Poltava-based archaeologist P.A. Havrysh.18 The main collection of Greek pottery of the 7th–6th centuries BC is stored in the collection of the Museum of Archaeology of V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University.

THE MAIN PERIODS

IN THE

DEVELOPMENT

OF THE

BILSK SETTLEMENT

The settlement is located in the Dnieper left bank forest-steppe. It occupies a vast territory of a watershed plateau bounded by two rivers: the Sukhaya Grun in the west and the Vorskla in the east (Fig. 2). Bilsk fortification is the centre of a large archaeological complex. It was formed over several centuries: from the second half of the 8th until the end of the 4th century BC. It includes two main fortifications (Western and Eastern), united by a rampart and ditch into one great fortified area. In the north-east there is also the later Kuzemin Fortification. On the territory of the settlement, and beyond its borders, unfortified settlements were also discovered and partially explored.19 The formation and development of several burial grounds on the left bank of the Sukhaya Grun is associated with the formation of this complex settlement structure.20 The bulk of the graves of the 7th–6th centuries BC were discovered in the necropolis of Skorobir.21 Based on the data of stratigraphy and planigraphy,22 as well as on the analysis of a large amount of material found over many years of archaeological excavations on the 12  I. Shramko 1995; 1999; 2000, 30–31; 2004; 2006; 2010; 2012a; 2012b; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2006; 2007; 2009; 2012; 2013; 2014. 13  I. Shramko 2004; 2006; 2010; 2012b. 14  I. Shramko 2007, 19–21; Zadnikov and I. Shramko 2009; 2011. 15  Zadnikov 2007a; 2007b. 16  I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2014, fig. 68; 2018, fig. 3. 17  Makhortykh and Rolle 2006. 18  Havrysh 1995; 2005; 2006; 2011; 2012. 19  I. Shramko 2006; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2018a; 2019a; Shaporda 2016. 20  B. Shramko 1987, 31; 2007, 323. 21  Makhortykh 2013; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2017a; 2018b. 22  I. Shramko 2004; 2006; 2012a.

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Fig. 2. Plan of the Bilsk fortified settlement and burial mounds.

monument, we were able to identify five chronological horizons (Bilsk A–E), reflecting the development of material culture from the second half of the 8th to the end of the 4th century BC.23 Bilsk A horizon (second half of the 8th–first half of the 7th century BC) does not contain Greek imports.24 Early Greek pottery begins to be found only in the materials of the Bilsk B horizon (second half of the 7th century BC–first quarter of the 6th century BC), in sediments of  B. Shramko et al. 2018, 133.  I. Shramko 2006.

23 24

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the third quarter of the 7th century BC (Bilsk B1 horizon).25 In the last quarter of that century and in the first quarter of the next (Bilsk B2 horizon), a significant expansion of the range of ceramic products and an increase in their quantity were noted.26 The pottery set of the Bilsk C1 horizon (second quarter of the 6th century BC) demonstrates a slight reduction in supplies; but already in the third quarter of the 6th century BC, in contrast, the amount increases.27 In the materials of the third quarter of the 6th centuries BC (Bilsk C2 horizon) and especially in the last quarter–end of the 6th century BC (Bilsk D1 horizon) the quantity of imported products is increasing and transport amphorae and tableware from new production centres appear.28 The features of the material complex are associated with four main periods in the history of the settlement (Bilsk 1–4),29 reflecting the main stages of the formation and development of the largest settlement complex of forest-steppe Scythia. Bilsk 1 (second half/end of the 8th–first half of the 7th century BC): along the right bank of the Sukhaya Grun the first unfortified settlements are established, founded by migrants from the Dnieper right bank.30 The traditions of the population are associated with the Basarabi cultural complex.31 Bilsk 2 (second half of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC): characterised by the expansion of previously developed territories, as well as the establishment of trade relations with the Greek centres of the northern Black Sea region.32 Early contacts with the Greeks became possible, probably due to the overland routes west of the Dnieper well known to the local population. The formation of their consumer tastes was promoted by both the cultural environment from which migrants came and the further development of ties with the Hallstatt world, which is confirmed by a rather wide range of Central European imports and imitations in the cultural layer on the territory of the settlement.33 Specifically, the local elite were customers for prestigious items.34 The innovations introduced into the forest-steppe by nomadic Scythians were probably seen by the local population. Foundries for casting bronze items, blanks for making horn items, including those in so-called Scythian Animal Style, were found on the site of the settlement, which indicates local production of various categories of objects of early Scythian culture.35 By the end of the 7th century BC the formation of an aristocratic class in a society consisting of representatives of different ethnic groups had apparently been completed. The division of society on a social basis is well demonstrated by the materials of settlements and burials.36 The first burial mounds to the west of the site appear in the second half of

25

 Zadnikov 2007b; 2009; 2014a; I. Zadnikov and Shramko 2009; 2011; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2010.  Zadnikov 2014a. 27  Zadnikov 2014a. 28  Zadnikov 2014a. 29  I. Shramko 2010, 38. 30  I. Shramko 2006. 31  I. Shramko 2006; 2013. 32  I. Shramko 2010, 38. 33  I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2019a. 34  I. Shramko 2017. 35  I. Shramko 2015; 2019b. 36  Boyko 2017; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2015; 2017b. 26

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the 7th century BC. These are mainly paired and collective,37 less often solitary burials of varying social status. This period is represented by materials from the Bilsk B and Bilsk C1 horizons. Bilsk 338 begins in the second half of the 6th century BC, associated with a new wave of migrants who settled in the third quarter of the 6th century BC on headlands of the right bank of the Vorskla river and began the development of the more easterly territories of the Dnieper–Donets interfluve.39 The emergence of a population with other cultural traditions contributed to the construction of two independent fortifications in the western and eastern parts of the plateau, probably at the end of the third quarter of the century: Western and Eastern. The circle of consumers of products from Greek centres had expanded significantly; the population had noticeably increased. During this period, both fortifications developed in parallel,40 which makes it possible to verify the difference in traditions of the western and eastern settlements via their material culture.41 The difficult external situation42 caused by the rise of a new wave of nomads from the East and the remaining threat of possible intervention by Darius’ troops required the consolidation of the forces of the forest-steppe population.43 Probably around the turn of the third/fourth quarters of the 6th century BC, the two main fortifications were connected by a common rampart and ditch. As a result, a single settlement was formed, described by Herodotus (4. 108) as the city of Gelonus.44 It was during this period that the Bilsk settlement became the centre of a union of tribes. In material culture, signs of the stable development of the settlement as a major craft centre are noticeable.45 The large number of Greek imports indicates the further development of trade exchange with Greek poleis. The main trading partner was Olbia.46 It is no mere chance that Olbian coins – dolphins – were unearthed at Bilsk.47 In one of the mounds of the last third of the 6th century BC an Olbian plate and a bronze Olbian mirror were found.48

FEATURES

OF

POTTERY IMPORTS

OF THE

BILSK 2 PERIOD

Almost all Greek pottery of this period was found on the territory of the Western Fortification, although one fragment of a cup was recovered during excavations of the Lazkivski Stavki 1 settlement (Fig. 2).49

37

 Makhortykh 2013.  I. Shramko 2010, 38. 39  I. Shramko 2010, 38. 40  I. Shramko 2010, 38. 41  B. Shramko 1987; I. Shramko 2010; 2012a. 42  Alekseev 2003, 284. 43  I. Shramko et al. 2018, 87–88; Moruzhenko 1975, 144. 44  Shcherbakivskyi 2017, 357; B. Shramko 1975a; 1987; Boyko 1994; I. Shramko 2006; Havrysh and Kopyl 2010. 45  B. Shramko 1987. 46  Zadnikov 2014a, 11–12. 47  Zadnikov 2017b. 48  I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2018b, fig. 6.5. 49  I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2019a, 86. 38

GREEK POTTERY OF THE 7TH–6TH CENTURIES BC ON BILSK FORTIFIED SETTLEMENT 883

Transport Aamphorae Most transport amphorae were produced in Clazomenae. The earliest of them appear in the third quarter of the 7th century BC. They are represented by the so-called Kolomak type with a horizontal ‘S’ pattern on the shoulder (Fig. 3.28–29),50 supplanted in the last quarter of 7th–turn of the 6th century BC by those without an ‘S’ sign. Amphorae from this latter centre continued to arrive in Bilsk until the end of the 6th century BC. In addition, some examples of the first quarter–middle of the 6th century BC were probably production of Teos. Starting in the third quarter of the 7th century BC, grey clay amphorae from Lesbos or the Lesbian circle were found in the layers of zolniks of the Western Fortification (Fig. 3.30–31).51 From the first half of the 6th century BC red clay vessels first appear on the settlement. By the end of the 5th century BC the number of grey clay amphorae had significantly reduced while that of red clay significantly increases. The Milesian amphorae, according to the Bilsk materials, can be attributed to the end of the 7th–beginning of the 6th century BC. They are common for the first half of the 6th century BC (Fig. 3.32–34) and are represented by single finds in the layers of the third quarter of that century, which indicates the cessation of their supply around mid-century.52 For the early period, amphorae produced by Samos and Attica are rare (type Agora 1502 or ‘à la brosse’).

Tableware We have 48 fragments of different vessels of the second half of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC, represented by only six types of closed (oinochoai, amphorae) and open (bowls, plates and dishes) forms that were used only for a feast. The earliest types of South Ionian Archaic (SiA) tableware are fragments of oinochoai from zolniks 5, 10 and 13 of West Bilsk.53 They belong to the final stage of Middle Wild Goat I (MWG) style, or to the end of SiA Ib–beginning of SiA Ic (635–620 BC). On the fragments there are typical images of goats and dogs in combination with an ornamental belt in the form of an 8-figured loop pattern with filling elements: swastikas, rhombuses, antithetic (hanging) triangles, half roundels, four small lozenges (Fig. 3.4–8).54 A significant number of oinochoe fragments belong to MWG II or SiA Ic (630–610 BC) (Fig. 3.3, 9–15). The MWG II style or SiA Id period (610–580 BC) examples include fragments of table vessels with the image of goats with an elongated body (Fig. 3.12–16, 20–27).

North Ionian Pottery It is represented by closed (oinochoai, table amphorae) and open (cups, dishes, plates) vessels. Plates and dishes are decorated with beams and concentric circles (Fig. 3.17–19). 50

 Zadnikov 2009.  Zadnikov 2009. 52  Zadnikov 2006. 53  I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2010; Zadnikov 2014b. 54  Zadnikov 2007b; 2009; Zadnikov and I. Shramko 2009; 2011; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2010. 51

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STANISLAV ZADNIKOV – IRYNA SHRAMKO

Fig. 3. Greek pottery of the second half of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC from excavations at the Bilsk fortified settlement.

GREEK POTTERY OF THE 7TH–6TH CENTURIES BC ON BILSK FORTIFIED SETTLEMENT 885

In barrow 1 of the Skorobir burial ground a dish of North Ionian production was found (Fig. 1).55 Two fragments of bowls rare for the forest-steppe – with the image of a bird, suspended triangles and drawn rhombuses bounded by vertical rays – come from zolnik 5 of the Western Fortification (Fig. 3.1–2).56 Finds of cups of Ionian production are also known. Separately highlighted is the South Ionian Fikellura style: the fragments preserve images of rays. A rare find is a wall fragment of a closed vessel with lunar ornament, discovered in the excavations of zolnik 10. Greek pottery acts as the main chronological indicator for clarifying the time boundaries for the formation of horizons stratigraphically identified in the cultural layers of the zolniks of the Western Fortification of Bilsk. Excavations of recent years in the most impressive zolniks indicated several main chronological horizons, the material of which was deposited for a long time. It was established that the largest zolnik, no. 5, was formed, from the end of the third/fourth quarter of the 8th up to the second quarter of the 5th century BC; however. Greek imports are found only in sediments of the second half of the 7th century BC. It was here that the MWG I tableware was found (end of SiA Ib–beginning of SiA Ic). The stability of trade and exchange relations with Greek centres in the early period is underlined by expressive fragments of Greek imports of the last quarter of the 7th–first quarter of the 6th century BC found in the zolnik, executed in MWG II style (SiA Ic–SiA II). In addition, time limits were established for two chronological periods of zolnik 28: end of the 7th–first quarter of the 6th century BC; second–third quarters of the 6th century BC. The time of formation of deposits in zolnik 7 was the end of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC. Greek imports of the second half of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC in zolnik 10 are associated with the earliest, lower stratigraphic horizon. Tableware pottery of the end of the 7th–beginning of the 6th century BC comes from dugout zolnik 11.57 Tableware of this time was also found in the cultural layer of zolniks 13 and 19. It should be emphasised that samples of early expensive Greek tableware available for wealthy groups of people were found only in zolnik 5.

FEATURES

OF

POTTERY IMPORTS

OF THE

BILSK 3 PERIOD

A new wave of migrants appeared on the Dnieper forest-steppe Left Bank in the middle–third quarter of the 6th century BC. They founded settlements on several headlands of the high right bank of the Vorskla river. The population grew significantly due to the expansion of the territories developed by the first wave of migrants along the right bank of the Sukhaya Grun. As a result, the amount of Greek imports brought to the settlement increased significantly. The materials of this period have already been found, not only at the Fortification and Eastern Fortifications but also at a number of unsecured settlements within the fortification. 55

 B. Shramko 1994, fig. 5.1.  Zadnikov 2007b, fig. 1.1–2; 2009, fig. 1.1–4; I. Shramko and Zadnikov 2010, fig. 4.1–2. 57  B. Shramko et al. 2018. 56

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Fig. 4. Greek pottery from a household pit 6 zolnik (ash-hill) 5, Western Fortification of Bilsk fortified settlement.

GREEK POTTERY OF THE 7TH–6TH CENTURIES BC ON BILSK FORTIFIED SETTLEMENT 887

Fig. 5. Attic pottery found on the Bilsk fortified settlement.

During this period, products from new centres appeared: Ionia58 (so-called Protothasian amphorae) (Fig. 4.1, 2, 6), Mende and Thasos. The largest number of fragments at this time was represented by dishes from three centres: Clazomenae (30%) (Fig. 4.3, 5, 7, 9), Chios (22%) (Fig. 4.8) and Ionia (Protothasian) (22%). Next are Lesbos (17%) (Fig. 4.10) and Thasos (4%). Amphorae from Mende (1%), Samos (1%), Attica (1%) and Miletus (1%) were found in small number.59 Tableware of Attic production entered the settlement from the third quarter of the 6th century, occupying a principal position in the second half of the century. It was found in all the settlements of the Bilsk and is represented by cups, table amphorae, jugs, olpai, black-lacquered cups, as well as fragments of four kraters found in zolnik 5 on the 58

 Sezgin 2012, 324–26.  Zadnikov 2014a; 2014b.

59

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Western Fortification (Figs. 4.11; 5) The localisation of these fragments within the same zolnik suggests that the estate of a rather wealthy family was located here. Tableware from Chios is represented by fragments of jugs found on the Western and Eastern Fortifications and on the settlement at Tsarina Mogila (Fig. 2), from the middle of the 6th century BC. Ionian production provides a small amount of Greek tableware: fragments of cups, mugs, jugs, lekythoi and amphorae. Fragments of table amphorae, decorated with stripes of brown or red varnish, were found mostly on the Western Fortification. Only from the Eastern Fortification are there fragments of table amphorae of Clazomenian production and fragments of Laconian cups. Fragments of grey clay tableware (jugs, oinochoai, bowls) of Olbian production were found in almost all settlements, as well as in barrow 1 (burial 2) (1995) of the Pereshchepino burial ground. Such dishes first appeared on the site in the second half of the 6th century BC. Only on two fortifications (Western and Eastern) are lekythoi from Attica represented. Quite rare and even unique for the forest-steppe territory are the fragments of askoi and lamps of Ionian production, since it is known that the tribes of the northern Black Sea region did not use lamps, except those on the periphery of ancient cities. The group of rare pottery forms is supplemented by fragments of light clay mortar found during excavations of the Western and Eastern Fortifications and on a settlement at Tsarina Mogila, located south-east of the Western Fortification.

CONCLUSIONS Thus, the Bilsk fortified settlement is the best explored local settlement in the northern Black Sea region, investigated by Kharkiv University for more than six decades, joined more recently by archaeologists from Kiev/Kyiv, Poltava and Kotelva. Currently, an area of more than 60,000 m2 has been investigated. A huge amount of material was obtained, among which Greek pottery occupies a special place. As a result of many years of excavation of zolniks in the Western Fortification and the large amount of Greek imports in cultural deposits in such mounds, as well as cases of direct stratigraphy, four chronological horizons were identified, three of which (Bilsk B, C and D) contained Greek pottery. These horizons contain the material culture of two main periods in the history of the settlement: Bilsk 2 and Bilsk 3. The first of them reflects the early stage of the development of the settlement, which lacked defensive fortifications. It is connected with the culture and traditions of the first inhabitants, migrants from the right bank of the Dnieper, who settled in the western regions of the watershed plateau along the right bank of the Sukhaya Grun in the second half–end of the 8th century BC during the Bilsk 1 period. The second (Bilsk 3 period) reflects the situation associated with the emergence of a new wave of migrants from the West, who founded in the third quarter of the 6th century BC settlements on the eastern part of the plateau, on the high right bank of the Vorskla. Both settlements delimited their main territory with a rampart and a moat. At the turn of the third/fourth quarters of the 6th century BC under external threat from new waves of nomads from the East, the two main fortifications (Western and Eastern) were connected by a long rampart and ditch/

GREEK POTTERY OF THE 7TH–6TH CENTURIES BC ON BILSK FORTIFIED SETTLEMENT 889

moat to form one fortification. It occupied an area of about 5000 ha and had a defence line of 37 km. This was the largest fortified settlement in Europe at that time, which in the last quarter–end of the 6th century BC became the centre of a union of tribes with developed crafts and stable trade relations with Greek centres of the northern Black Sea region. It is this ancient settlement that most scholars identify with the city of Gelonus, described by Herodotus. Many years of archaeological excavations at the site confirm its importance for the population of Eastern Europe at the beginning of the Early Iron Age. A permanent trading partner in the third quarter of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC was Berezan,60 and from the second half of the century Olbia. The collection of Greek pottery formed over decades of excavation is also indicative. It has more than 7000 fragments and several dozen whole transport amphorae. About 300 fragments and ten whole forms of tableware are assigned to the period considered in this article. Greek imports of the early period were found mainly in zolnik layers and in small quantities in burials; in the second half of the 6th century BC containers and tableware are well known not only from excavation materials of various settlements, but tableware and amphora fragments were found in elite graves. Greek pottery first appeared on the site appeared in the third quarter of the 7th century BC, at that time mainly transport amphorae from Clazomenae, Lesbos and Miletus. Tableware is represented by Ionian vessels used for drinking and feasting. From the second half of the 6th century BC the quantity of Greek ware increased markedly, perhaps due to the demographic situation in the region and the expansion of developed territories. The range of wines brought in amphorae made in such centres as Clazomenae, Lesbos, Chios, Ionia (so-called Protothasian), Thasos and Mende expanded. Attic production predominated among tableware, with smaller amounts from Ionia and Olbia. The main categories of the time were oinochoai, cups, table amphorae, lekythoi, olpai, kraters and mortars. In the second half of the 6th century BC a variety of dishes were brought to Bilsk, not only for drinking but for other purposes: for incense, toiletries and even for lighting.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alekseev, A.Y. 2003: Khronografiya Skifii (St Petersburg). Boyko, Y.N. 1994: ‘Sotsiologiya vostochnoevropeyskogo goroda 1 tyis. do n.e. (po materialam Belskogo gorodischa i Vorsklinskoy regionalnoy sistemyi skifskogo vremeni)’. Drevnosti 1994, 29–42. —. 2017: Sotsialnyi sklad naselennia baseinu richky Vorskly za skifskoi doby (Kiev/Kotelva). Gorodtsov, V.A. 1911: ‘Drevnik arkheologicheskikh issledovanii v Zenkovskom uezde Poltavskoi gubernii v 1906 godu’. In Uvarova, P.S. (ed.), Trudyi XIV Arkheologicheskogo, s’ezda, vol. 3 (Moscow), 93–161. Grakov, B.N. and Elagina, N.G. 1958: ‘Otchet o raskopkah skifskoy ekspeditsii istoricheskogo fakulteta MGU na Belskom gorodischev 1958 g.’. Scientific Archive of the Institute of Archaeology of the National Academy of Sciences of the Ukraine, Kiev, 1958/30.

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—. 2010: ‘Belskoe gorodische: osnovnyie etapyi razvitiya’. In Problemyi istorii i arheologii Ukrainyi (Materialyi VII Mezhdunarodnoy nauchnoy konferentsii, Kharkiv, 28–29 oktyabrya 2010 g.) (Kharkov), 38. —. 2012a: ‘Belskoe gorodische – krupneyshiy poselencheskiy kompleks Lesostepnoy Skifi’. In Korost I.I. (ed.), Fenomen Bilskoho horodyshcha: zberezhennia, doslidzhennia ta populiaryzatsiia naibilshoi v Yevropi pamiatky doby rannoho zaliznoho viku (Kiev), 5–8. —. 2012b: ‘Zolniki Zapadnogo Belskogo gorodischa: planigrafiya i hronologiya’. In Scheglova, O.A. (ed.), Slavyane Vostochnoy Evropyi nakanune obrazovaniya Drevnerusskogo gosudarstva (Posvyaschennoy 110–letiyu so dnya rozhdeniya Ivana Ivanovicha Lyapushkina [1902–1968], 3–5 dekabrya) (St Petersburg), 168–72. —. 2013: ‘Basarabi Features in the Ceramic Complex of the Bilsk Settlement’. In Sîrbu, V. and Schuster, C. (eds.), The Thracians and their Neighbours in the Bronze and Iron Ages (12th International Congress of Thracology, Târgovişte, 10th–14th September 2013) (Brăila), 135–36. —. 2015: ‘Rogovyie nakonechniki lukov s Zapadnogo Belskogo gorodischa’. In Trudyi Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 77: Arkheologiya bez granits. Kollektsii, problemyi, issledovaniya, gipotezyi (St Petersburg), 487–511. —. 2017: ‘Novyiy pogrebalnyiy kompleks ranneskifskogo vremeni v mogilnike Skorobor’. Arkheolohiya i davnia istoriya Ukrainy 2(23): Starozhytnosti rannoho zaliznoho viku, 368–80. —. 2019a: ‘60-rokiv doslidzhen Bilskoho horodyshcha Kharkivskym universytetom’. Arkheolohiya 1, 144–47. —. 2019b: ‘Rohove zavershennia luka z Bilskoho horodyshcha’. Arkheolohiya 4, 52–59. Shramko, I.B., Korost, I.I. and Zadnikov, S.A. 2018: ‘Oboronitelnaya sistema Vostochnogo ukrepleniya Belskogo gorodischa’. Arkheolohiya i davniaia istoriya Ukrainy 2(27): Starozhytnosti rannoho zaliznoho viku, 77–100. Shramko, I.B. and Zadnikov, S.A. 2006: ‘Rozkopky zolnyka no. 5 v 2004 r. na Zakhidnomu ukriplenni Bilskoho horodyshcha’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia v Ukraini 2004–2005, 58– 62. —. 2007: ‘Rezultaty arkheolohichnoho doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha v 2006 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia v Ukraini 2005–2006, 429–31. —. 2009: ‘Rezultaty arkheolohichnoho doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha v 2007 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia v Ukraini 2006–2007, 363–65. —. 2010: ‘Novyie nahodki ranney antichnoy keramiki na Belskom gorodische’. In Maslenikov, A.A. (ed.), ΣΥΜΒΟΛΑ1 (Moscow/Kiev), 294–300. —. 2012: ‘Rabotyi na Zapadnom ukreplenii Belskogo gorodischa’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia v Ukraini 2011, 391. —. 2013: ‘Roboty na Bilskomu horodyshchi’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia v Ukraini 2012, 291–92. —. 2014: ‘Doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha v 2013 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2013, 5–61. —. 2015: ‘Rezultaty arkheolohichnykh doslidzhen kurhanu skifskoho chasu v urochyshchi Marchenky’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2014, 56–67. —. 2017a: ‘Predvaritelnyie itogi issledovaniy mogilnika Skorobor v 2016 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2016, 9–20. —. 2017b: ‘Rich grave of early Scythian period at Bilsk necropolis Skorobor’. Ukrainian Archaeology 2016, 47–53. —. 2018a: ‘Doslidzhennia poselennia Lazkivski Stavky I v 2017 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2017, 95–125. —. 2018b: ‘Doslidzhennia kurhaniv na nekropoli Skorobir v 2017 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2017, 6–22. —. 2019a: ‘Doslidzhennia rannoskifskoho poselennia Lazkivski Stavky I ekspedytsiieiu Kharkivskoho universytetu v 2018 r.’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2018, 78–88. —. 2019b: ‘To the question of the connection of the Bilsk hillfort (Ukraine) with the Hallstatt world’. In Early Iron Age in Central Europe, 4th–6th July, 2019, Wrocław (Conference Abstracts), 14–15.

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Shcherbakivskyi, V. 2017: ‘Heohrafichne polozhennia mista Helon Herodota’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia Bilskoho horodyshcha 2016, 343–60. Sezgin, Y. 2012: Arkaik Dönem Ionia Üretimi Ticari Amphoralar (Istanbul). Zadnikov, S.A. 2006: ‘Miletski tarni amfory v lisostepovomu Dniprovskomu Livoberezhzhi (za materialamy zolnykiv no. 5 ta 28 Zakhidnoho ukriplennia Bilskoho horodyshcha)’. In Chernenko, Y.V. (ed.), Bilske horodyshche ta yoho okruha (do 100-richchia pochatku polovykh doslidzhen) (Kiev), 105–15. —. 2007a: ‘Rannyaya antichnaya keramika Belsko gorodischa’. In Kopylov, V.P. (ed.), Mezhdunarodnyie otnosheniya v basseyne Chernogo morya v drevnosti i srednie veka (Sbornik materialov XII Mezhdunarodnoy nauchnoy konferentsii) (Rostov-on-Don), 19–21. —. 2007b: ‘Stolovaya antichnaya keramika Belskogo gorodischa vtoroy polovinyi VII – pervoy polovinyi VI v. do n.e.’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Sakralnyiy smyisl regiona, pamyatnikov, nahodok, vol. 2 (St Petersburg), 41–47. —. 2009: Antichnaya keramika tretey chetverti VII v. do n.e. iz raskopok na Belskom gorodische’. In Kopylov, V.P. (ed.), Mezhdunarodnyie otnosheniya v basseyne Chernogo morya skifo–antichnoe i hazarskoe vremya (Sbornik statey po materialam XII Mezhdunarodnoy nauchnoy konferentsii) (Rostov-on-Don), 15–21. —. 2010: ‘Antichnaya keramika iz raskopa 2009 g. na zolnike 10 Zapadnogo ukrepleniya Belskogo gorodischa’. Arkheolohichni doslidzhennia v Ukraini 2009, 132–33. —. 2013: ‘Antichnaya keramika iz zemlyanok kontsa VII–pervoy chetverti VI v. do n.e. Zapadnogo Belskogo gorodischa’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Greki i varvaryi na evraziyskom perekryostke (St Petersburg), 366–71. —. 2014a: Antychnyi keramichnyi import na Bilskomu horodyshchi skifskoho chasu (Abstract of Dissertation, Institute of Archaeology of the National Academy of Sciences of the Ukraine). —. 2014b: ‘Kompleks antichnyih amfor pervoy poloviny VI v. do n.e. iz yamyi 11 zolnika 13 Zapadnogo Belskogo gorodischa’. Tyragetia 8(23).1, 253–65. —. 2017a: ‘Torgovyie otnosheniya Belskogo gorodischa s Berezanyu’. Trudyi Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 8: Peripl: ot Borisfena do Berezani. Materialyi yubileynoy konferentsii (St Petersburg), 65–73. —. 2017b: ‘Greek coins in the territory of the forest–steppe Scythia’. In Money on the Margins Coinage, Forms and Strategies of Intercultural Commerce on the Black Sea Shore in the Classical and Hellenistic Eras (Abstracts of International Workshop, June 18–22, 2017, Zichron Yaakov), 16. Zadnikov, S.A. and Shramko, I.B. 2009: ‘K voprosu o pervyih kontaktah naseleniya Belskogo gorodischa s antichnyim mirom’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Iskusstvo na periferii antichnogo mira: materialyi nauchnoy konferentsii (St Petersburg), 473–77. —. 2011: ‘Antichnyiy import tretey chetverti VII – pervoy chetverti VI v. do n.e. na Belskom gorodische (pomaterialam 2008 i 2009 gg.)’. In Posohov, S. (ed.), Drevnosti Vostochnoy Evropyi: Sbornik nauchnyih trudovk 90-letiyu B.A. Shramko (Kharkov), 138–47.

STRONGHOLD ON THE ISTHMUS OF THE LIGHTHOUSE PENINSULA IN THE SYSTEM OF THE POLIS OF CHERSONESUS Angelina A. ZEDGENIDZE

ABSTRACT This article summarises the results of my study of the Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula (‘Strabo’s Chersonesus’, ‘ancient Chersonesus’) in the south-western Crimea. It describes the system of the polis of Chersonesus in its entirety, namely the main features of the city and of the chora, the spatial relationship between the city and the chora, and the purpose and structure of the Stronghold.

INTRODUCTION The Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula (Mayachnyi poluostrov) is made up of fortificatory constructions limited by two defensive walls that cross this isthmus from west and east (Fig. 1). The Lighthouse Peninsula is the western end of the Heraclean Peninsula (south-western Crimea) and, in its turn, is a plateau of ca. 12,000 ha. Before the Heraclean Peninsula was built over, i.e. up to the 1970s, it had represented an impressive picture of ancient activity. In its territory of around 100 km2 were preserved parallel lines of stone walls that intersected at right angles and divided the peninsula into almost equal-size land plots, in some of which ancient ruins remained. All these were the surviving elements of the chora of Tauric Chersonesus. The Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula is mentioned by Strabo (7. 4. 2): … next in order as one sails along the coast is a great cape which projects towards the south and is a part of the Chersonesus as a whole; and on this cape is situated a city of the Heracleotae, a colony of the Heracleotae who live on the Pontus, and this place itself is called Chersonesus, being distant as one sails along the coast four thousand four hundred stadia from the Tyras. In this city is the temple of the Parthenos, a certain deity; and the cape which is in front of the city, at a distance of one hundred stadia, is also named after this deity, for it is called the Parthenium …. Between the city and the cape are three harbours. Then comes the Old Chersonesus, which has been razed to the ground; and after it comes a narrow-mouthed harbour, where, generally speaking, the Tauri, a Scythian tribe, used to assemble their bands of pirates in order to attack all who fled thither for refuge. It is called Symbolon Limen. This harbour forms with another harbour called Ctenus Limen an isthmus forty stadia in width; and this is the isthmus that encloses the Little Chersonesus, which, as I was

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Fig. 1. Lighthouse Peninsula (aerial photograph, 2000). Stronghold on the isthmus: 1 – Western wall, 2 – Eastern wall, 3 – Excavation site.

saying, is a part of the Great Chersonesus and has on it the city of Chersonesus, which bears the same name as the peninsula (translation H.L. Jones). The term χερρόνησος in this text refers to three geographical objects. ‘The Great Chersonesus’ (ἡ μεγάλη χερρόνησος) is the entire Crimea; part of it is a ‘great cape’ (ἄκρα μεγάλη), or ‘the Little Chersonesus’ (ἡ μικρὰ χερρόνησος), i.e. the Heraclean Peninsula (μέρος … τῆς ὅλης χερρονήσου). Chersonesus, the polis of the Heracleotes, is located there, as well as ‘the Old Chersonesus that has been razed to the ground’ (ἡ παλαιὰ Χερρόνησος κατεσκαμμένη). The latter locality is termed Strabo’s Chersonesus or ‘ancient Chersonesus’ in the literature; this is the Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula. One of the main problems encountered by those who study ancient Chersonesus is the strategy of the Greeks in obtaining control over the territory that was adjacent to the city and constituted the polis in its entirety (the city and the chora). Active study of the sites of the Heraclean Peninsula began in the 1950s‒60s, but the Lighthouse Peninsula was a restricted area. The last excavations were carried out here in 1914. In 1967, A.N. Shcheglov conducted small-scale archaeological studies.1 However, attention to Strabo’s Chersonesus remained largely theoretical and resulted in a number of contradictory explanations of the site. I received an opportunity to begin excavations on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula in 1985. Because of circumstances, it was not possible to continue the excavations 1

 For details, see Shcheglov 1994.

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after 1990. The aim of the fortifications on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula posed a rather difficult problem, being quite a risky object of research. The situation was aggravated by the construction of a battery for coastal defence in the early 20th century, and great damage to the territory caused by fierce military activity during the Second World War, as well as by later chaotic cottage building. Prior to my excavations, there had been no systematic studies that would give an integrated picture of the sites of the Lighthouse Peninsula. The excavations carried out before were fragmentary and were not completed, thus being of little significance to our study. I will show that the Stronghold represents an element of the chora of Chersonesus and will identify its purpose. It is first necessary to describe briefly the system of the polis in its entirety, i.e. the city, the chora and the territorial relationship between them. Gocha Tsetskhladze, then a student of Kharkov University, was one of the most active participants of the initial field studies in the Lighthouse Peninsula which were carried out to find the most reasonable place for excavations. Later, he participated in excavations in the central part of the Stronghold. After many years, in 2015, we met at a conference in Warsaw, and Gocha called the results of the excavations a discovery, which of course inspired me to continue the study of this site.

THE CITY The colonists from Heraclea chose for the city a moderately elevated peninsula sloping down to a narrow and deep bay, now the Quarantine Bay (Karantinnaya bukhta), which served as a safe shelter. The coast of the bay facing the city was not steep, being convenient for loading and unloading ships. The location chosen for the city had the following features: the peninsula was spacious enough to hold a settlement; at the same time it was possible to wall it off; a harbour useful for the trade was available close by; and the land adjacent to the city was large enough to be divided among the citizens in order to provide conditions for agriculture. Thucydides (1. 7. 1) compares the old and new sites in such manner: The more recent foundations – when navigation was more common and there was greater capital resource – were of cities built with fortifying walls right on the coast, commanding the isthmuses in each case both for trade and for defence against neighbouring peoples (translation M. Hammond). Chersonesus is a good illustration of such a new coastal city. Cf. also Aristotle’s recommendations (Politics 7. 1326b‒1327a): The proper configuration of the country (τὸ εἶδος τῆς χώρας) it is not difficult to state : on the one hand it should be difficult for enemies to invade and easy for the people themselves to march out from, and in addition, on the other hand, the same thing holds good of the territory (χώρα) that we said about the size of the population – it must be well able to be taken in at one view, and that means being a country easy for military defence. As to the site of the city, if it is to be ideally placed, it is proper for it to be well situated with regard both to the sea and to the country.

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One defining principle is that … the city must be in communication with all parts of the territory for the purpose of sending out military assistance; and the remaining principle is that it must be easily accessible for the conveyance to it of the agricultural produce, and also of timber-wood and any other such material that the country happens to possess (translation H. Rackham). The location of Chersonesus accords well with this recommendation, for the place chosen for the city offered good prospects for the growth of the state, for the reasonable organisation of its territory both in the initial stage and later.2

THE CHORA As a city alone, Chersonesus is just one of many in the ancient world, but together with its chora it serves as an excellent model of the Greek city-state because its agricultural system had been preserved, the most intact in the Black Sea and Mediterranean regions. Study of the chora of Chersonesus is important because obtaining control over the land and its division among the colonists was a significant stage in establishing apoikiai. The historiography of studies of the chora is described in a series of my articles.3 The general configuration of the land division of the chora has been reconstructed in the course of many years of research by earlier scholars; now the main issue that requires attention is the factors and elements that determined this particular configuration. The chora of Chersonesus includes a system of land plots on the Heraclean Peninsula, i.e. in the territory confined by the Chersonesus Promontory (Mys Khersones), Sevastopol Bay (Sevastopolskaya bukhta), and Balaklava Bay (Balaklavskaya bukhta). Land division of the chora was carried out in accordance with the principle of dividing the land into rectangular pieces limited by roads. The overall territory covered by land division was 10,000 ha. According to S. Strzheletskii, the area of land plots encompassed by the roads was between 17.5 and 26.5 ha.4 G. Nikolaenko cites somewhat different numbers: from 15–17 to 26–30 ha.5 There is a hypothesis about two stages in developing the Heraclean Peninsula, namely of an initial stage of land division on its western end, i.e. the Lighthouse Peninsula, and the following division of the remaining territory.6 In the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula, a Stronghold was constructed. It defended the land plots of the Lighthouse Peninsula (due to which, and in contrast to the rest of the Heraclean Peninsula, there was no need to build fortified farmsteads there) and, on the other hand, served as an outpost of the polis; see below. The minimum distance between the Stronghold and the city of Chersonesus was 8.5 km. This Stronghold is even now a good illustration of how Greeks chose a strategically important place for their fortifications. The defensive walls of ‘ancient Chersonesus’, partly excavated, now look like small elevations, in most parts only slightly visible. However, from one of them – the eastern – the

2

 Zedgenidze 2015a.  Zedgenidze 2014a; 2015b; 2015c. 4  Strzheletskii 1961, 49. 5  Nikolaenko 1999, 40. 6  Saprykin 1994a, 79‒83. 3

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whole Heraclean Peninsula can be seen, and from the other – the western – the whole Lighthouse Peninsula. Having secured this border, the colonists could develop the surrounding territory, build roads and carry out the land division step by step. One of the first works must have been the construction of a road from the main gates of the city to the gates in the eastern wall of the Stronghold. This road follows the terrain to take the shortest route between the two points. Its construction may be regarded as the initial stage in the land division. It is this road that serves as an element determining the structure of the chora in the Heraclean Peninsula – but not in the Lighthouse Peninsula, where the pattern of the land division was, of course, different. The position of the road determined the axes of the land division, which came to be parallel to the road. On the whole, having occupied the Lighthouse Peninsula and built the road from the Stronghold on its isthmus to the city of Chersonesus, the colonists outlined the territory that the polis was supposed to possess. These activities were the initial steps in forming the chora of Chersonesus.

THE CITY

AND THE

CHORA

The city of Chersonesus clearly conformed to Hippodamus’ system of city-planning;7 in this system, the orthogonal network of streets made up rectangular sections. According to Aristotle, Hippodamus of Miletus ‘invented the division of cities into blocks and cut up Piraeus’8 (Pol. 2. 1267b; translation H. Rackham). As the polis comprised not only the city but also the chora, Aristotle probably implies here the division of polis on the whole, i.e. the planning of not only the city but also of the adjacent chora.9 The most prominent feature in the land division of Chersonesus is its strict regularity, which allows us to claim that the planning of both the city and the chora was carried out according to one system, i.e. that of Hippodamus. It was convenient for creating a new well-arranged city-state. Not relying on spontaneous and chaotic occupation of the territory, this system allowed the colonists to divide it, set up an efficient road network, outline equal land plots, and provide the most convenient connexion with the apoikia. The system was such that its elements could later be used in a variety of ways. The division of land into segments made it possible to use them differently in later periods, but despite all potential variety in arranging the land within the segments, the core lines of the system are preserved forever and contain information about the original structure of land division. An interesting testimony of the uniform principle in planning the city and the chora is the fact that the Karl Hablitz, the pioneer in the study of Chersonesus, titled the map drawn in 1786 and reflecting the remains of the ancient land division of the Heraclean Peninsula as ‘Plan of the Ruins of the Ancient Kherson. With an indication of the former straight streets by the brown colour, and of the quarters by the red colour.’10 As is seen from this title, Hablitz believed that Chersonesus occupied the entire territory of the Heraclean Peninsula; he called the roads between the land plots ‘streets’, the land plots themselves 7

 Buiskikh 2008, 105.  … τὴν τῶν πόλεων διαίρεσιν εὗρε καὶ τὸν Πειραιᾶ κατέτεμεν. 9  Zedgenidze 2015b, 49. 10  See Tunkina 2002, 485, fig. 126. 8

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‘quarters’. Despite the fact that extending the city on the entire Heraclean Peninsula is, strictly speaking, a mistake, it is not as naive as it would seem, and shows that in the time of Hablitz, the urban character of arranging the chora was still seen to such an extent that its remains were perceived as those of the city. The strict regularity in planning the chora of Chersonesus was not disrupted by the features of the terrain, which is colourfully described by F. Dubois de Montpéreux, who surveyed the Heraclean Peninsula in 1833: La surface de la Chersonèse fut coupée par des lignes parallèles qui la traversaient dans toute sa longueur et dans sa largeur, en se croisant à angles droits. Ravin, fossé, rocher, rien n’en changea la direction et l’allure. Ces lignes, distantes de ½ verst et de 1 verst, furent destinées à être grands chemins ou sorties vicinales. On leur donna à toutes 15 pieds de large, on éleva, de chaque côté, des murailles qui fermaient les carrés réguliers. Ces carrés, plus ou moins grands, suivant que les lignes étaient plus ou moins rapprochées, se trouvèrent circonscrits de quatre chemins et abordables de toutes parts.11 The value of this description is in the fact that it reflects the condition of the chora in the period when it was still intact and not built up.

THE STRONGHOLD The Stronghold is limited from the west and east by two defensive walls which date back to the late 5th/early 4th century BC.12 The inner territory of the Stronghold was divided into three segments, viz. the upper (the Acropolis), the middle (inhabited segment) and the lower (the port) (Fig. 2). The former segment was not built over.13 The defensive walls of the Stronghold were erected along the dominating heights of the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula, which accorded with the requirements of Greek fortification. The walls consisted of curtains and towers, the distance between which was appropriate and common to the wall-building of the northern Black Sea coast.14 The parameters of the excavated parts of the walls allow us to claim that their thickness – up to 1.6 m – was comparable, both for the external wall (the eastern, i.e. facing the Heraclean Peninsula) and the internal (the western, facing the Lighthouse Peninsula). The distance between the towers of the both walls was also comparable, ca. 70 m, which shows that their military properties were approximately the same. Within the Stronghold, a cross-wall was built; it linked the main defensive walls and separated the highest part of the isthmus, which made up the Acropolis. There a garrison (φρουρά) could be quartered. One should note that in the maps and plans of the 18th–early 20th centuries (Fig. 3) it is seen that the dividing walls of the land plots of the Heraclean Peninsula on one side and of the Lighthouse Peninsula on the other do not extend to the territory of the Stronghold. This invalidates the hypothesis that the central part of the Stronghold was an agricultural territory with regular land-division walls.15 11

 Dubois de Montpéreux 1843, 174‒75.  Zedgenidze 2016, 605. 13  Strzheletskii 1959, 72; Shcheglov 1976, 42; 1994, 18. 14  Kutaisov 1992, 81. 15  Cf. Shcheglov 1994, 17‒22. 12

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Fig. 2. Plan of the Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula. a = fortification walls (Eastern and Western); б = transverse wall; в = land-division walls; г = roads; д = ➀: Acropolis, ➁: central part, ➂: harbour area; е, ж = excavated complexes of constructions with definite (e) and approximate localisations (ж). Capital letters refer to places of excavations: Д Н = Demyanchuk, Nessel; Д Н Н = Demyanchuk, Nessel, Nikolaenko; З = Zedgenidze; К = Kostsyushko-Valyuzhinich; Л = Loeper; П = Pechenkin.

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Fig. 3. Lighthouse Peninsula. Fragments of plans. 1 – Strulov’s map (1786); 2 – Map drawn by Pepelev and signed by Hablitz (1786); 3 – Map of 1786 published by Metropolitan Evgenii (Bolkhovitinov) in 1822 and 1828; 4 – Die Herakleotische Halbinsel. Nach Clarke und Dubois (Neuman 1855); 5 – Plan of land division of the Lighthouse Peninsula by N.M. Pechenkin (1910).

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Understanding the purpose of the Stronghold and the reasons for its location in this particular area allows us to cast light on the general logic of the structure of the chora and, consequently, of the spatial organisation of the polis of Chersonesus as a whole. Here, two factors should be borne in mind, namely the geographical features of the area where the Stronghold was located and the demographic situation in the Heraclean Peninsula during the period when the Greeks were creating the infrastructure of the chora. Besides, one should take into account possible typological parallels; however, clear-cut and easy-to-observe parallels can be lacking due to the specificity of each site. As for its geographical location, the Stronghold occupies a relatively narrow isthmus which is quite possible to be walled off on both sides; this is particularly relevant because the resources and manpower were naturally limited at the initial stage of the development of the polis. The north-western end of the Lighthouse Peninsula permits an attack from the sea, but in the case of such attack the owners of the land plots of the Lighthouse peninsula could find shelter behind the western wall of the Stronghold. Likewise, if the assailants had landed ashore in a small lowland area in the south-eastern part of the peninsula, they would have found themselves under the eastern wall, i.e. right under the Acropolis and in an obviously vulnerable position. Furthermore, the Stronghold occupied an elevated area which commanded an excellent view over both the Lighthouse and Heraclean Peninsulae. From land, the Stronghold was defended by the walls (including the internal cross-wall), from the sea by an unassailable precipice. The immediate aim of the Stronghold was in in all likelihood the defence of the plots of the Lighthouse Peninsula, due to which there was no need to build fortified farmsteads there (unlike the rest of the Heraclean Peninsula). However, apart from defending the Lighthouse Peninsula, the Stronghold had a more fundamental aim in the fortification of the chora. It secured the lands of the frontier, rather than the inner part of the Heraclean Peninsula. Having established themselves on the western extremity of the Heraclean Peninsula, the Chersonesites secured this boundary and, consequently, the entire territory between the city and the Stronghold. Ideally, they should have walled off the entire Heraclean Peninsula from the east, but constructing even a modest continuous wall between the upper parts of the present-day Sevastopol Bay and Balaklava Bay seems totally unrealistic. Nevertheless, fortificatory constructions existed at this side of the Heraclean Peninsula as well; they were mentioned by Pallas.16 One should also take into account that a chain of sanctuaries is reconstructed along the coast of the Heraclean Peninsula.17 They were situated on particularly elevated parts of the coast and alongside their religious function could serve as lookout posts and alert a surprise attack from the open sea. One of these sanctuaries – the temple of Parthenos – is mentioned by Strabo (7. 4. 2). As for the demographic situation in the formation period of the chora, its territory was not free of barbarians, namely the Tauri, who, traditionally, had an extremely bad reputation among the Greeks and, clearly, represented a danger in the eyes of the colonists. An archaeological equivalent of this autochthonous population is the Kizil-Koba

16  ‘On the sides of this line [from Balaklava Bay to Inkerman] notice the elevation …, on which … very weak traces of the wall and several towers are seen, some quadrangular, some of which are round; a large proportion of the stone, it seems, was taken to Balaklava to be hewn’ (Pallas 1999, 42). 17  Zedgenidze 2014b; 2015d.

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culture.18 It is agreed that the Heraclean Peninsula was initially inhabited by bearers of this culture, but later, in the second quarter or the first half of the 4th century BC, life in these barbarian settlements of the Heraclean Peninsula, particularly in its western part, ceases.19 This is related to the establishing of the Greeks and the development of chorai here. However, barbarian settlements in the Inkerman, Belbek and Balaklava valleys continued to exist, which supports the hypothesis that the disappearance of barbarian settlements within the Heraclean Peninsula was caused by the activities of the Greeks.20 Now a definition of the Stronghold can be given. Among the types of Greek fortifications, φρούριον is probably the closest to our site. A. Lawrence points to the following features of a φρούριον: it is permanent; located in a certain distance from the city; often has an Acropolis; and is situated in an area with a hostile local population.21 As already stated above, in the Acropolis of the Stronghold, namely in the part that was separated by the transverse wall, a garrison could be quartered. In this connexion, one should of course mention the honorific inscription for Agasikles (late 4th–early 3rd century BC, IOSPE III 151), who can be regarded as a strategos of the chora of Chersonesus.22 Though this inscription dates to the time later than the construction of the Stronghold, its mention of the garrison is notable (εἰσαγησαμένωι τὰν φρου[ρὰ]ν καὶ κατασκευάξαντι). As for typological parallels, the word φρούριον, among other instances, occurred in an inscription from Cape Sounion that dates to the former half of the 3rd century BC.23 Sounion belonged to a number of strongholds of Athens that were situated on the frontiers in several strategically important localities.24 These strongholds were durably built fortifications, typically had a strong garrison, could have temples, and, in the case of a military threat, made up a serious obstacle to the enemy.25 Sounion was an important point for Athens as it controlled marine passages of the area; similarly, the Stronghold on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula, beside its main functions, helped to command both the coastal and direct navigation which was fairly active in the area.26

CONCLUSION A well-founded historical explanation of the Stronghold cannot be given without a detailed description of the available archaeological material.27 This material is particularly important because the site is rather fragmented and destroyed as well as accompanied by numerous hypotheses, many of which were proposed with little factual base. In the course of our study of the Stronghold, both archaeological and historical, we have reconstructed its spatial organisation and identified its aim. The territory of the Stronghold comprised functionally different zones. The Acropolis, free from habitable houses, was 18

 Zubar 2007, 6‒20; Kravchenko 2010, 149‒54.  Savelya 1997, 89; Kravchenko 2010, 55, 60. 20  Savelya 1996, 14. 21  Lawrence 1979, 137, 172‒73. 22  Saprykin 1994a, 74‒75. 23  Maier 1959, 116. 24  McCredie 1966, 88‒89. 25  McCredie 1966, 88‒89. 26  Ivanov 2001, 223‒26. 27  Zedgenidze 2019. 19

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used for the cult of a deity, whose temple was probably a dominating architectural element of the Stronghold. In the Acropolis, due to its substantial fortification (the walls and the precipice), a garrison could be quartered in case of military necessity. The territory below the Acropolis was used for houses. Due to the lack of systematic excavations in the central part of the Stronghold, we cannot judge how densely and with what pattern it was built up. But, importantly, the necessity of habitable structures within the Stronghold might have been caused by the fact that the Stronghold was established somewhat earlier than the network of land plots on the Lighthouse Peninsula.28 At this initial stage, the habitable buildings here were necessary both for the garrison and for those who carried out land division. As for the port area, it had a good harbour protected from winds and waves in the upper part of a relatively long bay (present-day Cossack Bay). The harbour was also protected by a defensive wall and a tower on an islet in the upper part of the bay. One should note once again that the space of the Stronghold was clearly separated from the surrounding agricultural territory as the dividing walls of the land plots did not extend on the isthmus. Thus, the territory of the Stronghold was initially non-agricultural. The time when the fortificatory infrastructure of the Stronghold was established is the late 5th–early 4th centuries BC. The eastern and western defensive walls were built simultaneously. The Stronghold was constructed at the same time as the city, or a little later after its foundation, which is related to the general purpose of the Stronghold, i.e. the securing of the western territory of the Heraclean Peninsula under the control of Chersonesus. The Stronghold, as it were, fixed the north-western border of the chora. The constructions on the isthmus of the Lighthouse Peninsula can be defined as a φρούριον, a fortified area outside the city set up in order to get hold of the territory with a potentially hostile local population and to secure the subsequent control over this territory. Besides, the Stronghold protected the Lighthouse Peninsula, whose residents could find shelter in it in the case of an attack from the sea. On the whole, the Stronghold only made sense as an element in the general system of the chora, not as some independent entity. In the later period, when both the Heraclean and Lighthouse Peninsulae were divided and covered with a network of land plots with farmsteads (the farmsteads often represented strongholds themselves), the initial purpose of the Stronghold as a φρούριον could not be preserved. In the course of time, the Stronghold on the isthmus became unnecessary. This may answer the enigma of its destruction mentioned by Strabo. The buildings of the Stronghold either became derelict or were partly dismantled. In order to give a more detailed reconstruction of the Stronghold, we need excavations in all its parts, but it should be kept in mind that the site was destroyed already in Antiquity.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Buiskikh, A.B. 2008: Prostranstvennoe razvitie Khersonesa Tavricheskogo v antichnuyu epokhu (Simferopol). Dubois de Montpéreux, F. 1843: Voyage autour du Caucase, chez les Tcherkesses et les Abkhases, en Colchide, en Géorgie, en Arménie et en Crimée, vol. 6 (Paris).

28

 Saprykin 1994b, 136.

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Ivanov, A.V. 2001: ‘Navigatsionno-arkheologicheskoe obozrenie poberezh’ya Yugo-Zapadnogo Kryma ot mysa Khersones do mysa Sarych’. In Mors’ka torgіvlya v Pіvnіchnomu Prichornomor’yi (Kiev), 222–33. Kravchenko, E.A. 2010: ‘Do istorii vivchennya tubil’nogo naselennya Krimu dobi rann’ogo zaliza’. Bosporskie issledovaniya 23, 133‒54. Kutaisov, V.A. 1992: Kerkinitida (Simferopol). McCredie, J.R. 1966: Fortified Military Camps in Attica (Hesperia Suppl. 11) (Princeton). Maier, F.G. 1959: Griechische Mauerbauinschriften, vol. 1 (Vestigia 1) (Heidelberg). Neuman, K. 1855: Die Hellenen im Skythenlande: Ein Beitrag zur alten Geographie, Etnographie und Handelsgeschichte, vol. 1 (Berlin). Nikolaenko, G.M. 1999: Khora Khersonesa Tavricheskogo (Sevastopol). Pallas, P.S. 1999: Nablyudeniya, sdelannye vo vremya puteshestviya po yuzhnym namestnichestvam Russkogo gosudarstva v 1793–1794 godakh (Moscow). Saprykin, S.Y. 1994a: Ancient Farms and Land-Plots on the Khora of Khersonesos Taurike (Research in the Herakleian Peninsula 1974‒1990) (McGill University Monographs in Classical Archaeology and History 16; Antiquitates Proponticae, Circumponticae et Caucasicae 1) (Amsterdam). —. 1994b: ‘O vnutrennei kolonizatsii Khersonesa Tavricheskogo’. VDI 3, 126–43. Savelya, O.Y. 1996: ‘Arheologicheskie materialy k istorii Gerakleyskogo poluostrova dokolonizatsionnogo perioda’. Hersonesskiy sbornik 7, 13‒18. —. 1997: ‘Novye materialy k istorii Gerakleyskogo poluostrova i ego okrestnostey dokolonizatsionnogo i antichnogo periodov’. In Problemy grecheskoy kul’tury. Mezhdunarodnaya nauchnoprakticheskaya konferenciya (Simferopol), 87‒89. Shcheglov, A.N. 1976: Polis i khora (Simferopol). —. 1994: ‘“Staryi Khersones” Strabona. Ukreplenie na peresheike Mayachnogo poluostrova: topografiya i fortifikatsiya’. In Problemy istorii i arkheologii Kryma (Simferopol), 8‒42. Strzheletskii, S.F. 1959: ‘Osnovnye etapy ekonomicheskogo razvitiya i periodizatsii istorii Khersonesa Tavricheskogo v antichnuyu epokhu’. In Problemy istorii Severnogo Prichernomor’ya v antichnuyu epokhu (Moscow), 63‒84. —. 1961: Klery Khersonesa Tavricheskogo. K istorii drevnego zemledeliya v Krymu (Simferopol). Tunkina, I.V. 2002: Russkaya nauka o klassicheskih drevnostyakh yuga Rossii (18–seredina 19 v.) (St Petersburg). Zedgenidze, A.A. 2014a: ‘O nachale issledovaniya khory Khersonesa Tavricheskogo’. VDI 2, 151‒62. —. 2014b: ‘Sakral’nye mesta Gerakleiskogo poluostrova v trudakh Pallasa i Dyubua de Monpere’. In Material’naya i dukhovnaya cul’tura v mirovom istoricheskom protsesse (16 mezhdunarodnaya konferentsiya po istorii religii i religiovedeniyu) (Conference Summaries) (Sevastopol), 15–17. —. 2015a: ‘Khersones Tavricheskiy: territoriya goroda i khory (V‒IV vv. do n.e.)’. In Vostochnaya Evropa v drevnosti i srednevekov’ye. XXVII chteniya pamyati V.T. Pashuto (Moscow), 106‒11. —. 2015b: ‘Mitropolit Evgeniy (Bolkhovitinov) i nachalo issledovaniya Khersonesa Tavricheskogo’. Aristeas 9, 58‒68. —. 2015c: ‘Voprosy osvoeniya khory Khersonesa Tavricheskogo i problema “drevnego Khersonesa” Strabona’. VDI 2, 40‒55. —. 2015d: ‘Problema sakral’nykh mest khory Khersonesa Tavricheskogo’. Znanie, ponimanie, umenie. Nauchnyi zhurnal Moskovskogo gumanitarnogo universiteta 1, 182‒196. —. 2016: ‘“Drevnii Khersones” Strabona. Rezultaty issledovanii 1985‒1990 gg.’. VDI 3, 597– 625. —. 2019: ‘Khersones Tavricheskii: prostranstvennaya organizatsiya i naznachenie Ukrepleniya na peresheike Mayachnogo poluostrova’. VDI 3, 608–39. Zubar, V.M. 2007: Khersones tavricheskii i naselenie Tavriki v antichnuyu epokhu (Kiev).

EAST AND WEST: GREECE, PERSIA, ROME, EGYPT, CENTRAL ASIA

REVISITING A PHALERA FROM MOUND 20 IN NOIN ULA IN NORTHERN MONGOLIA: SOME ICONOGRAPHIC ASPECTS IN BACTRIAN ART Kazim ABDULLAEV

ABSTRACT This article is devoted to the analysis of the composition on a phalera from Mound 20 of Noin Ula. It deals with the creation of embossed depictions in artistic metal in the Hellenistic era. The leading position of depictions of Dionysian characters in the art of Bactria, associated with ancient cults, is emphasised. The archaeological and ethnographic evidence for the production of wine and for the mysteries close to the Dionysiac cults are given.

INTRODUCTION The relatively recent excavation of burial mounds in Noin Ula (northern Mongolia) by Russian archaeologists has yielded excellent examples of the nomads’ material and spiritual culture.1 At the same time some artefacts visually of Greek nature provides a rare opportunity to trace the spread of works of Hellenistic culture far beyond the cities and artistic centres. Among the finds in Mound 20, in the tomb of a nomadic noble, were items of horse equipment, including two magnificently executed large phalerae. An example with a relief composition, not typical for the artistic culture of the region, of the image of nude figures against the background of a landscape with water, stands out (Fig. 1). Not only is the subject itself clearly Greek, but the manner of execution distinguishes this object from other finds. This phalera is my subject. According to the description given by the publishers of the excavation, N.V. Polosmak and E.S. Bogdanov, the finds were made along the eastern wall of the burial chamber.2 Also found were iron bits and other parts of the bridle. Amongst them there is a silver object of complex configuration, which the publishers call a plaque. In shape, this object is close to a so-called prometopidion – forehead protector and decoration. Both sides are curved, one end has the shape of a vaulted arch. The surface of this detail is decorated with the relief image of an animal with its head turned back and a long beard. Its head, beard and backward-turned curved horns turned give it the appearance of a goat.

1 2

 Polosmak 2009; 2011; Polosmak and Bogdanov 2016.  Polosmak et al. 2011, 91–109.

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Round-shaped plaques were found in the same layer. They are, in all probability, small phalerae for a headband decorated with images of semi-fantastic creatures made in a common nomadic style. This style is characteristic of the vast space of Central Asia. Some of the items were found at the western wall; the rest were scattered throughout the burial chamber.3 The publishers associate the phalera with the Pergamum school: ‘The images on a silver plate (such a chamber work of art) resemble the images of the famous Pergamum altar, erected in the beginning of the 2nd century BC in honour of the victory over the Gallic barbarians.’4 But this seems arbitrary and not entirely appropriate. The composition on the phalera, scene of an erotic nature occurring on the serene landscape, has nothing to do with the scenes on the Pergamum altar of the battle of the Greek gods and titans, as well as other themes of Greek mythology, with their dramatic and expressive appearance, except, perhaps, the artistic style (which is characteristic of Hellenistic art in general). According to the authors, part of a bow peeps out of the left shoulder of a woman: ‘It is not depicted as it should have been. At first glance, this fragment of the image resembles in an unnatural way a cloak shot up, but a little more attention and you can see the clear curved line of bow.’5 On closer examination, the first impression is – this is precisely the edge of a cloak or scarf, and the misinterpretation of this element as a bow led to the erroneous attribution of the character as the goddess Artemis.6 Further, describing the female image (Fig. 2), the publishers note that between the eyebrows, above the bridge of the nose, there is an urna (Sanskrit) – a ‘third eye’, symbol of spiritual essence and spiritual vision. The impression appeared already while using the thing (the random nature of this sign is not excluded). In accordance with the ideas of the new owners, the woman depicted on the silver disk has become the female manifestation of the deity of the rank of Buddha.7 So, this important detail in the image was wrongly interpreted as a sign associated with Buddhist religious iconography. This plunges the publishers into a lengthy discourse on Buddhism, which turns out to be devoid of any meaning. The rounded sign that appears above the nose does not indicate at all that the character belonged to the Buddhist circle. It is found, in particular, in the religious iconography of Bactria (and not only Bactria) and in works that have no relation to Buddhist art.

 Polosmak et al. 2011, 91.  Polosmak et al. 2011, 112. 5  Polosmak et al. 2011, 112. 6  It is difficult to associate the image of the goddess Artemis, who had the status of an Olympic divinity, with a satyr, which was not a god. The status of the latter is clearly indicated by Ovid in his Metomorphoses (1. 190–195): ‘I have demigods, rustic divinities, nymphs, fauns and satyrs, and sylvan deities upon the mountain-slopes. Since we are not yet esteem them worthy the honor of a place in heaven, let us at least allow them to dwell in safety in the lands allotted them’ (translation F.J. Miller). 7  Polosmak et al. 2011, 112. 3 4

REVISITING A PHALERA FROM MOUND 20 IN NOIN ULA IN NORTHERN MONGOLIA

Fig. 1. Composition on the phalera from tomb 20 at Noin Ula, northern Mongolia (after Polosmak et al. 2011, fig. 4.40b).

Fig. 2. Nymph and satyr. Detail of composition (after Polosmak et al. 2011, fig. 4.40).

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Fig. 3. Head of ‘Bactrian Aphrodite’. Detail. Gold (after Sarianidi 1985).

For example, there is a similar sign on the images of Tillya Tepe (Afghanistan), including the winged Aphrodite at the column.8 It should be added that the Tillya Tepe goddess and the image of a nymph from Noin Ula share another detail: the shape of hairstyle with a band (Fig. 3). In the works of the Tillya Tepe complex, the Buddhist visual tradition is poorly traced. With a considerable degree of doubt, only one object can be drawn to Buddhism – a gold medallion depicting a half-naked hero pushing the wheel of ‘Dharma’. But scholars disagree about the interpretation of this.9 Signs on faces are found on coin images,10 terracottas,11 and in other forms of visual art that are not related to Buddhist iconography. In one of the latest works criticising the publishers’ interpretation of the Noin Ula phalera, M.Y. Treister does not notice this detail: ‘between the eyebrows and over the nose, in the detailed photograph of the head, there is no noticeable neat round depression’.12 The presence of this sign would be difficult to explain from the position taken by Treister, which is that ‘the phalera was most likely made between the end of the second and the middle of the 1st century BC, most likely in one of the Black Sea workshops a region from a medallion of a silver dish (phiale or a conical bowl), perhaps, a work of Asia Minor in the second half of the 2nd century BC’.13 The existence of other regions and artistic centres susceptible to Greek influence that operated in the vast space of the Hellenistic world is not taken into account. 8  See, for example, ‘ruler and dragons’ after Sarianidi 1985, 98–103; ‘Bactrian Aphrodite’: Sarianidi 1985, 157. 9  See all the pros and cons in Koshelenko et al. 2014, 136–50. 10  Tanabe 1987; 1988; Invernizzi 1990. 11  Abdullaev 2003. 12  Treister 2014, 129. 13  Treister 2014, 129.

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Here I note that some items from the Noyn Ula kurgans are obviously imported, in particular, compositions embroidered on fabric, the attribution of which as products made in Central Asian workshops does not now cause any special objections. However, some scholars have, since the first finds of the expedition of P. Kozlov, proposed a Black Sea origin of these embroideries.14 But similar embroidered fabrics with multi-figured compositions were also found recently during the excavation of the Noin Ula barrows by Polosmak and her team.15 In appearance, these images most likely relate to the culture of the tribes of the Sako-Yuezhi circle.16 Treister suggests such a provenance for the phalerae, complementing this with the Asia Minor origin of the silverware from which the phalera was made. The whole legend proposed by Treister is bizarre and unconvincing: a silver vessel comes from Asia Minor to the Black Sea region, where a phalera was made from it, later to be discovered in a Hsiung-nu burial. The only rational grain in this version is the connexion of the phalera with the medallions of silver utensils, which are considered below. To me, the Bactrian region looks more plausible as the initial location. However, I do not deny the Asia Minor origin of the medallion, especially when we consider that the majority of colonists in Bactria, especially in Seleucid period, were from the cities of Asia Minor.17 It is in Central Asia that we observe an intensive movement of various tribes, which, for different reasons, become a kind of conductor of the achievements of technology and art from East to West and vice versa. It was at the end of the 3rd century BC when countless nomadic hordes concentrated on the border of Graeco-Bactria, about whom king Euthydemus warned Antiochus the Great who began the siege of Zariaspa (Bactra) (Polybius 11. 39. 6–14).18 The Yüeh-chih, persecuted by the Hsiung-nu, with whom they were in constant confrontation, were the last to be ousted to Bactria. Precious fabrics, silver utensils, crockery, jewellery, valuable elements of horse harnesses (including phalerae), etc. could be rendered to the Hsiung-nu as tribute, trophy or as an item of trade in the interaction of the Hsiung-nu tribes, the Yüeh-chih and other nomads, with the local settled population. The Noin Ula phalera requires special care when it comes to place of production and artistic School. The process of creating a work from the choice of a scene to its final embodiment includes such intermediate operations as making models in the form of plaster casts that captured famous stories of Greek mythology, moulds for casting, and finally the products themselves, or fragments that served as a model, etc.

DESCRIPTION The object is 143.1 mm in diameter, made of an alloy of silver (93.2%) and copper (6.85%) with gilding. The publishers believe that the phalera is a ‘re-used emblemata, a decoration of silverware’. This is possible, although the dishes would need to have been very large – more than 14 cm19 in diameter, just for the bottom part which is a medallion; 14

 Sobolev 1934.  Polosmak and Bogdanov 2015, 85–115; 2016, 105–61. 16  Yatsenko 2012; Abdullaev 2020. 17  Bernard 1994. 18  Abdullaev 1995, 151. 19  Exact diameter is 141.1 mm. 15

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this is quite unusual for ceremonial dishes in Antiquity.20 This size and similar is more characteristic of a phalera. The other category of art product giving about the same size is casts. With them, as with models, not only the images themselves but also the parameters could be copied. The composition is enclosed in a circle, the central part of which is occupied by the figures of the main characters. The scene takes place against a landscape background, on the banks/shore of a river/lake, which contrasts with the colour of the shore and is shown in the form of arched wave lines. On the left rocky shore, painted in yellow (gilding), a herm is set up. More space is occupied by the relief of the right bank, on which the action takes place. However, the balance of the composition is attached to the left bank with the herm, and the figure of a nymph tilted back and the ivy-covered thyrsus.21 The central characters of the scene with satyr and nymph are full of expression and dynamism. The seated nude figure of an athletic folded satyr is shown slightly backwards. The repellent gesture of a resisting nymph makes him throw back his head. The young beardless face and neck are tense; swollen veins are visible on the neck (Fig. 4). The left hand rests on the rock, while the right hand is behind the nymph. The satyr sits on an animal skin of clear outline with a detailed head and the open mouth of a predator; the texture is shown in thin parallel lines. The front legs with long claws are spread up and down, with one of the legs lying on a staff thrown right there. Judging by the shape of the head and a short rounded ear, the skin belongs to a feline (leopard?). The figure of the nymph is slightly bent forward; the right hand lies on the thigh and holds the fold of the cloak (fabric). The left straightened palm rests on the chin of the satyr, pushing him away from her (Figs. 1, 2). The face of the nymph is at half-turn towards her companion. The robe of the nymph consists of two parts. The cloak drapes the right leg, followed by vertical flowing folds. At the bottom they form a pointed angle. In a similar way, the folds are shown in the upper part behind the nymph; a sharp corner shot up, but in front of this cloak wraps itself around the nymph’s right shoulder. Both at the bottom and at the top, the end of the cloak is shown with a pointed angle, with a bend in the upper part of the fabric edge. This detail was interpreted by the publishers as a bow, but such an interpretation was justly criticised by Treister.22 The second part of the garment represents the skin over the shoulder; limbs with cloven hooves are knotted under the bust.23 To the skin on the shoulder is fastened a fibula (rounded plaque). The shoulders and wrists are decorated with bracelets. The nymph’s head and details of her hairstyle deserve attention. The head is in a light half-turn; the face is oval shape; the eyelids and eyebrows, a small swollen mouth and the soft oval of the chin are shown by reliefs. On the nose there is a sign in the form

 Polosmak et al. 2011, 110.  The fact that the thyrsus is entwined with ivy is a presumption based on the texture shown by the diamond-shaped intersecting lines. 22  Treister 2014. 23  It is interesting in this respect a clothing of the participant of the mysteries devoted to the Bacchus delineated in Ovid Metamorphoses 4. 5: ‘The priest had bidden the people to celebrate a Bacchic festival: all serving-women must be excused from toil; with their mistresses they must cover their breasts with the skins of beasts, they must loosen the ribands of their hair, and with garlands upon their heads they must hold in their hands the vine-wreathed thyrsus’ (translation F.J. Miller). 20 21

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Fig. 4. Nymph and satyr. Detail of composition (after Polosmak et al. 2011, fig. 4.42).

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Fig. 5. Head of nymph. Detail of composition (after Polosmak et al. 2011, fig. 4.43).

of a rounded impression.24 Wavy hair combed straight and, gathered by a band, spreads downward into large curls (Fig. 5). The sign above the nose bridge and the manner of controlling the hair with a band are of fundamental importance in the iconography of the character and subsequently to clarify issues of the attribution and origin of the phalera itself.

SEARCH

FOR

ANALOGIES

The hairstyle, in the form of wavy strands divided by a central parting, is quite typical for female images of ancient Bactria, as well as for other centres of the Hellenistic world.25 Similar hairstyles on women adorn the ceramic vessels of Bactria made explicitly in imitation of metal prototypes. As a rule, they were impressed in matrices and plastered under the rim of the vessel or at the base of the handle. To create matrices, craftsmen often used small forms of metal or stone sculpture or fragments of them. This method of replicating decorative elements is typical of the Bactrian decorative tradition of the Hellenistic era and is well traced in the materials of Ai Khanoum.26 The above-mentioned type of hairstyle is characteristic not only in small forms but also in monumental sculpture of a later (later Hellenistic) time. An example of this is the 24

Thanks to their high quality, this detail can be traced in all the photographs given by the authors.  A similar form of hairstyle can be seen in the reliefs of the Nisa rhytons (Masson and Pugachenkova 1956, table CXX). 26  Abdullaev 1996, figs. 2, 3, 5. 25

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Fig. 6. Figure of ‘Bactrian Aphrodite’. Winged female deity. 1st century AD. Gold. Tillya Tepe (after Sarianidi 1985, 99).

Fig. 7. Nymph and satyr. Cameo. Cornelian and onyx (inserted in gold ring). Berlin State Museum. Found in Petescia (Italy). Ca. 50 BC–AD 20 (Internet source).

painted clay sculpture from Khalchayan.27 A distinctive feature of this work is that the strands of hair are as if twisted on a band-roller. Finally, a close analogy for the female character from Noin Ula in artistic metal is the winged figure of the so-called ‘Bactrian Aphrodite’ (Fig. 6) from Tillya Tepe (Afghanistan).28 Parallels will be drawn below; here, touching the hairstyle, the band should be emphasised. Quite massive in shape, it is decorated with parallel curved lines forming the pattern of the sheet. Circles are impressed on the surface (punched depressions); all this produces a kind a laurel wreath with round berries. Some details of the image of the nymph on the phalera find analogies in the works of small form art of the Hellenistic period: on a cameo from the Berlin Museum,29 dated approximately to 50 BC–AD 20, with a similar composition, where a naked satyr sits on the skin, and next to him is a standing figure of a nymph, with her back turned to the spectator (Fig. 7). The layout of the folds of the cloak is very similar: a vertical fold, pointed at the bottom, dangles from the left side of the thigh of the satyr. The second fold, the curved edge of which forms a pattern, as on the phalera from Noin Ula, is shown horizontally extending away from the waist of the nymph. 27  Pugachenkova 1971, figs. 21–24, 26, 30 (the heads from the rytons are given as analogies: figs. 28, 29, 33). 28  Sarianidi 1985, fig. 99. 29  Cameo cornelian and onyx (inserted in gold ring) depicting a satyr and nymph, Berlin State Museums Old Museum acquainted in Rome in 1876. Found in Petescia north of Rome (modern Turania) in 1875. Inv. misc. 7066 = FG 11067.

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The Noin Ula composition as a whole does not cause any special doubts regarding its interpretation. The main personages are associated with nymph and satyr. The fact that a female character is a nymph is confirmed by the attribute (it is also an element of clothing) – the skin of a goat, as evidenced by the forked claws of an animal tied in a knot under the breast. The theme of satyr and nymph becomes one of the most beloved motifs in the pictorial tradition of the Hellenistic era. However, the characteristic gesture and posture of a nymph, resolutely repelling satyr, with her hand extended to his face, resembles most of all another equally popular composition in Graeco-Roman art: satyr and hermaphrodite. The impression is that the master who created the relief on the Noin Ula phalera was inspired by this particular composition. In most cases, the image of these two characters comes to us in Roman copies. There are several dozen Roman copies stored in various museums of Western Europe and found in their time at various archaeological sites of predominantly Roman times.30 They were created on the basis of Greek originals of the Hellenistic era, originating from various centres (including Asia Minor workshops). The characteristics of these centres and workshops is not part of the task of this article, but I would like to note one significant detail in the iconography of nymph and satyr – facial expression. Almost all of these works are characterised by the smiling face of a nymph, and in scenes with hermaphrodite, he smiles, which gives the compositions a playful, erotic and frivolous character (Fig. 8). But, on the Noin Ula phalera, the faces are tense and lack any expression of gaiety. It is difficult to say whether the subject was borrowed by the artist from a sculptor or vice versa. Was it cast in the era of Early Hellenism in bronze, initially serving as a model for subsequent replicas in stone, or was the composition inspired by wall paintings? In any case, the subject of hermaphrodite and satyr in erotic art became a popular one. A vivid example of this composition is the fragment of the mural from Pompeii (Fig. 9) at the National Archaeological Museum in Naples (inv. 110878). The painting dates to the 1st century AD. Images of hermaphrodite and satyr in the painting from Pompeii largely repeat the examples of sculptural works.31 In particular, the complex angles of the figures with their legs intertwined. Satyr grabs hermaphrodite’s right arm in two places – above the wrist and below the shoulder – with the forearm folded back under the force of this. Hermaphrodite almost overturns the satyr, grabbing him by the right foot. His figure, curved back, is also full of dynamism. The head is turned towards the satyr; slightly thrown back, eyes fixed there. There is a smile on his lips. This whole picture, full of expression, unfolds against the backdrop of wildlife. As noted, numerous stone replicas adorn Western museums. The construction of the composition and the relief techniques, with the exception of minor differences, are subordinated to a single idea. The unstoppable passion and expression of sensual beginnings, so characteristic of Hellenistic art, are fully expressed in this work. This ‘story’ was embodied not only in works of monumental nature but also in other genres of visual and applied art, for example, on medallions – the bottom of the Calenian ceramic bowls 30  Smith 1904, 59, no. 1658; Reinach 1908, 63; Pietrangeli 1958, no. 164; Palagia 1987, 81, fig. 4; Neudecker 1990, 232, no. 66.34; Andreae 2001, 185, fig. 142; Burn 2004, 170, fig. 98. The Dresden group, made of marble, is considered to be the most famous and frequently cited example of the work, according to which the sculpture itself was named (Häuber 1999, 157, with bibliography). 31  Åshede 2015, 79–80, fig. 31.

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Fig. 8. Sculptural group with hermaphrodite and satyr. Pompeii. National Archaeological Museum, Naples (Internet source).

Fig. 9. Hermaphrodite and satyr. Wall painting from Pompeii. National Archaeological Museum of Naples (inv. 110878) (Internet source).

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Fig. 10. Calenian ceramic bowl with relief depiction of nymph and satyr on the bottom (Internet source).

(Fig. 10).32 All testify to the exceptional popularity of this theme in the art of the Hellenistic period. Examples of this art, as shown by a find from a mound in northern Mongolia, penetrated far beyond the borders of the Hellenistic world. However, the story of the satyr and nymph is not quite in harmony with a phalera, whose function is most likely associated with the decoration of a horse harness, giving the animal a ceremonial and solemn appearance. In this respect, the idea that the Dionysian theme of satyr and nymph originally adorned a cup medallion is not without attraction. The transformation of the bowl medallion into a phalera could have occurred precisely in a nomadic environment, where, as will be noted later, the subject was not given much importance, while the nobility of the metal itself was more important. The environment and time when the medallion was turned into a phalera falls in regions where two cultures collide; the nomadic, less receptive to the achievements of the masters of Hellenistic art, and urban, still preserving the traditions of the preceding period. Phalerae formed part of the decoration of horse equipment, as a rule, closing the attachment points of the intersection of belts, and separately on such decorations as the prometopidion headrests. Smaller phalerae were used on the headband, on the shoulder and chest belts. Usually they decorated the front of the horse. Naturally, this detail originated among the nomadic population. The ornamenting of the harness was only a part of the decoration; special attention was also given to the hairstyle and decoration of the mane, the weaving of the tail, there were also special covers for tail reduction, and sometimes they were richly decorated. Archaeological evidence (for example, the Pazyryk kurgans) indicates that great attention was paid to the appearance of the horse.33 The horse was dressed in various outfits and masks; their symbolic meaning and the cult of the horse itself are beyond the scope of this article. 32

 Pagenstecher 1909, 37–38. See also Stähli 1999, 430, n. 893.  Rudenko 1970, 117–93.

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AS

ARCHAEOLOGICAL SOURCE

AND

OBJECT

OF

ART

Phalerae, including the prometopidion, were often decorated with compositions characteristic of a particular region. However, much more attention seems to have been paid to the material of which these phalerae were made. Some were gilded base metals (bronze, copper), most were formed from precious metals – silver, gold (in the form of gilding). Their decoration, as we have noted, included motifs both vegetal and animal, often of fantastic character. However, as our finds from Noin Ula show, while subjects played a crucial role in the decoration of phalerae, priority is still given to the nobility of the metal from which they were made. It is unlikely, for example, that a noble nomad, buried in a barrow, was an expert on Greek mythology or an admirer of Hellenistic art,34 especially since the second phalera paired with it lacks decor. However, we cannot categorically deny that the image had some value to the owner. The very fact of having an image, especially an anthropomorphic and skilfully executed one, had a definite meaning for the nomad; it could be a matter of symbolism, prestige and a demonstration of wealth. However, all this remains conjecture. An element of a horse harness, such as a phalera, would most likely have originated in a nomadic environment. But where and when? Logically, in areas of contact between nomadic ethnic groups and urban centres of craft production. A more accurate answer comes from archaeological finds, both of the objects themselves and of works of art that depict them. One of the earliest examples is a miniature model of gold chariot35 from the Oxus Treasure (second half of the 4th century BC).36 A phalera is depicted on the shoulder of a horse harnessed to a chariot at the place where the chest and the abdominal straps cross (Fig. 11). In Antiquity, phalerae as horse ornaments became widespread throughout the vast expanse of Eurasia. The first investigators linked their evolution with the Iranian-speaking ethnic group which spread its cultural influence in the period of Early Antiquity from Central Asia (Bactria, Parthia, Kangüy) to more northerly regions.37 Attempts have been made to study questions of classification and fractional typology. The Sarmatian stratum was distinguished in a rather numerous and variegated material. Classification and typology lose some of their scientific relevance when it concerns the cultural attribution and identification of the studied material. In this regard, the globalisation of the Sarmatian culture is somewhat one-sided.38 Without going into detail, researchers of southern Russia exaggerate the spread of the influence of Sarmatian culture far to the east,39 while overlooking such powerful nomadic empires as Parthia, the Hsiung-nu and 34

 In fact, it is a sophisticated question demanding a special study. This does not by any means apply to all nomads (in the specific case, it was about the Hsiung-nu): for example, the Parthian kings, initially of nomadic origin, declare themselves as philhellenes on their coins. This suggests that the process of cultural interaction, in this case of Hellenisation, was unequal. In all likelihood, the process of Hellenisation was more successful among the settled nomads. Evidently, nomadic people moving constantly on the vast spaces of the steppes had another distinguishing mentality. 35  Dalton 1964, no. 7, fig. 20, pl. IV; Curtis and Tallis 2005, 222, no. 399. 36  Dalton 1964, 3–4, pl. IV – chariot; Curtis and Tallis 2005, 399, 396 (horse-harness ornament or silver shield boss). Disc: Dalton 1964, pl. X. 37  Spitsyn 1909, 29, 18–19; Smirnov 1909, 56–57, pl. 7, no. 47; Rostovtzeff 1922, 136–38; 1929, 44–45, 104. 38  Mordvintseva 2008. 39  Mordvintseva 2010.

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Fig. 11. Gold model of Persian chariot from Oxus Treasure. 4th century BC (Internet source).

the tribes of the Yuech-chih (later the Kushan state), which had their distinctive cultures. The artistic culture of these states, interacting with the achievements of Hellenism, forms a new artistic phenomenon, a vivid embodiment of which is found, for example, at Tillya Tepe. Recent literature has shown a tendency to diminish the leading role of Bactria in the development and distribution of this type of craft product. At the same time, regular archaeological finds, both chance and from stratified layers, confirm the significance of Bactria and other neighbouring regions as a centre (or centres) of production of phalerae. Treister, in his article, tried to reduce the importance of Bactrian artistic culture and saw no potential centre capable of producing highly artistic toreutics. Citing a rather detailed summary of the finds in Bactria, however, he scarcely considered a Bactrian school of toreutics in the absence of satisfactory finds of works. But the Tillya Tepe Treasure clearly manifests the local origins of the works. It is dated to just the period under considerations – and the Tillya Tepe complex include phalerae too.40 At the same, the artistic quality of the Noin Ula composition is higher than that of the works from Tillya Tepe. It is more Greek. Meanwhile, the images of the Tillya Tepe figurative complex even of Greek origin (for example, Dionysian motifs) bear considerable traces of nomad, so-called Animal Style. It is difficult to say if it was created by Greek masters ignoring the canon of Greek iconography and adopting to the tastes of local nobles or made by a new generation of craftsmen. It is very possible that in the vastness of the Bactrian kingdom there were several centres of metalwork. Anyway, two gold bracelets found on Bactrian 40

 Sarianidi 1985.

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territory, executed in Greek tradition and bearing the inscription ΜΗΣΤΩΡ ΕΠΟΕΙ,41 testify to a Greek master who still worked here.42 Even more improbable is the statement of V.I. Mordvintseva, whose article is devoted to a detailed review of the literature on finds of phalerae and their significance, that ‘… in the territory of Graeco-Bactria itself, such objects [phalerae] have not yet been found’.43 Her lack of information about the archaeology and art of Bactria and adjacent historicalcultural regions somewhat devalues her article. But what about archaeologically recovered examples, for example, the phalera with the image of Dionysos, published and studied in detail by K.V. Trever? Despite the origin of the blurred layers, the fact that it is related to the archaeological site of Dushanbinskaya is beyond doubt.44 The second phalera, with a relief depiction of a Gorgon’s head, comes from the temple of Takhti Sangin and, in all likelihood, was one of the offerings.45 Recall also the phalerae from the Oxus Treasure – although the place of the discovery of the Treasure itself is controversial, its location in Bactria is indisputable.46 Phalerae of small dimensions were discovered in Burial 4 (male tomb) in Tillya Tepe.47 When we speak of artefacts made of precious and semi-precious material, including phalerae and relief dishes, it should be noted that such material, as archaeology shows, is found overwhelmingly either in hoards48 or in burials (as a rule, not looted, for example, Tillya Tepe or Noin Ula, as we discuss here). Such finds are extremely rare in the layers of citadels and settlements. It is obvious that palaces and castles, the prestigious houses of rich citizens, were the main subject of plunder, as many written sources relate. Another important source for the study of phalerae is the works of art, monumental and applied, which depict them. I will give just examples from Bactria. Unbaked clay sculptures are the most valuable source, as they are guaranteed to be local in origin.49 First of all, the Halchayan cycle:50 numerous realistic images of saddled horses show harnessing, which, as a rule, includes a phalera (Figs. 12–13). Further, small forms51 and coins, in particular, for the coinage of nomadic rulers: Sakas,52 Heraios53 and Soter Megas.54 To nomad culture can be attributed the engraved images in a hunting scene from Takhti Sangin where one 41

 Bernard and Bopearachchi 2002.  Of course, given the small forms of the work, it can be assumed that it could be imported. Even more convincing in this respect is the find of fragments for casting large vessels with a Greek inscription from Takhti Sangin (Tadzhikistan) (Drujinina and Lindström 2013). 43  Mordvintseva 2008, 163. 44  Trever 1961. 45  The phalera was found in bothros 3 of corridor 2 and dated by Litvinskii to the 4th–first half of the 3rd century BC. Diameter 54 mm (Litvinskii 2010, 171–75). 46  It is true that there is no exact attribution from the very beginning of this object, which is a decorated disc, with a protrusion from the centre with four holes, with a hunting scene – obviously of Eastern type. Sometimes this item is also called a shield’s umbo (Dalton 1964, pl. X; Curtis and Tallis 2005, 396). 47  Sarianidi 1985, 148–52. 48  The remarkable hoard published by F. Baratte (2002) should be recalled here. 49  Pugachenkova 1971, Album, fig. 2. 50  Pugachenkova 1971, 66, no. 32, Album, fig. 84. 51  The relief on a terracotta medallion with an enthroned composition, evidently an expression from the metalwork, should be noted (Pugachenkova 1971, ill. 54). 52  A large phalera is clearly shown on the shoulders of the horse on the obverse of tetradrachms of Azes, Aziles and Abdugazes. Iconography of the rider on Sakas’ coins (Az, Aziles, Abdugazes). 53  Davodovich 1979, 17–35, pls. 1–2; Zeymal 1983, pl. 18. 54  Zeymal 1983, 160–77, pls. 19–20. 42

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Fig. 12. Painted clay sculpture from Khalchayan archaeological site in situ. Figure of a horse decorated with phalerae (after Pugachenkova 1971, fig. 2).

Fig. 13. Fragment of clay sculpture representing a horse with phalera. Khalchayan. Late 2nd–early 1st century BC (after Pugachenkova 1971, fig. 84).

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can see small phalerae decorating the horse’s head.55 The same decorative detail is found on the engraved depictions on bone plates from the Orlat burials (Samarkand region of Uzbekistan).56 The origin of the phalerae cannot be viewed in isolation from other types of artistic silverware, as the same workshops could produce a variety, from decorative details of horse harnesses to metal dishes decorated with embossed images and compositions.57 In manufacture they underwent the same technological processes and could use the same artistic design techniques, even the same models and forms. As a rule, only certain parts of vessels are decorated, most often handles, in particular their bases, as well as the inner bottom part (if the dishes have an open shape). In this regard, spoon bowls, which resemble precious dishes of the Achaemenid period, are indicative. This form resembles the popular ‘Megarian’ or ‘Pergamene’ bowls of the Hellenistic period. Richly decorated dishes made of precious and semi-precious metal are characteristic of Early Hellenism, as the discoveries of royal tombs in Vergina show.58 Among the ceremonial silverware found in the graves of kings and nobles are sufficient examples of Iranian origin. This suggests that precious dishes were taken as war booty. Works of toreutics were especially popular in Roman times. As ancient Latin authors note, Roman generals exported from the conquered countries of Asia Minor, southern Italy, etc. as trophies a large number of expensive utensils, including artistic tableware. Decorating expensive tableware with embossed images had become increasingly popular since the Hellenistic era, reached its heyday in the Graeco-Roman period, peaking in the Roman period. This tableware becomes so prestigious that it was discussed by ancient writers (Pliny), personalities (Cicero), even by poets (Martial Epigrams). Ostentatious metal tableware, in addition to being a luxury item, was also a work of the fine and decorative arts. It was not by chance that there were masters whose names were known to society, and their works were highly valued. An example of this is the relief image of Odyssey and Diomedes in the scene of the abduction of Palladium. The price of this product was 10,000 denarii.59 High demand spawned the practice of collecting: it is obvious how prestigious the possession of a collection of art tableware made by famous masters was. Sometimes it was not even the tableware itself that became a collectible, but its decorated elements, i.e. the emblem medallions that decorated the bottom of vessels (bowls). The popularity of embossed compositions enclosed in a circle, encircled by a decorative embossed line, was so great that we may wonder if they were the prototype of high-relief medallions in architectural decor.60

55

 Litvinskii 2010, fig. 67.  Pugachenkova 1987, figs. on pp. 57, 59; 1989, 122–54, figs. 70, 71. 57  This does not apply to other parts of the bridle, for example, bits, belt buckles, etc., which could be cast in moulds, or made by forging. 58  Kottaridi 2012, figs. on pp. 98–105, 118–23; Andronikos 1984. 59  Such a high price and the demand for the works of the best masters may be seen with other types of art work – for example, glyptic. We know the names of masters such as Dixomen and others. 60  As an example, the triumphal arch (built in AD 315) by Constantine I. We are talking about medallions (tondos) made of Luna marble, four from each façade. They were taken from an earlier monument erected in AD 130–138 in honour of Hadrian. Medallions in high relief depict hunting scenes and sacrificial scenes in honour of Hercules, Apollo, Diana and Sylvan. However, this is only an assumption. 56

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To a certain extent, these developments contributed to the proliferation of the production of copies from cheaper materials, such as ceramics and glass.61 During this period, both in the craft centres of large cities of the Hellenistic world and in the remote periphery, the appearance of impressions from these reliefs is recorded archaeologically. These casts deserve closer attention from the point of view of the artistic culture of the era.62 They have passed down to us as models reflecting the leading trends of the epoch, and are an important source for many aspects of the spiritual life of ancient society. Just as the monumental bronze sculpture of the Classical and Early Hellenistic periods reached us in marble copies and replicas, so the images made in cheaper material (for example, clay) relayed to later generations the scenes, style of decorative design and ornamental motifs previously created in artistic metal. These may have originated as models for copying, imitating and teaching masters, at the same time serving as models of matrices for subsequent replication. Particularly informative are compositions with famous heroes of legends and myths, characters of religious significance, Dionysian motifs, etc.63

CREATING EMBOSSED COMPOSITIONS (CASTS

AND

MODELS)

These plaster or terracotta impressions truly preserved the works, since precious and semi-precious metal products were often melted down for the needs of the state or the owner (for example, to mint coins). The collection of about 50 casts found in Begram (Afghanistan, ancient Kapisha)64 depict mainly Dionysian compositions and characters: Dionysos himself and the heads of satyrs or maenads.65 Otto Kurtz assumed that they were casts of medallions soldered to vessels and must have hung on the walls of workshops,66 serving as a kind of sample. Through holes were drilled on the sides of the moulds. Such popularity of Dionysian motifs in the decoration of semi-precious and precious vessels might be associated with the ritual parts of Dionysian celebrations. Especially indicative is the image of the head of Dionysos himself, or of the characters of his inner circle at the bottom of the bowls. So too is a collection of silver utensils from royal burials in Aegae. It appears that Dionysian motifs in the design of Early Hellenistic artistic dishes quite successfully migrated to the realm of ceremonial tableware, made already of the more accessible ceramic. We see the same heads of satyrs, Dionysos, maenads and other characters adorning the mouths and bases of dishes, and this is more typical for large forms, while for open bowls reliefs adorn the bottom part. This, so to speak, is the sacral part of the dish, 61

 For the ceramics, see, for example, Williams 1976, 41–66, pls. 5–11.  On ancient plaster casts, see Richter 1958. 63  One of the images imprinted on these casts, namely Dionysos and the pig sacrifice, was the subject of Picard 1955. 64  Hackin 1954, 110, 274–320. 65  Particularly interesting as an analogy to the phalera from Noin Ula is a cast from Begram. It bears the image of two figures facing each other, with one of the figures shown sitting. Due to poor preservation, it is difficult to assert anything confidently, but the general scheme of the composition vaguely resembles the figures of a nymph and satyr (Hackin 1954, fig. 319; Tissot 2006, 784, 524). 66  Kurz 1954. According to Wheeler (1949, 14), these medallions were original models for production of bottoms of silver bowl – an opinion that is not accepted by Kurz (1954). These medallions have been illustrated by Wheeler (1949, pl. IX). On this topic, see also Kohzad 1956. 62

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when pouring wine into the bowl; the rite of libation on the image of Dionysos or another cult character close to his circle is performed at the same time.67 The first publishers attributed the Begram casts to the Alexandrian school. Such a hypothesis is viable if we focus on the compositions on small sculptures in metal (for example, the Harpocrates figure), art glass,68 etc., and on similar plaster casts found in Egypt in 1907 (soon acquired by the Pelizaeus Museum of Hildesheim and published in exemplary fashion by Otto Rubensohn in 1911).69 The opinion of R. Ghirshman, that the Begram medallions could be products of Greek-Bactrian workshops, is more convincing, however.70 Subsequent to Begram, similar artefacts were discovered at a number of sites on both the left bank and right bank of the Oxus. Mention should be made of a silver-gilded disc with an epiphany scene from a temple with niches at Ai Khanoum (Afghanistan).71 A similar disc in fragments, with some differences in details and dimensions, was also found in Takhti Sangin (Tadzhikistan).72 Other finds from Ai Khanoum include an unbaked clay mould taken from the medallion of a large metal bowl depicting a female bust, a stucco mould for the replication of winged head of Medusa (gorgoneion) made in the traditions of Greek art73 and, outside Ai Khanoum, in a house on the Kokcha river, a fragment of plaster cast depicting the forepart of a galloping horse decorated with phalerae.74 Of course, the discs mentioned here, as well as the mould, had different functional meanings from the Noin Ula phalera; nevertheless, they were all created in the same artistic environment of Hellenistic Bactria. Even more interesting is a plaster cast found in Old Termez – here, despite heavy wear, a composition depicting a battle scene is readily discernible:75 naked winged figures of heroes, captured in dynamic combat poses with raised hands, figures of newts with wriggling scaly limbs, their postures and facial expressions clearly showing excellent plastic skills. This is clearly a replica of one of the outstanding achievements of Hellenistic art embodied in the Pergamum Altar. The connexion of expressive figures on the cast from Termez and the Pergamum cycle of gigantomachy is so obvious that the suggestion of an Egyptian origin for this composition disappears. This raises doubts about the Begram casts being products of Egyptian workshops. Dionysian images, which occupy a leading position in the Begram collection, were just as popular in Bactria as in other centres of the Hellenistic world. They are quite expressively reflected in finds from the temple with niches in Ai Khanoum (decorations of the handles of large vessels cast in bronze in the form of bushes of maenads, images of satyrs, etc.).76 It is appropriate to recall here a phalera with the image of Dionysos, found in the Dushanbe ancient settlement 67

 Abdullaev 2017, 242–43.  Hamelin 1952. 69  Rubensohn 1911. 70  Ghirshman 1946, 10–11. 71  Bernard 1970, 339–47; Francfort 1984, 93–104, pl. xli; Tissot 2006, 42. 72  Pichikyan 1991, 103–04. Pichikyan’s dating of the disc to the late Achaemenid period was received sceptically by Litvinskii (2010, 228). 73  Francfort 1984, pl. XVII, no. 20; Tissot 2006, 31. 74  Bernard 1970, fig. 25; Tissot 2006, 47. 75  Pontbriand and Leriche 2012, 19, fig. 4. 76  Tissot 2006, 43. 68

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(Tadzhikistan). Dionysian motifs were one of the leading trends in the visual arts of Hellenistic Bactria in all genres.77 Returning to the Begram casts, one cannot ignore their significance for the study of Hellenistic artistic culture. Many scholars have already written about this;78 however, some aspects are still not entirely clear. It is obvious that the casts were a collection of workshop samples/models. But they might also have another function: given their high popularity in Hellenistic society, it is possible that collectible fashion spread from silver originals and their replicas to impressions made in cheaper material (plaster, clay or stone) from lost or unavailable originals. The context of the Begram finds, in premises of a palace character together with other objects (artistic Roman glass, carved ivory of Indian-Mathura origin, metal sculpture), indicate that here was a diverse collection of artistic products including even gypsum casts. The latter were hardly of material value, but they were carefully preserved for the artistic merit of the absent original. Even less clear is the purpose of those plaster casts that have come down in a rather destroyed state, apparently from intensive use. The characters and composition may only be guessed at. They could hardly be used for replication. What comes to mind is that these subtle outlines of characters and the composition as a whole could only have served as aide-mémoires for the master to build the composition, reminiscent of something like an archive or database.79 As proof of the significance of these casts in the artistic creation of the Hellenistic period, including toreutics, a few examples will suffice of medallions containing images with the most widespread composition – for instance, several examples with a relief showing the scenes of Aphrodite’s toilet. The first belongs to the collection of casts from Egypt and is now stored in the Pelizaeus Museum of Hildesheim (inv. 1128) and dated to the middle of 3rd century BC.80 It is inscribed in a circle, the right side of which is occupied by a half-naked figure of the goddess (Fig. 14). Her right arm is stretched forward as if picking up a cosmetic substance(?) from a wide open cup, in the centre of which there is a detail in the shape of an omphalos. A small female figure (vis-à-vis the goddess) in a long folded dress and a high headdress of polos-type holds the bowl in hands stretched forward. The figure stands on a dais/profiled pedestal. It seems that the scene takes place outdoors. The figure of the goddess is draped just below the hips. Down at the feet is a small figure of Eros; a second Eros soars the top of the composition between the two figures with a wreath directed towards the head of the goddess. Other attributes: a large vessel with a conical lid, located behind Aphrodite, a fan at her feet complements the scene. The left hand, on which the goddess leans, lies on the rock. Another composition depicting Aphrodite’s toilet, with almost the same characters, is found on the cover of a mirror case from Tarentum.81 It too is inscribed in a circle. The central space is occupied by the semi-nude figure of Aphrodite, the lower part of the figure is draped with many folds, one of which stretches up behind the back (Fig. 15). 77

 Abdullaev 2005.  Richter 1958. 79  Richter mentions this in passing (Richter 1958, 376). 80  Rubensohn 1911, 42–44, no. 31, pl. 5; Reinsberg 1980, 319, no. 53, fig. 84. 81  Walters 1921, no. 71, 16. 78

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Fig. 14. Plaster cast with depiction of Aphrodite’s toilet. Middle of 3rd century BC. Pelizaeus Museum of Hildesheim (inv. 1128) (courtesy O. Bopearachchi).

Fig. 15. Aphrodite’s toilet. Composition on the cover of mirror from Tarentum (after Walters 1921, 16, no. 71).

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The left hand, as noted by Walters, rests on the shell of a turtle lying on a rock. The head of the goddess is turned to the side. As if without looking, she gropes the contents of the vessel (object) offered to her. The goddess sits on a rock, its surface decorated with five-petal flowers. In the left of the composition a smaller female figure is depicted, standing on a pedestal and resembling a statue, stretching out a spoon-shaped bowl to the goddess(?). The master paid great attention to this character, reflected in the detailed design of her dress, hairstyle and the cylindrical pedestal with a cornice and a profiled base, where the drum is decorated with a garland, giving it the appearance of a Romanstyle altar. The dress is also unusual and richly decorated. It has a long peplos-shape at the bottom decorated with triangles. In the upper part, the dress is intercepted under the breast with a belt; below, the upper edges of the dress form complex folds resembling acanthus sheets. The hairstyle of this character is similar in shape to that of Aphrodite herself. On the right of the composition is a nude Eros (wings not visible). In the hands above the head is a conical-shaped object – as Walters suggests, a wicker basket.82 The empty spaces of the composition are filled with various images: in the lower left of the field, Pan’s flute and a five-pointed asterisk, above which a dolphin figure is placed; then to the right a crow, a six-pointed star, then a grasshopper figure and a lyre. To the left of the ‘statue’ is what Walters identified as a thyrsus; its long handle and the upper part, in the form of a heart, are covered with notches. In form, this object resembles the outlines of a fan, an attribute more characteristic of the iconography of Aphrodite. (A similar object was noted in the previous relief from the Hildesheim Museum.) The space between the heads of Aphrodite and the female figure is occupied by a rosette of four heart-shaped petals. A butterfly is depicted behind Aphrodite’s head; behind the figure of Eros is a quadrangular object with a crosshair in the centre. The third example of the toilet of Aphrodite was found in the sale markets. It is allegedly from Afghanistan or Pakistan.83 The composition is carved on an ivory medallion84 using high relief (Fig. 16). Most interesting is the use of plaster casts as models of classic compositions on themes of famous legend and myth. These compositions, with a fixed arrangement of characters and individual details, were well known to professional masters. The composition fully repeats previous copies; the differences are only in individual detail and the general manner in which the characters are interpreted. Aphrodite is represented sitting on a rock, shown by large rounded reliefs. The texture of the natural rock is transmitted by small drilled holes. The round, somewhat heavy figure of the goddess is half-naked; she leans against the rock with her left hand, her right hand lies on her knee; on her wrist, a bracelet in the form of a snake. Heavy draped folds cover the lower part of the figure. The upper edge of the fabric, in the form of a twisted fold, goes behind the back. Aphrodite’s face is oval in shape with large features; the reliefs of the eyelids and eyeball are worked out; hair, styled with large curls, frames the face.

82  Judging by the conical shape of the crown, this detail of the image is more reminiscent of a headdress of the Boeotian petasos type. 83  Bopearachchci 2002, 13–16, fig. 7; 2001, 178–79, fig. 3; Bernard and Bopearachchi 2002, fig. 15. 84  The diameter of the embossed rim is 8.3 cm.

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Fig. 16. Composition with Aphrodite’s toilet. Ivory disc. Bactria (courtesy O. Bopearachchi).

In the left of the composition is another female figure dressed in a long chiton with peplos, shown by vertical folds. She is an attendant serving the main figure. She is smaller and tilted slightly forward. In her hands she holds a casket (cosmetic box), its lid thrown back. Hairstyle and facial features are interpreted in the same manner as the main character. Another participant in the composition is an Eros, whose small figure hovers above Aphrodite’s left shoulder. On his back are tiny wings. In the right hand, an object resembling a torch; meanwhile, the left hand is lowered onto the goddess’s shoulder and holds the falling crease. This detail of the iconography remained out of sight of the first publishers.85 This gives a special meaning to the interpretation of the entire composition. In fact, Eros is trying to cover the bare shoulder of the goddess. His gesture of covering the nakedness of Aphrodite is of fundamental importance. This aspect of the iconography of the goddess was familiar to Bactrian toreutic masters. To clarify this, let us turn to the Tillya Tepe Treasure in Afghanistan and a golden brooch with the image of a naked and winged goddess, conditionally called Aphrodite (‘Kushan Aphrodite’).86 She is depicted between two columns.87 It is difficult to agree with V.I. Sarianidi, who believes that Eros is holding a bow in his hand.88 The outlines of the usual attribute of Eros are absent in this case. Eros is tilted 85

 Bernard and Bopearachchi 2002.  Judging by the iconography, including the attributes, this image was copied from the Greek Aphrodite. However, who she was and what function(s) she performed in the mythology of the local people are difficult to say. 87  Sarianidi 1985, 23, fig. 80. 88  Boardman drew attention to this detail (Boardman 2003, 362). 86

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slightly forward, the left arm is extended and touches the shoulder of the goddess. Several oblique lines convey the folds of the cloak with which Eros is trying to cover her left bare shoulder. The examples I have given of medallions and casts show that, while maintaining the overall initial scheme of the composition, the masters had a certain freedom in depicting the details: costume, hairstyle, manner of transmission of landscape elements, etc. Individual parts of the image could be modified in accordance with the realities of the environment in which the work was created. Quite often masters introduce new elements into the iconography, for example, small objects that fill in free spaces without changing the basic meaning. In all of the above compositions, the fundamental points remain the same. All the examples demonstrate that the action (in this case, the toilet) takes place in open space. The central place is occupied by the figure of the goddess Aphrodite and the character serving her, standing on a pedestal and resembling a statue. If on the first example (closest to the original) the views of the participants are focused on the action, then the following examples demonstrate the missing expression of the characters. However, as the works show, ancient masters were not limited to the introduction of some details and new elements into the original composition. Sometimes other popular characters were inserted into the templates of compositions with a characteristic set of poses and gestures. A striking example of this is a silver cup from the Getty Museum, on the medallion of which in relief (repoussé) figures of Dionysos and Ariadne are depicted; published by M. Pfrommer and attributed as a work undertaken in the traditions of the Hellenised East.89 In the centre of the composition are the figures of the young Dionysos in threequarter turn and of Ariadne, their heads turned to the left.90 Dionysos clasps Ariadne by the shoulder with his right hand; with his left, he caresses Ariadne’s chin (Fig. 17). A cape is thrown over Dionysos’ shoulder, two folds of which hang down his back. The edges of the fabric (folds) form parallel curved lines (a similar manner of expressing the folds to the Noin Ula phalera). Ariadne’s forearm and shoulder are decorated with bracelets, and a serpentine bracelet is on her wrist. Behind Dionysos is a satyr seated on a rock, turned to the right; the figure is draped with a cloak, only the right shoulder is left bare. Vertically, between Dionysos and the satyr, is a thyrsus with fluttering ribbon. A rocky surface is shown along the bottom field of the composition, from which grape shoots with leaves, twisted spirals and fruits grow to the left and right. The poses of the main characters are the most interesting, especially the gesture of Dionysos. As Pfrommer notes, such a feature in the depiction of Dionysos and Ariadne is more characteristic of the iconography of Eros and Psyche.91 The master who worked on the cup medallion was clearly inspired by that particular imagery. This phenomenon is reason to believe that the scene with the nymph and satyr on the Noin Ula phalera was created under the influence of the composition of satyr and 89  Diameter of the medallion: 14.4 cm; h.: 3.2 cm; diameter of the bowl: 11.1 cm, diameter of emblem: 10.3–10.5 cm. 90  Pfrommer 1993, 64; about the ‘silver bowl of excellent quality with satyr and a nymph from Asia Minor’, see n. 773. 91  Pfrommer 1993, 218.

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Fig. 17. Composition with Dionysos and Ariadne. Getty Museum (after Pfrommer 1993, 64).

hermaphrodite, a no less famous subject of Hellenistic art. Of course, this is only a hypothesis; nevertheless, it seems that the masters of the ateliers of Asia Minor adhered more strictly to the standards of iconography of Greek heroes and mythological subjects.

DIONYSIAN MOTIFS

AND THE

ETHNOGRAPHIC DATA)

CULT

OF

WINE (ARCHAEOLOGICAL

AND

As noted above, in the art of Hellenistic and post-Hellenistic Bactria, the Dionysian topic held a leading position. This is reflected in almost all genres of art. In a previous article I tried to collect all the images of Dionysos and the characters of his circle known at that time,92 though there is no certainty that I captured all of them; they were directly related to cults associated with one of the main Greek deities, the ever-young god of the fructifying forces of the earth, vegetation, viticulture and winemaking. It can be assumed that Greeks in a country far from their homeland easily recognised the presence of Dionysos by his symbol in the shape of a vine. Ancient authors noted the spread of viticulture in the regions of Areia and Margiana. About Areia, Strabo says: ‘The country produces a lot of wine, and this wine is preserved for three generations in unsalted vessels’ (11. 10. 1). He particularly notes the abundance of grapes in Margiana (11. 10. 2). Antiochus Soter, amazed by the fertility of the plain, ordered the city of Antioch that he founded be enclosed by a wall of 1500 stades to protect it from the surrounding deserts. Further, describing Bactria, he says that parts of Bactria stretch along the border of Areia towards the north, most of which lies above Areia to the east of the latter. Bactria is extensive and produces all kinds of products, except olive oil (11. 11. 1). 92

 Abdullaev 2005.

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The culture of the grape was known in ancient Central Asia far before the arrival of the Greeks, as shown by discoveries at the Bronze Age archaeological site of Sapallitepa in southern Uzbekistan. Finds of grape seeds, often at the bottom of containers, indicate their use not only as a fruit but also as a raw material for the production of an intoxicating beverage. In one case, in a jug burial, at the bottom of the jug, the seeds of grape and silver berry were found. In the three other graves the remains of wheat bran, silver berry seeds (Elaeagnus angustofolia – commonly called Russian olive, oleaster, Persian olive or wild olive), grape seeds (Vitis vinifem), dwarf grain (Triticum compactum Host) of soft wheat (Triticum aestivum l) and barley (Hordcum vulgare) were found at the bottom of large vessels. According to the archaeologist A. Askarov, the vessels contained an intoxicating drink that was made on the basis of grapes using silver berry, which served to ferment them.93 The close relationship of the Dionysian cults with the cyclical phenomena of nature explains their wide distribution and penetration in the rites and into the mentality of ethnically very different people. Their survival is still visible in the 19th and 20th centuries. S.P. Tolstov notes that in Khorezmia dancers wear a Dionysian mask during a feast.94 According to ethnographic data, in spite of the strict prohibitions of Islam, secret pagan feasts (mysteries) were celebrated in some districts of Uzbekistan until the end of the 19th century.95 The story told by a master of Uzbek choreography, Makham-Hafiz (1872–1936), is revealing. One autumn day at the end of the 19th century, he was invited into a house for a mysterious feast. He was then blindfolded before being led to another house. A little later a group of men and women appeared. They were offered musallas (wine spell), the glasses tinkled, the songs resounded. Then women and men divested themselves and celebrated an old rite devoted to the cult of the deity of wine. Hafiz sang while accompanying himself with the tambur. A similar ritual existed in a village, Avlietepa, near Kattakurgan (Samarkand region): in the 1920s, men and women secretly gathered for orgiastic ceremonies.96 The Russian historian V. Nalivkin evokes similar rites at the end of the 19th century. He notes that the secret banquets were called ishton soldi, which means in Turkish ‘pants down’.97 There is in the vicinity of Fergana a place, famous for the quality of its vineyards, which still bears this name today. In the song of Mahmud Kachgari, in the 11th century, it is said that when everything was ripe, the Turks, in the old days, celebrated festivals after the harvest, full of joy, in the midst of songs, dances and games. In the Turkish Lugati Divan of Kashgari a song has a direct link with a Dionysian feast. ‘All the instruments are tuned, the glasses full of wine are distributed. Without you the soul is saddened, let us go away.’ Mahmud Kachgari calls these ancient rites ‘bazram’. I call the above ‘Dionysian’ conditionally. They most likely differed in the form of worship and ceremonies and carried different appellations. However, they were associated with the holidays of the seasonal calendar and the cult of the deity, the patron saint of viticulture and winemaking. From the archaeological evidence of existence of viticulture, evidently 93

 Askarov 1977, 151; Askarov and Shirinov 1993, 108, fig. 36.1.  Tolstov 1958, 204–05. 95  Rakhmanov 1981, 32. 96  Rakhmanov 1981, 33. 97  Nalivkin 1885, 93–94. 94

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associated with certain calendar feasts and certain cults, at the peculiarity of which we could only guess until the ethnographic notes of the 19th or the first half of the 20th century gave witness to the extraordinary continuity of the tradition. Of course, it is necessary to take into account the variability of the performances of these feasts, from open theatre with actors and masks to the actions of the mysterious character I mentioned above. In art of an official character, above all coin iconography and particularly in Bactria, the images of Dionysos or his closer companions are extremely rare.98 And this peculiarity is underlined when we take into consideration the abundance of Dionysian images and motif in small-form art, especially terracotta figurines. It was in the folk environment, in certain secret societies, that the rites and mysteries associated with the ancient cults were probably preserved, as shown above. It is difficult to say now that the characters personified in satyr and nymph participated in these orgiastic feasts. But we can say with clarity that these mysteries clearly do not relate to Islam, but reflected distant cults associated with natural holidays.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abdullaev, K. 1995: ‘Nomadism in Central Asia the Archaeological Evidence (2nd–1st Centuries B.C.)’. In Invernizzi, A. (ed.), In the Land of the griphons: Papers on Central Asian Archaeology in Antiquity (Monografie di Mesopotamia 5) (Florence), 151–61. —. 1996: ‘Terrakotovaya plastika Ai Khanuma’. Rossiiskaya arkheologiya 1, 55–67. —. 2003: ‘Nana in Bactrian Art. New Data on Kushan Religious Iconography based on the Material of Payonkurgan in Northern Bactria’. Silk Road Art and Archaeology 9, 15–38. —. 2005: ‘Les motives dionysiaques dans l’art de la Bactriane et de la Sogdiane’. In Bopearachchi, O. and Boussac, M.-F. (eds.), Afghanistan, ancien carrefour entre l’Est et l’Ouest (Actes du colloque international au Musée archéologique Henri-Prades-Lattes du 5 au 7 mai 2003) (Indicopleustoi 3) (Turnhout), 227–57. —. 2017: ‘The Royal Portrait in Hellenistic Bactria’. In Boschung, D. and Queyrel, F. (eds.), Bilder der Macht: Das griechische Porträt und seine Verwendung in der antiken Welt (Morphomata 34) (Paderborn), 213–53. —. 2020: ‘Eastern and Western Motifs in the Composition with a Scene of Sacrifice from Noin Ula in Northern Mongolia: The Embroidered Cloth from Mound 31’. Ancient West and East 19, 167–217. Andreae, B. 2001: Skulptur des Hellenismus (Munich). Andronikos, M. 1984: Βερλίνα: Οι Βασιλικοί τάφοι και άλλεσ αρχαιότητεσ (Athens). Åshede, L. 2015: Desiring Hermaphrodites: The Relationship of Hermaphroditus in Roman Group Scene (Dissertation, Gothenburg). Askarov, A.A. 1977: Drevnezemledelcheskaya kul’tura epokhi bronzy Yuga Uzbekistana (Tashkent). Askarov, A.A. and Shirinov, T. 1993: Rannyaya gorodskaya kul’tura Sredney Azii (Samarkand). Baratte, F. 2002: East and West: A Central Asian Silver Hoard from the Parthian Era (London). Bernard, P. 1970: ‘Campagne de fouilles 1969 à Ai Khanoum en Afghanistan’. CRAI 114.2, 301– 49. —. 1994: ‘L’Asie centrale et l’empire séleucide’. Topoi 4, 473–511. Bernard, P. and Bopearachchi, O. 2002: ‘Deux bracelets grecs avec inscriptions grecques trouvés dans l’Asie Centrale hellénisée’. Journal des Savants, 237–78. Boardman, J. 2003: ‘The Tillya Tepe Gold: A Closer Look’. Ancient West and East 2.2, 348–74. Bopearachchi, O. 1991: Monnaies gréco-bactriennes et indo-greques: Catalogue raisonné (Paris). 98 A bust of Dionysos with a wreath of ivy can be seen on the obverse of the copper-nickel coins of the Graeco-Bactrian kings Agathocles and Pantaleon (Bopearachchi 1991, 173, pl. 7 and 181, pl. 9).

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—. 2002: ‘Nouvelles trouvailles archéologiques en Afghanistan et au Pakistan et la destruction du patrimoine’. La Timuride 24, 13–16. —. 2001: ‘The Contribution of Greeks to Art and Culture of Bactria and India. New archaeological Evidence’. Indo-Turcia Journal 1.1, 178–79. Burn, L. 2004: Hellenistic Art: From Alexander the Great to Augustus (London). Curtis, J. and Tallis, N. (eds.) 2005: Forgotten Empire: The World of Ancient Persia (Berkeley/Los Angeles). Dalton, O.M. 1964: The Treasure of the Oxus. With Other Examples of Early Oriental Metal Work, 3rd ed. (London). Davidovich, E.A. 1979: Klady drevnikh i srednevekovykh monet Tazhjikistana (Moscow). Drijinina, A. and Lindström, G. 2013: ‘Kultgefässe im Oxos-tempel – zur Frage der Kultkontinuität im unruhigen 2. Jh. v. Chr.’. In Lindström, G., Hansen, S., Wieczorek, A. and Tellenbach, M. (eds.), Zwischen Ost und West: Neue Forschungen zum antiken Zentralasien (Wissenschaftliches Kolloquium 30.9.–2.10.2009 in Mannheim) (Archäologie in Iran und Turan 14) (Darmstadt), 171–86. Francfort, A.-P. 1984: Foulles d’Ai Khanoum III: Le Sanctuaire du temple à niches indentées. 2: Les trouvailles (Mémoires de la Délegation archéologique française en Afghanistan 27) (Paris). Ghirshman, R. 1943–45: ‘Fouilles de Bégram (Afghanistan)’. Journal Asiatique 234, 59–71. —. 1964: ‘Raskopki frantsuzkoy delegatsii v Begrame’. Kratkie soobscheniya Instituta istorii material’noi kul’tury 13, 10–11. Hackin, J. 1954: Nouvelles recherches archéologiques à Bégram, ancienne Kâpici, 1939–1940: Rencontre de trois civilisations, Inde, Grèce, Chine (Mémoires de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan 11) (Paris). Hamelin, P. 1952: ‘Sur quelques verreries de Begram’. Cahiers de Byrsa 2, 11–25. Häuber, C. 1999: ‘Vier Fragmente der Gruppe Satyr und Hermaphrodit vom Typus “Dresdner Symplegmata” des Museo Nuovo Capitolino in Rom’. In Gedenkschrift für Andreas Linfert: Hellenistische Gruppen (Mainz), 157–80. Invernizzi, A. 1990: ‘Facial Marks in the Parthian World’. Silk Road Art and Archaeology 1, 35–50. Kohzad, A.A. 1956: ‘Begram in the light of a recent work entitled “New archaeological enquiries at Begram”’. East and West 7.3, 244–46. Koshelenko, G.A., Munchaev, R.M. and Gaibov, V.A. 2014: Arkheologiya Afganistana v dni mira i dni voyny (Moscow). Kottaridi, A. 2012: Muzei tsarskikh grobnits v Egah (Athens). Kurz, O. 1954: ‘Begram et l’Occident gréco-romain’. In Hackin 1954, 138–40. Litvinskii, B.A. 2010: Khram Oksa v Baktrii (Yuzhnyi Tadzhikistan) 3: Iskusstvo, khudozhestvennoe remeslo, muzikal’nye instrumenty (Moscow). Masson, M.E. and Pugachenkova, G.A. 1956: Parfianskie ritony Nisy. Iz kul’turnogo naslediia turkmenskogo naroda (Moscow). Mordvintseva, V.I. 2008: ‘Falary iz votivnyh kladov Severnogo Prichernomor’ya III–I vv. do n.e. i sarmatskaya paradigma’. VDI 3, 162–83. —. 2010: ‘Tillya-Tepe Gold Jewellery and its relations to the Sarmatian Animal Style of the Northern Black Sea Area’. Anabasis 1, 175–207. Neudecker, R. 1990: Die Skulpturenausstattung römischer Villen in Italien (Beiträge zur Erschliessung hellenistischer und kaiserzeitlicher Skulptur und Architektur 9) (Mainz). Nalivkin, V. 1885: Istoriya kokandskogo khanstva (Kazan). Palagia, O. 1987: ‘Les techniques de la sculpture grecque sur marbre’. In Vanhove, D. (ed.), Marbres helléniques: de la carrière au chef d’œuvre (Exhibition Catalogue) (Brussels). Pagenstecher, R. 1909: Die Calenische Reliefkeramik (Berlin). Pfrommer, M. 1993: Metalwork from the Hellenized East: Catalogue of the Collections, The J. Paul Getty Museum (Malibu). Picard, C. 1955: ‘Un thème alexandrin sur un médaillon de Begram: la cuisson symbolique du porc’. BCH 79.1, 509–27. Pichikian, I.R. 1991: Kul’tura Baktrii. Ahemenidskij i Ellinisticheskij Periody (Moscow). Pietrangeli, C. 1958: Scavi e scoperti a Roma sotto il Pontificio di Pio Sesto (Rome).

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Polosmak, N.V. 2009: ‘Kurgan dlya lunolikoy’. Nauka iz pervyh ruk 28.4, 118–27. —. 2011: ‘Svet dalyokoy Ellady’. Nauka iz pervyh ruk 37.1, 94–107. Polosmak, N.V. and Bogdanov, E.S. 2015: Kurgany Sutszukte (Noin-Ula, Mongoliya), part 1 (Novosibirsk). —. 2016: Noinulinskaya kollektsiya: Rezul’taty raboty rossiisko-mongol’skoi ekspeditsii, 2006–2012 gg. (Novosibirsk). Polosmak, N.V., Bogdanov, E.S. and Tseveedorzh, D. 2011: Dvadtsatyi noinulinski kurgan. Novosibirsk (Novosibirsk). Pontbriand, S. and Leriche, P. 2012  : ‘Un bâtiment d’artisanat kouchan à l’Ancienne Termez’. Problemy Istorii, Filologii, Kul’tury 4 (38), 14–23. Pugachenkova, G.A. 1971: Skulptura Khalchayana (Moscow). —. 1987: ‘Obraz kangyutsa v sogdiyskom iskusstve’. In Iz khudozhestvennoy sokrovishnutsy Srednego Vostoka (Tashkent), 56–65. —. 1989: Drevnosti Miankalya (Tashkent). Rakhmanov, M. 1981: Uzbekskii teatr s drevneishikh vremen do 1917 goda (Tashkent). Reinach, S. 1908: Répertoire de la statuaire grecque et romaine, vol. 2.2 (Paris). Reinsberg, C. 1980: Studien zur hellenistischen Toreutik: Die antiken Gipsabgüsse aus Memphis (Hildesheimer Ägyptologische Beiträge 9) (Hildesheim). Richter, G.M.A. 1958: ‘Ancient Plaster Casts of Greek Metalware’. AJA 62.4, 369–77. Rostovtzeff, M.I. 1922: Iranians and Greeks in South Russia (Oxford). —. 1929: The Animal Style in South Russia and China (Princeton). Rubensohn, O. 1911: Hellenistisches Silbergerät in antiken Gipsabgüssen (Berlin). Rudenko, S.I. 1970: Frozen Tombs of Siberia: The Pazyryk Burials of Iron Age Horsemen (Berkeley/ Los Angeles/London). Sarianidi, V.I. 1986: Bactrian Gold (St Petersburg). Smirnov, Y.I. 1909: Vostochnoe serebro. Atlas drevney serebryanoy i zolotoy posudy vostochnogo proishozhdeniya, naydennoy preimuschestvenno v predelah Rossiyskoy imperii (St Petersburg). Smith, A.H. 1904: A Catalogue of Sculpture in the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, the British Museum, vol. 3 (London). Spitsyn, A.A. 1909: ‘Falary Yuzhnoy Rossii’. Izvestiya Imperatoskoi Arkheologicheskoi Komissii 29, 18–19. Stähli, A. 1999: Die Verweigerung der Lüste: Erotische Gruppen in der Antiken Plastik (Berlin). Tanabe, K. 1987: ‘The Iranian Origin of the Buddhist urna’. Archeologische Mittelungen aus Iran 20, 251–59. —. 1988: ‘Iranian Xvarnah and the Treasure of Shosoin at Nara in Japan’. Iranica Antiqua 13, 365–81. Tolstov, S.P. 1958: ‘Raboty Horezmskoy Arheologo-Etnograficheskoy ekcpeditsii AN SSSR v 1949–1953 gg’. In Tolstov, S.P. and Zhdanko, T.A. (eds.), Arkheologicheskie Etnograficheskie raboty Horezmskoy Expeditsii, vol. 2 (Moscow), 7–258. Treister, M.Y. 2011: ‘Serebryanye falary s izobrazheniem Bellerofonta i khimery iz sarmatskogo pogrebeniya v Volodarke (Zapadny Kazakhstan). Eshche raz k voprosu o tak nazyvaemom greko-baktriyskom stile v ellenisticheskoy torevtike’. Scripta Antiqua 1, 90–146. —. 2014: ‘K nahodke falara iz medalyona ellimisticheskoy chashi v kurgane No. 20 mogilnika Noin-Ula (Severnaya Mongoliya)’. VDI 4, 125–50. Trever, K.V. 1940: Pamyatniki Greko-Baktriyskogo iskusstva (Moscow/Leningrad). —. 1961: ‘Baktriiski bronzovyi falar s izobrazheniem Dionisa’. Trudy Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha 5, 98–109. Walters, H.B. 1921: Catalogue of the Silver Plate (Greek, Etruscan and Roman) in the British Museum (London). Wheeler, R.E.M. 1949: ‘Romano-Buddhist art: an old problem related’. Antiquity 23, 4–19. Williams, E.R. 1976: ‘Ancient Clay Impressions from Greek Metalwork’. Hesperia 45.1, 41–66. Yatsenko, S.A. 2012: ‘Yurzhi on Bactrian Embroidery from Textiles Found at Noyon uul, Mongolia’. The Silk Road 10, 39–48. Zeymal, E.V. 1983: Drevnie monety Tadjikistana (Dushanbe).

LUXURIOUS FUNERALS AND SUMPTUARY LAWS Larissa BONFANTE (†)

ABSTRACT The luxury of Etruscan funerary rites was closely related to their aristocratic society, which celebrated the status and wealth of their great families with splendid tombs furnished with banquet and symposium ware, images of ancestors and mourners, men’s armour, and women’s gold and amber jewellery and chariots. For the Greeks these luxuries were typical of barbarian truphe, for the Romans they were examples of the private luxuria they had given up in favour of public monuments and state cults. And indeed Greek and Roman sumptuary laws targeted just the kind of funerary customs that the Etruscan aristocracy continued to carry out until their cities were destroyed, or when they became Roman.

The Etruscan Underworld was not a place of fire and brimstone, of punishment and pain. It was an Afterworld, a continuation of life, where the deceased eventually rejoined their families beyond the grave and took part together in a happy Hereafter.1 Like the Mormons of modern times, they believed that after death they would be reunited with their families. Meanwhile, like the Egyptians, they equipped their graves with the necessities and luxuries of life, providing the dead with a home in the grave for life after death. The importance of Etruscan funerary rites was an aspect of their culture closely related to their aristocratic society. Their great families built splendid tombs for their ancestors and descendants, furnished them with banquet ware, valuable and sometimes extravagant jewellery and expensive chariots. These tombs were at times decorated with funerary art illustrating their real world of banquets, dances, music and games, as well as their deepest beliefs, their dreams, fear of death and hopes for the hereafter. This kind of conspicuous consumption of the aristoi started at the end of the Iron Age Villanovan period, with the splendour of the Orientalising period, when mineral riches attracted the Greeks and Phoenicians westward to Hesperia, and amber came down from the north to be made into jewellery and status symbols, and used as protection for small children. It lasted down through the 4th century and the Hellenistic period, when the rock-cut tombs of inland Etruria were built as monumental reminders of the power and nobility of great families; and ended only when the members of these families were destroyed, or joined the Roman oligarchy. There were some limitations in the middle of the 6th century, when some areas of the necropolises at Orvieto and Cerveteri began to resemble a city, with tombs of equal size neatly arranged along streets, like a city plan. The change may have been due to local sumptuary regulations, enacted to encourage a 1  On the Etruscan Underworld or Afterlife, see de Grummond 2006, 209–33; Jannot 2005, 33–71; Krauskopf 2006.

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more egalitarian society. There are few signs, however, of the sumptuary laws that limited or prohibited conspicuous consumption in the ancient Greek and Roman world for private families and directed it to public projects, and there was nothing like the total end of tomb furnishings that took place across the Tiber in some parts of Latium, including Rome, in the 6th century,2 and that set the stage for the construction of the huge Capitoline Temple in Rome. As a matter of fact, the Greek and Roman laws which are recorded by historians target just the kind of expenditure for the luxurious funerals and burial monuments that were typical of the Etruscans, whose great families wished to raise their profile and advertise their wealth and power. It is instructive to note how many of the most important of the Etruscan funerary rituals and customs were of the type expressly forbidden by Greek and Roman sumptuary laws. We start with the most visible, the tombs, and look into two other important sumptuary prohibitions which were basic to funerary practice in Etruscan cities.

THE TOMBS Cicero Laws 2. 64–65, tells us the following about the Greek law limiting the size and decoration of tombs at Athens. ‘On account of the enormous tombs that are visible in the Kerameikos [cemetery], a law was passed “that no one should build a tomb that required more than three days work for ten men.” It was forbidden, too, to adorn a tomb with stucco and to place on it the so-called herms….’3 There were no such regulations to limit the luxurious Etruscan funeral ritual and burial practices that included monumental tombs designed as homes for their ancestors to live in and their neighbours to envy. The huge mounds of the necropolises of the southern cities, Tarquinia and Cerveteri, excavated out of the soft volcanic rock by the manpower available to the family of the deceased, each contained several separate areas or apartments.4 Later, in the course of the 3rd and 2nd centuries, the spectacular rock-cut tombs of inland south Etruria developed the concept of the outside of the house. At Norchia and Sovana, impressive temple façades were carved out of the rock high up on the steep rock walls, so that the funeral processions below could marvel at them as they went by. The actual graves were placed in simple chambers carved out of the rock below the façades. These picturesque rock-cut tombs Etruria were ambitious projects designed by architects, and required skilful craftsmen to work in locations that have even made it difficult to study them.5 The best preserved is the Tomba Ildebranda at Sovana. See now Jolivet’s account of the contemporary monumental Grotta Scalina, between Viterbo and Tuscania, which shows the influence of Macedonian architecture, and survived into mediaeval and later times, as a home for hermits and shelter for pilgrims on the route to Rome.6  Bartoloni et al. 2009.  The Greeks of the Classical period had sumptuary laws that struck especially at luxurious displays at funerals: Nenci 1983, 1019–31. Athenian sumptuary laws also forbade marble grave markers from ca. 480 to ca. 430, and after 317 BC: Palagia 2016. 4  Prayon 1986. 5  Steingräber 1996, Castel d’Asso, Blera and San Giuliano. For Norchia, see Colonna Di Paolo and Colonna 1978; and Ambrosini 2016. 6  Jolivet and Lavergne 2018. 2 3

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MOURNERS In the passage cited above, Cicero goes on to state the following: ‘Eulogies of the deceased were also forbidden, except at public funerals and by publicly appointed orators. Crowds of mourners were even forbidden, in order to limit the lamentations.’ Mourners were an essential part of actual funerals, but they evidently had to be regulated and brought into public rather than private ceremonies. Etruscans placed images of mourning figures in the grave to provide eternal lamentations for the tomb’s inhabitants. There are a great many of these mourners from the Orientalising period, both large-scale, like the Pietrera figures from Vetulonia, and small figurines like the individually modelled, impasto or bucchero female statuettes from the Regolini Galassi tomb in Cerveteri, or the Bernardini or Barberini tombs from Praeneste. A group of bucchero figurines of mourners from the Poggio Gallinaro tumulus in Tarquinia had been placed in front of the walled-up entrance to the funeral chamber, at the end of the dromos, where the actual mourners would have been standing and beating their breasts after the funeral and the entombment had taken place.7 On images of mourners, the position of their arms recalls the traditional mourning gesture of the women, beating their breasts as they wail. This gesture is recalled in Seneca’s Trojan Women, when Hecuba instructs the members of the chorus, who are lamenting the dead as well as their own destiny, to uncover their breasts; the women answer, ‘Our naked bosoms cry for the beating hand’ (Act 1, pp. 158–59).8 (Today, a recent news item tells of women being trained to wail, for jobs are available for mourners in the Congo and other areas).9

THE GOLD The Twelve Tables, the basis of Roman legislation, in their present written form date from the mid-5th century BC, though they consolidate earlier traditions which go back at least to the 6th century. Table X, which is mostly devoted to funerary legislation, includes prohibitions against excessively emotional aspects of the ceremonies. One wonders how successful they were in limiting the traditional excesses and wailing of the mourners: ‘Women shall not during a funeral lacerate their faces, or tear their cheeks with their nails; nor shall they utter loud cries bewailing the dead.’ But Roman regulations are mostly concerned with limiting the luxury and excessive expenditure of family funerals, according to Laws IV and V: ‘No greater expenses or mourning than is proper shall be permitted in funeral ceremonies’, nor should they ‘exceed the limit established by these laws for the celebration of funeral rites’. Law XI limits the use of precious materials, ‘No wine flavoured with myrrh, or any other precious beverage, shall be poured upon a corpse while it is burning; nor shall the funeral pile be sprinkled with wine.’ The most precious material of all, gold, is not to be placed in the

7  Poggio Gallinaro: Bonghi Jovino 2015; Haynes 2000, 81–82, fig. 63. For mourners, see Bartoloni and Pitzalis 2016, 827. 8  Four Tragedies and Octavia. Trans. E.F. Watling (London 1966). 9  The Economist, 27 February, 2019, ‘Congo’s paid mourners’.

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tomb. As stated in Law XV, ‘Gold, no matter in what form it may be present, shall, by all means, be removed from the corpse at the time of the funeral; but if anyone’s teeth should be fastened with gold, it shall be lawful either to burn, or to bury it with the body.’10 Two remarks may be made in regard to this regulation, which again helps us to understand Etruscan funerary rites and customs of the type that are being discouraged by the Tenth Table. The first is about the significance of gold, which was not just a sign of wealth, but symbolised power and status, just as amber was prized for far more than its monetary value. Gold was the attribute of kingship among the Thracians and Scythians, and it was generally a symbol of power, both on its own or decorated. For jewellery was never just decorative, and the motifs and images that decorated the objects added to their worth and their meaning, as did the fine workmanship of many of these gifts and grave goods.11 The second remark pertains most closely to the Etruscan situation, and provides us with one of those rare cases when we can relate an archaeological discovery directly to a text. Often quoted is the second part of the warning about the use of gold in the Twelve Tables: ‘… but if anyone’s teeth should be fastened with gold, it shall be lawful either to burn, or to bury it with the body’. Evidently once the gold prosthetics were a part of the body of the deceased it would have been brutally irreverent to wrest them from the corpse’s mouth. These gold dental appliances, a specialty of Etruscan goldsmiths, are the subject of a recent publication on the history of dentistry, which credits the Etruscans with the invention of the ‘Golden Smile’.12 The oldest example from Satricum, in Latium, probably dating from between 700 and 650 BC, was made with gold bands, rather than wire, and is the only one to hold a gold tooth, rather than a replacement tooth.13 The appliances were all used by women, and were evidently meant to be cosmetic, with ornamentation as their main goal, something like the ‘bling’ or brightly coloured fingernails of modern fashion.

WOMEN In Etruscan necropolises, some of the richest tombs were those of women; they were in any case no less so than those of the men. Like the men’s, they contained the banquet and symposium equipment provided for the celebration of the banquets of the living and for the afterlife, imported vases for the wine and spits for the meat, and expensive, colourful textiles to brighten the festive atmosphere, lit by candelabra decorated by exquisite statuettes, all brightly polished so that they shone like gold. And gold, of course, amber and imports such as ostrich eggs. Women took their wedding finery, their jewels and their mirrors to their graves, and beyond; they even had carriages in their tombs, as 10

 Table X, Law XV. Warmington 1938; Becker and Turfa 2017, 35–36.  For the symbolism of gold, see Sannibale 2008. Gold for royalty, Marazov 2011, 146–47. For amber as a mark of priestesses, see Landolfi 2004, 208. For the value that the workmanship confers on an heirloom or gift, see Homer, who describes finely crafted objects as daidala, touched by divine craft: see Iliad 14. 178 (Athena), and Odyssey 18. 400 (Hephaistos). Morris 1992. 12  Becker and Turfa 2017. 13  Becker and Turfa 2017, 97–98 (Satricum), 112–22 (function). 11

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a sign of their high status and independence.14 Present, too, in the tombs of elite women were symbolic objects such as thrones and amber distaffs and spindles. In their graves, therefore, as in life, Etruscan women received respect beyond that of other women of classical times.

CONCLUSION Greek and Roman sumptuary laws insist on the limiting or even prohibition of specifically funerary laws that closely mirror Etruscan funerary rites and customs. This is not surprising, since these rites and customs are just how the great families of aristocratic Etruscan society advertised their wealth and power. The laws were designed to curb the power of great families; they were anti-aristocratic, and they did in fact break down the power of the great families and bring about democracy in Athens, and to a lesser degree they regulated the private cults at Rome. But in the Etruscan cities the aristocracy did not change, nor did the funeral rites that emphasised the continuity of the family and the generations of ancestors and descendants that would be reunited in the Afterworld, in a world separate from that of the living.

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 Emiliozzi 1997, 311–35; Bartoloni and Pitzalis 2016.

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Krauskopf, I. 2006: ‘The Grave and Beyond in Etruscan Religion’. In de Grummond, N.T. and Simon, E. (eds.), The Religion of the Etruscans (Austin), 66–89. Landolfi, M. 2004: ‘The Etruscans in Picenum’. In Camporeale, G. (ed.), The Etruscans outside Etruria (Los Angeles), 208–19. Marazov, I. 2011: Misteriite ne Kabirite v Drevna Trakiya (Sofia). Morris, I. 1992: Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge). Nenci, G. 1983; ‘Materiali e contributi per lo studio degli otto decreti da Entella’. Scuola normale superiore, annali classe di lettere e filosofia 12.3 (for 1982), 771–1103. Palagia, O. 2016: ‘Commemorating the Dead: Grave Markers, Tombs, and Tomb Paintings, 400–30 BCE’. In Miles, M.M. (ed.), A Companion to Greek Architecture (Malden, MA/ Oxford), 374–89. Prayon, F. 1986: ‘Architecture. Tombs and Necropoleis’. In Bonfante, L. (ed.), Etruscan Life and Afterlife (Detroit), 174–88. Sannibale, M. 2008: ‘Gli ori della Tomba Regolini-Galassi: tra tecnologia e simbolo. Nuove proposte di lettura ned quadro del fenomeno orientalizzante in Etruria’. MEFRA 110, 337–67. Steingräber, S. 1996: ‘New Discoveries and Research in Southern Etruscan Rock Tombs’. Etruscan Studies 3, 75–104. Warmington, E.H. (ed. and trans.) 1938: Remains of Old Latin 3: The Law of the Twelve Tables (Loeb Classical Library 329) (Cambridge, MA).

GREEK HELIOS OR INDIAN SŪRYA? THE SPREAD OF THE SUN GOD IMAGERY FROM INDIA TO GANDHĀRA Osmund BOPEARACHCHI

ABSTRACT This paper examines a hitherto unpublished toilet tray found most probably in Begram in Afghanistan depicting a syncretic image of the Greek Helios and the Indian Sūrya. In the light of this document, two more toilet trays whose iconography was misunderstood by the art historian who published them are also re-examined. The origin of the Greek Sun God, Helios, and the diffusion of his iconography from Greece to Central Asia and Gandhāra, as well as the origin and development of the Sūrya or Āditya iconography in India are briefly studied. The present study also shows that the iconography of the three toilet trays does not appear in a Buddhist or Vedic milieu, but in an Indo-Greek context, demonstrating the diversity and syncretism that characterises the cultural, religious, and artistic heritage of the former Greek and Indian political supremacies in Greater Gandhāra.

The present article is based on a hitherto unpublished toilet tray, presumed to have been found in Begram in Afghanistan, depicting a syncretic image of Greek Helios and Indian Sūrya (Fig. 10). In the light of the iconography of this toilet tray I also wish to re-examine two other toilet trays (Figs. 9 and 12), the iconography of which was misinterpreted by the art historian who published them. These three documents represent the fusion of Indian Sūrya with Greek Helios. It is with great pleasure that I dedicate this article as a token of my friendship to our good friend and outstanding scholar, Gocha Tsetskhladze. According to classical mythology, Helios was a Titan, and not an Olympian god, and did not play a vital role in Greek mythology, yet he is depicted in many forms of Greek art as early as the 6th century BC. The god Helios, the god ‘Sun’, daily driving across the sky in the chariot drawn by four horses, was an indefatigable charioteer. His chariot was originally drawn by bulls (Iliad 16. 779) and only later by ‘fire-darting steeds’.1 Helios, son of Hyperion and Theia, was the personification of the Sun and his sisters were the goddesses Selene (the Moon) and Eos (the Dawn). The Gigantomachy frieze, depicting the battle fought between the Giants and the Olympian gods for supremacy of the cosmos, of the Pergamum Altar, now in the Pergamum Museum in Berlin, depicts Helios rising up from the ocean driving his quadriga (a chariot pulled by four horses) and entering the battle armed with a torch, targeting a Giant standing in his way.2 With her back

1

 Kerényi 1951, 190.  Queyrel 2005, 59–61.

2

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to the viewer, the moon goddess, Selene, rides her mule over a Giant.3 Eos, goddess of the dawn, rides side-saddle into battle.4 Among many depictions of the Greek Helios in Central Asia and Gandhāra, we may cite a few examples directly relevant to our study. Helios, with a radiate head, standing in a quadriga, facing (Fig. 1), holding spear, or moving to right (Fig. 2), appears, without any Indian inspiration, on the coins issued by Plato, a Bactrian king of Central Asia who reigned around the 2nd century BC.5 The Indo-Scythian Maues, founder of the Scythian kingdom in Gandhāra in the 1st century BC depicts Helios in a biga (chariot with two horses). Going against the Greek tradition, on this issue Helios is accompanied by a female charioteer and as we shall see later, this new element can be seen on the toilet trays under discussion.6 Telephos Euergetes, an Indo-Greek king, contemporary of the Indo-Scythian Maues, who reigned in the Gandhāra between 75 and 70 BC, on one of his silver issues depicts a radiate Helios standing, holding a sceptre, accompanied by his sister, Selene, standing, adorned with a crescent moon.7 The assimilation of Selene into the imagery of the Sun God at this moment of the history is an important feature. Kaniška, the greatest of all the Kuṣāṇ/Kushan kings, among many Greek and Iranian gods, depicts on his coins Selene, the Moon Goddess, proclaimed by the Greek legend and by elements of the iconography, and more specifically, the crescent moon emerging from the shoulders.8 The Iranian version of the Goddess with the same iconography declares in Bactrian script that she is Mao.9 However, in both iconographies, the goddess is shown as a man. On another series of the same king, Helios is depicted with a Greek legend.10 He stands facing, head to left, surrounded by a radiate halo, clasping the hilt of the sword with his left hand. The same god with an identical iconography appears on another series with the Bactrian legend referring to him as Mirro,11 meaning Mithra, the ancient Iranian solar deity.12 There is no doubt, for the Kuṣāṇs, Helios was none other than Mithra. This assimilation takes place during the reign of Kaniška I, whom we proposed to date between AD 127 and 150.13 Prior to the Kuṣāṇs, two Indo-Greek kings make a discrete allusion to Mithra by associating him to the Greek god Zeus. On his bronze series, the Indo-Greek Amyntas, depicts Zeus with a Phrygian cap and a radiate solar nimbus, two symbols of Mithra 3

 Queyrel 2005, 60, fig. 49, 177, fig. 158.  Queyrel 2005, 60, fig. 50. 5  Bopearachchi 1991, Plato, series 1–3. 6  Senior 2001, series 2.1T, 2.1.D-2.4aD, 2.5.T, 2.6aD. 7  Bopearachchi 1989 and 1991, Telephos, series 1. Pieper (2019) in his recent article made a complete study of the depictions of the Sun God on the Indo-Greek and Indian coins. However, I do not agree with his analysis of the iconography on the silver coins of Telephos, and my objections will be put forward in a forthcoming article. 8  Göbl 1984, series 26. 9  Göbl 1984, series 26, 34, 48, 53, 65, 70, 76. 10  Göbl 1984, series 25, 32. 11  Göbl 1984, series 27, 46, 52, 56, 64, 68, 75A, 79. 12  The iconographies of Miro and Mao continue with slight variations on the coins of Huviška (successor of Kaniška I), see for Mao Göbl 1984, series 146–148, 150, 163, 178–180A; for Mao Göbl 1984, series 149; for Miiro Göbl 1984, series 135–138, 198–200; for Miro Göbl 1984, series 139, 140, 192; for Mioro Göbl 1984, series 140A, 190, 193, 194, 197; for Moro Göbl 1984, series 191. 13  Bopearachchi 2008, 52. 4

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(Fig. 3).14 His cotemporary, Hermaios, also depicts a similar type of a syncretic divinity on his unique bronze series (Fig. 4).15 The same king takes a further step, showing Zeus, wearing the radiate Phrygian cap of Mithra on his silver series (Fig. 5).16 Almost during the same period, Mithraism, an eastern variant of sun worship, became popular among the Romans and reached the peak of its popularity during the 2nd and 3rd centuries. Mithra, wearing a Phrygian cap and a Parthian-like costume killing the bull was very popular during this period.17 Sol Invictus (‘invincible Sun’) played a prominent role in the Mithraic mysteries, and was equated with Mithras.18 Under the Severans this Eastern variant of Sol was given a much more prominent place in the state religion. Let us now briefly examine the origin and development of the Sūrya or Āditya iconography in India. One of the oldest so-far known depictions of Indian Sūrya is engraved on the stone railing that once enclosed the Mahābodhi temple in Bodhgayā (Fig. 6). Sūrya stands frontally, riding a chariot driven by four horses, harnessed as pairs running in opposite directions.19 The chattra (parasol) above the head and the halo with sun rays place him in a solar context. Two female figures, on either side of the god, shoot arrows with their bows at the half-visible demons of darkness depicted on either side of the chariot. The female figures are known as the light goddesses and sometimes explicitly named as Uṣas and Pratyuṣas when present as a pair. They represent the darkness-dispelling function of the sun with the arrows they shoot representing the rays of light.20 The spectacular relief at Bhājā Vihāra near Pune/Poona in the Western Ghats similarly illustrates Sūrya riding in a chariot between his two wives (Fig. 7). The chariot tramples the monstrous body of a demon symbolising the night. Both reliefs portray the sun driving away the darkness. As Ananda Coomaraswamy correctly argued there is no reason to question the original identification of this scene as presenting Sūrya with his two wives driving through the sky and dispelling the powers of darkness.21 Coomaraswamy identified the royal personage, riding on an elephant which is striding over a broad landscape holding aloft in its trunk an uprooted tree, as Indra (Fig. 7).22 Although Robert DeCaroli agrees with Coomaraswamy’s identification, he admits that ‘this assessment is impossible to prove conclusively’.23 However, in a forthcoming article, Lauren Bausch, quoting from the Ṛgveda/Rig Veda (10. 73. 11), argues convincingly that Indra is implored, literally, to uncover what is covered, and his greatest triumphs include striking Vṛtra, the chief demon of drought, to release the light of Sūrya (Ṛgveda 8. 89. 4) and breaking the mountain and made the cows come towards him (10. 89. 7).24

14

 Bopearachchi 1991, Amyntas, series 14 and 15.  Bopearachchi 1991, Hermaios, series 9. 16  Bopearachchi 1991, Hermaios, series 1–8. 17  Hopfe 1994, 15, 17, 21. On the symbolism of bull slaying, see Hinnells 1975. 18  Hopfe 1994. 19  For detailed discussion and illustrations of this relief, see Coomaraswamy 1927, pl. XVII.61; Pandey 1986, 75–76, pl. 4. 20  On the role of Uṣas and Pratyuṣas, see Pandey 1986, 118–25. 21  Coomaraswamy 1927, 25, pl. VII.24. 22  Coomaraswamy 1927, 25. Harle 1994, 49, fig. 32, also identify the charioteer in the relief to our left as Sūrya and the god on elephant-back in the relief to our right as Indra. 23  DeCaroli 2000, 264. 24  Bausch 2021. 15

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These images dating back to the Śuṅga period are among the earliest representations of Sūrya found in South Asia. However, they both belong to a period when the iconography of the Indian Sun God was not yet codified according to the narratives in the sacred texts such as Ṛgveda. One of earliest relief sculptures depicting Sūrya in a wellcodified context is on the eastern porch ceiling of the Virūpākṣa temple in Paṭṭadakal (Fig. 8). The temple is an early Chalukyan (AD 543–753) creation and was built by Queen Loka Mahadevi.25 The sun deity is represented standing erect, holding a lotus blossom in each of his raised hands. He wears a torque (tight necklace), heavy earrings, and a vaijyantihāra and tiara. His head is encircled with a radiate halo reminding us of the narration in the Ṛgveda.26 At his feet is depicted his half-brother, the charioteer Aruṇa driving the seven-horse chariot, holding the reins of the horses. The six horses are depicted three on either side, running in opposite directions, while the seventh one is in the middle facing us. On either side of the Sun God, are the female archers, Uṣas and Pratyuṣas driving off the darkness. One arrow shot by the archer to the left of the Sun God, has pierced the belly of the demon that is fleeing behind the demon-archer shooting an arrow at the right hand corner. Below the demon archer, another demon fights back with a sword in the left hand and a shield in the right, already pierced by an arrow. Four Kinnaras, two on either side, six Vidyādharas, three on each side, either dance or play music with a vīṇā and percussion instruments like cymbals and drums. At the lowest register, Daṇḍin with a palm-leaf manuscript and Piṅgala to right are depicted.27 Having discussed to a certain extent the basic iconographic characteristics of the Greek Helios, the Iranian Mithra and the Indian Sūrya, let us now examine the three toilet trays. The popularity of the Greek mythology in the remote Greek colonies of the eastern regions, such as Bactria and India can be seen from the depictions of the so-called toilet trays. Henri-Paul Francfort,28 John Boardman,29 Kausumi Tanabe30 and Jessie Pons31 are among the many who have given much attention to the iconographies of these toilet trays. These trays, sculpted in bas-relief, carry many Greek mythological scenes associated with Apollo and Daphne, Aphrodite and Paris, Artemis and Actaeon, Aphrodite punishing Eros, Dionysos and Maenads, Dionysos and Ariadne, Hercales and Omphale, etc. and they are well discussed by Francfort in his remarkable book published in 1979.32 The first toilet tray was published by my good friend Katsumi Tanabe, identifying the deity as Artemis, without justifying his hypothesis (Fig. 9).33 Artemis in ancient Greek mythology is the goddess of the hunt, wild animals and chastity. The divinity with a radiating halo standing frontally is first of all a male figure. He holds what is most probably a thunderbolt. As we have seen on the coin series of the Indo-Scythian Maues, a female charioteer, standing to the right of the god holds the reins of the four horses hitched to 25

 Kavali-Filliozat 2016, 120–22; Michell 2014, 197–219.  Rig Veda, translated R.T.H. Griffith 1896, Hymn XXXVII, 8–10; also see Wilkins 2003, 32. 27  The panel is well described by Kavali-Filliozat 2016, 120–22. 28  Francfort 1979; 2016; 2019. 29  In Errington and Cribb 1992, 152–58. 30  Tanabe 2008, 228–33, nos. 42–56. 31  Pons 2008; 2011. 32  Francfort 1979, nos. 1, 2, 6, 8, 13, 14, 16. 33  Tanabe 2006, 64, fig. 30. 26

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the chariot. The woman to the god’s right holds a spear in her upraised left hand, while the other female figure on the opposite side, wields a thunderbolt. Although the demons are not explicitly depicted, in the light of the Indian counterparts that we have discussed so far, we can suggest that they are Uṣas and Pratyuṣas driving off the darkness. The iconography is partly Indian, because of the presence of the two female figures fighting the darkness, but also Greek, because of the presence of the quadriga and Greek dresses they wear. Instead of the usual bow and arrow of the killers of darkness in the pure Indian context, the women on the toilet tray hold a spear and a thunderbolt. Instead of Sūrya’s half-brother charioteer Aruṇa, a woman drives the four-horse chariot. The iconography of the first toilet tray could be better understood in the light of the hitherto unpublished document (Fig. 10). The Sun God standing frontally adorned with a solar nimbus, holds a sceptre with a makara dhvaja. To his right, a woman charioteer holds the reins of the horses. Apart from the female charioteer, a second figure, most probably a man, between the two front horses, also seems to drive the horses.34 If this figure depicts a second charioteer, he could be Aruṇa, as clearly sculpted on the Sūrya panel on the eastern porch ceiling of the Virūpākṣa temple in Paṭṭadakal (see Fig. 8). To the left of the Sun God, a woman dressed in Greek garb, and wearing a Greek helmet, attacks the demons of darkness with a thunderbolt in the right hand, protecting herself with a shield held in the left hand. Her attitude immediately reminds us of Athena Alkidemos, the goddess of Pella where Alexander the Great was born, depicted on the coins of many Indo-Greek kings and especially of Menander I, the greatest of all the Greek kings who ruled over the Indian territories south of the Hindu Kush (Fig. 11). The woman on the toilet tray wears a similar helmet, and holds an analogous thunderbolt and a shield mostly decorated with the aegis of Athena made of the head of Medusa. The woman to our left holds a bow and arrow. The horses advance in the sky, trampling the grotesque bodies of demons symbolising the night. The iconography of this toilet tray which we date either to the second or 1st century BC is also characterised by the syncretism of two cultures, one Indian and the other Hellenistic. It is Indian, because of the women charging the demons with bow and arrow and because of the demons of darkness at the feet of the horses associated with Indian mythology. On the other hand, the iconography is partly Hellenistic, because of Helios, the quadriga and the helmeted woman with the shield and thunderbolt. Another, very important toilet tray in the Hirayama Ikuo Museum of Art was published by Katsumi Tanbe with the simple caption ‘Dish. Biga’.35 More than a simple biga, this is another theatrical depiction of the syncretic version of the Greek Helios associated with the Indian Sūrya (Fig. 12). The Sun God stands frontally, holding a sceptre in the lowered left hand and a thunderbolt in the raised right hand. The female charioteer stands to the god’s left, holding the reins of the two horses. The woman archer to our right, holding several arrows draws one towards the monster emerging from our right. Her counterpart, to our left, attacks the monster, wielding a long spear in her raised right hand while protecting herself with a shield. Although dressed in Greek clothes, these two 34

 It is difficult to say for sure, because of the poor quality of the engraving, whether it is a man or a decorative motif of the chariot box. 35  Tanabe 2008, pl. VI.49.

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female figures represent Uṣas and Pratyuṣas driving off the darkness. The demons of darkness are unambiguously portrayed here quite dramatically. The bearded demon to our right, covering his face with a shield, fights back with a daṇḍa (club). The bearded demon of night to our left, fights with a battle axe against the helmeted woman who in her turn, attempts to attack him with a long spear. For the Indo-Greek sculptor, the author of this toilet tray, the fight between the wives of Sūrya and the demons of darkness is really a conflict between the forces of good and evil. It is interesting to note how an Indian story was interpreted through the eyes of a Greek artist. The syncretic iconography of Greek Helios and Indian Sūrya travelled from Gandhāra to Bāmiyān and beyond along the Silk Roads. This theme will be discussed in detail in a forthcoming article. In the meantime, let me at least mention that although Mithra makes his first manifestations on the Indo-Greek coins of Amyntas and Hermaios and later on the coins of Kaniška and Huviška,36 a fully developed iconography of this Iranian Sun God does not appear until the 5th century AD in Central Asia. The God standing in a chariot pulled through the sky by white horses painted in the niche located directly over the 38-m Buddha is definitely Mithra as argued by Benjamin Rowland,37 followed by Frantz Grenet.38 However, as will be argued in my pending article, the Bāmyān Sun God in the guise of Mithra is the Buddha himself. The fact that the mural painting stands in the niche located directly over the 38-m Buddha is a way to symbolise the solar presence of the Buddha himself. All the early depictions of the Sun God in India, Central Asia and China occur in a Buddhist context. I agree with Lauren Bausch in admitting that the Sūrya reliefs in the railing at the Mahābodhi temple and in a cave at Bhājā Vihāra are a celebration of the Buddha’s momentous achievement to dispel the darkness of night and restore his human consciousness to the unmanifest dimension.39 Gotama, which means ‘one who has the most light’, identifies the Vedic lineage of his family as Ādicca (Skt. āditya, ‘the sun’). In Buddhist literature, the Buddha Gautama is compared with the sun and light symbolism. Likewise, in early Indian art, the Vedic story of Sūrya was thus interpreted in a Buddhist context. Only during the later period, does the Vedic Sun God appear in a pure Hindu context, as on the relief on the ceiling of the Virūpākṣa temple in Paṭṭadakal. The iconography of the three toilet trays discussed in this article does not appear in a Buddhist or Vedic milieu, but in an Indo-Greek context. If we follow the chronological framework established by Francfort for all the toilet trays found in Gandhāra and the surrounding regions, popularly known as the Greater Gandhāra, the period of their execution is Indo-Greek and early Indo-Scythian and Indo-Parthian.40 Francfort concluded his remarkable study assuming that everything happens as if the workshops of sculptors produced toilet trays of three different great styles, intended for three different clienteles, for whom the Roman art was foreign and the Kuṣāṇ art still to be born.41 In a recent article Francfort dates these toilet trays between the 2nd century BC and 1st 36

 See above, nn. 11 and 12.  Rowland 1938. 38  Grenet 1993 added arguments based on the Mihr Yašt ‘Hymn to Mithra’ of the Avesta. 39  Bauch 2021. 40  Francfort 1979, 73–95. 41  Francfort 1979, 95. 37

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century AD adding further convincing arguments.42 Likewise, these toilet trays cannot be dated to the Kuṣāṇ period during which the Buddhist art began to flourish in Gandhāra. The presence of Greeks for more than a century in Gandhāra since the conquest of Demetrios I, who took advantage of the decline of the Mauryan empire after the death of Aśoka and extended his kingdom beyond the Hindu Kush, is an important historical fact.43 Menander I was no doubt the greatest of all the Indo-Greek kings who ruled in the regions south of the Hindu Kush, and Gandhāra in particular.44 The autonomy of these local Greek rulers is revealed in architecture, plastic and glyptic art and above all by thousands of coins depicting Greek divinities. Francfort was correct to underline that the Gandhāra toilet trays seem to testify to the transmission of images from Central Asia and the Mediterranean world, but also to attest to the taste and knowledge of Greek letters, the poetry of myths, bucolic writers, epigrams and even tragedy.45 At the same time, their complex iconographies indicate that these art forms and stories of Indian origin inspired Greek artists in Gandhāra who were already partly Indianised. Coin engravers who cut the dies of the Graeco-Bactrian king Plato certainly knew about the iconography of Helios in a Hellenistic context (Figs. 1 and 2). However, as discussed above, what really characterises the iconography of these three toilet trays is the syncretism of Greek Helios and Indian Sūrya (Figs. 9, 10, 12). It shows the capacity of Indo-Greek artists to absorb both Indian and Hellenistic elements and restructure them in a new context. The iconographies of these toilet trays represent the diversity and syncretism characterising the cultural, religious and artistic heritage of the former political supremacies in Greater Gandhāra, meaning Greeks and Indians.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bausch, L.M. 2021: ‘Sūrya Reliefs in Early Buddhist Art’. In Pons, J. (ed.), Papers in Honour of Francine Tissot (Turnhout). Bernard, P., Pinault, G.-J. and Rougemont, G. 2004: ‘Deux nouvelles inscriptions grecques de l’Asie Centrale’. Journal des Savants, 338–56. Bopearachchi, O. 1989: ‘Un roi indo-grec: Télèphe. Observations sur l’iconographie de son monnayage et la date de son règne’. Gazette numismatique suisse 39 (156), 88–94. —. 1990: ‘Ménandre Sôter, un roi indo-grec. Observations chronologiques et géographiques’. Studia Iranica 19, 39–85. —. 1991: Monnaies gréco-bactriennes et indo-grecques. Catalogue raisonné (Paris). —. 2008: ‘Les premiers souverains kouchans: Chronologie et iconographie monétaire’. Journal des Savants, 3–56. Coomaraswamy, A. 1927: History of Indian and Indonesian Art (London, repr. New York 1985). DeCaroli, R. 2000: ‘Reading Bhājā: A Non-Narrative Interpretation of the Vihāra 19 Reliefs’. East and West 50.1–4, 259–80. Errington, E. and Cribb, J. (eds.) 1992: The Crossroads of Asia: Transformation in Image and Symbol in the Art of the Ancient Afghanistan and Pakistan (Cambridge).

42

 Francfort 2016, 337.  See Bernard in Bernard et al. 2004. 44  See Bopearachchi 1990. 45  Francfort 2016, 337. 43

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Francfort, H.-P. 1979: Les Palettes du Gandhāra (Mémoires de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan 23) (Paris). —. 2016: ‘Figures emblématiques de l’art grec sur les palettes du Gandhāra’. In Jouanna, J., Schilz, V. and Zink, M. (eds.), La Grèce dans les profondeurs de l’Asie (Actes du 26e colloque de la Villa Kérylos à Beaulieu-sur-Mer, les 9 et 10 octobre 2015) (Cahiers de la Villa Kérylos 27) (Paris), 305–39. Göbl, R. 1984: System und Chronologie der Münzprägung des Kusanreiches (Vienna). Grenet, F. 1993: ‘Bāmiyān and the Mihr Yašt’. In Bromberg, C.A. (ed.), Iranian Studies in Honor of A.D.H. Bivar (= Bulletin of the Asia Institute 7), 87–94. Harle, J.C. 1994: The Art and Architecture of the Indian Subcontinent, 2nd ed. (New Haven/ London). Hinnells, J. 1975: ‘Reflections on the Bull-Slaying Scene’. In Hinnells, J. (ed.), Mithraic Studies: Proceedings, vol. 2 (Manchester), 290–313. Hopfe, L.M. 1994: ‘Archaeological indications on the origins of Roman Mithraism’. In Hopfe, L.M. (ed.), Uncovering Ancient Stones: Essays in Memory of H. Neil Richardson (Winona Lake), 147–56. Kavali-Filliozat, V. 2016: Splendours of Indian Iconography: A Guide to the Masterpieces of Lokeśvara Temple at Paṭṭadakal (Pubblicazioni di Indologica Taurinensia 24; Serie orientale Roma n.s. 7) (Turin/Rome). Kerényi, K. 1951: The Gods of the Greeks (London/New York). Michell, G. 2014: Temple Architecture and Art of the Early Chalukyas: Badami, Mahakuta, Aihole, Pattadakal (New Delhi). Pandey, D.P. 1986: Sūrya. Iconographical Study of the Indian Sun God (New Delhi). Pieper, W. 2019: ‘The image of the Sun God on Indo-Greek and early Indian coins and a new interpretation of the silver types of Telephos’. In Basu Majudmar, S. and Bose, S.K. (eds.), Money and Money Matters in Pre-Modern South Asia (New Delhi), 57–89. Pons, J. 2008: ‘Gandhāran Trays’. In Gandhara, the Buddhist Heritage of Pakistan: Legends, Monasteries, and Paradise (Bonn/Mainz), 78–79. —. 2011: ‘From Gandhāran trays to Gandhāran Buddhist art: the persistence of Hellenistic motifs from the 2nd century BC and beyond’. In Kouremenos, A., Chandrasekaran, S. and Ross, R. (eds.), From Pella to Gandhara: Hybridisation and Identity in the Art and Architecture of the Hellenistic East (BAR International Series 2221) (Oxford), 153–76. Queyrel, F. 2005: L’Autel de Pergame. Image et pouvoir en Grèce d’Asie (Antiqua 9) (Paris). Rowland, B. 1938: ‘Buddha and the Sun God’. Zalmoxis 1, 57–84. Senior, R.C. 2001: Indo-Scythian Coins and History, 3 vols. (Lancaster, PA/London). Tanabe, K. 2006: Butsuzō no kigen ni manabu sei to shi (Sex and Death through the Origin of the Buddha Image) (Kyoto). —. 2008: Gandhāran Art from the Hirayama Collection (Tokyo). Wilkins, W.J. 2003: Hindu Gods and Goddesses (New York).

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Fig. 1. Silver tetradachm of Attic standard of the Graeco-Bactrian king Plato (ca. 145–140 BC). Obv.: Diademed bust of king to right. Rev.: Helios radiate, standing facing in a quadriga, holding spear. Legend in Greek: ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΕΠΙΦΑΝΟΥΣ / ΠΛΑΤΩΝΟΣ. 32 mm; 16.98 g. Private collection, Germany. Bibliography: Bopearachchi 1991, series 1. A (photograph by author, courtesy of the collector).

Fig. 2. Silver tetradachm of Attic standard of Graeco-Bactrian king Plato (ca. 145–140 BC). Obv.: Diademed bust of king to right. Rev.: Helios radiate, standing facing in a quadriga, holding spear and moving to right. Legend in Greek: ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΕΠΙΦΑΝΟΥΣ / ΠΛΑΤΩΝΟΣ. 32 mm; 16.38 g. Private collection, Germany. Bibliography: Bopearachchi 1991, series 2. B (photograph by author, courtesy of the collector).

Fig. 3. Bronze coin of Indo-Greek king Amyntas (ca. 95–90 BC). Obv.: Bearded bust of Zeus-Mithra. ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ / ΝΙΚΑΤΟΡΟΣ / ΑΜΥΝΤΟΥ. Rev.: Helmeted Athena standing to right holding spear and shield. Maharajasa/jayadharasa/amitasa. 19 × 20 mm; 8.99 g. Private collection, Germany. Bibliography: Bopearachchi 1991, series 15. C (photograph by author, courtesy of the collector).

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Fig. 4. Bronze coin of Indo-Greek king Hermaios (ca. 90–70 BC). Obv.: Bearded bust of Zeus-Mithra. ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ / ΣΩΤΗΡΟΣ / EPMAIΟΥ. Rev.: Horse prancing to right. Maharajasa/tratarasa/heramayasa. 21 × 20 mm; 8.36 g. Cabinet des Médailles. Bibliography: Bopearachchi 1991, series 9. A, no. 16 (photograph by author, courtesy of Michel Amandry).

Fig. 5. Silver tetradrachm of Indian standard of Indo-Greek king Hermaios (ca. 90–70 BC). Obv.: Diademed bust of king to right wearing crested helmet. ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΣΩΤΗΡΟΣ / EPMAIΟΥ. Rev.: Zeus-Mithra enthroned and half turned left wearing Phrygian cap. Maharajasa/tratarasa/heramayasa. 26 mm; 8.59 g. Cabinet des Médailles. Bibliography: Bopearachchi 1991, series 4. B, no. 12 (photograph by author, courtesy of Michel Amandry).

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Fig. 6. Sūrya riding a chariot driven by four horses. Stone railing of the Mahābodhi temple in Bodhgayā Museum. Bibliography: Coomaraswamy 1927, pl. XVII, no. 61; Pandey 1986, 75–76, pl. 4 (photograph courtesy of Lauren Bauch).

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Fig. 7. Sūrya riding in a chariot between his two wives and Indra riding on an elephant. Relief at Bhājā Vihāra near Pune/Poona in the Western Ghats. Bibliography: Coomaraswamy 1927, 25, pl. VII, no. 24; Harle 1994, 49, fig. 32 (photograph by author, courtesy of the Archaeological Survey of India).

GREEK HELIOS OR INDIAN SŪRYA?

Fig. 8. Sūrya standing erect, holding a lotus blossom in each of his raised hands. Eastern porch ceiling of the Virūpākṣa temple in Paṭṭadakal. Bibliography: Kavali-Filliozat 2016, 120–22; Michell 2014, 197–219 (photograph by author, courtesy of the Archaeological Survey of India).

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Fig. 9. Toilet tray depicting the Sun God standing frontally in a quadriga. Originally from Gandhāra now in a private collection, Japan. Bibliography: Tanabe 2006, 64, fig. 30 (photograph courtesy of Katsumi Tanabe).

Fig. 10. Toilet tray depicting the Sun God in a quadriga standing frontally holding a sceptre with a makara dhvaja. Originally from Begram now in a private collection in Pakistan. Unpublished (photograph courtesy of the collector).

Fig. 11. Silver tetradachm of Attic standard of Indo-Greek king Menander I (ca. 165–130 BC). Obv.: Diademed bust of king to right. Rev.: Athena Alkidemos standing to left holding a shield decorated with the Gorgon’s head, and wielding the thunder of her father Zeus. Legend in Greek: ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΣΩΤΗΡΟΣ / ΜΕΝΑΝΔΡΟΥ. 32 mm; 17.07 g. Private collection, Germany. Bibliography: Bopearachchi 1991, series 11. B (photograph by author, courtesy of the collector).

Fig. 12. Toilet tray depicting the Sun God holding a sceptre and a thunderbolt in a biga. Originally from Gandhāra now in the Hirayama Ikuo Museum of Art. Bibliography: Tanbe 2008, 228, fig. VI-42 (photograph courtesy of the Ikuo Hirayama Foundation).

GREEKS AND THEIR NEIGHBOURS: FROM SIMILAR START TO ACCULTURATION Jan BOUZEK (†)

ABSTRACT This paper is a kind of supplement to my last book on Homeric Greece (Bouzek 2017) and the Early Iron Age koine trying to follow the path of acculturation of the neighbours of the Greeks in relation to Greek colonisation towards the general acceptance of Greek art as a means of expression and language in the Mediterranean in the 5th–4th centuries BC.

THE GEOMETRIC KOINE In the 13th and 12th centuries BC many formulae started that were popular in Late Geometric art in the 8th century BC. The Protogeometric style laid the foundations for future development; it paved the way to consistent inner structure, to the articulation of form deriving from the structure of the human body. Concentric circles and semicircles were made with multiple compasses and the feet of vessels were sharply off-set. Two shapes of amphora represented stylised human beings. The more slender shape, with handles on the neck, was used as an urn in male cremation burials, and the more rounded one, with handles on the belly, for female cremations. Greek Geometric art of the 9th and 8th centuries derived from the Protogeometric and brought with it the system of proportional relationships derived mainly from the proportional system of the human body on a more sophisticated level. This way the somatic structure of body was raised into consciousness and the relationship between man and the universe was renewed on a new level. The Early Geometric style in Attica turned away from the strict separation of body and foot of vessels; they became again one homogenous unit. Most of the surface was covered by glaze; only small areas were left for decoration. The articulation reached its peak in the so-called Strict style at the end of the 9th century BC. Individual parts of the vessel corresponded in their decoration symmetrically according to the horizontal and vertical axis. The same was true in rhythmic articulation. As well as Greek meters in poetry, the artistic depiction in friezes, at first mainly in pottery, was strictly articulated in rhythm. Triplets of intermediate segments (triglyphs) alternate with bigger fields – metopes. The triplet of lines separated all fields vertically and horizontally. More complicated intermediate segments were separated by fields in horizontal belts. Some rhythms of frieze were more complicated, for example fivefold (a-b-a-c-a – D – a-b-a-c-a) or even sevenfold intermediate segments. Others, mainly outside Attica, were also in a more free rhythm but the

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basic system was generally respected. The principle can be expressed in mathematical formulae, but ancient Greeks usually felt it without the necessity to calculate it. Clay and bronze figurines changed from the rounded stylisation of the Protogeometric style towards the more rectangular and forms closer to nature. At the end of the century, figural drawing became more common on the vases in Athens and in Central Greece. In 776 BC, the year of the first all-Greek Olympic Games, the Greeks officially began their own history and around that time they were sailing on most of the Mediterranean Sea; first for trade and piracy connected to it, and later to found their own colonies. The oldest known are in Italy: Pithekoussai on the island of Ischia and Cumae in Campania were established around 770 BC; others on Sicily from the middle until the end of the 8th century. The peak of vase-painting was reached in Athens. At the beginning there was an earlier phase of the Strict style and in the second quarter of the 8th century the so-called Ripe style developed. The first scenes with their immediacy remind us of the rock carvings from Scandinavia and only slowly were they incorporated into the rhythm of the vase. The human figure is depicted similarly as in other ancient arts; head and legs up to the waist in profile, shoulders and eyes en face. The wasp waist was fashionable both for men and women; Homer’s heroes and heroines had no belly with the exception of beggars in the court of Odysseus suffering from hunger. The first figures were naked and only from the middle of the 8th century do female figures have long clothes and with their eyes and hair more distinct. In the Ripe style black glaze disappeared from most of the vases and the whole surface was covered by an ornament reminding us of textile patterns. This style reached its peak on big vases that originally stood on the graves of the Athenian aristocracy. The Great Dipylon amphora, the work of a painter who led the most important workshop in Athens, excelled in its perfection of the proportional system, delicacy of drawing, balance of decoration, and also in the central theme. In the second half of the 8th century the drawing of decoration simplified, became more perfunctory and in some workshops only figures remained. The human figure moves to the centre of attention; it also shows inner details and the filling ornament is less dense. Around 720 BC floral motifs spread, the face started to be depicted in outline and Athenian vase-painting moved into the period of the Orientalising style. Geometric art created a base for architectonic order and consistent understanding of three-dimensional space and rhythm for architecture, sculpture and painting for the entire further development in Greece. The Geometric style of the Early Iron Age aimed at understanding the structure of the material world and the relationship of forces and rhythms. The clearest expression of this structure is in the Geometric art of Greece. In Villanova (Italy) it changed in playfulness with multiplications and connecting elements into mannerism, while in Central Europe it kept a simple Archaic form in which strict simple lines and only slightly turned curves kept basic ideas in a rough form. In the East, at the border with the Eurasian world of shamanism, there were more visible dynamics of the ornament and stylised figural depictions: struggles and fights of animals and men. In the West the concept remained more static and more restricted. The best Hallstatt plastic art exceeded this level: the models for the bull from Býčí Skála were sought in Anatolia, and for the Strettweg goddess in

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Greece. The last phase of Geometric voluminous style (Flächenstil) is known from Boeotian fibulae, Michalkovo and Boljarevo (here Fig. 3.4),1 The Early Iron Age in Central Europe was influenced by the Cimmerians and Scythians who came from the steppes of the Pontus.2 Cimmerians, who destroyed most of the Ionian towns on the west coast of Asia Minor and also the large Phrygian empire in the early 7th century, overran the Carpathian basin 300 years earlier and their campaigns reached even Bohemia.

THE SUBGEOMETRIC (ORIENTALISING)

KOINE

Generally, the Subgeometric/Orientalising koine was the result of a response to Greek exports related to Greek colonisation, as reflected along the margins of the Greek world in the 7th–6th centuries BC; this impact followed the first Etruscan and Italic imitations of Greek models which were still Geometric. Fine pottery with figural decoration of the Orientalising and Archaic styles was made in many Greek centres; it represents the most distinctive reflexion of Greek cultural particularism. The Orientalising style was inspired by the art of the Near East, mainly of Syria and Phoenicia, in the Ionian cities of Phrygia and Lydia. It never copied directly; the models were immediately changed and enlivened by the Greek artists with a new sense. The development of painting opened the possibility of capturing more complicated scenes and stories and also of a richer expression in decorations. For the Subgeometric koine the Greek minor arts were of basic importance, even if sometimes sculpture yielded models. Masks belong to the beginnings of art; Archaic sculpture was reflected in Etruria, in Iberia by what some scholars called Phocaean, but the majority derived from more general models in terracotta. Decorated sheet bronze (engraved and repoussé) was imitated in Italy, in the Situla art and with the Thracians; bronze figurines inspired schools in Thrace and Paionia (Macedonian and Thracian bronzes), Illyria, Etruria, with the Italics, and in the western Balkans. The Ionian impact became dominant in Scythian art from the second quarter of the 7th century. Greek jewellery was popular in the Balkans, Scythia and other parts of the Black Sea; otherwise much fine jewellery was made by the Phoenicians. Greek terracottas were made and served as models in Etruria and with the Italics and Iberians. In the field of gems Greek products competed with Oriental masters; some were half-Oriental or Etruscan, among the most successful were the Phoenician scarabs. Corinthian vase-painting set off in another direction at the end of the Geometric style. Early Protocorinthian had the outline of figures, but in Middle Protocorinthian pottery the black-figured style of painting started (black silhouette with engraved lines of inner details). The most common shapes of Protocorinthian and Corinthiuan pottery were small vessels for perfumes. Corinth had a similar status in cosmetics in Greece as nowadays Paris. Animals prevailed in decoration, both real and mythical, composed of parts of the bodies of animals, birds and humans. On big vessels there are usually scenes from feasts, cart races, mythology and others. The best-known vase of the Late Protocorinthian style is 1

 Bouzek 1997, 188, 249.  Bouzek 1997, 197–205.

2

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the so-called Chigi pitcher – the oldest depiction of a phalanx of hoplites (640–630 BC). At the end of the Protocorinthian style the vividness and originality of depiction disappeared but diversity remained. Later, in the so-called Corinthian style (Early 625–600 BC; Middle and Late styles belong to the first and second quarters of the 6th century BC), depiction gradually became mannered and in the second half of the 6th century Corinthian production did not keep pace with more successful centres. Corinthian vases were common in the Adriatic and southern Italy, even in Spain and southern France, but very rare in the Black Sea. East Greek pottery was prevalent in the Black Sea; first bird bowls, rosette bowls, Wild Goat, later Clazomenian, Chiot and Milesian Fikellura. Attic pottery ousted most of these in the last quarter of the 6th century. Much Chiot pottery was found in Egyptian Naukratis. Etrusco-Corinthian pottery arose from Protocorinthian and Ionian Wild Goat style. Etruscan jewellery and some toreutics were inspired from Phoenicia and Syria, pottery and terracotta revetments from Greece and ivory carvings from Syria. Carved amber was produced by Italic Greeks and Etruscans. Bronze vessels and sheet armour were, to a large extent, made in Corinth, but also in other centres. The most significant school of vase-painting was in Athens. It reached the highest artistic level and it also gives the most information on the ideas and life of that time. We distinguish several main periods in black-figured vase-painting. The period of the pioneers in the last quarter of the 7th century, early phase of the style in the first third of the 6th century, the supreme period in the second third of the century, and the late phase of transition to red-figured pottery in the last quarter of the 6th century. In the early 5th century only modest vases of a lower artistic level were made by the old technique, with the exception of the Panathenaic amphorae, which kept this form of decoration until Hellenism. Greek pottery and other minor arts were available to all participants of the second koine3 and, by participating in some of its particular aspects, they contributed to its realisation and fulfilment. The Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine prepared the way for the universal acceptance of Attic Classical art as leading model in the Mediterranean in the 5th and 4th centuries BC. The best of the black-figured painters, Exekias, worked in the third quarter of the 6th century. The amphora where Ajax and Achilles throw dice, now in the Vatican, and the cup in Munich where, in the tondo, Dionysos has just turned pirates into dolphins, are among his best works. Attic black-figured vases were popular in the whole civilised world of that time – with Etruscans, Phoenicians and Carthaginians, and in all Greek communities elsewhere. Around 530 BC experiments with a new style started – the light was now inside the figures and the black colour outside. Bilingual masters like the Andocides Painter tried both techniques, then notably the best of all Euphronios, Euthymides, who was better in anatomy but with a lesser mastery of composition, and the mannerist Phintias brought the new technique to great heights; they were followed by a number of cup painters, and in the first quarter of the 5th century, when the economic situation during the Graeco-Persian wars worsened, vase-painting achieved its peak, notably in the works of the Kleophrades and Brygos Painters, Makron and Douris. 3

 Bouzek 1994.

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Fig. 1 shows at which time some parts of temperate Europe joined the Greek models; the last of them being the Celts, who resolutely refused Athenian Classical 5th-century art and, as a kind of reaction to its message, reduced the realistic models to ornaments suggesting unfixed mobility and a variety of interpretations. As recorded about Brennos in Delphi by Diodorus Siculus 21. 9: the gods can appear in any form, but they cannot be forced to stay in one of them.4 Fig. 3 marks the peripheral arts inspired by Greek art, Fig. 3.4 an example of the Flächenstil, Fig, 4 is a comparison of human heads with flowers at Rogozen and Hořovičky, and Fig. 5 compares the ornament on Waldalgesheim and virulent gas in a tube. Archaic Greek art in its message to its neighbours to the west, east, north and south, in all directions to which our friend and honoree has contributed as researcher, author and editor of two series of volumes and a journal, prepared the understanding of the supreme phase of the Classical style. It was formerly understood as a preparatory period, but in its heritage there are many masterpieces of high value and in the 20th century many of them were admired more than Classical art. It was an inspiration to many later artistic styles, including those of the 20th century and the present time, but when seen from the angle observed in this paper, it was a network laying the ground for the full acceptance of the 5th- and 4th-century BC values of Classical Greek art and civilisation. Gocha Tsetskhladze as a scholar, researcher, publisher, editor and organiser became a central figure in this field of study, as his bibliography, given in the front-matter to this tribute, demonstrates so eloquently.5

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bouzek, J. 1994: ‘The distribution of Greek painted pottery in the Mediterranean and the Black Sea: a comparison’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 13, 241–43. —. 1997: Greece, Anatolia and Europe: Cultural Interrelations during the Early Iron Age (SIMA 122) (Jonsered). —. 2017: Studies of Homeric Greece (Prague). Bouzek, J., Pecinovská, M., Řídký, J. and Sankot, L. 2017: ‘Bemerkungen zur keltischen Kunst und den mediterranen Importen in Frühlatènezeit in Böhmen’. Studia Hercynia 21, 45–75. Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2015: ‘Greeks, locals and others around the Black Sea’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.), The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford), 11–42.

4 5

 Bouzek et al. 2017, 46.  Tsetskhladze 2015 will serve as an appetiser.

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Fig. 1. The beginnings of more sophisticated phases of human and animal representations in the sense of the Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine.

Fig. 2. The areas of Europe that participated in the Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine.

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1

2

3

4

Fig. 3. The stylisation of some mythical beings characteristic of the Subgeometric (Orientalising) koine: 1. Gorgoneion, antefix, North Ionia or Aeolis; 2. Sphinxes by the Polos Painter; 3. Early Corinthian pitcher by the Royal Library Painter: Sphinxes and Sirens; 4. Bronze peacock, ‘Flächenstil’. All Charles University, Prague.

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Fig. 4. Isolated heads with flowers in Thracian (Rogozen) and Celtic (Hořovičky) art.

Fig. 5. Decoration of Waldalgesheim torques and photograph of movement of gas inside a tube.

RITUAL PEBBLES: PEBBLES BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE DEAD IN THE MEDITERRANEAN IRON AGE* Mario DENTI In Brittany, pebbles were considered the bones of the dead. (Christian Ballouard1) The outline of the stone is round, having no end and no beginning; like the power of the stone it is endless. The stone is perfect of its kind and is the work of nature, no artificial means being used in shaping it. (Chased-by-Bears, 1843–1915, Santee-Yanktonai Sioux) ABSTRACT This paper presents the results of an analysis of the archaeologically documented contexts and usages of pebbles, trying to draw a few conclusions about their meaning. To this purpose, we propose a selection of some of the most representative sites around the Mediterranean, from Greece to Italy, southern Gaul and the Iberian Peninsula, within a chronological arc centred on the Iron Age. Most of these cases are already known in the literature, but will be examined here within the specific scope of the topic at hand. Particular attention will be paid to the Incoronata site (in the south of Italy) because it provides significant documentation about the usage of these materials. The analysis is articulated into four sections, corresponding to specific modes of usage of pebbles: pebble platforms and floors; pebble aureoles; pebble overlays; and pebble depositions. These four contexts appear to be far more interconnected, on a conceptual level, than one would assume. Their shared symbolic values allow us to consider them under a common functional denominator: the construction, marking and delimitation of a material and mental venue aimed at establishing contact with the Underworld.

PEBBLES,

BETWEEN

NATURE

AND

CULTURE

Over the past few years, archaeological research has turned its attention to the study of materials coming from the natural sphere, a context which is also that of the finds that are traditionally regarded as worthier of scientific scrutiny, i.e. anthropic materials (especially pottery). Soils, rocks, stones and pebbles have become objects of scientific attention, and their heuristic worth is finally regarded as proportional to the role that they had in ancient times. In other words, they are no longer seen as mere accessories to research or as ‘neutral’ components of construction (or other) activities, but as intermediary materials between the ‘inanimate’ natural world and the anthropic, cultural one, and their significance – whether intrinsic or connected to their usage – considerably increases their * English translation by Daniela Almansi. Many thanks to Giulia Saltini Semerari for her editing and valuable observations. 1  This work is dedicated to him, and naturally to Gocha.

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informative value. Before humans started using them, they were already thinking about them. More than inanimate, ‘pragmatic’ tools, these elements are charged with metaphorical and symbolic values: in the same way as we speak of ‘cultural layers’,2 we might also speak of ‘cultural pebbles’ and ‘cultural stones’. The importance of this approach clearly reaches beyond the scope of research methodology to address the wider question of the status of individual thought and action during Antiquity: it originates from (and generates in turn) a historical perspective that pays due respect to the ancients’ rich worldview on nature and culture, quite different from today’s dichotomous perspective. In terms of historiography and methodology, I believe that this phenomenon depends on at least three factors. First, current archaeological theories and practices have become considerably more thorough in considering and examining the contexts of excavation rather than focusing on the finds alone. Second, the now almost systematic reliance on interdisciplinary approaches and archaeometric studies entails the use of a wider and more complex array of tools than was the case only a few years ago – such as geomorphology, traceology, anthropology, archaeobotany and archaeozoology. The last factor is the increased number of studies on the functions and meanings that these materials may have had in ancient societies. These studies were mostly carried out in prehistorical research, a field that is much more advanced, in this respect, than the archaeology of ‘historical’ phases. The present paper focuses on the last factor and tries to unpack the functions and meanings that a specific material – pebbles – may have had in several archaeologically documented contexts of use. The aim is to identify, if possible, the logic and mode of selection, the use and the function of this material in ancient communities (and especially in the Mediterranean communities of the Iron Age). Methodologically, we start from a nonpragmatic view of these items, forcibly labelled as just ‘inanimate’ by modern rationalism. Pebbles are mineral materials found in nature (i.e. they are ‘ecofacts’).3 Even before being used by humans, pebbles have already been transformed by natural elements, and especially by time: as we know, they are fragments of rock that have undergone fluvial or marine erosion, which, combined with the abrasive action of the sand and silt contained in the water, gave them their generally rounded or occasionally discoid shape and a remarkably smooth surface.4 The contact with water and their constant transformation through time could well explain the functional contexts of their usage. In the course of their anthropic usage, as we shall see, these materials can often acquire new values and meanings, becoming the objects of an anthropic practice (i.e. ‘artefacts’).5 The practice as such, however, is the result of a preliminary conceptual elaboration. They were initially conceived as objects charged with significance, not only as inanimate stuff, and were selected and employed accordingly. In this sense, we might call them ‘mindfacts’. This conclusion is based on the data provided by archaeological research: as we shall see, the use of pebbles did not simply serve a pragmatic purpose, but was also charged with significance. 2

 Chapman 2000b, 63.  Chapman 2000b, 63. 4  About the pebbles of the Metapontino area, see Folk 2011, 9, fig. 1.21–22, pl. 1.1. 5  Chapman 2000b, 63. We will not be addressing here the use of pebbles in human manual activities, a topic that concerns the disciplines of prehistory. 3

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In addition to pebbles, which constitute the central topic of the present study, we will also consider other inanimate elements, such as stones and soils, that jointly participate in the configuration of specific functional contexts. The evolution and articulation of this work stem from the research and observations carried out at the archaeological excavation site of Incoronata, which I have been directing for 18 years. A former hegemonic centre of indigenous settlements along the Ionian coast of southern Italy during the Iron Age (9th–7th centuries BC),6 the site testifies, throughout the different stages of its occupation, to a significant and recurring usage of pebbles of every possible shape and size. This documentation was dialectically compared, on the one hand, to the excavations and research carried out in Greece over the past forty years about the period formerly known as the ‘Dark Ages’ and to the insights that they provided on the ritual contexts and practices of the Mediterranean World between the Bronze and Iron Ages;7 and, on the other hand, to the work of John Chapman, to whom the following observations are greatly indebted. Chapman’s research convincingly demonstrates the metaphoric and sociological implications of several material activities in ancient societies, such as: the intentional fragmentation and deposition of objects;8 the excavation and obliteration of pits:9 and the deliberate destruction of buildings.10 The common core of these practices turns out to be the relationship between the world of the living and the world of the dead. This dialectics explains a series of social practices that interest our analysis, such as the excavation of pits, the deposition of objects and natural elements such as stones and pebbles, the creation of earth layers with specific features and the destruction of structures. All these practices seem to express a ‘metaphor of the life-cycle not only for human life and those of other species but also for inorganic categories such as objects, structures, pits, and indeed whole settlements’.11 In the case of foundation deposits, the underlying common factor ‘is the linkage of persons at one end of the life-cycle to provide regeneration and fertility to structures and, perhaps, the social relationships making up new households at the start of a new life-cycle’.12 In the practice of deliberately destroying objects or buildings, the common factor is the ‘exchange between the living and the ancestors, in which the living destroy their material culture in return for continued good relations with the ancestral relations of the household or the whole community’.13 In this framework, the cult of the ancestors appears to play a crucial role. As we shall see, our own attempt to unpack the logic underlying the choice, usage and spatial arrangement of these materials leads us to the same conclusion. 6

 The structures associated with the occupation of the Incoronata hill pertain to two distinct chronological phases: an indigenous occupation (from the second half of the 9th century to the end of the 8th century BC) and an indigenous-Greek occupation (from the end of the 8th/beginning of the 7th to the beginning of the 6th century BC). In this second phase, the Greek element is part of a predominantly indigenous political context whose hegemony will continue until the end of the occupation of the site: Denti 2013a; 2018a. Denti forthcoming; and bibliography below. 7  See bibliography below. 8  Chapman 2000a. 9  Chapman 2000b. 10  Chapman 1999. 11  Chapman 2000b, 64 (my emphasis). 12  Chapman 2000, 68. 13  Chapman 1999, 120.

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Here we shall present the results of a preliminary analysis of the archaeologically documented contexts and usages of pebbles, trying to draw a few conclusions about their meaning. To this purpose, we propose a (clearly non-exhaustive) selection of some of the most representative sites around the Mediterranean, from Greece to Italy, southern Gaul and the Iberian Peninsula, within a chronological arc centred on the Iron Age. Most of these cases are already well known in the literature, but will be examined here within the specific scope of the topic at hand. Particular attention will be paid to the Incoronata site, not only because it is the object of our current research, but also because it provides significant documentation about the usage of these materials. Our analysis is articulated into four sections, corresponding to specific modes of usage of pebbles: pebble platforms and floors; pebble aureoles; pebble overlays; and pebble depositions. However, these four contexts appear to be far more interconnected, on a conceptual level, than one would assume. Their shared symbolic values allow us to consider them under a common functional denominator: the construction, marking and delimitation of a material and mental venue aimed at establishing contact with the Underworld.

PEBBLE PLATFORMS

AND

FLOORS

Back in the 1980s, the research of Robin Hägg paid due attention to the documents from the Greek Iron Age regarding the construction of circular platforms made of pebbles, small stones and clay for funerary purposes.14 Particularly widespread along the Aegean coast from the 11th century BC to the beginning of the Archaic period, these platforms tend to have a mostly circular, but also oval or rectangular shape and are associated with ritual records deposited on or around them: charcoal remains, animal bones, ashes, intentionally broken pottery, and bronze or iron offerings. In most cases, they are open-air structures with no trace of elevation – flat monuments that spatially mark out a horizontal and – as we shall see – vertical limit. The different contexts in which they are documented share a single common denominator: the ritual sphere. They can be associated with residential buildings (which commonly hosted heroic rituals), necropolises and sanctuaries. Except for a few minor cases where they appear to have a domestic function, the available documentation – along with material indications of libations and other sacrificial acts and other structures in positive and negative – usually point to chthonic rituals and in particular to the cult of the ancestors. Nota Kourou recently re-examined the issue and proposed to organise these structures into four groups:15 platforms inside buildings (group 1); open-air platforms (group 2); open-air platforms in funerary contexts, in association with sacrificial rituals and older burials (group 3, the largest); platforms associated with empty graves (group 4, the smallest). As we shall see, their respective function varies and cannot always be identified with certainty.16 Here we shall focus only on the most relevant issue, namely the specific relationship between the context and the uses of theses pebbles (and stones). 14

 Hägg 1983. See discussion in Antonaccio 1995, 199–207; and Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122–23.  Kourou 2015a; 2015b. 16  Kourou 2015a, 93. Some doubts are formulated in Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122. 15

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Platforms Associated with Buildings Evidence of platforms found inside or outside residential structures – which at this stage may be interpreted as ‘chieftain’s houses’ – dates from the Protogeometric (PG) onwards. The oldest known example (EPG) is found in Lefkandi (Xeropolis, region II). The building stands next to a long wall, interpreted as an urban fortification (‘structure C’), and contains two platforms associated with rituals and communal cults. The platforms include the deposition of two bull figurines and fragments of a supposed Centaur figure.17 A third structure is found immediately outside the building. The three structures (2.20 m and 1.60 m in diameter) have a circumference made of stones, larger than the ones nestled inside, and are crossed by two parallel slots. Nota Kourou suggests a relationship with the moment of the establishment of the settlement: ‘an attempt to forge a connection with the past’.18 At the ‘Heroon’ site in Lefkandi, the East Room contains two interesting structures (Fig. 1). The first, in the south-east corner, is a circular platform filled with small pebbles and gravel, with a diameter of 1.75 m and a height of 15 cm, surrounded by a circumference of stones and large rounded pebbles. The colour of the soil is particularly interesting, as we shall see: ‘Below the pebbles was a mixture of larger pebbles and pieces of yellow and red clay, perhaps from mudbricks’.19 The second platform, in the south-west corner, has an oval shape (1.60 × 1.30 m) and presents a very smooth surface of dried or lightly fired greenish clay mottled in many places with patches of red-brown. The thin upper surface, with a maximum thickness of 5 cm, containing straw in its make-up, had been laid over a thin level of small sea pebbles among which were a few small shells. These, in turn, overlay alternating layers of red and yellow clay, making a platform 14 to 20 cm above the floor.20 The use of yellow (and red) clay in association with layers of small pebbles is particularly relevant, as the two elements appear to be closely related to chthonic rituals and to the concept of ‘regeneration’. The succession of red and yellow clay layers is reminiscent of Chapman’s description of the pit of a house in the Neolithic settlement of Endrod 39, in the Carpathians. About 1 m wide and deep, the pit appeared to be filled with layers of pure yellow clay at the bottom, then with red clay burnt by an in situ fire, and finally was sealed with yellow clay over the upper walls: ‘The significance of fire and clay in this pit appears to be based upon the contrast between destruction (the burnt daub) and regeneration (the pure yellow clay).’21 It is no coincidence that the rectangular mud-brick structure in the north-west corner of the East Room presents the same succession of yellow and red clay; above, a tip of pebbles; inside, a quantity of pebbles and small stones.22 17

 Lemos 2010. See also Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, figs. 96–98.  Kourou 2015a, 94; 2015b, 21. Excavators interpreted them as silos: Mazarakis Ainian (1997, 122), calls them ‘foundations’ instead of ‘platforms’ and suggests that they served as oil or wine presses, or as granaries. 19  Popham et al. 1993, 11, pls. 7 and 8c. Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 123, fig. 85. 20  Popham et al. 1993, 11, pls. 6b, 7, 8a–b. 21  Chapman 2000b, 71. 22  Popham et al.1993, 11–12, pls. 7, 8d. 18

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Fig. 1. Lefkandi, ‘Heroon’. East Room (after Mazarakis Ainian 1997, fig. 85).

Excavators interpreted the circular structure in the south-east corner of the East Room as a possible hearth and considered including it in the same series of platforms that are being discussed here, i.e. in connexion with ancestor worship. The lack of traces of burning, of ceramic fragments and of drinking vessels suggests that the structure was never used ‘because the building was soon buried’.23 The alignment of eight shallow holes, running across the room from north to south and separating it into two symmetrical areas (Fig. 1), corresponds to the spatial organisation of ritual practices devoted to the heroisation of the dead.24 The inclusion into the sphere of heroic rituals is also a possible explanation for the circular stone platform found inside the apsed building of Clazomenae.25 Likewise, the circular platform found inside the residential Unit IV-1 of Nichoria, in Messenia, is usually associated with sacrificial dining associated with the ‘chieftain’s house’.26  Popham et al. 1993, 51–52. Kourou 2015b, 21.  Popham et al. 1993, 52. 25  Kourou 2015a, 94. 26  Hägg 1983, 192; Antonaccio 1995, 205; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, figs. 257–266; Kourou 2015a, 94. 23 24

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The same function is commonly assigned to the rectangular platform inside the oval building of Oropos (building IA), dating from the early 7th century BC. This interpretation is suggested by the presence, all around the structure, of ashes, charred animal bones, broken pottery and numerous offerings, including several figurines and a boat model. The ritual function of the structure was further confirmed by the presence of another circular platform outside the building, and of a pebble floor clearly associated with the same heroic cult.27 In Troy, 28 circular platforms with a 2 m diameter are aligned in two rows of three on a terrace in the western part of the citadel, parallel to the fortification wall of Troy VI.28 Most of these platforms were found covered with a layer of ashes and associated with ceremonial items such as cups, kraters and jugs from between the 8th and the 7th century BC, confirming the hypothesis of ritual practices, aimed at communicating with the past and with the world of the ancestors, and topographically and visually linked to the legacy of the Bronze Age.29 Blegen associated them with the domestic sphere and with the drying of figs and grapes.30 Similarly, the excavator interpreted the two circular platforms in Old Smyrna, one in stones and the other in pebbles (EG), as spaces for threshing or winnowing.31 Platforms connected to residential spaces and with a clearly non-domestic function are documented at the site of Megara Hyblaea, in Sicily.32 Five circular stone platforms and a rectangular one were found, backed against the central axis of the city’s blocks. It was not possible to establish whether they were connected to these buildings or constituted an autonomous system.33 One of these circular platforms (no. 14.5) appears to be associated with a pit (no. 14.6), in a context that suggests a ritual function.34 A second circular platform (no. 13.20) presents a surface that slopes toward a pit, clearly suggesting a system of libations. Due to its association with ceremonial pottery (cups or oinochoai) from LG to EPC, its creation was chronologically dated around 700 BC.35 A circular stone structure (no. 13.21) was built upon it at a later stage. The rectangular platform named n. i, 46, contained materials dating from between the end of the 8th century and the mid-7th century BC.36 The circular platform no. 101, 3.80 m in diameter, was found in association with a confirmed votive deposit.37

Platforms in Funerary Contexts The markedly chthonic significance of these platforms is confirmed by their recurring presence in funerary contexts. 27

 Mazarakis Ainian 2002; Kourou 2015a, 94; 2015b, 22.  Discussed in Antonaccio 1995, 202–03. Kourou 2015a, 95; 2015b, 20, fig. 10. 29  Hägg 1983, 190–91; Kourou 2015a, 95. 30  Blegen 1958, 273–74. Discussed in Antonaccio 1995, 203. 31  Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, fig. 410a, with previous bibliography. See also the case of Xeropolis (see n. 18). 32  Such instances can also be found in Selinunte, associated with animal bones – clear indicators of ritual meals – and, less clearly, in Himera: Gras et al. 2004, 542, n. 84. 33  Gras et al. 2004, 543. 34  Gras et al. 2004, 512, fig. 462. 35  Gras et al. 2004, 515, figs. 462–466. 36  Gras et al. 2004, 519, fig. 462. 37  Gras et al. 2004, 519, fig. 462. 28

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The Kyme excavations in Euboea (Viglatouri hill, near Oxilythos) exposed a considerable number of stone platforms in connexion with graves and with an oval-shaped building.38 A circular platform and a rectangular one are located above tombs that can be dated to the PG.39 A third ‘paved circle’ was found inside the oval building, on top of empty cist tombs.40 Next to these elements, the presence of fire remains, animal bones, MG pottery intentionally broken on top and metal objects (including a horse bridle), confirms the interpretation of this space as a heroon, a ritual venue dedicated to the cult of a heroised character.41 The close connexion between these structures and the worlds of the living and the dead point to their possible interpretation as visual and material markers of an interface between these two worlds. In Asine, three platforms from the LG were found inside the cemetery of Barbouna.42 With a diameter of 1–1.5 m, they present a perimeter of larger stones, filled with smaller stones and pebbles. The association with broken pottery, animal bones and an LG deposit of ceremonial pottery used at a specific moment in the late 8th century BC, confirms that the platforms were used as ritual funerary structures devoted to the cult of the ancestors. In Mycenae, a circular platform, 2 m in diameter, was built in the 8th century BC (the associated pottery dates from LG to PC) inside Mycenaean Chamber Tomb 220.43 The same procedure, part of the establishment of gentilitial ties between the world of the dead of the Bronze Age and the dominant groups of the Iron age, is documented at least in two cases in Argolis: in Prosymna (Archaic period) and in the Deiras of Argos, Dromos XIX (with materials from the Subgeometric period).44 One of the best-investigated cases is certainly the Early Iron Age cemetery of Grotta, in Naxos.45 A series of circular (but also rectangular) ritual platforms, made of clay inlaid or simply strewn with pebbles and stones,46 was unearthed above a PG burial ground, connected to a series of overlaying pyres, also placed above the tombs. Datable to the MG period, based on the surrounding finds (ceremonial drinking pottery, a few metal objects such as a knife and a brooch, animal bones, spindle-whorls and sea shells), the structures are 1–2.2 m in diameter (Fig. 2). Until the end of the 8th century BC, they were rebuilt several times at each new ritual occasion, which involved libations, offerings and funerary meals, ‘evidently taking place in honour of the dead ancestors lying deep below in their tombs’.47 The Naxos platforms therefore served as a conceptual limit and material interface – made of pebbles inlaid in clay-rich soil – between the world of the dead and the word of 38

 Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1998.  Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1998, figs. 22 and 30.3. 40  Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1998, 65, fig. 30.8. 41  Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1998, 68; Kourou 2015a, 96; 2015b, 19–20. 42  Hägg 1983, 190, fig. 1; Antonaccio 1995, 200; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, fig. 232; Kourou 2015a, 96; 2015b, 21. Two older platforms (50–80 cm in diameter) were found next to an apsed building from the Early Iron Age: Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, fig. 231. 43  Antonaccio 1995, 201; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122; Kourou 2015, 95; 2015b, 21. 44  Antonaccio 1995, 201. 45  Lambrinoudakis 1988, figs. 3–6, 12, 17–19; Antonaccio 1995, 201; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, figs. 332–333; Kourou 2015b, 20. 46  Lambrinoudakis 1988, 238. 47  Kourou 2015a, 93, fig. 11a–b. 39

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Fig. 2. Naxos, cemetery of Grotta. Circular platforms (after Kourou 2015a, fig. 11b).

the living. During the MG period, the community continued practicing grave cults through sacrificial rituals, exactly above the burial of their ancestors. This memorial dimension is underlined, as seen in other cases, by the topographical association with Mycenaean monuments whose remains must have been still visible – and significant – at the time: the cemetery was built right next to a fortification wall from the Bronze Age. Still in Naxos, the Geometric cemetery of Tsikalario also presents circular platforms of mud plaster filled with pebbles and surrounded with stones.48

Platforms in Sanctuaries The same structures are also documented inside sanctuaries, as in the cases of Kalapodi,49 Thermon50 and Samos.51 In Miletus, an oval platform from the LG period, covered with small stones and surrounded with larger stones, stands immediately next to the north side of the temple of Athena, in association with an older fortification wall. It is unclear whether the (possibly chthonic) ceremonies that took place at the structure were associated with the sanctuary or the wall.52 48

 Lambrinoudakis 1988, 239, with previous bibliography.  Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 123, fig. 61. 50  Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 123, fig. 44. 51  Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 123, fig. 384. 52  Discussed in Antonaccio 1995, 204. Hägg 1983; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122, fig. 416; Kourou 2015a, 95; 2015b, 22. 49

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The three circular stone platforms inside ‘house H’ in Mende (Chalkidiki) can be dated between the late 8th and early 7th century BC.53 In the extra-urban sanctuary of Possidi Cape, the oval building from the second quarter of the 6th century BC presents ‘a soil made of hard yellowish clay’54 – a recurring occurrence in these contexts. The apsed ‘building ΣΤ’ – one of the oldest religious buildings in the Greek world – is characterised, inside its walls and around the entrance, by the presence of successive layers of sacrificial remains associated with rituals, forming a 1.85 m-high altar of ashes with materials dating from the Late Mycenaean period to the 5th century BC.55 The older layers (Late Mycenaean and PG) contain ashes, burnt soil, animal bones, seashells and pottery fragments, and are virtually carpeted with high concentrations of pebbles and small stones.56 The layers from the PG, also inside the building, are associated with bothroi. The same arrangement is found in the sacrificial deposits on the east side of the building (late 8th to early 7th century BC) and around the entrance (up to the Hellenistic period) (Fig. 3). Similar structures are also documented in the Etruscan-Italic world. A particularly interesting case is that of the southern sanctuary of Pyrgi, in Etruria, where a votive deposit, built next to the eastern limit of the sacred space during the monumental works of about 500 BC, was filled with 44 imported vases, gradually deposited in a three-level circular arrangement.57 It is worth pointing out that the objects were nestled into a bed of lenticular pebbles58 and that the walls appeared to be covered with augite sand. This circular pit, 50 cm deep and 80 cm in diameter, was closed with a layer of stones and sealed with a layer of clay mixed with sand. The whole complex is surrounded and covered with a (highly disturbed) sub-circular platform of ‘small stones, gravel and tufa blocks’59 around a sandstone disc of 120 cm in diameter. This structure has been variously interpreted as a sacrificial altar or, more recently, as a ritual space associated with a votive foundation deposit or, in any case, with chthonic cults.60 The same sanctuary presents a circular platform ‘of pebbles and gravel’ around a significant concentration of burnt and crushed bones, interpreted as an eschara.61 The platform was obliterated through ritual practices involving food remains as well as the deposition of pottery and numerous leaves in iron and bronze lamina provided with suspension chains. A comprehensive examination confirms the ritual function of these constructions,62 all of which share a close connexion with chthonic sacred spaces located inside or outside buildings (associated with the heroic sphere and therefore, by definition, with chthonic 53

 Moschonissioti 1998, 258, figs. 3 and 4; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 122; Kourou 2015a, 94; 2015b, 22.  Moschonissioti 1998, 265. 55  Moschonissioti 1998, 265, figs. 10, 17. 56  Moschonissioti 1998, fig. 16. 57  ‘Votive deposit ρ’: Belelli Marchesini 2013, 19–20, figs. 6–7. 58  Belelli Marchesini 2013, n. 34. 59  Belelli Marchesini 2013, 20. 60  Belelli Marchesini 2013, 21, with previous bibliography. 61  Belelli Marchesini 2013, 22–23, fig. 8. 62  ‘The platforms may have been used to set out portions offered as the part of a sacrifice or meal that took place nearby … where charcoal and animal bone were collected and buried near the circles. The pottery used in such offerings became part of them in some cases where the vessels were smashed after use’: Antonaccio 1995, 205. The interpretation of the context as spaces for funerary feasting was also confirmed in Burkert 1985, 192. 54

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Fig. 3. Mende, Cape Poseidi sanctuary. The sacrificial area south and east of the apsed building ΣΤ (after Moschonissioti 1998, fig. 17).

cults), next to tombs, or inside sanctuaries. The concentration of pebbles and/or stones, forming an open-air platform of approximately circular, but also oval or rectangular shape, marks the point of contact between above and below, between the living and the dead: an actual highly significant membrane which, unsurprisingly, often bears the remains of sacrificial practices and libations. We shall return to this point in greater detail. Our investigation of the systematic and recurring use of pebbles and stones in the construction of platforms specifically associated with chthonic cults throughout the Iron Age can fruitfully be extended to other contexts that may provide useful elements toward their interpretation, such as the Aegean area, southern Italy and Sicily. An exemplary case is that of the circular platform, surrounded by larger stones and filled with smaller stones in the centre, found in the eastern sector of the sanctuary of Apollo Daphnephoros in Eretria. Dating from the Geometric period, this platform is one of the oldest records of cult inside this sacred area. Described by Alexander Mazarakis Ainian as ‘a circular mass of masonry’,63 it is associated with the finding of a votive deposit next to it, comprising miniature hydriai dating from the LG to the beginning of the Archaic period, as well as Egyptian objects. As recently observed,64 the structure presents three distinct construction phases. The one that interests us the most is the oldest one, described as a ballast of stones, 2 m in diameter, resting on a layer of anthropic clay (US 3) that contains sherds and animal bones and covered, according to the stratigraphic model, with a thin layer of sand and small pebbles (‘gravel’) of fluvial origin (US 4).65 The second phase is represented by an actual circular platform (between 2.60 and 63

 Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 302, fig. 104, H.  Verdan 2013, 49, pls. 42–43, n. St12. S. 65  Verdan 2013, 50, pl. 43. 64

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Fig. 4. Eretria, sanctuary of Apollo Daphnephoros. Structure St12, in front of the large apsed building Ed2 (after Verdan 2013, pl. 42).

2.80 m in diameter), surrounded with several layers of stones and filled with soil and smaller stones. The third phase concerns the framing of the platform inside a rectangular perimeter of 3.60 × 3.10 m (Fig. 4). Samuel Verdan interprets this structure as an altar, based on pertinent comparisons but mostly on topographical reasons: the platforms stands exactly in front of the large apsed building Ed2 and is aligned with the axis of the smaller apsed building Ed150, south-west of Ed2.66 However, if we consider, on the one hand, the presence of deeper 66

 Verdan 2013, 179, pl. 4.

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layers of pebbles and clay associated with ritual materials from an older stage of the cult and, on the other, the fact that the upper layer of small stones in the middle of the platform covers and seals a large and deep depression (Fig. 4), we cannot exclude the hypothesis that the space was used for chthonic cults. Along the outer eastern side of the cella of ‘building Δ’ in the sanctuary of Apollo in Despotiko (Antiparos), built in the third quarter of the 6th century BC, a considerable number of ceramic items were found, dating between the end of the 8th and the beginning of the 5th century BC.67 The high quality of these painted vases and the ceremonial function of the documented shapes suggest that the building served as a thesauros for precious offerings. A point that will be worth returning to in order to better understand the building is the construction of the floor in the main room: in the south-east corner, what remains of the floor consists of sub-angular and rounded pebbles, directly inlaid into the ground.68 This small but significant evidence is reminiscent of a similar fragment of pebble floor documented in the sacred building of the southern sanctuary of Pyrgi (‘building γ’).69 Large platforms made of pebbles are particularly documented at the Incoronata site. The southern limit of the north-western sector of the hill testifies to a large number of construction works from the indigenous occupation in the 8th century BC and, since the end of that century, from the ‘mixed’ Greek-indigenous phase.70 The whole area was artificially transformed and terraced, and the clay bed of the hill was shaped to receive a series of structures, the remains of whose large overlaying floors are perfectly preserved. A large terrace (30 m long × 10 m wide) on an east–west alignment (Fig. 5, PV2, US 70) was built in the 8th century BC along the edge of the hill, using specially selected pebbles of small and medium size, directly set into the previously flattened virgin clayrich soil. As we shall see below, this terrace circumscribes, towards the south, a ceremonial structure centred around a stone altar associated with the deposition of large pebbles (Fig. 5, US203 and WS; Fig. 22) and with the remains of food and ritual libations (animal bones and ceremonial pottery), suggesting a chthonic cult and dating from the second half of the 9th century BC (Fig. 10). This evidence, the orientation of the structure, its high technical quality and the fragility of the surface (which excludes its use as a road) suggest that the floor was used as a large open-air ritual terrace. This case can be compared in chronological, geographic and cultural terms, to the floor of a circular structure dating from the second half of the 8th century BC, found at Serra di Vaglio, an indigenous centre in the mainland of Basilicata. The floor, covered with a thick layer of burnt material and sealed with a layer of clay (under a building from the 5th century BC) is ‘tightly and neatly laid with small stones, resting on edge’.71 Although the editor interpreted it as the bottom of a hut, the structure also presents three burials. This factor, in conjunction with the structure’s rounded profile, the high quality of the floor (which, based on the sketch, seems to present at least four circular  Kourayos et al. 2017.  Kourayos et al. 2017, 347, figs. 2, 4. 69  The building can be dated to the third quarter of the 5th century BC: Belelli Marchesini 2013, 34. 70  Denti 2013a. 71  ‘fitto acciottolato realizzato con pietre piccole disposte a taglio in modo molto compatto e preciso’: Greco 1991, 68. 67 68

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Fig. 5. Incoronata, terrace from the 8th century BC (US 70) around the deposition of pebbles (US 203) that surround the stone altar (WS). To the north, the new terrace from the late 8th– early 7th century BC (US 38), resting on the obliteration/substruction layers of stone (US 68) and earth (US 45) (photograph: M. Denti).

and concentric arrangements of larger stones of similar shape and size) and the fact that the burials were obliterated together with the floor, could suggest that its function was more directly connected to the ritual sphere.72 The use of soil made of pebbles in connexion with ritual practices was already documented in the Ionian area of southern Italy during the Bronze Age. At Timpone della Motta (Calabria), a long building from the Middle Bronze Age, interpreted as a dwelling or a place of worship, also presents a ‘pebble foundation’.73 Let us now return to the time when a Greek community settled on the Incoronata hill between the end of the 8th and the beginning of the 7th century BC.74 This crucial change is archaeologically marked by a major renewal of the monuments, involving the ritual obliteration of the previous structures and the reconstruction of several, mostly ritual architectural structures in topographical and functional continuity with the previous century. 72  The later dating of the tombs (7th century BC) does not contradict this interpretation. On the contrary, it would confirm the existence of ‘family-type group that uses a disused hut to bury their dead’, as confirmed by the authors themselves (‘un raggruppamento di tipo familiare che utilizza una capanna, non più in uso, per il seppellimento dei propri defunti’): Greco 1991, 68. 73  Kleibrink 2006, 45, fig. 15. 74  The community remained active on the site until the latter was definitely abandoned between the end of the 7th century and the beginning of the 6th century BC.

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The most spectacular novelty is the new floor (Fig. 5, US 38), laid exactly over the old one (Fig. 5, PV2, US 70) and probably with the same size and orientation. The paving technique differs only in that it employs considerably smaller pebbles mixed with fine chippings, inlaid directly into the packed clay. The quality of the craftsmanship is immediately evident, but directly proportional to the fragility of the surface, which can easily break under the passage of heavy loads. For this reason, we excluded that it served as a road, and suggested that, just like the floor of the previous century, it was a terrace used for ritual festivities and practices. This reading is based on several factors: the quality of the craftsmanship and the structure’s exact east–west alignment; the scope of the works undertaken to cover it entirely as part of a wider obliteration project completed at the end of the 7th century BC (see below) – as a further confirmation of the structure’s exceptional nature; the considerable technical investment involved; and the mode of construction of the supporting substructure. The new terrace was indeed built after the old one was ritually obliterated (through the deposition of pottery and bones) and after the level was raised (by about 50 cm) with miscellaneous stones and large stones, laid flat, that also had the function of sealing the previous floor (Fig. 5, US 68). This layer also served as the substructure for the new floor. Between the obliteration/substructure layer and the new floor, we find a compact and uniform layer of yellow clay that underlies the new floor (Fig. 5, US 45). The last feature must be emphasised because, as mentioned above, the use of yellow soil can have several meanings pertaining to the conceptual sphere of ‘regeneration’.75 It is no accident that the same materials, construction techniques and association of pebbles with yellow clay were observed in ritual spaces that are chronologically and geographically close to that of the Incoronata site. As we shall see below, this practice is also extensively documented in the funerary sphere. All the substructures underlying the different construction stages of building V in the Athena sanctuary of Timpone della Motta76 consist of thick layers of yellow clay whose function was both to obliterate the previous building and to support the next one. We can consider, in particular, the interventions undertaken between the wooden building (the so-called ‘House of Weaving’) (8th century BC, Vb), the temple from the end of the same century (Vc) and the building from shortly before the mid-7th century BC (Vd).77 An even more significant case is the documented obliteration of building Vd (early 6th century BC) with a layer of gravel almost 2 m high, and sealed with a layer of small pebbles.78 Marianne Kleibrink recently returned to the analysis of this site: ‘A particularly important element is the so-called yellow layer that separates the various construction levels of Temple Vd. This layer consists of thin patches of variable thickness (between 1 and 15 cm), marking the transition from one construction stage to the next and supporting several groups of carefully selected and deliberately laid out objects’.79 Kleibrink underlines that 75

 Chapman 2000b, 71; Denti 2016.  Kleibrink 2003, 63–64; de Lachenal 2006, 55, 65–68; Attema 2008, 79. 77  Kleibrink 2017, 191, fig. 9 a–b. 78  Kleibrink 2017, 191, fig. 9 b, n. 139. 79  ‘Fra i livelli edilizi è particolarmente importante il cosiddetto strato giallo, relativo come si è visto al Tempio V,d. Questo strato è costituito da chiazze di spessore ridotto e variabile da 1 a 15 cm circa, posizionato 76

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this chalky soil is not naturally occurring on the hill, and was therefore carried to the sanctuary for this purpose. In the sanctuary of Timpone della Motta, the use of yellow soil is also documented in the ritual contexts outside the buildings, as in the depositions, dating from the mid7th century BC (‘Stipe I’), of hydriskai or of ‘collections’ of small vessels for cosmetics, cups, jugs, plates, headbands and beads, ‘consecrated and placed on a designated layer of yellow soil’.80 The older depositions, dating from the 8th century BC, include a layer of fragments of dolia ‘laid flat between patches of yellow soil’ and covered with a floor of pebbles.81 These contexts can be fruitfully compared with the three large terraces of stones of various sizes, built on an east–west alignment between the PG period and the Archaic period inside the sanctuary of Hermes and Aphrodite in Kato Syme (Crete). Associated with animal bones, votives, intact or broken cultic vases and thick layers of ashy soils, these terraces surround a square altar, interpreted as the heart of the ritual space.82 In the Bronze Age (Neopalatial period), however, the site was already endowed with an even larger platform (about 90 m2), associated with layers of a similar nature, filled with pottery and ritual remains. That platform was interpreted as a theatre-like inclining plateau where cultic festivals were celebrated.83 As is well known, cults involving open-air sacrifices and ritual meals around an altar were the norm in the sacred spaces around the Mediterranean during the Iron Age.84 We therefore cannot exclude that the large terraces of the Incoronata site may have had the same function. Associated with chthonic rituals – and in particular, as we shall see below, with the cult of the ancestors – these structures are supported by a layer of yellowish clay-rich soil that evokes the conceptual spheres of regeneration and purification, with inlaid pebbles on the surface. These materials, as repeatedly mentioned, are closely associated with construction85 and ritual practices aimed at enabling the communication between the worshippers and the world of the dead. The same interpretation can apply to the large platform running along the tombs of the Pestavecchia cemetery in Himera. Aligned east–west, it is paved with pebbles, whose fragility (as in the case of Incoronata) seems to exclude the hypothesis of a road,86 while the funerary context suggests that it was a place of worship and chthonic rituals. To conclude this section, let us mention that the sacred meaning of pebbles and stones in ritual platforms is also mentioned in a source coeval to these archaeological records, and in the framework of a ceremony that merges royal and ritual spheres. In the per marcare un momento di passaggio nelle fasi costruttive del santuario, e funzionante come piano di posa intenzionale per gruppi di oggetti accuratamente selezionati’: Kleibrink 2017, 193, mentioning (n. 97) analogous instances found in Nikoleika, in the Gulf of Corinth, and the use of the sand in the foundation of sacred buildings in Agrigento, Naxos, possibly Ephesus, Egypt and the Near East. See also Kleibrink 2017, 213. 80  ‘consacrati e collocati su uno strato di speciale terreno giallo’: Kleibrink 2017, 182. 81  ‘sistemati di piatto fra macchie di terra gialla’: Kleibrink 2017, 191, fig. 9 a–b. 82  Berquist 1988, 25, fig. 4, with previous bibliography. 83  Berquist 1988, 30. 84  Mazarakis Ainian 1998, 116, as also shown by the ritual activities regularly held in the rectangular open area in front of the temple of Athena in Koukounaries (Paros): Schilardi 1998. 85  Obviously, these materials and techniques also had a pragmatic function in the construction of these structures. 86  Vassallo 2017, 170, fig. 4.

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Odyssey 3. 406–411, Homer describes, with his usual talent for realistic detail, the physical place where old king Nestor, protector of the Achaeans, appears in front of the gates of his palace in Pylos: emos d’erigeneia fani rododaktulos Eos ornut’ar ex eunefi Gerenios ippota Nestor ek d’elthon kat’ar ezet’ epi xestoisi lithoisin oi oi esan proparoithe thuraon upselaon leukoi, apostilbontes aleiphatos ois epi men prin Neleus izesken, theofin mestor atalantos all’o men e de keri dameis Aidosde bebekei, Nestor au tot’ephize Gerenios, ouros Akhaion, skeptron ekhon Soon as early Dawn appeared, the rosy-fingered, up from his bed rose the horseman, Nestor of Gerenia, and went forth and sat down on the polished stones which were before his lofty doors, white and glistening as with oil. On these of old was wont to sit Neleus, the peer of the gods in counsel; but he ere this had been stricken by fate and had gone to the house of Hades, and now there sat upon them in his turn Nestor of Gerenia, the warder of the Achaeans, holding a sceptre in his hands.87 Thanks to this scene, followed by the famous description of the sacrifice of a heifer to Athena in the presence of Nestor’s six sons (including the hero Pisistratus) and of Telemachus, we know the function of one of these pebble or stone platforms. The king, holding his sceptre, sits directly (ezet’) on polished / flattened stones (epi xestoisi lithoisin) that are white / shiny (leukoi) and glistening (apostilbontes) as with oil / balm (aleiphatos). The connexion between these white (or glistening) materials and the sphere of royal and purification rituals is quite obvious: during the royal epiphany that precedes and leads to the ceremony in honour of Athena, the king must sit in direct contact with a platform of smooth, white (or shiny) and stones covered in oil or balm.

PEBBLE AUREOLES Pebbles were also used to form rings around places of worship. This practice is documented, in particular, in the western Mediterranean. In the indigenous and Greek communities of Magna Graecia, Sicily and the Iberian Peninsula, we find numerous occurrences of bothroi, ritual spaces inside buildings, but also tombs, being surrounded with a carpet of pebbles. The structures unearthed in Incoronata provide several such examples. Carpets of tiny pebbles, directly laid into the ground, form a ring that consolidates and materially delimits the ritual space, acting both as a visual and conceptual marker. North of the floors described above, we find an area of worship dating from the 7th century BC, characterised by the presence of an apsed building surrounded by a 87

 English translation by A.T. Murray (Cambridge, MA 1919).

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Fig. 6. Incoronata. Planimetry of the apsed building area (BT1), containing the ritual deposition surrounded with micro-pebbles. To the north, the complex of three bothroi dug one inside the other. In front of the entrance, the large bothros surrounded by a carpet of pebbles. North of the bothros, the area with the two small kilns (DAO: T. Ben Makhad).

series of ritual contexts centred on several bothroi (Fig. 6). Aligned south-east–northwest and shaped like a horseshoe, the building measures about 6 × 4 m and was built according to exact mathematical models (Fig. 6, BT1).88 Its remains include: the perimeter on the ground, defined by small stones that supported the superstructure in perishable material; two stone bases of the pillars that supported the roof; and the post-holes that surrounded it. Its function was possibly residential and certainly ceremonial, as suggested by typological comparisons with Italic and Greek cases from the Bronze and Iron Age, and as confirmed by the presence of a perfectly preserved ritual space right in the middle of the apsis, where indigenous and Greek pottery were used.89 The ceremonial space is 88  This form can ideally be compared with Greek ‘horseshoe-shaped temples’, such as the temple of Athena Polias in Gonnoi, Thessaly (Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 86, 310, fig. 56); (partially) building A2 in the sanctuary of Apollo Daphnephoros in Eretria (Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 58, figs. 104–105); the older phase of building A in Oropos, which is quite similar to ours also in terms of size (Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 100, fig. 77, pl. II B, 1). 89  The elements found on site in association with charcoals include: a local painted krater, deliberately broken (but entirely re-composable) and made useless by the careful removal of the foot; two Oenotrian

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Fig. 7. Incoronata. Aureole of micro-pebbles surrounding the ritual deposition in the middle of the apse of building BT1. On the background, the bothros, still filled in situ with part of the obliterative fill of red earth, and surrounded with an aureole of pebbles (photograph: M. Denti).

delimited, on the floor, by a ring of micro-pebbles (Figs. 6 and 7). The complex testifies to the last ceremony celebrated in the building, before its definitive obliteration, and must be understood in the framework of chthonic rituals, probably linked to the aristocratic cult of the community’s ancestors and/or heroes, as demonstrated by the depositions of pottery and by the ritual contexts surrounding the structures.90 The practice of surrounding the ritual space inside a religious building with a ring of small pebbles laid directly into the ground is documented, for the Iron Age, in the nearby site of Roca Vecchia, in Salento (Apulia). Its apsed building, dating between the end of the 9th and the beginning of the 8th century BC, contains semi-circular platforms with circular cavities for libations.91 In the centre of the apsis, the finds include a deposition of local pottery, the fragment of a bronze pin, three loom-weights, a spindle-whorl and sow bones. As in the case of Incoronata, the site is surrounded with small pebbles directly inlaid into the clay-rich soil. In Incoronata, the space around the apsed building includes – along with structures devoted to craftsmanship92 – a series of ritual structures. In front of the entrance, to the askoi (one achrome and one monochrome); two spools; the foot of an SOS amphora fixed to the ground and hollowed out in the middle to receive a libation: Denti 2014a, figs. 15–19; 2015b, figs. 12–14. 90  Denti 2018a; 2018b; forthcoming. 91  Merico et al. 2013, 64, fig. 73. 92  Denti and Villette 2013. On the presence of productive structures inside the sacred spaces of the Iron Age, see the discussion about the case of the sanctuary of Apollo Daphnephoros in Eretria in Verdan 2007.

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Fig. 8. Incoronata. Bothros in front of the apsed building (BT1), surrounded with an aureole of pebbles. The inner walls are covered with micro-pebbles. On the north side, note the layer of small pebbles covering and obliterating the two small kilns of Fig. 6 (photograph: M. Denti).

Fig. 9. Incoronata. Ritual chthonic complex north of the apsed building, comprising the stone altar (C), a bothros (B, partially excavated), and the aureole of pebbles with the remains of ritual practices (A) (photograph: M. Denti).

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east, a large bothros was dug into the ground (Figs. 6 and 7). This shallow hole (about 3 m in diameter, maximum depth 80 cm) is surrounded with an aureole of small pebbles that mark its perimeter (Fig. 8). This arrangement is reproduced on several overlaying ‘carpets of pebbles’, possibly indicative of the different occasions in which it was successively used in the ritual space.93 The inner walls of the pits are covered with even smaller chippings/pebbles. The bottom surface, marked with micro-pebbles, could pertain to the previously mentioned practice of creating an interface between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Indeed, several smaller pits were progressively dug inside the larger one: they very possibly correspond to progressive excavations of small bothroi through which individuals could contact the Underworld.94 This ensemble of pits was eventually sealed with reddish soil (a colour caused by the presence of numerous fragments of bricks) between the end of the 7th and the beginning of the 6th century BC (Figs. 7 and 8). The presence of this complex of pits, gradually excavated one inside the other in the virgin clay soil, characterises the whole area around the apsed building: a similar arrangement was identified at least twice, with three consecutive pits dug into each other (Fig. 6).95 To the north, another chthonic ritual complex was unearthed, also from the 7th century BC (Fig. 9): on the side of a stone altar (Fig. 9, C) and a hearth, a bothros was filled with ashy soil containing charcoal elements, small bones, and Greek and indigenous pottery (Fig. 9, B). The bottom surface was carefully covered with the sides and rims of large containers, laid flat, while the upper part of the fill was sealed with pebbles and stones, also laid flat. The pit is delimited and marked on the north by a ring of pebbles of smallto-medium size and homogenous form (Fig. 9, A). The ring was used in ritual practices that involved the consumption of meat and wine, as shown by the presence, on the pebbles, of a considerable number of fragments of locally made skyphoi and young animal bones.96 As in the previously mentioned case, the ring was created at different stages through successive layers of pebbles. The delimitation of ritual spaces by means of rings of pebbles, however, appears to have been practised since the first stage of occupation of Incoronata, between the second half of the 9th and the 8th century BC. On the southern margin of the hill, south of the above-mentioned large floors, a major ritual context was unearthed (but remains to be thoroughly examined). Framed on the north by the 8th-century BC pebble floor ‘PV2’ (Fig. 5), a wide sub-circular pit, dug directly into the hill’s clay bed (Fig. 10, B), was filled with thin sequential layers of blackened soil containing charred animal bones and indigenous impasto and painted pottery from the Iron Age.97 The complex testifies to one of the oldest chthonic rituals practised on the hill in the second half of the 9th century BC. In this case, too, the perimeter of the pit appears to be drawn with an aureole of pebbles. The south-eastern limit of the pit is bordered with small pebbles that consolidate its structure while also marking it visually (Fig. 10, A). As in the above-mentioned examples from the 7th century BC, the pebbles were laid in superimposed layers at 93

 On the ‘seasonal’ use of these structures, see Iacono 2015b; Denti forthcoming.  Chapman 2000b. 95  Denti 2017, figs. 11–13. 96  Denti 2018b, figs. 9–10. 97  Denti 2019a. 94

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Fig. 10. Incoronata. Ritual chthonic space from the second half of the 9th–8th century. Triangular enclosure with the ‘White Sandy Stone’ (WS) on the eastern corner; border of small pebbles (A) around the perimeter of the pit (B); ‘seal’ of large pebbles (C) (orthophoto: T. Ben Makhad).

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different stages, possibly in correspondence with the ritual occasions in which the space was used. It is worth noting that the pit was later covered with a layer of soil and – again – large pebbles (Fig. 10, C), topped with an enclosure of stones shaped like an isosceles triangle (about 4 m in length, pointing east) (Fig. 10). This shape is reminiscent of analogous Iron Age structures along the Mediterranean coast, all connected to heroic cults.98 The predominant and widespread use of this technique in the ritual context of Incoronata – a site characterised by the presence of a Greek people from the Cyclades – corresponds to coeval and analogous practices that we observed in the Aegean area. We are currently investigating this practice in other contexts,99 indicative of specific technological and cultural interactions based on historical and ideological connexions. The Ionian coast in southern Italy provides yet another example of a chthonic ritual space surrounded with a ring of pebbles. In the sanctuary of Demeter in Policoro, the use of a black-glaze Laconian krater as a bothros, with the bottom part missing so as to allow the libation to be poured onto the ground, is documented during the Archaic period.100 The krater was surrounded with fluvial pebbles, following a use documented elsewhere in the sanctuary, where several bothroi were created by arranging the pebbles in a circle or semicircle. The practice of surrounding ritual pits with pebbles is also recorded in Messapia (southern Apulia) during the Iron Age. In Vaste, a wide ritual area used for collective cults is characterised by the presence of tens of pits excavated in the clay bed, filled with local or Greek imported pottery, deliberately broken and dating between the end of the 8th and the first half of the 7th century BC, together with animal remains and small kilns. These pits are marked by platforms made of crumbled limestone and stone chippings, but also by stone circles as well as individual stones, perforated or hollowed.101 In the Iberian Peninsula, the Orientalising cemetery of Les Casetes (La Vila Joiosa, Alicante, 8th and 7th centuries BC) provides interesting instances of pebbles, chosen for their shape and colour and forming an actual frame all around the tombs. Tomb 4, for instance, is framed with fluvial pebbles forming four successive quadrangular borders, each of a different colour.102 Tomb 9 is an even more explicit instance: the rectangular pit (150 × 80 cm) is covered with a tumulus, also rectangular, made of large stones, and the ensemble is surrounded with a carpet of pebbles of different colours, arranged into five rows and forming a square perimeter 2.30 m in length, 35 cm in width and 2 cm in height (Fig. 11).103 That same cemetery documents the practice of surrounding ritual pits with carpets of small pebbles. A circular pit, dug into the geological layer and filled with charcoal- and ash-rich soil was used as a ‘ritual hearth’, as suggested by the thermal alteration of the surface of the inner walls. The pit is framed with an aureole of small rounded pebbles

98

 Bérard 1970; Antonaccio 1995, 228.  Denti 2018a; 2018c. 100  Neutsch 1981, 158–59, pl. 16. 101  Mastronuzzi 2017, 4, figs. 2–3. 102  García Gandía 2009, 46, figs. 16–17. 103  García Gandía 2009, 55, figs. 33–36, 38–39. 99

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Fig. 11. Alicante, cemetery of Les Casetes. Tomb 9, surrounded with a carpet of pebbles (after García Gandía 2009, fig. 35).

(2.70 × 0.60 m), arranged so as to form serpentine decorations, almost as if they were the tiles of mosaic.104 The practice of surrounding ritual pits with rings pebbles could also be documented in figurative records. Among the pottery deposited in the sanctuary of Timpone della Motta, a new vase was recently described: locally made and dating from the last quarter of the 8th century BC, its preserved upper part presents a figurative decoration, rather intricate and obscure. It features warriors in arms; a copulation scene between a man and a breastfeeding woman; three large circular objects, filled with a checkerboard pattern and fringed; and a large circle filled with solid black, surrounded with irregular dots and flanked by two male figures of different size (with their phalluses exposed) (Fig. 12).105 The obvious ritual context, evocative of the war and possibly of fertility rituals, supports my interpretation of the circular motif surrounded by irregular dots as the representation of a circular pit, i.e. a bothros: as shown by the archaeological documentation analysed above, bothroi were often surrounded with rings of small pebbles. The painter’s detailed depiction of each figure confirms that the oval shape and the ‘dots’ are the fruit of a realistic approach, aimed at accurately reproducing the configuration of the pebbles. If my hypothesis is correct, the vase depicts a chthonic ritual context where several individuals take part in a series of ritual practices around a bothros106 surrounded by pebbles that mark the limits between the world of the living and that of the ancestors. Of course, this hypothesis is no more than a suggestion: not only because, to the best of my knowledge, there are no documented comparable cases,107 but also because I am quite aware of the limits of any iconographic interpretation at that chronological level. Nevertheless, I do believe that this interpretation is significantly supported by the fact that this image was created in and for a sacred space that is geographically and chronologically quite close to archaeological contexts where we find bothroi surrounded with pebbles, namely the Ionian coast of southern Italy. 104

 García Gandía 2009, 94, figs. 107–108.  Kleibrink 2017, 209–12, figs. 14e, 15 a, c, suggesting an interpretation of the pattern as a lake or a sun. 106  According to Marianne Kleibrink, this circle is the ‘central object in the scene’ (‘l’oggetto centrale della scena’): Kleibrink 2017, 212. 107  In the framework of the present research, I have not extended the analysis of the scene to wider and crucial iconographical comparisons. 105

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Fig. 12. Timpone della Motta, Athenaion. Local painted vase of local production (after Kleibrink 2017, fig. 14e).

PEBBLE OVERLAYS Selected for their shape, size and colour, pebbles can also be used as overlays to preserve and protect. This function is documented in a variety of residential, ritual and funerary contexts – all connected in some way to the ritual sphere. These complex operations are mostly aimed at the ritualised protection of floors, thresholds, buildings, pits, productive structures and tombs (at the top and bottom of the burial). Purificatory practices – one of the key fields of application of pebbles, as we have seen – play a crucial role in these operations. In this perspective, the different contexts of use appear far less distinct than one would expect.

Pebble (and Stone) Obliterative Overlays The covering of ritual depositions with concentrations of pebbles selected for their shape and size is documented since the Bronze Age. One of the best-known examples is the South Special Deposit of Kavos, in the Cyclades.108 It contained about 25,000 sherds, mostly EBA (a quarter of which are decorated), figurines with folded-arms as well as schematic Apeiranthos-type figurines, all coming from elsewhere and systematically and deliberately broken. These materials where found inside a layer of rubbly dark brown soil, covered with ‘a loose and low heap of rough and porous local limestones, up to 20 cm in diameter’. In Crete, some of the pits in the ritual space of Thronos/Kefala, containing ceremonial material from between the Late Minoan IIIC and the PG period, appear to have been definitely sealed with layers of stones of regular shape and size.109  Renfrew et al. 2007.  D’Agata 2000, 52, pl. III.4.

108 109

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Sicily provides at least two instances from the Iron Age, particularly relevant to our present topic in that they involve ritual ‘overlays’ of sacred spaces. Inside the extra-urban sanctuary of Lentini, in contrada Alaimo, a quadrangular ritual enclosure was obliterated and sealed (end of the 7th–beginning of the 6th century BC) with stones of regular dimensions.110 Sacellum D, in the sanctuary of Polizello, was obliterated (apparently after the mid-6th century BC) first with a layer of soil, then with cobblestones where offerings continued to be deposited into small pits.111 In Magna Graecia, after the sanctuary of San Nicola d’Albanella near PoseidoniaPaestum was abandoned around the end of the 4th century BC, a large quadrangular platform was covered with a layer of soil, filled with votive objects and covered in turn with a layer of pebbles and stones of homogenous size.112 In Rome, near Clivus Capitolinus, in the votive deposit of a sacred area dating from the end of the 7th century BC, the offerings were sealed with ‘small tufa fragments that protected the more fragile parts of the vases and preserved their integrity’.113 Residential buildings also did not escape this obliterative practice. On the Iberian Peninsula, near the proto-historic village of Sierra del Aljibe (Estremadura), an elite dwelling – also interpretable as a sacred space – was built inside a vast depression in the ground, forming a large ritual circle that connected its foundation with the world of the ancestors. Upon its abandonment, the dwelling was ritually obliterated under a pile of soil, covered in turn with layers of stones and pebbles.114 Let us now consider the rich records of pebble obliteration practices provided by the Incoronata site. On the western limit of the terraces described above, a large monumental structure made of large shapeless stones and puddingstone blocks mixed with soil is placed perpendicular to each terrace, as if to delimit it at the edge of the hill.115 Here the terraces appear to be bordered on the north and south by an embankment,116 which could tentatively be interpreted as the lower part of a fortification. The present stage of the excavation and the rather chaotic disposition of the elements that compose the structure (some of the blocks are certainly no longer in situ) prevent us from going beyond a simple working hypothesis. However, this interpretation could be supported by the fact that the structure appears to stop precisely where the floor begins. What interests us here is that the point of encounter between terrace PV1 and the structure was carefully sealed with the deposition of a layer of pebbles,117 selected for their medium size (5–10 cm), oval shape and white colour. Should further excavations confirm that this structure corresponds, as we believe, to a possible ‘entrance’ (a door?), then this layer of pebbles would have served the function of obliteration a threshold.

110

 Grasso 2009.  Perna 2015, 150. 112  Cipriani 1989, 22, fig. 6, pls. 2–3. 113  ‘pezzame di tufo di piccole dimensioni, disposto a protezione delle parti più delicate dei vasi, in modo da preservare la loro integrità’: Sciortino 2005, 88, pls. III–IV. 114  Rodríguez Diaz forthcoming. 115  This mixed technique, quite widespread in the ancient Near East, is also documented in the West: Denti 2014a, 6–10, fig. 11. 116  Denti 2014a, 10–13, figs. 3, 12. 117  Denti 2014a, 10–13, figs. 12–13. 111

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Fig. 13. Incoronata. Large obliterative layers of the terrace from the late 8th– early 7th century BC (US 38), comprising a first layer of large pebbles (US 23), sealed in turn with a layer of grey earth (US 8) (photograph: M. Denti).

This kind of overlay is indeed akin to a similar case of sealed threshold (here in the framework of a foundation), documented in Porta Mugonia, in Rome. In this context, chronologically (730–720 BC) analogous to Incoronata, before the construction of the threshold, a foundation deposit was dug and covered with tufa chippings followed by a thin layer of clay and by the final layer, corresponding to the walking surface of the door itself.118 In Incoronata, the same practice of covering the ground with pebbles of homogeneous shape and size is documented in correspondence with the final closing of the site (end of the 7th–beginning of the 6th century BC), when the whole area was intentionally covered. A thick layer of soil was laid down on top of terrace PV1 (Fig. 13, US 38); after a thorough clean-up, that terrace was systematically covered with a layer of large pebbles, laid directly onto its surface (Fig. 13, US 23). The layer of pebbles was in turn sealed with a thick layer of grey soil (Fig. 13, US 8). The soil (identical in both layers) is perfectly homogeneous in terms of both colour and texture. It was filled with a large amount of animal bones and thousands of pottery fragments from all the production styles recorded in Incoronata during the two centuries of its occupation. This complex and deliberate selection of materials aimed to qualify the layers and thereby to seal off, protect and preserve the memory of the place119 – as if these layers were symbolic and 118

 Brocato 2000. The author mentions a ritual that possibly involves a human sacrifice (real or symbolic) associated with the deposition. 119  On the notion of memorialisation through destruction, see Bradley 2002; Denti 2013b; 2014b.

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meaningful vessels of culture, history (and, perhaps, identity). On the one hand, this massive overlay can be described as a ‘cultural container’ that conveys the signs of a diversified occupation by indigenous and Greek communities (achrome, monochrome and bichrome pottery as well as impasto pottery produced by local ceramists); on the other hand, the overlay also served as a ‘historical container’ of the area’s various chronological markers, as the pottery present in those layers covers the whole duration of the occupation of the site, from the second half of the 9th century to the end of the 7th century BC.120 Let us reiterate that the ritual pit from the 9th century BC, which we analysed above (Fig. 10, B), was sealed with a thick layer of pebbles before the construction of the enclosure, shaped liked an isosceles triangle (Fig. 10, C). Pebbles and stones can also be used to seal off productive structures. In Incoronata, immediately north of the large terraces, excavations unearthed the bottom of a pottery kiln, dating from the 7th century BC, which uses the packed-earth walking surface as its floor.121 Having been razed to the ground and carefully cleaned up (i.e. purified), the kiln was sealed with soil and pebbles. Significantly, this operation is also documented in other sacred spaces. In Etruria, for instance, inside the sanctuary of Cetamura del Chianti, several kilns were ritually sealed with stones (some of which huge),122 while several tunnels and hollows, carved into the rock and connected with ceremonial practices, were covered with a layer of very hard sandy clay and pebbles.123 Back to Incoronata, next to the entrance of the building from the 7th century BC (Fig. 6, ovens) two small kilns, perfectly preserved have recently been unearthed in association with the charred remains of acorns as well as wood and clay structures, also preserved by fire.124 The two clay ovens were obliterated by removing the upper part of the vault and filled with parts of the grid and with the superstructure of a large furnace, clearly with the aim of preventing the collapse of their thin and fragile walls. These extremely careful operations, accompanied by a ritual practice involving the deposition of a cup and of bronze rings, indicate the intention of preserving these structures, further consolidated and sealed with a layer of soil and pebbles of homogeneous (small) size and shape (Figs. 7 and 8).

Tomb Overlays The extensive use of pebbles and stones of homogeneous shape and size as protection or landmarks also characterises funerary sites, which also document the recourse to this kind of material to cover the graves. In order to further our understanding of the phenomenon, extensively documented in funerary archaeology, let us consider a few examples that may shed light on the deeper significance of the use of these materials in this specific kind of chthonic rituals. 120

 Denti 2014b.  Denti and Villette 2013, figs. 20–22. 122  de Grummond 2011, 74, fig. 5 (dating: first half of the 2nd century BC). 123  de Grummond 2011, 86. 124  Denti 2018b; 2019a. 121

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Fig. 14. Tenos, Xobourgo. Pebble platform (a) above the large shaft grave (c), and the boulder (b) (after Kourou 2015a, fig. 12).

One of the best known instances in the Aegean world are the pebble floors on which the grave-goods were deposited, characteristic of most of the 37 shafts in Lefkandi. We can think for example of the terracotta head of a centaur deposited on the pebble floor of grave 1, and of its body, deposited on the cover slabs of tomb 3.125 These well-known chthonic practices pertain to the heroic consecration of a person of exceptional status.126 The use of pebble platforms overlying tombs is documented in Xobourgo (Tenos): on the terrace immediately outside the main gate of the Cyclopean wall, a circular platform of pebbles inset in a clay bed, with traces of fire on its surface and signs of ritual practices (animal bones and sherds of MG drinking vessels), was built above a large shaft grave, found empty but filled with sand. The tomb is marked by a large boulder (Fig. 14). The post-holes that surround it suggest the presence of an oval structure all around this burial context.127 The usage of filling up with sand an empty grave (usually belonging to an exceptional person) appears to be associated with ‘purification purposes immediately after the removal of its contents. Purity is linked with sanctity: a grave needed to be purified before formal cult practice could occur – in this case performed on the pebble platform as a communal form of ancestral cult.’128 We mentioned above the similar case of a pebble platform built above the tombs of the Iron Age cemetery of Grotta, in Naxos, directly related to the heroic cult of the ancestors.129 The practice of covering tombs with small-to-medium tumuli of stones and pebbles is commonly documented in the cemeteries of the Mediterranean Iron Age. In the cemetery of Oropos, for instance, the shaft tombs from the Geometric period, containing the  Popham et al. 1980, 168–92; Kourou 2015b, 14–15, fig. 4.  Kourou 2015a, 97. 127  Kourou 2015a, 97, fig. 12; 2015b, 18–19, fig. 9. 128  Kourou 2015b, 19. 129  See p. 970, nn. 45–47. 125 126

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Fig. 15. Oropos, cemetery. Tomb XXVI (after Mazarakis Ainian 1998, fig. 23).

funerary urns of children, are occasionally covered with a pile of stones.130 Tomb XXVI presents a large ‘river stone’ that stands out in isolation in the middle of the other stones of the small tumulus. Interpreted as a possible sema of the tomb,131 the stone could also be an actual deposition endowed with intrinsic value, in line with a practice that we shall analyse in other cases. Another noteworthy element is the presence, at the bottom of the pit, of a bed of pebbles on which the grave-goods are laid (Fig. 15): this ritual mode is charged with specific meanings associated with chthonic rituals, as we shall see below. In this cemetery, the small stone tumulus covering the opening of the shaft can also be associated with groups of interlocking stone tumuli. The same phenomenon can be observed, for instance, in the Geometric cemetery of San Montano in Pithekoussai, where small tumuli of stones selected for their regular, small-to-medium size, are covered with larger stones and can be associated into groups of up to four tombs.132 Other significant examples can be found among indigenous Iron Age necropolises (9th–8th centuries BC) along the Ionian coast of southern Italy. The cemeteries unearthed around the hill of Incoronata are characterised by the extensive use of small-to-medium pebbles of homogenous shape and size. On the one hand, these pebbles were used to seal the grave (a rectangular pit delimited by large stones); on the other, they were deposited in direct contact with the body, as in tomb 147 of ‘Masseria Incoronata’ (Fig. 16).133 The same usage of laying the body on a bed of pebbles is documented in tomb 182, which constitutes the most evident example of this practice:

130

 Mazarakis Ainian 1998, 205, figs. 22–23.  Mazarakis Ainian 1998, 205, n. 113. 132  Buchner 1975, pl. 2. 133  Chiartano 1994 II, pl. I. 131

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Fig. 16. Incoronata, cemetery. Tomb 147 (after Chiartano 1994 II, pl. I).

the bottom is ‘paved with a layer of small pebbles’,134 carefully selected for their shape, colour and size (Fig. 17). This usage is extensively documented in the nearby Oenotrian cemetery of Santa Maria d’Anglona, near Siris-Policoro. The accurate photographic documentation of the site clearly shows how the body and its grave-goods were literally sealed135 with a tumulus of tightly and carefully stacked pebbles of homogeneous size. These pebbles, however, do 134  ‘pavimentato con uno strato di piccoli ciottoli’: Chiartano 1994 I, 105, tomb 182, pl. VI. The same configuration is documented in tombs 209, 226 and 303: Chiartano 1994 II, pls. VII, VIII, XVII. 135  One could say that they were ‘packed in stone’, to use the editor’s expression (‘Steinpackung’): Frey 1991, 98.

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Fig. 17. Incoronata, cemetery. Tomb 182 (after Chiartano 1994 II, pl. VI).

not only cover and flank the body,136 but are also used to form a bed on which it lies with its grave-goods (Fig. 18).137 The large Iron Age tombs of the cemetery of Macchiabate in Francavilla Marittima (Calabria) also illustrate these practices. The two tumuli of ‘Temparella’ and ‘Cerchio Reale’138 document the usage of covering the tomb with a usually oval tumulus of large pebbles, carefully selected for their shape and size.139 The body is laid on a bed of homogeneous pebbles, as one can observe in tomb 60 in Temparella140 and in the graves that have recently been carefully excavated by Basel University141 (tombs Strada 1, 2, 4, 5, 11, 12) (Fig. 19), whose bottom appears to be covered with large river pebbles, laid flat to 136

 Frey 1991, tomb 97, pl. 52.1.  Frey 1991, tomb 97, pl. 52.1; tomb 146, pl. 60.2. See also tombs 97, 109, 132, 146; pls. 52, 54, 55, 59, 60. For a better photographic reproduction, see Bianco and Tagliente 1993, pl. 12; Bianco 1986, 23, pl. 7. 138  Zancani Montuoro 1979. 139  Kleibrink 2003, figs. 7–8. 140  Pace 2007, 41, fig 4. 141  Guggisberg et al. 2011, figs. 2, 5; 2012, figs. 1, 3; 2016, figs. 1, 3, 5. 137

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Fig. 18. S. Maria d’Anglona, cemetery. Tomb 146 (after Frey 1991, pl. 60.2).

Fig. 19. Francavilla Marittima, cemetery of Macchiabate. Tomb Strada 12 (after Guggisberg et al. 2016, fig. 3).

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Fig. 20. Sala Consilina, cemetery. Tomb 63 (after Romito 2005, fig. 1).

receive the body and grave-goods. The excavators observed that in Francavilla this arrangement was reserved ‘only to a few, above-average rich tombs’.142 The same practice of covering the deposition with pebbles or stones chosen for their typology and size is documented in the coeval cemetery of Sala Consilina, both in inhumation143 and cremation burials, as in the case of tomb 63 in the cemetery of Sant’Antonio (Fig. 20).144 In Sicily, in the western cemetery ‘di Buonfornello’ in Himera (7th–5th centuries BC), several tombs are covered with ‘rows of circular, subcircular or quadrangular stones that delimit small stone tumuli raising above the ground and allowing the burials to be seen from afar’.145 Here again, we observe the use of larger pebbles for the perimeter and of smaller ones to seal the inner space. In Estremadura, the tombs of the large cemetery of Medellin, dating from between the first quarter of the 7th and the last quarter of the 5th century BC, are covered in the first phase with small cone-shaped tumuli of pebbles and, in the second, with rectangular shaped ones.146 Both instances are characterised by pebbles of average dimension and remarkably homogeneous in shape and size.  ‘solo per poche tombe di ricchezza superiore alla media’: Guggisber et al. 2011, 93.  Ruby 1994, 124, fig. 7; Roncoroni 2006, 37, fig. 2. 144  Romito 2005, 45, fig. 1. 145  ‘allineamenti di pietre di forma circolare, subcircolare o quadrangolare che delimitavano piccoli tumuli di terra che si elevavano sul terreno, rendendo riconoscibile anche a distanza il luogo delle sepolture’: Vassallo 2017, 171, fig. 5. 146  Last observed by Almagro-Gorbea 2017, 147, figs. 3, 4, 6. 142 143

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Fig. 21. Roman Forum, cemetery. Tomb S (after Boni 1906a, fig. 30).

In these last cases, relative to the western Mediterranean, archaeological research has been mainly focusing on the materials, the logic underlying the arrangement of the grave-goods, the funerary rituals, anthropological analyses and the topography of the burials. The construction contexts have received much less attention, and the ‘architectural’ constitution of the burials is often poorly documented. A virtuous exception is constituted by a recent analysis of the construction of the burials unearthed along the French Mediterranean coast, covering a chronological arc running from the 10th to the 5th century BC.147 This thorough typological analysis ascribes two main functions, namely protection and landmark, to the different modes of covering the tombs with pebbles and stones, with a particular emphasis on the relationship between the world of the living (and its corresponding funerary rituals) and that of the dead. In this perspective, a work that stands out for the remarkable level of attention paid to the understanding of funerary structures – and for its detailed and clear descriptions thereof – are the excavation reports of the burial site of the Roman Forum, compiled by Giacomo Boni between 1902 and 1906.148 The texts, drawings and photographs of the 147

 Mazière 2017.  Boni 1902, 96–111; 1903a, 123–70; 1903b, 375–427; 1905, 145–93; 1906a, 5–46; and 1906b, 253–94. 148

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reports accurately describe Iron Age burials (mostly cremations, but also inhumations) through all the stages of the progressive covering of the shafts by means of overlaying tufa blocks (with indications about their size, texture, colour and origin), often in alternation with layers of earth containing ashes and charcoal remains from the ritual pyre. The example shown in Fig. 21, relative to tomb S,149 is particularly representative of the deposition of different layers covering the shaft of the funerary urn, and emphasises how the tufa blocks were carefully selected for their shape and size. Boni pays as much attention to ceramic and skeletons as he does to the stones and modes of construction of the tombs, giving us valuable tools for understanding the reasons underlying the selection of shapes, sizes, colours and origins of these materials. These few lines, drawn from his description of tomb no. X,150 illustrate his contribution: Tufa fragments were carefully laid out next to the central part of the overlay, which was intact. Its surface consisted of a natural, irregular and rather smooth cleavage plane, as if the rock had been subject to friction. Due to its extreme flakiness, tufa can indeed be worn out even by the passage of bare feet. The cover at the bottom of the shaft, however, could not have been worn out and was placed therein as it was found. Thus, in pre-Romulean tombs, stones were also taken from the emerging rock layers on the surface of the Esquiline hills or, in any case, next to the burial ground, or from the mere flaking of collapsed tufa blocks. The pagans of the septimontium progressed even in their use of stones – haphazardly collected in the more Archaic tombs, then squared off with an axe in tombs from the 7th century BC, corresponding to the abandonment of the burial ground and foundation of Romulean Rome. Boni pays attention not only to the soil itself, but also to the size and colour of the stones. His description of the tufa blocks present in the burial tomb P is particularly detailed: [Around the pit...] the other overlying slabs, larger than the ones forming the cover, measure between 0.20 × 0.15 × 0.10 m and 0.37 × 0.26 × 0.15 m. Nine of them are made of schistose tufa with traces of vegetation, originally grey-black, now dark-tolight brown; two are made of red tufa, and one is grey unconsolidated tufa made of very fine ashes. They are dotted and scraped by the pickaxe that was used on them.151 149

 Boni 1906a, fig. 30.  ‘I frammenti di tufo erano accuratamente disposti accanto al pezzo centrale del coperchio, illeso e con la superficie irregolare di sfaldatura alquanto lisciata, come di roccia esposta a un attrito. Vero è che per la grande friabilità sua, il tufo è logorato anche dal passaggio di piedi scalzi. Ma il coperchio sul fondo di un pozzetto, non aveva modo di divenire logoro e dovette esservi collocato tale. Così che, nelle tombe preromulee, il pietrame è tratto anche da croste di roccie affioranti alla superficie dei colli dell’Equilino o comunque prossimi al sepolcreto, ovvero dalla semplice scheggiatura di blocchi di tufo franati. I pagani del septimontium manifestavano tendenze progressive pur nell’uso del pietrame che, raccogliticcio nelle tombe più arcaiche, è squadrato ad accetta nelle tombe dell’VIII sec. a.C., le quali segnano l’abbandono del sepolcreto e la fondazione della Roma romulea’: Boni 1906b, 280. 151  ‘[Attorno alla fossa...] Gli altri scheggioni, a questi sovrapposti, i più grossi dei quali servivano a formare la copertura, misuravano da m. 0,20 × 0,15 × 0,10 a m. 0,37 × 0,26 × 0,15. Nove di questi sono di tufo schistoso, a vegetali, di colore originario grigio nero, ora bruno marrone; due sono di tufo rosso e uno di tufo incoerente, grigio, costituito di cenere minutissima. Hanno tracce di puntate e scalfitture del piccone adoperato per ispaccarli’: Boni 1905, 186. The report continues with a detailed description of the deposition of an ovoid pebble next to the body of the woman, to which we shall return later. 150

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Fig. 22. Incoronata, deposition of large pebbles around the ‘White Sandy Stone’ (photograph: M. Denti).

In the same tomb, ‘A few traces of yellowish-green ball clay, less coarse than what can be kneaded out from the soil of the burial ground, filled the interstices between the tufa slabs forming the base of the small vault.’152 One cannot overlook the interesting association of carefully selected stones with yellowish-coloured soil: the above-mentioned ‘regenerative’ connotation of yellow earth further confirms the consistent meaning of such an association in this funerary context. Although the comparisons could go on, the instances presented so far are sufficient to address the intrinsic semantic value of these objects in funerary practices. Unsurprisingly, the editor of the Incoronata necropolis addresses the same question. In his general description of the tombs, Bruno Chiartano makes the following consideration about the small pebble tumuli and the pebble beds laid out to receive the body:153 ‘We cannot exclude that certain details such as, for instance, the presence (or absence) of sandstone chips resting on edge along the perimeter of the tombs, the bottom paving and (in a few rare cases) the piling of stones in direct contact with the body, may constitute possible signs of distinction.’154 152  ‘Qualche traccia di argilla plastica, color giallo-verdiccio, meno grossolana di quella ottenibile impastando il terreno del sepolcreto, occupava gli interstizi degli scheggioni di tufo che formavano l’imposta della volticella’: Boni 1905, 182–85. 153  ‘Non è comunque da escludere che alcuni particolari come, ad esempio, l’impiego o meno di lastrine di arenaria poste di taglio lungo il perimetro delle tombe, la pavimentazione del fondo e l’ammasso, in alcuni rari casi, del pietrame a diretto contatto col cadavere, costituiscano dei segni di una qualche possibile distinzione’: Chiartano 1994 I, 17. 154  The practice of laying the dead on a ‘bed’ of stones is recorded since the Bronze Age. See, for instance, Rottier et al. 2012, especially 260, fig. 140, where the authors present a typology of stone tomb coverings, without however addressing the latter’s conceptual implications. For the Apulian region, see also an identical situation in the Middle Bronze tombs at Spinazzola: Venturo 2010.

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The interpretive key is therefore likely to lie in the obliterative or funerary rituals in which these objects were used and which constitute, as we shall see, two faces of the same coin. The selection and mode of deposition of these objects correspond to a dialectical relationship between what is above and what is underground. Here again, they constitute the visible interface between the world of the living and the world of the dead. All the cases examined involve the obliteration of structures, the ‘sealing’ of deposits, the covering of tombs or the ‘paving’ of their bottoms. In this perspective, we should probably get used to considering the following practices as conceptually interchangeable: – The obliteration and sealing structures that have been entirely covered can be seen as a ‘funerary’ ritual. These structures were initially razed to the ground and purified, and therefore treated as ‘defunct’. They were subsequently protected with earth (i.e. ‘buried’) and sealed with pebbles and stones to preserve their memory through space and time. Chapman speaks appropriately of ‘death of the pit’,155 which is ‘marked by complete refilling of its form, rendering the land surface whole again and sealing the earlier deposits so as to make them once more invisible’. Moreover, the purificatory function of the pebbles (but also of the yellow earth) is likely to have played a key role in this context. – The burial of the body can be seen as a ritual ‘obliteration’. The body is placed into the ground (i.e. ‘buried’) and sealed with pebbles or stones to preserve its memory through space and time. Here, too, the objects have a purificatory value. In some cases, as we have seen, the body may lay on a ‘bed’ of pebbles that we can interpret not only as a purified space, but also as an interface between the body and the ancestors that dwell further down below. Should the present hypothesis prove correct, we should be able to ascribe new and crucial meanings to the presence of such objects in various contexts. Let us consider an instance drawn from the region of the Incoronata site, i.e. Basilicata: the controversial case of the proto-Archaic pits unearthed under the classical city of Heraclea, on the hill of SirisPolicoro. Here again, we find ‘the presence of pebbles [of homogeneous shape and size] carefully laid out on the bottom of each pit’.156 These pits, directly dug into the virgin soil, were filled with prestigious ceramic fragments, mostly re-composable157 and intentionally broken, as testified by the signs of clean break found on most of walls.158 According to the historiographical tradition of the 1980s,159 these pits would commonly be interpreted as the hollows-deposits of dwellings.160 However, in light of the material with which they were filled (characterised by the large amount of intentionally broken ceramics);161 of their 155

 Chapman 2000b, 64.  ‘In ciascuna di esse è stata verificata la presenza di un’accurata sistemazione di ciottoli del piano di fondo’: Giardino 1998, 114, figs. 11–13. See also the presence of pebbles on the bottom of a larger pit, interpreted as the lower part of a dwelling built into the ground (Giardino 2010, 359, fig. 247). 157  Giardino 1998, 109. 158  Giardino 1998, fig. 4–9; 2010, figs. 245–246. 159  For a critical discussion, see Denti 2019b. 160  Giardino 1998, 109; 2000, 358: ‘the size and shape indicate that the smaller cavities (about 1–1.20 m) were likely destined to receive pottery containing foodstuff’ (‘dimensioni e forma qualificano quelle più piccole (m. 1–1,20 ca.) come cavità verosimilmente destinate ad accogliere contenitori fittili per derrate alimentari’); Gallo 2016. 161  These contexts should certainly be studied again in light of the recent analysis on the depositions of the Incoronata site: Denti 2015a. 156

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being dug directly into the virgin ground;162 and (as we have seen) of the recurring presence of a bed of pebbles carefully laid out at the bottom of the pit, a ritual interpretation seems to be in order: the pits were either directly used in chthonic rituals, or they were part of structures whose ritualised abandonment involved the deposition of a ‘bed’ of pebbles on the bottom. Such a context clearly refers to the material expression of an interface between the actions of the living (the individuals – or the group – in charge of the deposition into the ground) and the world of the dead (the ancestors): ‘Far from being simply a neutral means of disposing of unwanted “refuse”, pit-digging can be seen as an exchange with the ancestors – of new material for old – when the pits are dug into earlier “cultural layers”.’163

PEBBLE DEPOSITIONS The conceptually interchangeable nature of these contexts of use – which we organised, for convenience, into three types (platforms and pavements, aureoles, overlays) – is based on the role of pebble constructions as intermediaries between the world of the living and the world of the dead, a role in which their purificatory functions must have been essential. We can indeed make sense of the structures discussed above in light of the symbolic value of these materials and of their recurring connexion to the chthonic sphere: in these contexts, pebbles are primarily highly significant items: they are ‘cultural’, or shall we say ‘ritual pebbles’. Assuming that they carry an intrinsic value, we should not be surprised to also find them deposited as autonomous votive objects.164 The custom of depositing pebbles at the bottom of a tomb is recorded since the Neolithic. For instance, in the grave of a child in the necropolis of Traian (Dealul Viei, Roumania), of the Cucuteni-Tripolye culture (Grave II), flat pebbles were found at the bottom of the pit, next to ceramic and grindstone fragments.165 The ceremonial practice of placing pebbles in sacred spaces is documented in the Mediterranean world during the Bronze Age. Ten to 150 samples were found in several peak open-air sanctuaries in Crete (and up to 600 in the sanctuary of Syme). In all known cases, the pebbles were transported from the river or the sea. There are no known depositions inside the island’s Minoan buildings or palaces.166 The Minoan rural sanctuary of Atsipadhes Korakias (Rethimnon) is a well-investigated case.167 On the east edge of the Upper Terrace, a large number of pebbles were concentrated in a small area: 162

 Chapman 2000b.  Chapman 2000b, 64. 164  Since time immemorial, on top of Puerto Irago (León Mountains, Spain, altitude 1500 m), the highest point of the Camino de Santiago, pilgrims have been leaving a pebble from their place of origin at the foot of La Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross). This ancient tradition started with Galician harvesters who would leave a stone each time they passed by the cross. Originally it was a cairn, i.e. a pile of stones, used to mark the road, the top of a mountain, an important event, or a funerary site where the dead are celebrated. That particular cairn was Christianised quite early by Gaucelmo, abbot of Foncebadón and Manjarín, and his successors, who added a cross: https://www.chemin-compostelle.fr/le-camino-frances-culmine-a-la-cruz-de-ferro. 165  Chapman 2000b, 75, with previous bibliography. 166  Kyriakidis 2002, 118–19. 167  Peatfield 1992. 163

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Excavation revealed that the pebbles where not a defined layer or floor, but were thickly scattered through the fill of the deposit layers. The earth here was also full of sherds and figurine fragments. The pebbles were round, and clearly water-worn; they are not natural to the geology of the site, and must have been deliberately brought here in Minoan times. They are not sea pebbles, but river pebbles from the valley floor.168 A particularly interesting detail is the presence, in the middle of the area, of an earth feature, roughly circular, covering a shallow hollow dug into the geological ground, partly lined with schist-like stones coming from elsewhere. The editor considers this ‘pebbled area’, representing the main ritual area of the sanctuary, to be ‘a liturgical area’ reserved to the celebrant of the ceremonies, where ‘the pebbles were either placed to define the area or did so incidentally if they were cast down by worshippers as part of the offering process, perhaps an act equivalent to modern candles, memorialising the presence of the worshippers’.169 Based on the excavator’s description and interpretation, this is therefore a platform of pebbles surrounding a chthonic ritual area (an earth feature over a pit) to which we can apply the interpretation developed in our previous analysis: the pebbles either surround and define a bothros, or were carried here to be deposited and offered as such. Perhaps both interpretations are true. The best-known Bronze Age example of the practice of depositing pebbles is found in the Cyclades, where a high concentration of pebbles, selected for their shape, colour and size, was intentionally deposited in the sacred space of Dhaskalio, the small island next to Keros. In the upper part of the site, a small, enclosed space was excavated: it is roughly circular (about 2.40 m in diameter), accessible by a doorway, and surrounds three or four large limestones that emerge from the geological stratum.170 In the absence of any image detailing what was found inside the structure, let us rely on the direct testimonies of the discoverers: It was in this space that a considerable quantity (more than 340) of rounded limestone pebbles was found. These smooth, rounded pebbles are clearly beach pebbles, and such stones had already been recovered and recorded as special finds on other parts of the site. Although beach pebbles are present on the shore at Dhaskalio Kavos on Keros, they are of poor quality marble. The limestone pebbles found in cultural contexts on Dhaskalio have instead been identified by John Dixon as coming from one of the beaches of Ano Kouphonisi. Those found in the summit enclosure had clearly been specially selected and deliberately brought to Dhaskalio. Metrical study by Gry Nymo suggests that these egg-shaped limestone pebbles in the summit enclosure were deliberately selected for their larger size and more rounded appearance than the average pebbles on the beach of Ano Kouphonisi. They are systematically larger than those studied for comparison from Special Deposit South of Kavos, where such pebbles are also found. This deliberate and perhaps successive deposition of selected beach pebbles in this special place is suggestive of ritual practice.171 168

 Peatfield 1992, 68, figs. 5, 8.  Peatfield 1992, 80. 170  Renfrew et al. 2009, 38, fig. 5, pl. 4a. 171  Renfrew et al. 2009, 38–39. I was unable to read the following study: Nymo et al. 2013. About the special deposit of Kavos, see p. 987. 169

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This ‘Summit Enclosure’ is located exactly in front of the entrance of a large apsed building (‘the Hall’), 16 m long and 4 m wide, built between 2800 and 2500 BC (Dhaskalio phase A) and rebuilt between 2500 and 2200 BC (Dhaskalio phase B).172 Its key function was confirmed by the recovery, within its perimeter, of a deposit of axes made of copper (or copper alloy).173 This ritual/residential building was visible from afar and from all sides, including from Naxos, Ios and, of course, the nearby Lesser Cyclades.174 The dislocation of the ‘Summit Enclosure’, in axis with the entrance of the apsed building, and the 340 pebbles deposited inside its perimeter, support the hypothesis that the area hosted chthonic rituals. Although the excavators described it as ‘circular’, on closer inspection the perimeter of the structure appears rather to suggest a triangular shape, typical of spaces devoted to the cult of the ancestors (at least, as far as we know, during the Iron Age).175 This function would be consistent with the practice of depositing ritual pebbles inside the area. The tradition of depositing pebbles in ritual contexts continues in the Cycladic area during the Iron Age. In Xobourgo, above the pebble platform that covered an empty shaft (see p. 991, Fig. 14) and in front of the main gate of the Cyclopean fortification wall, the cult on this terrace continued later and apparently demarcated family or tribal shrines, with pyre pits associated to ritual practices comprising traces of fire, animal bones, pottery sherds, loom-weights, metal objects, food offerings but also small pebbles. After the extinction of the fire, a certain amount of stones was placed above the pyre, forming a small tumulus. ‘A large and frequently coloured pebble, regularly found among the stones of the small tumuli, was apparently an integral part of the ritual, perhaps representing the final sealing of the pit.’176 Interestingly, this practice, documented in Tenos during the Geometric period, continued during the Classical period. The 5th-century BC pyres unearthed on the upper terrace of Xobourgo appear to be sealed with a small tumulus, topped once again by a large and coloured sea pebble.177 This cannot fail to remind us of the above-mentioned case of Oropos (p. 992, Fig. 15), where the small tumulus of tomb XXVI was topped with a large ‘river stone’ that was deposited (intentionally, it would seem) so as to be surrounded by the others. This practice is also documented in Italic funerary contexts. In the above-mentioned tomb P (see p. 998) of the Roman Forum burial ground, an oval-shaped pebble was placed next to the body of a young woman, causing Boni to wonder about the reasons and context of such a deposition: On the south-western part of the pit we found an ovoid-shaped, calcareous-eocenic pebble (ruin marble, white by alteration); I am told by Prof. Portis that similar pebbles are often found in the gravel of the Janiculum and the Milvian Bridge; but one

 Renfrew et al. 2009, 37, pl. 3. Renfrew, Moutafi and Boyd 2013, fig. 10.  Renfrew et al. 2009, 38, fig. 8, pl. 7a. 174  Renfrew et al. 2009, 38. 175  See p. 985 and n. 98. 176  Kourou 2015a, 98, fig. 14; 2015b, 17, fig. 6. 177  Kourou 2017, 156, fig. 10 (but not 9: error). The same ceremonial practice is documented in the obliteration of a pit in the metalworking space in Xobourgo, where a big pebble was carefully deposited (early 5th century BC): Kourou 2019, 116 and 118, fig. 10. 172 173

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would be at pains to explain why the pebble should be buried next to the body of a young girl, under the rocky vault of tomb P. The pebbles, lapides ex flumine rotundi (coclacae in Archaic Latin), considered as svayambhū (self-generated), white or black, are used in the five-stone placement ceremony (panćāyatana-pūyā) of orthodox Hindus. Moreover, the oval shape of the pebble in tomb P reminds me of the egg shells found in some burial recesses of S. M. Antiqua.178 In the northern area of the sanctuary of Pyrgi, space E of the ‘Edificio in opera quadrata’ (about 500 BC) contains the deposition of another ovoid-shaped pebble in basaltic stone (about 30 cm high), which was included in the category of dark aniconic memorial stones, mostly connected to chthonic ritual practices.179 The intentional deposition of pebbles inside a ritual space is also recorded in Incoronata. The large pebble terrace from the 8th century BC, which we discussed above (p. 975, Fig. 5), surrounds a ritual space developed around a smooth white stones called ‘White Sandy Stone’ (Fig. 5, WS; Fig. 22) wedged into the ground. The numerous pieces of Enotrian ceramic with a tenda decorations and burnished impasto pottery, used for libations and offerings, as well as the animal bones (including a large bovine horn) found scattered on the pebble floor all around this aniconic ritual stone180 (or possibly altar), testify to the rituals that took place there, and which involved the consumption of beverages and meat. Around the large stone, on the north side, large fluvial pebbles, selected for their identical size, shape, (white) colour and weight, were intentionally deposited (Fig. 5, US 203, Fig. 22). Still in Incoronata, a large artificial depression (2.5 m), provisionally181 interpreted as a clay pit, was obliterated in the 7th century BC in an operation of ritual defunctionalisation. The latter involved filling the depression with hundreds of kg of soil, selected for its colour and composition (grey and crumbly at the bottom, pink and compact at the top). The operation was inaugurated by an initial ritual practice documented by the fire and charcoal remains, the deposited halves of an oinochoe and an amphoriskos, both polychrome and imported from the Aegean, fragments of Oenotrian ceramics, and pebbles deposited at the bottom of the depression inside the layer in direct contact with the virgin sandy soil.

178  ‘Nel mezzo del lato sud–ovest della fossa trovasi un ciottolo ovoidale calcareo-eocenico (pietra paesina, di color bianco, per alterazione); molti consimili sono nella ghiaia del Gianicolo e di Ponte Molle, a quanto mi assicura il prof. Portis; ma non è facile spiegare perché venisse sepolto accanto alla salma di una giovinetta, sotto la volta a scheggioni della tomba P. I ciottoli, lapides ex flumine rotundi (lat. arc. coclacae), considerati quali svayambhū (esistenza spontanea), di color bianco o di color nero, sono adoperati nella cerimonia delle cinque pietre (panćāyatana-pūyā) degli Hindū ortodossi, e la forma ovale del ciottolo rinvenuto nella tomba P mi fa ricordare i gusci d’uovo trovati in qualche loculo cimiteriale di S. M. Antiqua’: Boni 1905, 186–87, fig. 70. The hypothesis about the possible symbolic meaning of the oval shape of the pebble, reminiscent of an egg and therefore of the relationship between death and rebirth, is consistent with the ritual function of the objects discussed in the present paper. However, the chronological consistency remains to be verified. 179  Baglione 2017, 157, figs. 7, 12. 180  Gaifman 2012, especially Chapter 4. See comparison with Roca Vecchia, where an aniconic ritual pebble was found in the middle of a monumental gate: Scarano 2012, 116–18, figs. 3.136, 139, 140; 130, figs. 3.178, 179. 181  The structure was only partially excavated: Denti and Villette 2013, fig. 16.

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We also have documentation about the practice of depositing pebbles inside vases, again in connexion with chthonic rituals. In the Thesmophoric sanctuary of Bitalemi in Gela (Sicily), the ceremonial area presents, among the Archaic depositions, a locally made LPC skyphos filled with pebbles.182 The Geometric necropolis of Tsikalario also documents a fill with sand vases deposited inside and outside the funerary enclosures.183 The purificatory and chthonic value of these materials is therefore further confirmed.

CONCLUSIONS This non-exhaustive overview leads us to conclude that the chthonic value of pebbles in the Mediterranean area between the Bronze and Iron Age is confirmed by a variety of documented contexts of use. Be they used in residential, funerary or ritual space, pebbles can be regarded as ‘ritual mindfacts’ that identify, mark and establish the location and activities of the ‘exchange between the living and the ancestors’,184 confirming Robin Hägg’s interpretive tradition.185 These objects also appear to have a purificatory value, as observed by Vassilis Labrinoudakis in the case of the cemetery of Grotta, in Naxos: ‘Perhaps even the pebbles from the seashore were thought to possess a similar power [i.e. purification], as they constitute the main component of these platforms.’186 This function concerns not only the spaces devoted to chthonic cults (in residential or funerary contexts) but also obliteration overlay procedure. We also observed how the use of (especially yellow) clay or sand in association with pebbles may evoke the spheres of regeneration187 or purification.188 I do not know whether there is a connexion between these Mediterranean rituals from the Bronze and Iron Age (particularly documented in the Aegean) and the practice of covering the tombs with pebbles, selected for their size, shape and colour, documented to this day in the cemeteries of the Cyclades. I did inquire about this practice, a few years ago, with the young pope in charge of the small cemetery of Donoussa, one of the Lesser Cyclades (Fig. 23), but I received only a generic answer.189 I can however personally testify that actually touching the remains of these ritual practices during the excavation is quite an uncanny experience. Removing from a clay platform (whenever stratigraphically necessary) the pebbles that these people had carefully laid in, holding them in one’s hands, taking stock of the value that they used to have in the cult of the dead, can sometimes be overwhelming for the meaning, and should I say energy, with which these pebbles are imbued. Thus, a pile of apparently insignificant pebbles extracted from a platform surrounding a bothros (Fig. 24) may often constitute – if properly understood as ‘ritual pebbles’ – an archaeological testimony of much greater value than many celebrated records. 182

 Tirloni 2014, 207, fig. 17.  Kourou 2015a, 97, with previous bibliography. 184  See n. 13. 185  Hägg 1983. 186  Lambrinoudakis 1988, 240–44. 187  Chapman 2000b, 71. 188  Kourou 2015a, 97: ‘Sand, sea water or pebbles were thought to have had a purifying quality in antiquity.’ 189  On the topic of continuity/discontinuity, it would be worth investigating the use of pebbles in 4th-century decorative and figurative mosaics in Hellenistic royal palaces. 183

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Fig. 23. Donoussa, cemetery. One of the tombs (photograph: M. Denti).

Fig. 24. Incoronata. Part of the pebbles that formed the platform around bothros of Fig. 9.

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I would like to end these lines with the words of a Reno Crow Native American (Shes-is, end of the 19th century): The soil you see is not ordinary soil – it is the dust of the blood, the flesh, and bones of our ancestors... You will have to dig down through the surface before you can find nature’s earth, as the upper portion is Crow. The land, as it is, is my blood and my dead; it is consecrated...

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Popham, M.R., Sackett, L.H. and Themelis, P.G. (eds.) 1980: Lefkandi 1: The Iron Age Settlement; The Cemeteries (British School at Athens Suppl. vol. 11) (London). Renfrew, C., Moutafi, I. and Boyd, M.J. 2013: ‘CH. 10: The North Structure at the Summit (the Hall): trenches VI, X, XLII, XIV, XXXVI and XXX’. In Renfrew et al. 2013, 141–88. Renfrew, C., Philaniotou, O., Brodie, N. and Gavalas, G. 2009: ‘The Early Cycladic Settlement at Dhaskalio, Keros: preliminary report of the 2008 excavation season’. Annual of the British School at Athens 104, 27–42. Renfrew, C., Philaniotou, O., Brodie, N., Gavalas, G. and Boyd, M.J. 2013: The Settlement of Dhaskalio: The Sanctuary on Keros and the Origins of Aegean Ritual Practice. The Excavations of 2006–2008, vol. 1 (Cambridge/Oxford). Renfrew, C., Philanioutou, O., Brodie, N., Gavalas, G. and Margaritis, E. 2007: ‘Keros: Dhaskalio and Kavos, Early Cycladic Stronghold and Ritual Centre. Preliminary Report of the 2006 and 2007 Excavation Seasons’. Annual of the British Sschool at Athens 102, 103–36. Rodríguez Díaz, A. forthcoming: ‘Power, Ideology and Identity in the “Tartessian Southwest”: The ritual context of the Aliseda Treasure (Cáceres-Extremadura, Spain)’. In Kistler, E., Heitz, C., Öhlinger, B. and van Dommelen, P. (eds.), The Production of Locality and Empowerment in the Archaic Western Mediterranean, International Conference in Innsbruck, 2017. Romito, M. (ed.) 2006: Vecchi scavi, nuovi studi. Museo Archeologico Provinciale della Lucania Occidentale nella Certosa di San Lorenzo a Padula (Salerno). Roncoroni, P. 2006: ‘Le tombe dell’età del Ferro’. In Romito 2006, 37–44. Rottier, S., Piette, J. and Mordant, C. (eds.) 2012: Archéologie funéraire du Bronze final dans les vallées d’Yonne et de la haute Seine: Les nécropoles de Barbey, Barbuise et La Saulsotte (Dijon). Ruby, P. 1994: ‘Problèmes chronologiques et topographiques de la nécropole du premier âge du fer de Sala Consilina’. In Gastaldi, P. and Maetzke, G. (eds.), La presenza etrusca nella Campania meridionale (Atti delle giornate di studio, Salerno–Pontecagnano, 16–18 novembre 1990) (Biblioteca di Studi etruschi 28) (Florence), 111–34. Sapouna-Sakellaraki, E. 1998: ‘Geometric Kyme. The Excavation at Viglatouri, Kyme, in Euboea’. In Bats and D’Agostino 1998, 59–104. Scarano, T. 2012: Roca 1: Le fortificazioni della media età del Bronzo. Strutture, contesti, materiali (Foggia). Schilardi, D. 1988: ‘The temple of Athena at Koukounaries. Observations on the cult of Athena on Paros’. In Hägg et al. 1988, 41–48. Sciortino, I. 2006: ‘Roma, Foro Romano. Il deposito votivo presso il Clivio Capitolino’. In Comella, A.M. and Mele, S. (eds.), Depositi votivi e culti dell’Italia antica dall’età arcaica a quella tardo-repubblicana (Atti del convegno di studi, Perugia 1–4 giugno 2000) (Bibliotheca archaeologica 16) (Bari), 85–93. Tirloni, I. 2014: Manifestazioni del sacro e pratiche rituali in Italia meridionale e Sicilia nella prima età del Ferro (IX–VII secolo a.C.) (Dissertation, University of Rennes 2). Vassallo, S. 2017: ‘La necropoli di Himera: gli spazi, le architetture funerarie, i segni della memoria’. In Adroit and Graells 2017, 167–79. Venturo, D. 2010: ‘Spinazzola – Castello Pignatelli’. In Radina, F. and Recchia, G. (eds.), Ambra per Agamennone. Indigeni e Micenei tra Adriatico, Ionio ed Egeo (Exhibition Catalogue) (Bari), 181–85. Verdan, S. 2007: ‘Eretria: Metalworking in the Sanctuary of Apollo Daphnephoros during the Geometric Period’. In Mazarakis Ainian, A. (ed.), Oropos and Euboea in the Early Iron Age (Acts of an International Round Table, University of Thessaly, June 18–20, 2004) (Volos), 345–59. —. 2013: Eretria 22: Le sanctuaire d’Apollon Daphnéphoros à l’époque géométrique (Gollion). Zancani Montuoro, P. 1979: ‘Francavilla Marittima. Necropli di Macchiabate’. Atti e Memorie della Società Magna Grecia 18–20 (for 1977–79), 7–91.

THE ERETRIAN LATE GEOMETRIC OINOCHOE ISTANBUL 1503 Jean-Paul DESCŒUDRES

ABSTRACT This note presents a set of photographs of an Eretrian oinochoe of Late Geometric date in the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul, hitherto only known through a sketch drawing published by the author almost 50 years ago. It was originally part of the huge collection amassed by Luigi Palma di Cesnola in Cyprus between 1865 and 1876. The jug can thus be added to the corpus of Euboean 8th-century exports to Cyprus and is so far the only vase of undoubtedly Eretrian manufacture.

Made in Eretria on Euboea probably around 720 BC, exported to Cyprus, and today kept in the city where East and West meet, the Late Geometric oinochoe presented here seems to be the appropriate vessel from which to pour my very best wishes and warmest congratulations to you, dear Gocha!1 Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503. Large oinochoe with cut-away neck (Figs. 1–4). Ht 41.5 cm; diam. mouth 13.4 cm; diam. foot 11 cm. Well levigated clay containing a few white inclusions but no mica; hard fired, core (light) reddish-brown (5YR 5–6/4–5). Fine, very pale brown slip (10YR 7.5/3–4) on carefully polished surface. Black, slightly brilliant glaze, reddish-brown when diluted (2.5–7.5YR 4–5/5–6). Added white. Intact except for the mouth of which only a very small section is preserved. Large parts of the surface abraded. Ovoid body above a flat base, clearly offset cylindrical neck (possibly potted separately), with a round mouth, (correctly?) restored in the shape of a flaring spout rising from the deep, semi-circular indentations on either side of the handle attachment. Vertical band handle. Interior, handle inside and underside of foot reserved. Two zigzag bands in added white on broad black bands encircle the lower part of the body between groups of lines, whilst the main part of the belly is covered by a large checkerboard. A third zigzag band is added in white on the black shoulder. Framed by a frieze of tangential, compass-drawn triple circles below (most with a central dot) and by a frieze of hatched standing triangles above, a metopal frieze between groups of lines decorates the central part of the neck: 1  I should like to express my warm thanks to James Hargrave for inviting me to contribute to this celebratory volume in honour of a much-admired friend, and for his most generous patience.

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Fig. 1. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 (photograph courtesy A. Denker).

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Fig. 2. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 (photograph courtesy A. Denker).

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Fig. 3. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 (photograph courtesy A. Denker).

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Fig. 4. Eretrian Late Geometric oinochoe. Istanbul, Archaeological Museum inv. 1503 (photograph courtesy A. Denker).

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the slightly bigger middle field features a hatched octofoil with interstitial dots, while each of the lateral panels contains a cross-hatched water-bird facing the central metope, with a dotted lozenge and a dot rosette as filling motifs. A vertical band of chevrons closes the metopal frieze on either end, abutting against the glazed zone behind the handle. On the latter’s outside, an elongated triple X is separated by four horizontal bars from an eight-pointed star on the top. When I noticed the vase on a visit to the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul in 1967, it was placed on top of a large cabinet, but the then keeper of the Greek section, Dr N. Fıratlı, asked one of the staff to fetch it and kindly gave me permission to draw it, as I was not well-enough equipped to take a photograph of it.2 Unfortunately, its inventory number appeared to have been lost which made it impossible to find out when, how, and whence the jug had come to Istanbul. At that time I was working on the pre-Classical pottery found in Eretria by the Swiss Archaeological Mission which had started excavations in 1964 under the direction of Karl Schefold.3 The material yielded by these early excavations was very fragmentary, and the vase in Istanbul at once enabled a number of hitherto unidentifiable fragments to be recognised as belonging to jugs of the same type.4 In subsequent years, excavations carried out in various areas in Eretria as well as in nearby Lefkandi substantially increased the number of fragments that evidently come from jugs very similar to the one in Istanbul.5 Yet, all studies dealing with Euboean pottery of the Late Geometric period either failed to mention the Istanbul jug itself – the only representative of the group that survived virtually intact6 – or referred to it on the basis of the sketch I had produced as a second-year student.7 My fear that the Eretrian jug may have been lost (reinforced in 2008 on a visit to the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul during which it proved impossible to find it) has now finally been proven groundless thanks to the efforts and generosity of Dr Asuman Denker who succeeded not only in locating and photographing the vase, but also in recovering its inventory number.8 The set of colour pictures that I am allowed to reproduce here reveals that the vase has been cleaned and freed from its old restorations. As a result, the following corrections and modifications of my original description and drawing may be noted: the handle is not glazed but reserved on the inside and with a linear decoration on the outside (see 2

 Published in Descœudres 1976, Beil. 3.  For the history of the Swiss Mission to Eretria, since 1975 Swiss Archaeological School in Greece, see Reber 2010, 38–41. 4  Descœudres 1976, 38–39 with pl. 1. 5  See, for example Andreiomenou 1983, 174, nos. 79–80, pl. 58; 175–76, no. 98, fig. 6, pl. 59; 182, nos. 190, 194–195, pls. 62–63; Verdan et al. 2008, 122, no. 109, pl. 28 (= Verdan 2013, no. 162, pl. 77); 124, no. 151, pl. 37 (=Verdan 2013, no. 245, pl. 88); 129–30, no. 304, pl. 63; Verdan 2013, 15, no. 214, pl. 84. For Lefkandi, see Popham and Sackett 1979, pls. 56–57 (especially nos. 302–306). 6  See, for example, Andreiomenou 1983; Lemos and Hatcher 1991; Gisler 1995; Kourou 1998; Coldstream 2003, 173–76  ; CVA Metropolitan Museum 5, 80–84 (Moore); Aloupi and Kourou 2008; CVA British Museum 11, 46–51 (Coldstream). 7  See Boardman 1980, 71 with n. 78; Lentini 1990, 78 with fig. 38; Verdan et al. 2008, 98; Verdan 2013, 15, no. 214. 8  I should like to express here my sincere gratitude to her and take the opportunity also to thank Eric Jean most warmly for his assistance. 3

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above), the octofoil on the neck has dots, not dot rosettes in its interstices, the metopal frieze on the neck is framed by two vertical bands of chevrons which I overlooked, and the concentric circles below are triple, not double. Considerably more important is the recovery of the vessel’s inventory number. It reveals that the vase had been part of the huge collection which Luigi Palma di Cesnola assembled in Cyprus, where he was consul of the United States from 1865 to 1876, at a time when the island was still part of the Ottoman empire.9 More or less voluntarily, he handed over 88 crates of his antiquities in 1873 to the then director of the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul, Dr P.A. Déthier.10 Although Déthier himself is credited with the production of a first inventory of the collection,11 it was his successor, Osman Hamdi Bey, who entrusted Georges Nicole in 1904 with the production of a catalogue of the over 800 vases exhibited in the museum’s ‘Cypriot room’.12 Unfortunately without illustrations, it was published in the 37th fascicule of the Bulletin de l’Institut genevois and appeared as a separate booklet in 1906.13 Our oinochoe is described on page 41 under the number 826. In Cesnola’s ‘narrative of researches and excavations during ten years’ residence’,14 the Euboean jug which was to become Istanbul inv. 1503 is not mentioned, unlike another Late Geometric Greek vase in his collection, i.e. the large krater now in the Metropolitan Museum in New York which has become the name vase of the Euboean ‘Cesnola Painter’.15 It is described as having been part of the (in)famous ‘Treasure of Curium’,16 which recent investigations have revealed to be fictitious, created by Cesnola (to match ‘Priam’s treasure’ found by his rival Heinrich Schliemann in Troy in 1873) from antiquities he ‘bought from native diggers from all over the island’.17 It is therefore quite conceivable that our jug was found with the krater, together with two other Euboean jugs purchased by the Metropolitan Museum,18 and that, being the only one without figurative decoration, it was considered a ‘duplicate’ and added to the lot offered to Déthier in 1873.19 The clear, rhythmic ordering of the jug’s decoration, which corresponds with and emphasises the vessel’s structure, is indeed reminiscent of the krater in New York, and almost all the motifs used in its decoration belong to what one may call the ‘Cesnolan vocabulary’:20 one notes especially the octofoil and cross-hatched waterbird metopes, the checked frieze, the rows of chevrons, and the tangential triple concentric circles. Yet the 9

 For the most recent account of Cesnola’s activities, with references. to the earlier literature, see Barker and Merrillees 2019. 10  See Nicole 1906, 5; Marangou 2000, 135; and for a more detailed account, Merrillees 2017, 60, 75–81. I am profoundly grateful to Robert Merrillees for providing me with an electronic version of his paper: it proved instrumental in identifying the oinochoe’s provenance. 11  See Reinach 1882, 74. 12  Merrillees 2017, 95. 13  See above n. 10. 14  As the subtitle to Palma di Cesnola 1877 reads. 15  CVA Metropolitan Museum 5, pls. 46–49. 16  Palma di Cesnola 1877, 332–33 with pl. 29. 17  Marangou 2000, 263–65; Merrillees 2017, 73. 18  CVA The Metropolitan Museum 5, pl. 50. 19  See above with n. 10. 20  See Descœudres 2008, 7. Frequently referred to as ‘Cesnolan style’ (see, for example, Kourou 1998; 2015, 224, n. 58; or Verdan et al. 2008, 49), confusing ‘style’ – as an art-historical term meaning ‘the man himself’, as J.D. Beazley put it in ABV x) – with ‘fashion’ or ‘manner’, resulting in incomprehensible or contradictory statements such as ‘The main reason for attributing the vase to the painter rather than to his

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prominent zigzag bands in added white are novel and suggest that our jug belongs to the generation following that of the ‘Cesnola Painter’.21 The increasingly abundant use of motifs painted in added white on dark glaze is characteristic of the last years of the Geometric period in Eretria,22 zigzag bands being particularly frequent on jugs and kraters.23 Whether the jug now in the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul was found with the famous ‘Cesnola krater’ or not, it represents an important addition to the already solid corpus of Euboean exports to Cyprus,24 and is so far the only piece of undoubtedly Eretrian manufacture.25 Although the absence of figurative motifs which might reveal its painter’s ‘individualistic quirks’26 prevents its attribution to a particular ‘hand’ or ‘workshop’, its similarity to the pieces listed above in n. 5 permits of no doubt as to its Eretrian origin. Particularly close among them is the neck and shoulder fragment inv. 64-293-5 found in one of the pits in the area of the Temple of Apollo:27 it is of practically identical size and shape, identical shoulder and belly decoration, and its neck is decorated with the same motifs as those on our jug, though in a slightly different arrangement. (The tangential triple concentric circles are above instead of below the metopal frieze and the central metope features a quatrefoil instead of an octofoil, the framing vertical bands are crosshatched instead of filled with chevrons.) It was found in the same pit (253) in which one of the rare Cypriot imports had been deposited28 – by sheer coincidence?

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aloupi, A. and Kourou, N. 2008: ‘Late Geometric Slipped Pottery. Technological Variations and Workshop Attibutions (Euboean, Cycladic, and Attic Workshops)’. In Mazarakis Ainian, A. (ed.), Oropos and Euboea in the Early Iron Age (Acts of an International Round Table, University of Thessaly, June 18–20, 2004) (Volos), 287–318. Andreiomenou, A. 1975: ‘Γεωμετρικὴ καὶ ὑπογεωμετρικὴ κεραμεικὴ ἐξ Ἐρετρίας’. Αρχαιολογική Eφημερίς, 206–29. —. 1982: ‘Γεωμετρικὴ καὶ ὑπογεωμετρικὴ κεραμεικὴ ἐξ Ἐρετρίας, 4’. Αρχαιολογική Εφημερίς, 161–86. —. 1983: ‘Γεωμετρικὴ καὶ ὑπογεωμετρικὴ κεραμεικὴ ἐξ Ἐρετρίας, 5’. Αρχαιολογική Εφημερίς, 161–92. Barker, C. and Merrillees, R.S. 2019: ‘Cypriot Antiquities from the Cesnola Collections in the Nicholson Museum, The University of Sydney’. Mediterranean Archaeology 30 (for 2017), 51–72. style …’ (Lemos 2014, 49). Note that S. Verdan (2013 passim) uses the correct expression ‘répertoire décoratif du Peintre de Cesnola’ synonymously with the term ‘style du Peintre de Cesnola’. 21  Add to the extensive bibliography on the Cesnola Painter in CVA Metropolitan Museum 5, 80–81, Aloupi-Kourou 2008, passim, especially 293–94, 297; Verdan et al. 2008, passim, especially 114–15; Descœudres 2008, 7; Lemos 2014. 22  See Andreiomenou 1983, 226–27; Verdan et al. 2008, 109. 23  For jugs, see above nn. 3 and 4; for kraters, see, for example, Popham and Sackett 1979, pl. 53, nos. 235–236; Andreiomenou 1982, pl. 37, nos. 268–270. 24  See Descœudres 2008, especially 12–14. 25  For the few Cypriot imports found in Eretria, see Andreiomenou 1975, 208–09, pl. 53a; Verdan et al. 2008, 43; Verdan 2013, 97, 99. On possible reflexions in the local pottery of the exchanges between Eretria and Cyprus, see Descœudres 1968, 104; Kourou 2015, 224. 26  Coldstream 1971, 2. 27  Verdan 2013, no. 214, pl. 84. 28  Verdan 2013, 97.

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Boardman, J. 1980: ‘The Late Geometric Pottery’. In Popham and Sackett 1980, 57–79. Coldstream, J.N. 1971: ‘The Cesnola Painter: A Change of Address’. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 18, 1–15. —. 2003: Geometric Greece: 900–700 BC, 2nd ed. (London). Descœudres, J.-P. 1968: ‘Ausgewählte eretrische Keramik aus dem siebten und sechsten Jahrhundert v. Chr.’. Antike Kunst 11, 102–05. —. 1976: ‘Die vorklassische Keramik aus dem Gebiet des Westtors’. Eretria 5: Ombres de l’Eubée? (Berne), 13–58. —. 2008: ‘Euboean Pottery Overseas (10th to 7th centuries BC)’. Mediterranean Archaeology 19–20, 1–24. Gisler, J.R. 1995: ‘Erétrie et le Peintre de Cesnola’. Archaiognosia 8, 11–95. Kourou, N. 1998: ‘Euboea and Naxos in the Late Geometric Period: the Cesnola Style’. In Bats, M. and d’Agostino, B. (eds.), Euboica: L’Eubea e la presenza euboica in Calcidica e in Occidente (Atti del convegno internazionale di Napoli, 13–16 novembre 1996) (Collection du Centre Jean Bérard 16; Annali Istituto universitario orientale, Sezione di archeologia e storia antica. Quaderno 12) (Naples), 167–79 —. 2015: ‘Cypriots and Levantines in the Central Aegean’. In Descœudres, J.-P. and Paspalas, S.A. (eds.), Zagora in Context: Settlements and Intercommunal Links in the Geometric Period (900– 700 BC) (Proceedings of the Conference held by The Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens and The Archaeological Society at Athens, Athens, 20–22 May, 2012) (= Mediterranean Archaeology 25) (Sydney), 215–27. Lemos, I.S. 2014: ‘The Cesnola Painter, again’. In Valavanis, P. and Manakidou, E. (eds.), Essays on Greek Pottery and Iconography in Honour of Professor Michalis Tiverios (Thessalonica), 47–53. Lemos, I. and Hatcher, H. 1991: ‘Early Greek Vases in Cyprus: Euboean and Attic’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 10, 197–208. Lentini, M.C. 1990: ‘Le oinochoai « a collo tagliato ». Un contributo alla conoscenza della ceramica di Naxos di VIII e VII secolo a.C.’. Bollettino d’Arte 60, 67–82. Marangou, A.G. 2000: The Consul Luigi Palma di Cesnola 1832–1904: Life and Deeds (Nicosia). Merrillees, R.S. 2017: ‘Cypriote Antiquities in Late Ottoman Istanbul and Smyrna’. Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 47, 43–164. Nicole, G. 1906: Catalogue des vases cypriotes du Musée de Constantinople (Geneva). Palma di Cesnola, L. 1877: Cyprus: Its Ancient Cities, Tombs, and Temples. Narrative of Researches and Excavations during Ten Years’ Residence (New York). Popham, M.R. and Sackett, L.H. (eds.) 1979: Lefkandi 1: The Iron Age (British School at Athens Suppl. vol. 2) (London). Reber, K. 2010: ‘Η Ελβετικὴ Αρχαιολογικὴ Σχολὴ στην Ελλάδα’. In Kaltsas, N. et al. ΕΡΕΤΡΙΑ: Ματιές σε μια αρχαία πόλη (Exhibition Catalogue) (Athens), 38–41. Reinach, S. 1882: Catalogue du Musée Impérial d’Antiquités (Constantinople). Verdan, S. 2013: Eretria 22: Le sanctuaire d’Apollon Daphnéphoros à l’époque géométrique (Gollion). Verdan, S., Pfyffer, A.K. and Léderrey, C. 2008: Eretria 20: Céramique géométrique d’Erétrie (Gollion).

ETHNIC IDENTITIES IN CONFLICT IN ANCIENT EPIRUS Adolfo J. DOMÍNGUEZ

ABSTRACT The case study of Epirus allows us to reflect on how ethnic identities are constructed in the Greek world. The populations of Epirus were considered, according to different authors and at different times, either Greeks or Barbarians until reaching Aristotle, who comes to consider Epirus as the original Hellas. This paper studies how the Greek authors perceived the Epirote identity and how the Epirote elites themselves, especially the Molossian ones linked to the royal house, tried to show to the rest of the Greek world their Hellenicity by appropriating various mythical traditions and founding legends. The social nature of the construction of ethnic identities means that different strategies emerged to back up or reject the Greek identity of the Epirotes, both in the Epirote world and in the rest of the Greek world, always as a means of supporting different political interests.

1. INTRODUCTION: THE CONSTRUCTION

OF

ETHNICITY

The manner in which we should perceive identities and, within those identities, the question of ethnicity in the ancient world, constitutes one of the themes that has enjoyed greatest attention in the historiography of recent years.1 In contrast to the essentialist view, which regards ethnic identity as an immutable fact that dates back to the beginnings of time, today the idea that ethnic identity is a phenomenon that is constructed socially and, more importantly, is subject to an ongoing process of construction, has gained ground. This does not mean that those who, at any particular moment, may have been considered to form part of an ethnic identity were always conscious of this dialectic process, given that, since they were living in their own time and, moreover, in societies of an oral nature, they did not always take an interest in discovering how this ethnic identity ‘really’ came about. Rather, they left it to aetiological legends or accounts of different kinds to provide any explanations they might require. The feelings and criteria for belonging to a specific ethnicity were created, elaborated and manipulated, at least in the case of Greece, by those in power, whether this might have been a structured political power or more relaxed power structures that were recognised by the rest of society. The emphasis that Athens, for example, placed on autochthony as one of the characteristic features of its ethnic identity was the result of a certain series of decisions taken in the corridors of power in the Athenian polis, undoubtedly guided by Pericles and, furthermore, sustained by accounts of different kinds. This approach was exemplified by the programme of public works paid for by the state, such 1

 McInerney 2014.

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as the reconstruction of the Acropolis,2 and the question even cropped up in conversations between individuals, as witnessed by the dialogue reported by Xenophon between Socrates and General Pericles, Pericles’ son (Mem. 3, 12). In other Greek territories and in other periods, such as the Archaic, we can also witness the mechanisms for introducing and disseminating accounts regarding identity that were used by the circles of power in order to strengthen their legitimate rights to govern. The staging of festivals, athletic events and, on many occasions, poetry competitions that revolved around divinities, which served to strengthen bonds of identity, constituted an excellent means of disseminating the messages of interest to the authorities, who, in exchange, would reward those who best captured the desired idea at such agones with victory. In the case of societies governed by monarchs, the origin and fate of the ethnos would be linked to the governing dynasty, and the monarchs and their supporters would be the ones who promoted the compositions of poets, works designed to commemorate their great deeds, effectively linking them to the community’s legendary past and constantly updating their ethnicity based on a constant play between past and present. However, although a particular group might choose a certain identity and employ the means at its disposal to convince its own members and others of its authenticity, this does not mean that other groups necessarily accepted these pretensions, especially when such identities sought to attach themselves to other identities that were already established or in the process of becoming so. In such cases, other external perspectives would arise that were somewhat different from those developed internally by those defining their identity, perspectives that would rule out the potential candidates as participants of a certain identity, based on a diverse range of criteria, depending on the case in question. In order to illustrate this idea, we shall consider two examples that present the criticisms of two authors regarding identity concepts of considerable significance and importance, namely the ‘Hellenic’ and ‘Ionian’ identities. In relation to the Hellenic identity, Thucydides, departing from his own analysis of the mythical traditions that all Greeks were aware of and shared, criticises the general perspective of his age regarding what it meant to be Greek. From Thucydides’ text we gain the impression that the prevailing view was that Greeks had always existed, as had their counterparts, the barbarians. Thucydides (1. 3. 1–5) dismantles the idea of an ever-existing Hellas by showing that it could not have existed prior to the figure it was named after, Hellen, the son of Deucalion; at the same time, in relation to the authority of Homer, he shows that, in addition to a certain disunity, there was no shared name for those who came together against Troy and he observes that not even the poet refers to the barbarians as a whole, because, in his opinion, ‘not even the Greeks called themselves by a single name that marked them off as being the opposite’. Although the passage in question raises various problems,3 we can certainly regard it as a criticism, a criticism from ‘inside’, not so much of those aspects that characterised the Greek ethnic identity, to Hellenikon (tongue, blood, gods and customs) (cf. Herodotus 8. 144), but of how they perceived their own origins. In this text Thucydides seems to favour a ‘formative’ theory in order to explain the emergence of the Hellenic 2

 Loraux 1984, 35–73.  Hornblower 1991, 15–18.

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ethnic identity, as opposed to an ‘essentialist’ perspective. And maybe, judging by what comes later, we can also observe how he adopts a certain stance regarding the boundaries (geographic and ethnic) of Hellas, which, nevertheless, have not been fixed over time4 and, what is more, he seems to indicate that different boundaries and considerations of an ethnic and cultural kind may have coexisted that did not necessarily coincide with this view.5 Thucydides’ stance can be inferred from an expression he uses at the beginning of the whole discussion: ‘the (land) today known as Greece’ (he nun Hellas kaloumene; Thucydides 1. 2. 1). In addition to questioning the fact that the name of the land of the Greeks had always existed and that it had always encompassed the same boundaries, he introduces another consideration: the idea of Hellas, which is to say the territory inhabited by the Hellenes, has certain boundaries, although Thucydides offers no precise details and does not provide any general formula to this effect.6 Some modern authors have sought to establish where these boundaries might be,7 but, as we shall see, this is a somewhat fruitless task because we are not dealing with boundaries that were accepted and recognised by all; rather, these boundaries depended on the perspective and interests of the observer in question. However, before continuing, let us consider another attempt from the ‘outside’ to question a certain view regarding identity, in this case not a general identity such as the Hellenes, but a more limited kind, one that formed part of the Hellenic identity, namely the Ionians. Herodotus (1. 145) explains why the Ionians from the continent organised themselves into 12 cities and would not accept any more; his explanation, which is based on an ‘essentialist’ idea that regards this number to be the result of the fact that when they resided in the Peloponnese, in Achaea, they were divided into 12 parts or districts (mere) and, therefore, when they emigrated, they maintained this organisational structure. Similarly, Herodotus reports that ‘all are Ionians who have their descent from Athens and who keep the feast of Apaturia’, except for those of Ephesus and Colophon, who do not keep the feast as the result of a punishment for a murder (1. 147). However, in addition to setting out these requirements as the characteristic features of their ethnicity, the Ionians must have added some other consideration that sought to establish a criterion of superiority over all those who had been excluded from this restricted Ionian ethnicity; we know this from Herodotus’ explosive reaction, when he states that ‘to say that these are any more Ionians than the other Ionians or have at all a nobler descent, is mere folly’ and, to demonstrate the fact, he provides an entire list of the other peoples that have integrated with them: Abantians from Euboea, Minyai of Orchomenos, Cadmeians, Dryopians, exiled Phocians, Molossians, Pelasgians of Arcadia, Dorians of Epidaurus and many others (Herodotus 1. 146). It is probable that Herodotus’ list included all of the different peoples who appeared in the various founding legends of each of the Ionian cities that, at a particular moment, may have considered themselves superior to the rest of the Ionians who were excluded from the Dodecapolis.8 4

 Cabanes 1988, 93–96.  Prontera 1991, 97–98. 6  Mari 2011, 555–58. 7  Kyriakides 1990; Hatzopoulos 1997; Malkin 2001a, 198–99; Gómez Espelosín 2001. 8  Asheri et al. 2007, 176–77. 5

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Here we can see how a specific group, the Ionians who established a cult-based community that focused on the sanctuary of Helikonian Poseidon (Herodotus 1. 148) and encompassed only 12 of the Ionian cities, developed an identity-based account that served, amongst other things, for them to proclaim their ab initio superiority over the rest who shared the ethnonym ‘Ionian’. Herodotus, who as is well known reveals himself to be rather hostile to the Ionians, does not miss this opportunity to highlight the contradictions between this account and the numerous founding legends of the different Ionian cities, which emerged prior to the proclamation of this exclusive ethnicity and which corresponded to different situations with regard to those witnessed at some rather imprecise moment around the 6th century BC. Recent excavations at the site of Çatallar Tepe have uncovered this sanctuary of Helikonian Poseidon,9 according to the excavator, and its construction would seem to date from around 560 BC, even though this identification is not universally accepted.10 Whatever the case may be, Çatallar Tepe does present an Ionian-type temple, one endowed, furthermore, with an adjacent meeting hall or lesche, which was not that frequent and which suggests that the same enclosure was used for symposion-type meetings directly linked with the cult. However, it is not the question of the Ionians that interests us here. We have simply used the two examples mentioned above to observe how, in the case of these two ethnic identities, Greek and Ionian, certain criteria were established regarding who belonged to each group. We can also see how these criteria were subject to criticism and largely questioned by observers on both the inside and the outside. This is highly evident in the case of Thucydides, given that it is obvious that this Athenian author, when presenting his analysis of how the concept of Greekness was gradually formed, does so from his position as a Greek himself. In the case of Herodotus, his criticism is partly internal (given that he was Greek, as were the Ionians he writes about), but also partly external, since the author from Halicarnassus was not (and did not consider himself to be) Ionian. What the two cases we have analysed demonstrate is that even those who shared the same identity did not always share the criteria or accounts that tended to be used to legitimise that identity. Those who established the criteria undoubtedly shared a belief in them, and we must assume that many of those who accepted them also agreed with the criteria, even though other voices were more critical and even went so far as to question the basic requirements. With regard to the question of who established these criteria for belonging and for exclusion, and who introduced the aetiological account or accounts that sustained this ethnic identity, the answer is not especially simple. We do not believe that ethnicity is a concept that was unconnected with power, in which respect it was the groups who were in power who tended to lie behind these constructions, helping to create the accounts that cemented their ethnicity by using the tools we mentioned earlier (poetry, celebrations, festivities, etc.). Then there are those who, from either inside or outside, established their own views on ethnicity, forming a unique and independent perspective, and allocated roles to others depending on their own perceptions and, sometimes, their own interests. Therefore, it is not unusual to find differences, sometimes irreconcilable differences, between the image 9

 Lohmann 2012.  Herda 2006.

10

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that a social group may have wished to present of itself and which may have operated at an internal level, and the image that others might have had of the same group. In the case of the Ionians we analysed above, they considered themselves to be of the purest and most noble origin, whilst others, such as Herodotus, not only failed to regard them in the same light but presented considerable ‘proof’ to demonstrate precisely the opposite.

2. THE ETHNICITY

OF THE

MOLOSSIANS

The case I would like to consider throughout the rest of this article relates to the Epirotes and, specifically, to the Molossians. Unlike the cases we have analysed up until now, we have a lack of direct testimonies, which is to say on the part of Molossian authors and poets, who might have informed us of their own perceptions regarding their ethnicity and the arguments employed to construct it. However, we do have a number of external references that can be used. With regard to the peoples of Epirus, modern historiography has swayed between two extremes: considering them to be barbarians, following the opinions of sources such as Thucydides and Strabo, or viewing them as being the most Greek of all Greeks, also based on ancient sources, especially Aristotle. One example of the first opinion can be found in the work of Nilsson, a work that was highly influential in its day: Über die Nationalität der Epeiroten is noch keine Einigung erreicht. Gewöhnlich hält man sie jedoch für nichtgriechisch, indem man sich auf mehrere Zeugnisse der Alten beruft, wo die Epeiroten schlechthin Barbaren genannt werden […] Dadurch ist der Streit über die Nationalität der Epeiroten entschieden: sie waren Barbaren, wie Thukydides sie nennt.11 At the opposite extreme, as witnessed in various old and largely antiquated studies, we find opinions that not only consider them to be Greeks but claim that these peoples inhabited what could be called the ‘ancestral home’ of the Greeks, taking advantage of various references such as that of Aristotle (Met. 352a 32–35). Let us consider an example: Returning to Epirus, we may put the first arrival of Greek-speaking Kurgan peoples at 2100 BC […] Early in the Middle Helladic period, 1900–1600 BC, they took possession of Northern Epirus and created two units of power or Kingdoms. Many of them may have joined in the southwards movement which was to establish what we call Mycenaean civilization and to introduce the Greek language into an area from which it was never to be ousted. But the reservoir of Greek-speaking peoples from which this and other invasions were mounted was in western Macedonia, central Albania and Northern Epirus. It was there, with a primarily pastoral economy, that the patriarchal and tribal institutions of the Greek people, their dialects and their rites, including the burial of heroes under tumulus, were being practised in the Middle Helladic period. During that period, the dominant class in Northern Epirus was Kurgan, and their language was Greek; the dominant element in the population was from west 11

 Nilsson 1909, 1, 16.

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Macedonia; and the other elements began to fuse with them. In the course of some centuries, Greek became the language of them all in Epirus.12 This excerpt presupposes the Hellenic nature of the peoples of Epirus from the most remote ancient times and the transformation of this territory into a kind of ‘reservoir’ from which other groups would depart at different times in order to continue the march southwards. By combining archaeological discoveries with references gathered from Greek traditions, an essentialist ethnicity is constructed that remains largely intact and uninfluenced throughout the centuries. Of course, there is no possibility whatsoever of confirming the details of this reconstruction, given that it is based on an erroneous comparison between material culture and ethnic identity. Similarly, being Greek has been equated with speaking the Greek language, this having served as a criterion for Hellenic identity in the case of various authors during the 5th century (and even earlier). In effect, this factor has played a key role in defining Hellenic ethnic identity,13 but it is possible that this aspect may not have been the only criterion or even the most important factor for determining ethnicity in other areas and during other periods. In the same manner as with the Macedonians, whose language has been subject to numerous debates (which seem to lean towards the idea that the Macedonians spoke Greek).14 it is certain that the language spoken by Molossians and the rest of the Epirote peoples, such as Thesprotians and Chaonians, was also Greek, in the dialectical form of the north-west Dorian.15 Ancient sources might sometimes doubt this idea and even deny the fact some people spoke Greek. The passage in Thucydides is well known (3. 94. 5) in which he refers to the Euritanians, one of the parts of the Aetolian ethnos and states that, as they say (hos legontai) (although he does not clarify who says it: the Messenians of Naupactus?), they speak an entirely unknown tongue (agnostotatoi de glossan), in addition to eating raw meat (omophagoi). And here he is talking about the Aetolians, whose inclusion amongst the Hellenic peoples does not seem to raise too many doubts (a priori), not even for Thucydides himself. However, the question we must ask ourselves is not whether the Epirotes spoke Greek or not, but whether they considered themselves to be part of the Greek world (to Hellenikon) and whether other Greeks saw them as part of this Greek world. The answer, which varies according to the respondent, also enables us to gain a more in-depth insight into the criteria that each respondent considers fundamental when accepting inclusion (of oneself or others) in this idea of ‘Greekness’. We tend to take for granted that the requirements set out by Herodotus were accepted by all and sundry and have remained unchanged over time, which, as occurs with other conceptions of identity, is difficult to believe. In the same way that identities are fluid, the criteria regarding inclusion and exclusion are also fluid. Unlike the Molossians, the Thesprotians, the Molossians’ western neighbours, actually appear in Homer’s poems, and their king, Pheidon, is even mentioned in his capacity as

12

 Hammond 1997, 36.  Domínguez 2006, 446–57. 14  Dubois 1995; Brixhe 1997; Méndez Dosuna 2012; Hatzopoulos 2018. 15  Cabanes 1979, 191–92; Méndez Dosuna 1985, 18–19; Hatzopoulos 1997; Filos 2018. 13

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Odysseus’ host (Odyssey 14. 316; 19. 287). The sanctuary of Dodona also appears, being extremely familiar to Homer’s heroes and seemingly under the control of the Thesprotians at the time (Iliad 2. 750; 16. 233–234; Odyssey 14. 327; 19. 296). Dodona was a reputed sanctuary amongst the Greeks of the Archaic period, who travelled there regularly, as witnessed by the archaeological discoveries that have been made at the site and the reputation of its oracle.16 The familiarity with the Dodonean sanctuary throughout the Greek world serves to place the Molossians in one of the most ancient testimonies we have of this people. This consists of a reference by Hecataeus of Miletus, who states that ‘to the south of the Molossians live the Dodonaeans’ (FGrHist 1 F 108). Given that this author was writing during the transition between the 6th and the 5th centuries (Herodotus 5. 36; Suda s.v. Hekataios), this reference to the Molossians is quite ancient, although other authors, as we shall see later on, had already begun to raise awareness of the Molossians in other parts of Greece. Furthermore, at some point the Molossians came to form part of the founding legends of certain Ionian cities, because, as we saw above, Herodotus mentions them along with other peoples when arguing against the ethnic purity that the Ionians of the Dodecapolis attributed to themselves.17 Hecataeus’ reference does not make it clear whether the Molossians are Greeks or not. However, Strabo (7. 7. 1), in a passage that is considered to have been inspired by Hecataeus (FGrHist 1 F 119), appears to indicate their barbarian nature since he declares that even to the present day the Thracians, Illyrians and Epirotes live on the flanks of the Greeks (though this was still more the case formerly than now); indeed most of the country that at the present time is indisputably Greece is held by the barbarians – Macedonia and certain parts of Thessaly by the Thracians, and the parts above Acarnania and Aetolia by the Thesproti, Cassopaei, the Amphilochi, the Molossi and the Athamanes – Epirotic peoples (translation Loeb, modified). Interpreting Homer (Iliad 16. 235), Strabo also believes that those who lived in the vicinity of the Temple of Dodona were barbarians because of their ways of life (ek tes diaites; Strabo 7. 7. 10). Thus, from the perspective of a Greek author from Ionia, such as Hecataeus, it is possible that the Molossians were considered to be barbarians; as for other Greeks who lived somewhat closer, such as those who established colonies in some of the coastal areas throughout this territory, it has also been taken for granted that they also considered these local populations to be non-Greek, even in spite of the language.18 However, in this case I would not be quite so sure. What is more, the Greeks would soon situate heroes who had fought at Troy in Epirus as a means of comprehending somewhat better that there were peoples in this territory that spoke their same language and, furthermore, who even safeguarded a sanctuary of the stature of Dodona, as already mentioned by Homer himself. 16

 Dieterle 2007, 170–234; Piccinini 2017; Domínguez 2017.  Without going into the reasons behind this reference, we can observe the explanations that Sakellariou (1958, 59–62, 260–65) provides for this Molossian presence, based on legendary traditions. The author’s stance, however, which is entirely ‘essentialist’ (because he accepts these migratory accounts almost to the letter), cannot be accepted today. 18  Malkin 2001a, 188. 17

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Later on, and also questioning the idea that many Greeks regarded the Epirote populations as barbarians, we can observe another testimony that declares precisely the opposite. The reference comes from Herodotus, but it relates to a period much earlier than his own era, specifically the period between 576 and 572 BC, which is when the competition took place that the tyrant Kleisthenes of Sicyon staged in order to marry off his daughter Agariste (Herodotus 6. 126–131). Kleisthenes seeks to hand over his daughter to ‘the best of all the Greeks’ (Hellenon apanton ton ariston) and, taking advantage of the fact that he has just been victorious at the Olympic Games with the quadriga, makes a proclamation there and then (kerygma) by stating that any Greek who wished to become his son-in-law should travel to Sicyon within a period of 60 days or less. In this respect, all Greeks who were proud of themselves and their country came as suitors to seek his daughter’s hand and compete for Agariste in running and wrestling competitions. Herodotus lists those who came: From Italy, Smindyrides of Sybaris, son of Hippocrates; Damasus of Siris, son of Amyris ‘The Wise’; from the Ionian Gulf, Amphimnestus, son of Epistrophus, an Epidamnian; from Aetolia, Males; from the Peloponnese, Leocedes, son of Phidon, the tyrant of Argos; Amiantus, an Arcadian from Trapezus, son of Lycurgus; Laphanes, son of Euphorion, an Azenian from Paeus; Onomastus from Elis, son of Agaeus; from Athens, Megacles, son of Alcmeon, and Hippoclides, son of Tisandrus; from Eretria, Lysanias; from Thessaly, Diactorides of Crannon, a Scopad; and, finally, Alcon of the Molossians. Various authors considered that, bearing in mind the historical importance of the Alcmeonidae, the chosen suitor would be Megacles, whose descendants would be Kleisthenes and Pericles (Herodotus 6. 131). There must have been a large number of direct sources commenting on the episode, including both oral accounts and even poetic compositions created specially for the event.19 However, what interests us here, precisely, is how all of the suitors are subject to a detailed examination (dokimasia) by the tyrant who rewards those who are not selected with a talent of silver and how they all fulfil the demanding requirements imposed by the tyrant up until the day of the final decision.20 In this respect, we must assume that Alcon the Molossian, who may have also taken part in the Olympic Games in which Kleisthenes made his proclamation, was just another Greek in the eyes of the tyrant and those of all other Greeks. It is interesting, as highlighted by Siewert21 and supported by De Vido,22 how an analysis of a lex sacra from Olympia dating from around 500 BC gives the impression that, thanks to the sacred embassies (theoriai) sent every four years to summon participants for the Olympic Games, a kind of ‘Olympic geography’ may have been defined, which, in the case we are dealing with here, would have included ‘those who reside below [which is to say, to the south of] Epidamnos’. The entire episode of Agariste’s wedding has significant Olympic connotations and, therefore, it seems to have been customary for the sanctuary of Zeus to invite and welcome Molossian athletes and theoroi (and probably those of other Epirote peoples, such as the Thesprotians).

19

 De Vido 2011, 68.  De Vido 2011, 69–70. 21  Siewert 2002, 67–71. 22  De Vido 2011, 74. 20

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From an archaeological perspective, we do not have many details regarding the settlement of Molossia during the Archaic period, perhaps because the Molossian way of occupying the territory did not involve stable and permanent settlements of an urban nature. The best-known site is that of Vitsa, which, according to the excavating team, appears to have been occupied in a seasonal manner during the summer. The main feature of this site, at least during the Geometric period, consists of a series of oblong and circular huts, of which the stone socles remain. At the end of the 5th century a number of dwellings of square layout begin to appear, some with courtyards, which seem to conform to the prototype frequently found throughout the Greek world at the time. Through the necropolises we can trace the arrival of products from other parts of the Greek world, both bronze and ceramic, especially Corinthian products during the Geometric period, and products from Attica as of the end of the 6th century BC.23 Researchers at other similar centres, such as Liatovouni, question the idea of seasonal settlements that were only occupied during part of the year by a transhumant population. Rather they point to the fact that these settlements must have been supported by an economy based on mixed agriculture of a sedentary type, along with local cattleraising, which would have permitted these communities to generate sufficient surplus to acquire the prestigious items visible in their necropolises, which came from different parts of the Greek world, but also from the Balkans and peninsular Italy.24 Over and above the question as to who specifically transported these items to the Molossian settlements, these imports show that the Molossians were in contact with Greek settlements, which became centres for the redistribution of these items and the reception of products made in Molossia. An important role in this respect would seem to have been played by the Corinthian colony of Ambracia, which also served as a key point of communication between the Ambracian Gulf and inland Epirus, until it reached another Corinthian colony, Apollonia, as recorded, amongst others, by Thucydides (1. 25. 2), being situated at the mouth of the Aous, an important Epirote river that originated in the Pindos Mountains and flowed out to sea close to Apollonia. Although it is not possible to provide specific details, it is likely that certain cult centres may have served as a means of ethnic integration for the diverse populations who inhabited this extensive and heterogenous region. In reference to a much later period, Plutarch mentions the reciprocal oath that the Molossian king, Pyrrhus, exchanged with the Epirotes at the sanctuary of Zeus Areius, located in Passaron, defined as a place (chorion) in the Molossian land (Plutarch Pyrrh. 5. 5). Today we tend to locate this site at the present-day city of Ioannina,25 and a votive relief featuring a Hellenistic inscription dedicated to Zeus and including a depiction of a charioteer riding a chariot pulled by lions may correspond to this sanctuary.26 Although we cannot ascribe this custom to earlier periods, we can conclude that Zeus Areius must have been an important divinity venerated by the Molossians and that, as occurred in other parts, the annual celebration of his cult may have provided an occasion for bringing together peoples who resided in

23

 Vokotopoulou 1982; 1986; 1987.  Douzougli and Papadopoulos 2010, 13. 25  Pliakou 2011, 89–108. 26  Zachos 2008, 94. 24

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different areas but who recognised themselves as forming part of the same ethnic community. The survival of the monarchy in Molossia, which had disappeared in other bordering territories, would seem to suggest that the exchange of oaths between the people and the king may have existed further back in time, although not necessarily.27 This kind of oath cannot be seen as anything more than the sanction of a section of Molossian society for an individual whose power required the recognition of others and who, to a certain degree, considered themselves his equals, most probably the Molossian elite. This type of monarchy would have suited a territory such as Molossia, which was very large and characterised by considerable internal fragmentation, due to its varied geographical terrain, replete with high mountains that created valleys that were not always very well interconnected. This kind of grouping around a king, whose power was conditioned by an exchange of oaths, may have been one aspect that helped to promote Molossian ethnicity. It was the king who represented the Molossian ethnos and, as witnessed by the list of thearodokoi for Epidaurus (IG IV2 1. 95), which can be dated in this section at around 356–354 BC,28 the king who appears on behalf of the Molossians is Tharyps (col. I, l. 31), who cannot have been the king mentioned by Thucydides (2. 80. 6) who lived between the end of the 5th century and the beginning of the 4th, but, perhaps, one of his successors who bore this dynastic name.29 On the same list, the thearodokos for Macedonia was Perdiccas (III) himself. We might believe, then, that the Molossians had recognised the authority of a king because of some ancestral pact and, perhaps, justified the fact in some founding legend that has not been preserved, although nothing is certain and the oath that Plutarch testified to may have been the result of more recent political episodes.30 Royal authority would have fallen to the members of a certain family that could have proven some kind of pre-eminence based on its genealogy, and it would have been difficult for this not to have been linked to the Greek world. If, by about 570 BC, a Molossian, Alcon, could have taken part at the Olympic Games and presented himself as a suitor for Agariste, being included amongst the best of the Greeks, it is clear that, by that time, the Molossians had been capable of demonstrating their Hellenic character. Although we know nothing more about this Alcon, we cannot doubt that he formed part of the Molossian elite, if not part of the royal family itself, thus fitting in with the rest of the suitors. In the debate regarding the Hellenic nature of the Molossians (as in the case of the Macedonians), a debate that is not new and which has generated considerable controversy,31 sometimes the attention has focused on the kings of the corresponding people and the fact that Greek kings have reigned over non-Greek peoples.32 However, those who have made this point do not generally take into account the fact that the Greeks tended to accept the idea that it was the leaders who defined the identity of their subjects, and they sometimes even lent their name to the ethnos itself, in which respect this separation between 27

 Domínguez 2018, 27–28.  De Sanctis 1911–12. 29  Cabanes 1976, 116. 30  Domínguez 2018, 27–28. 31  See, for instance, Sakellariou 1958, 260–65. 32  On the Macedonian case and how this dichotomy was resolved, see J. Hall 2001, 169–70. 28

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king and people is a rather artificial means of tackling something that represents a problem for many commentators. Similarly, we can view the matter from the opposite perspective: if, in around 570 BC, Alcon of the Molossians was recognised as a Greek by Olympia, by Kleisthenes and by the rest of the suitors, there can be little doubt that the Molossian monarchs, whoever they were at the time, would have also been considered Greek. Needless to say, what it may have meant to be Greek in the 6th century would have been quite different from what Herodotus or Thucydides may have thought more than a century later, especially if we accept the idea that Greek ethnic identity was the result of a process that lasted over time, a time in which different voices adopted different points of view. Although in the year 429 BC, which represents a key date because Thucydides (2. 80. 5) offers us a brief synopsis of the situation in Epirus at that time (as we shall see later on), the Molossians’ western neighbours, the Thesprotians, no longer had a monarchy, it appears to be beyond doubt that they had once had a monarch, if only because their king, Pheidon, was mentioned in the Odyssey, as we have already seen. We also have a few details of interest that enable us to observe the manner in which the Thesprotians articulated the relationship of their monarchs and, by extension, their people with the Greeks. In order to view these relations we must turn to other sources, including two epic poems that are barely known, namely Thesprotis (Pausanias 8. 12. 5) and the Telegony; the latter was the work of the 6th-century poet Eugammon of Cyrene, and appears to have been inspired by the former poem, or have even copied parts of the first poem (Clement Strom. 6. 2. 25. 1). The summary that Proclus offers us of the Telegony mentions that Odysseus, after carrying out the sacrifices prescribed by Teiresias, reaches the land of the Thesprotians, where he marries queen Callidike (Proclus Chr. 315–316). Subsequently, after waging war against the Brygi, and following the death of Callidike, ‘Polypoetes, the son of Odysseus, succeeds to the kingdom and Odysseus himself returns to Ithaca’ (Proclus Chr. 321–323). Another subsequent author, the Hellenistic Lysimachus of Alexandria, calls the Thesprotian queen Evippe and the son she bore of Odysseus Leontophron, who would become Dorukles in the works of other authors (FGrHist 382 F 15 = Eust. in Od. 2, p. 117, 17–18), whilst Sophocles, in his lost tragedy Euryalos, makes him the son of Odysseus and Evippe, the daughter of the Epirote king, Tyrimmas (Parthenius Narr. amat. 3. 1–3).33 As we saw earlier, the Odyssey already gave us some clues regarding Odysseus’ relations with this territory, with its king, Pheidon, and with the sanctuary of Dodona, details that other poets were able to develop and extend, taking advantage of the instructions that Teiresias gave Odysseus to reach some land where the peoples were ignorant of the sea and its affairs (Odyssey 11. 121–137).34 With these elements at hand, Eugammon of Cyrene, perhaps basing the Epirote section of his work on a previous Thesprotis, created a plot in which Odysseus became an ancestor of the Thesprotian royal family. The author of the work is doubtful,35 in which respect it is difficult to trace the origin of this tradition 33  Jebb et al. 1917, 145–46. With regard to these references, an old and extensive bibliography already exists. We might mention, above all, von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1884, 187–91 and Vürtheim 1901. 34  Huxley 1969, 169. 35  In effect, Clement (Strom. 6. 25. 1) attributes the authorship of Thesprotis to Mousaios, but the real existence of this author remains in doubt. Nevertheless, some scholars have suggested that Eugammon may

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much further back in time, although various authors have highlighted the Thesprotian nature of the work and its possible origin as a means of reinforcing the pretensions of the local Thesprotian nobility.36 The Thesprotians, based, above all, on their increasingly wide-ranging contacts with the outside world, both in the coastal regions and, above all, thanks to frequent attendance in Dodona, would have gained an in-depth knowledge of the different traditions the Greeks had gradually developed regarding their territory, accounts in which Odysseus played a key role.37 It is not unlikely that those who had the closest contacts with the Greeks, at the same time as they modified their ancestral ways of life and added foreign items to their dwellings and tombs, as proven by archaeology, may have also begun to appropriate these accounts in order to justify their pretensions to gain greater political control, basing their claims on the legitimacy provided by an important blood-line. Therefore, it seems clear that traditions dating from at least the 6th century BC recognise an Odyssean origin in the Thesprotian royal line. It is not unlikely that, perhaps at the same time, or even before, Molossia witnessed a similar process, opting in this case for the Aeacid genealogical line, whilst the Chaonian dynasty linked itself to Helenus, the Trojan seer, who, nevertheless, is also linked from the very beginning with Molossia.38 We do not know exactly when the relationship of the Aeacids with Molossia was forged, but the 7th-century poet Agias of Troezen makes Neoptolemus visit this land according to the summary offered by Proclus (Chr. 296–300). A similar version, with somewhat more detail, may be observed in the Bibliotheca by Ps.-Apollodorus (Epit. 6. 12–13). By combining both we can see how, on the advice of Thetis, Neoptolemus went by foot to Molossia with Helenus, and it was there that he would have been recognised by Peleus. After defeating the Molossians in combat, he would reign over them and would sire Molossus by Andromache. At the same time, Helenus would found a city in Molossia and would receive Neoptolemus’ mother, Deidamia, in marriage. These are not the only versions we have available to us, given that some centuries later, Pausanias (1. 11. 1–2) shows how different traditions have become intertwined, something that does not concern us here, although some of these traditions originate or become significant in the 5th century BC, as witnessed by the Periegesis itself (Pausanias 5. 22. 2–4) and the field of epigraphy.39 We do not know to what extent these Greek traditions that place those returning or fleeing from Troy in different environments have something to do with Greek perception itself or whether, on the contrary, they are inspired by local traditions in the environments in which they are set. I have the impression that the former option would be the correct view, although the second option may perhaps have played a part as well. have taken this previous poem, which may have covered Odysseus’ descent into the Underworld, and transformed it into the hero’s stay in Thesprotia (see Vürtheim 1901, 49). 36  For example, von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1884, 18: ‘jedermann sieht, dass sie auf thesprotische Localsagen und Genealogien hinausläuft’. He also detects a certain Euboean flavour in these traditions. Furthermore, West 2003, 19: ‘The Thesprotian part of his story, which may have existed earlier, was likewise constructed to bolster the pretensions of a local nobility.’ 37  Or, as expressed by Malkin 1998, 133: ‘At some point they had become exposed to Greek values attaching ennobling importance to genealogical links with the Nostoi.’ 38  Malkin 1988, 137–38; 2001a, 202–03. 39  Antonetti 2010.

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In the case we are dealing with here, the relationship between Ithaca and Odysseus and Thesprotia, it is well recorded in the Odyssey and there can be little doubt that, both during the Mycenaean period and the Geometric period, these territories maintained relations, as reflected by archaeological findings. Regular visits to the sanctuary of Dodona by Greeks from different parts is something that is proven by the wide range of items from these different areas that have been discovered at the sanctuary dating from as far back as the 8th century, and this implies the use of communication routes and passes that, furthermore, would have affected other territories throughout Epirus. Similarly, the already-mentioned discoveries at settlements and necropolises in Molossia show how the inhabitants of these territories searched for and integrated items and, perhaps, also ideas, that originated from the Greek world. We cannot definitely prove the chain of events, but we can offer a hypothesis as to what may have happened. The (undeniable) interaction between Greeks of different origins and from diverse territories and Epirus and, specifically, Molossia, can be observed through archaeology. Trade contacts and, perhaps, contacts of other kinds, between Molossians and other peoples (Thessalians, Macedonians, Corinthian colonists in Ambracia, other Epirotes) can not only be traced through material culture, but also, as of the first third of the 6th century, the already-described episode of the marriage of Agariste of Sicyon. These interactions, which we have no reason to believe may not have taken place between speakers of diverse dialects of the same language, Greek, gradually led to the local emergence of Greek legendary traditions in Epirote territories and, at the same time, gave rise to the reception and acceptance of these legends by the inhabitants of these territories. We might observe the example of the prudent exploitation of namesakes, which ceased to be used when it became necessary. One case would be Pielus/Peleus. In effect, according to the tradition recorded by Pausanias (1. 11. 1–2), Neoptolemus had several children by Andromache, namely Molossus, Pielus and Pergamus. Although Molossus received the kingdom upon the death of Helenus, the Molossian royal family was not descended from him, but from his brother, Pielus. The Nostoi by Agias of Troezen, dating from the 7th century, already emphasises the fact that Neoptolemus, when reaching Molossia, was recognised by his grandfather, Peleus, who, according to some traditions, was there because he had been expelled from Thessaly. Two inscriptions, which appear on the same stone and feature citizenship awards to two women, being well dated due to their reference to king Neoptolemus, son of Alcetas, and, therefore, dating from ca. 370–368 BC (SEG 15 384), mention Aminandrus amongst the damiorgoi of the Molossians alongside his ethnic, Peialon (in the genitive plural case: ‘of the Peiales’).40 In another inscription, possibly dating from a later period, in which the damiorgoi have been replaced by synarchontes (SEG 23 471), another individual appears who seems to bear the same ethnic, although the stone tablet is broken and only the last part of the name has been preserved, ...]alos, which is habitually taken to mean

40  Cabanes 1976, 534–35. The arguments offered by Meyer (2013, 48–60), who suggests that the epigraph in question was a subsequent re-writing of an older decree, do not, in my opinion, have that much weight, although the author uses this argument to justify a later dating of part of the Molossian epigraphic corpus.

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Peialos, according to the example provided by the previous inscription in which the entire word is preserved and raises no doubts. It is curious to observe that in the latter inscription the name of this synarchon of the Peiales, begins with Alk[, which tends to be completed as Alk[onos], based on the name of the person we have already mentioned who took part in the contest for Agariste’s hand.41 There are one or two other inscriptions in which individuals described as Peialos can also be found (SGDI 1352 = SEG 26 709). With regard to the location of this group or sub-ethnos, Stephanus of Byzantium (s.v. Pialeia) considers it to be a city in Thessaly, situated under Mt Cercertius, which suggests that it must have been located in the far south-eastern corner of Molossia, bordering Thessaly.42 As various authors have already noted, the ethnic of the Peiales would be linked to Pielus, the son of Neoptolemus and Andromache, whom we know from literary tradition,43 whilst Cross has suggested that the similarity between Pielus and Peleus may have been used by some to link this group with the Aeacid blood-line.44 This equivalence is explicitly made by Proxenus of Epirus, who wrote that Pielus, also known as Peleus, was sired by Neoptolemus (Schol. ad E. Andr. 32). For the moment we shall not tackle the question as to whether the (sub-)ethnos of the Peiales constituted the ‘royal clan’45 or whether we should regard the Molossian-Pielus options from other perspectives.46 In any case, and since the names are often repeated through generations within the same family, it could be suggested that the Alcon who goes to Sicyon could be a member of these Peiales, perhaps linked to the Molossian royal house, so that he would fit well in the environment of Agariste’s suitors. As in other accounts regarding the emergence of an ethnic group, it is difficult to know to what extent the external view, which introduces its own stories to explain and interpret a particular reality, is finally accepted and internalised by those who are assigned or allocated certain origins or kinships from outside. One of the most successful cases was the way in which the Augustan Roman Republic adopted a Trojan origin for the city and for the family of the princeps,47 something that would be far from ephemeral, lasting over time at numerous levels.48 In Livy’s work itself (1. 3. 3), to go no further afield, we can find a reference to ‘the same whom, being called Iulus, the Julian family call the author of their name’ (quem Iulum eundem Iulia gens auctorem nominis sui nuncupat). The process was probably the same as in the Molossian case and, perhaps in a similar manner, a series of Roman families accepted these blood-lines as their own and projected them in order to encompass the whole of society, the society they sought to govern. We are also aware of cases in which these traditions established from the outside were rejected by those to whom they were allocated. We need go no further than mention

41

 Cabanes 1976, 535–39.  Hammond 1967, 532; Cabanes 1976, 125. 43  Cabanes 1976, 125. 44  Cross 1932, 7, 101; he develops a suggestion by Fick in SGDI 1352. 45  Cross 1932, 102. 46  Lepore 1962, 52–53. 47  Perret 1942. 48  Squire 2015. 42

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Pausanias’ reference to the opinion of Acusilaus of Argos regarding the origin of the name ‘Sparta’: But the account which is attributed to Acusilaus, that Myceneus was the son of Sparton, and Sparton of Phoroneus, I cannot accept, because the Lacedaemonians themselves do not accept it either. For the Lacedaemonians have at Amyclae a portrait statue of a woman named Sparte, but they would be amazed at the mere mention of a Sparton, son of Phoroneus (Pausanias 2. 16. 4 = Acusilaus = FGrHist 2 F 23). The conclusions we might draw from all of this is that it is highly probable that Greek authors began to project an entire range of accounts regarding Epirus, and the Molossian aristocracies of the 7th and 6th centuries BC (whose existence has been placed beyond doubt by archaeological funerary discoveries, among other sources) began to choose, for diverse reasons, those repertoires (including more or less forced homonyms) that best suited their need for self-affirmation and competition. Therefore, it would have been a conscious decision on the part of one or several aristocratic families (one of which would have claimed the royal title) to accept an Aeacid ancestor as their own, back in the 7th century,49 thus expressing the origin of the royal house in terms of descendants linked to the nostoi.50 The reason why Neoptolemus may have been chosen has been interpreted by some commentators as being the result of conflicts with the Thessalian neighbours,51 and the relationship between Epirus and Thessaly during many historical periods certainly seems to have existed.52 However, archaeology reveals important links, at least in terms of material items, with the Corinthian realm and its colonies in the Ionian Sea and in the Gulf of Ambracia. Over and above the Thessalian link, it may have been these contacts that enabled the news of Agariste of Sicyon’s marriage to have reached Molossia. Throughout the first quarter of the 5th century BC, Pindar provides some details (sometimes contradictory) regarding Neoptolemus, his stay in the Molossian land and the establishment of his lineage there (Paeanes 6. 103–111; Nemean 7. 34–40, 4. 50–54).53 Whatever the sources used by the Theban poet and his perception of the Aeacid dynasty in Molossia, it is a fact that, during his time, the idea that the Molossian monarchs were descendants of Achilles seems to have become established throughout Epirus and the rest of the Greece. Although no further details are offered, there is no reason to believe that the Molossians, or the other Epirotes, were considered barbarians. What is more, the sanctuary of Dodona had become increasingly renowned outside Epirus and Pindar himself may have even written a poem in honour of Dodonian Zeus.54 This opening-up towards the outside world may provide the context for the idea that Pindar, according to many interpretations of a passage in the Nemean Ode 7 (64–66), was a proxenos with regard to the Molossians, perhaps representing the Thebans. The debate itself is long and complex and we shall not go into it here. We shall only comment that 49

 Funke 2000, 106.  Malkin 2001a, 202. 51  Malkin 1998, 137. 52  Lepore 1962, 54. 53  Funke 2000, 38–58. 54  Hornblower 2004, 176–77. 50

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the most recent interpretations doubt this idea for a variety of reasons, even though some commentators, such as Hornblower, see no important reasons to reject the hypothesis, although he ends up doing so.55 Another possible interpretation of this complex passage in the Seventh Nemean, written in honour of Sogenes of Aegina, son of Thearion, is proposed by Burnett, for whom ‘to sing Neoptolemos as king of Molossia and also as the ultimate Aiakid is to welcome a man from Epiros, whether imaginary or real, as if he were mythically connected with every Aiginetan noble’.56 If this interpretation is plausible, it would show that any Molossian, defined here in a roundabout way as an ‘Achaean man’, would share the same identity alongside their king, Neoptolemus (Aeacid, Aeginetan, Greek), given that Aegina formed part of the lineage of the Aeacids. The chronology of this Ode has not been firmly established, given that some commentators date it at around 487 BC,57 whilst others consider it to be a work from 461 BC.58 Whatever the case may be, at around this time, in 471 BC, Themistocles was ostracised and fled to Argos, where he resided for a time after seeking refuge at the Court of the Molossian king, Admetus, an episode recounted by Thucydides (1. 136. 3), amongst others. According to Thucydides, Themistocles ended up before the king, in spite of the fact that they were not on friendly terms (onta auto ou philon), as a supplicant at his home, upon the advice of the king’s wife. Thucydides also explains that Themistocles begged the king not to revenge any opposition which his requests might have experienced from Themistocles at Athens (Thucydides 1. 136. 4). In the end, Admetus agrees to protect him and, after refusing to give him up to the Athenians and Spartans who demanded he be handed over, he sent him to Pydna in Macedonia (Thucydides 1. 137. 1). Plutarch (Them. 24. 2–5) offers us further details, telling us that when the king had made a request to the Athenians, it had been Themistocles, at the height of his power, who had treated him with insolence, in which respect he wished to seek revenge. However, given that, upon the advice of Admetus’ wife (whose name was Phthia, significantly) he had presented himself as a supplicant at the king’s home, the king accepted the plea and resolved to help him. Plutarch also adds that, according to various other authors, it was Admetus himself who thought up the idea of the supplication in order to avoid handing him over. The historian Aristodemus, whose work is of uncertain date, also insists on the prior ill-will that existed between the two, but once Themistocles had presented himself at the king’s home in search of refuge on the advice of the king’s wife, the king replied to the Spartans that it would be impious to hand over a supplicant (FGrHist 104 F 1). Aelius Aristides (3. 383) indicates that Themistocles, in spite of being Admetus’ enemy, was saved by him. In the account offered by Diodorus (11. 56) there is no trace of this prior enmity. To the contrary, the author refers to the fact that Admetus felt intimidated by the threats made by the Spartans on behalf of all Greeks, but that he permitted Themistocles to escape and provided him with the means to do so. Nepos (Vit. 8. 4–5) goes to far as to state that Themistocles and Admetus already had previous ties of hospitality (cum quo ei hospitium erat).  Hornblower 2004, 177–80; cf. Malkin 2001a, 202.  Burnet 2005, 194–96. 57  Funke 2000, 50. 58  Burnett 2005, 179. 55 56

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Of course, it was not infrequent even for barbarians to give refuge to Greek supplicants who reached their lands. However, Admetus’ conduct is the kind of behaviour one might expect from a Greek, one who was fearful of the gods and of the consequences of breaking his commitments, in spite of prior enmity. In fact, none of our sources, not even Thucydides, refers to or suggests the idea that Admetus might be a barbarian.59 Furthermore, what is interesting is that the Epirote king may have maintained relations with Athens, even though these may have been fruitless due to Themistocles’ opposition in previous years. Similarly, our sources are not surprised at the fact that Spartan and Athenian ambassadors are sent to the Molossian court to demand the fugitive be handed over. If they were not friends beforehand, the aid the king provided to Themistocles would have established a bond of philia. Although some authors have suggested that these accounts might not be authentic due to their overly theatrical nature,60 others have offered plausible explanations for the episode in question,61 in which respect I see no reason to doubt the historical accuracy of Themistocles’ visit to Molossia and even a good part of the details that appear in the different accounts that are offered regarding the matter.62 The prior enmity between the king and the Athenian general may well have been exaggerated and, as we have seen, different authors handle this question in different ways, something that would be exploited by the apocryphal ‘Letters of Themistocles’, especially numbers 5 and 20.63 However, whatever the case may be, the early years of the 5th century appear to have been a propitious moment for the Aeacid monarchy to show an interest in the affairs of Greece, and this would explain the embassy sent to Athens, about which we know nothing of any certainty. Although the city received ambassadors from different places and of different origins, I do not believe there can be any doubt that the Molossians would have presented themselves to the Athenians as Greeks who wished to become known in a city that had just defeated the Persians and, possibly, to explain their non-intervention in the war.

3. ETHNICITIES ETHNICITY

IN

CONFLICT

AND THE

DIVERSE PERCEPTIONS

OF

MOLOSSIAN

We have no further news regarding the relations between the Molossians and Athens until the year 429 BC, when Thucydides once again referred to them when relating the Lacedaemonian expedition against Akarnania headed by the Spartan navarchus, Cnemus. When listing the forces at Cnemus’ disposal, he mentions that the Greek forces included Ambraciotes, Anactorians, Leucadians and 1000 Peloponnesian hoplites and, of Barbarians, there were a thousand of those Chaonians, not subject to regal government. They were commanded by Photius and Nicanor, who were of the families that were eligible to govern, and who then held the annual office of archons. With the 59

 Mari 2001, 541.  Podlecki 1975, 40. 61  Hammond 1967, 492. 62  Lenardon 1978, 127–31. 63  Lenardon 1978, 163, 186–92; Penwill 1978; Pérez Jiménez 1998; Vicente Sánchez 2006, 33–50. 60

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Chaonians associated the Thesprotians, also not under regal government. Some Molossians, too, and Atintanians came, led by Sabulynthus, guardian to their king Tharyps, who was yet a minor. He goes on to mention other ‘barbarian’ peoples such as the Paravaeans, the Orestians and the Macedonians (Thucydides 2. 80. 5–6). Throughout the rest of the account, which ended with the defeat of this ‘barbarian’ contingent at Stratus, Thucydides systematically uses this term (Thucydides 2. 81–82). Thucydides does not mention the Molossians or their king, Tharyps, again. However, we hear about their king from other sources such as Plutarch (Pyrrh. 1. 4), whilst Justin (17. 3. 10–13), for his part, states that the young Tharipas or Tharyps was sent to Athens to be educated (Athenas quoque erudiendi gratia missus). We do not know when this event took place, but it is not unlikely that, following the defeat at Stratus and the serious losses sustained by the Chaonians (Thucydides 2. 81. 2), who seem to have exercised a certain supremacy over Epirus (Thucydides 2. 80. 1), either the Molossians changed their alliances or the Athenians took their young king as a hostage and brought him back to Athens. Whatever the case may be, Tharyps may have reached Athens shortly after the battle, perhaps even before Thucydides’ exile, although this author makes no further mention of these peoples of Epirus. Ancient authors who mention Tharyps are unanimous in terms of highlighting the importance of this figure regarding the developments that were to take place in Molossia, but we shall not focus on this aspect here.64 One of the consequences of his stay in Athens would have been the fact that he received Athenian citizenship, as confirmed by an epigraph dating from many years later. We are referring to an Athenian stele dating from around the year 342 BC, made in honour of Arybbas, who had been removed from the Molossian throne by Philip II of Macedonia (Demosthenes 1. 13; Justin 8. 6. 7).65 The decree confirms the citizenship already granted to his father and his grandfather and restates the fact that this citizenship would also be extended to his descendants. The fact that Arybbas was Greek is demonstrated by the two crowns that are inscribed on the epigraph, one made of an olive branch and the other of laurel, referring to victories at the Olympic Games and at the Pythian Games, as well as the remains of a third olive crown; furthermore, four-horse chariots appear at the top of the stele and in the lower section.66 Therefore, Tharyps would have resided in Athens for some time following the defeat of the army led by the Spartan Cnemus, which affected, above all, the contingents described as being barbarians by Thucydides. As a result of this defeat, Tharyps would have moved to Athens, or would have been forcibly taken there, which is where he would have received Athenian citizenship, even though he was a child.67 We also know of cases where non-Greeks were given Athenian citizenship, but, as we have seen, the Molossians had been considered Greeks for some time, at least in other parts of the Greek world. It is curious that Thucydides should not mention this award of citizenship, although he 64

 See most recently Domínguez 2018.  Domínguez 2014, 206–07. 66  Lawton 1995, 134–35; Rhodes and R. Osborne 2003, 348–55; M. Osborne 1982, 82–83; 1983, 29–30. 67  M. Osborne 1983, 29–30. 65

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does refer to other cases, such as that of Sadocus (son of the Thracian king, Sitalkes) in the year 431 BC, whose mother, nevertheless, was perhaps Greek (Thucydides 2. 29. 5, 2. 67. 3). Tharyps’ stay in Athens and the new Athenian interest in the Molossian kingdom may well have coincided with the creation and performance of Euripides’ Andromache. For metric and stylistic reasons this play tends to be dated at around 425 BC, and it is difficult to know whether the first performance was staged in Athens or, as some authors suggest, based on some ancient source and the theme of the work itself, another première was organised elsewhere, at places ranging from Argos and Thessalia to Molossia68 itself and Dodona.69 We have no way of knowing whether Tharyps’ presence in Athens may or may not have influenced the dramatist or whether the tragedy was ever staged in Molossia under the king’s patronage upon his return or as a parting gift from Euripides,70 but we do know that, years later (408/7 BC), the same dramatist created a tragedy (now lost) for Archelaus of Macedonia which went by the same name in which he reaffirmed the king’s Greek lineage.71 It would not, therefore, be unlikely that the presence of the young king in Athens, a recent enemy and now a new ally against a Sparta portrayed in a rather negative light in Andromache,72 would have aroused the Athenians’ interest in the lineage of this monarchy, something that was not exactly new, but, at the time, would have been in Athens’s interest to recognise as a means of attracting a new ally. There was, in effect, a certain fervour in favour of Molossia, which led Athens to recognise the Molossians as Greeks, something that the Molossian aristocratic families would have recognised from at least the 6th century BC and that Andromache confirmed by acknowledging the Aeacid origin of the Molossian monarchy (Euripides Andr. 1243– 1249). However, within this context Thucydides continued to be the exception, given that, when he related the events surrounding the campaign of 429 BC, he must have been aware of the recognition (as an Athenian citizen and a Greek) that his city had conferred on king Tharyps and which, furthermore, was not something especially recent. And yet, he chose to continue considering the Molossians as barbarians. Some authors have suggested that this classification of the Epirote peoples as barbarians was due to their lack of Greek culture73 or the fact that they had not participated in the war against the Persians, although we might also be dealing with an Athenocentric perspective.74 In our opinion, however, we are not perhaps dealing with a perspective that we can simply dismiss as being Athenian, given that we have seen how Tharyps received Athenian citizenship and dramatists such as Euripides recognised before the Athenian public something that those who were aware of Pindar’s Odes or who had read or listened to Herodotus would have been able to perceive, namely that the Molossians had provided ‘proof’ that they formed part of the Greek world. Another thing all together is that some Athenian thinkers may have been interested in establishing a more restrictive definition of what it meant to be Greek and what this may have meant in the previous centuries 68

 Stevens 1971, 19; Allan 2000, 149–53; Funke 2000, 141.  Beaumont 1952, 65. 70  Robertson 1923, 59. 71  Allan 2000, 155. 72  Stevens 1971, 11–12. 73  Hammond 1982, 284. 74  Funke 2000, 125. 69

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when little more than a shared language and cults had served as essential criteria.75 Some authors such as Heraclides Criticus were still restricting the original Hellenic identity in the 3rd century to the language and descent from Hellen (FGrHist 369a F 3.2).76 It is concepts such as ‘the same customs’ (homotropa) (Herodotus 8. 144) that introduce a subjective element in the perception of Hellenic identity, because, depending on who establishes what customs are Greek, different groups can be included or excluded that, in the observer’s view, conform to the customs in question.77 In this respect, as we have seen, Thucydides allows himself to question the Greek character of the Euritanians of Aetolia or, at least, raises doubts about them (Thucydides 3. 94. 5) when he questions whether they speak Greek and suggests that they eat raw meat. And this is the case when, unlike the Epirotes, there do not seem to be many doubts regarding the Greek character of the Aetolians. There appears to be no doubt that Thucydides also considered language to be a key factor when defining Hellenic identity,78 and raising doubts regarding the comprehensibility of the language spoken by the Euritanians was a way (a subtle way) of questioning their identity. To this he adds the idea of omophagia, although this comment is lightened somewhat by the qualification ‘they say’ (hos legontai), which shows how Thucydides skilfully presents this defamatory information whilst seeking to elude responsibility for it. As has been correctly observed, the Athenian reaction to the losses suffered during Demosthenes’ campaign and in the face of the manifest enmity of this people was to turn them into inferior beings or barbarians.79 I do not believe, as some authors have suggested, that Thucydides was unconcerned about this matter and simply echoed the current opinion of travellers or soldiers who had taken part in this campaign.80 It is certain, at least in my opinion, that Thucydides selected those criteria that he believed should be used to define Hellenic identity, whilst it is possible that he gave less importance to the ‘blood identity’ that was important to Herodotus and greater importance to the capacity to exercise dominion over others, that is say to a political-military dynamis that appeared to limit the polis.81 In this sense, by minimising the importance of the genealogical constructions that formed the basis of this ‘blood identity’ (homaimotes), Thucydides shows little interest in the genealogical traditions regarding the Aeacid origin of the Molossian royal family and, perhaps, minimises this aspect. Similarly, his emphasis on military dominion cannot but consider the behaviour of the troops led by the Chaonians in the campaign against Stratus in 429 BC to be ‘barely Greek’, being based on imprudent actions that sowed fear amongst the ranks and that eventually forced them to retreat (2. 81. 6–7).82 And yet, Admetus’ treatment of Themistocles, effectively respecting and 75

 Domínguez 2006.  McInerney 2012, 257–58. 77  The observation made by Konstan 2001, 33–34, is interesting, in the sense that he suggests that the four Herodotean criteria for ethnic identity should not be understood, perhaps, so much within the context of the period to which they are attributed (480 BC) but rather to the context in which Herodotus wrote his work, possibly that of the Peloponnesian War. 78  Mari 2011, 542–43. 79  Antonetti 1990, 83–84; De Luna 2003, 239–42. 80  Sakellariou 1958, 262. 81  Mari 2011, 556–57. 82  Visconti 2011, 709–10. 76

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protecting the supplicant, could certainly have fitted in with his idea of Greek behaviour. In these cases, however, language and the gods are ignored as identity criteria in favour of others. In effect, Thucydides selects and prioritises, based on an evidently subjective point of view, those criteria for determining Hellenic identity that he considers to be the most important and those he considers to be of secondary importance. It is certainly curious that, in the case of the Molossians and the other Epirote peoples, he does not refer to either the language or their cults. But then, if he had done so, the tendentious nature of his approach would have been quite evident. In a similar manner, we can observe Thucydides’ approach in his elaborate account of Amphilochian Argos, which he refers to in relation to the Ambracian campaign against this city in 430 BC.83 Founded by Amphilocus, the son of the seer Amphiaraus, following his return from Troy, the inhabitants of Argos called on the Ambraciotes, their neighbours, ‘together with the rest of Amphilochia’ (Argos to Amphilochikon kai Amphilochian ten allen ektise) to form a joint community (xunoikous). It was as of this moment when, influenced by the Ambraciotes, the Argives began to use the Greek language that they use today (hellenisthesan ten nun glossan), whilst the rest of the Amphilochians are barbarians (hoi de alloi Amphilochoi barbaroi eisin) (Thucydides 2. 68. 2–6). By establishing this arbitrary division within the same people, the Amphilochians, allocating the inhabitants of Argos a Hellenic identity and writing off the rest of the ethnos as barbarians, Thucydides becomes a kind of ‘arbiter’ who decides who is and who is not Greek, with no clear explanation of why this should be. Contrary to interpretations that follow Thucydides’ words to the letter and debate about the greater or lesser ‘Hellenisation’ of Argos and the Amphilochians by the Ambraciotes,84 about whether the Amphilochians were ‘Hellenised’ by Argos,85 and about the existence of ‘hybrid cultures’86 or ‘acculturation’,87 I have the impression that we are dealing with Thucydides’ personal interpretation, with Thucydides himself, in this case, being the one who allocates Greek and barbarian identities according to his own interests. On this occasion, the distinction for Thucydides could reside in the fact that, during Cnemus’ campaign, the Amphilochians may have sided with the Spartans, who were supported by the Chaonians and ‘other neighbouring barbarians’, and although these forces dominated the territory, they were unable to occupy Argos. In this respect, it is possible that Thucydides felt inclined to include Athens’s allies (Argos) amongst the Greeks, whilst he felt no compunction in considering Athens’s enemies (the rest of the Amphilochians) as barbarians. In order to justify the split, he goes back to the distant past and attributes the ‘Hellenisation’ of Argos to the Ambraciotes but does not recognise the ‘Hellenisation’ of the rest of the ethnos. Unfortunately, we do not know whether the Amphilochians considered themselves to be Greeks, over and above the definition that Thucydides attributes to them. However, it is not unlikely that they did, both due to the name of the ethnos, which derived from an illustrious participant in the Trojan War, and due to the (undeniable) Greek nature of their capital. 83

 Hammond 1936–37; Domingo-Forasté 1988, 73–86; Fantasia 2006; 2017, 59–71.  Malkin 2001a, 195–96. 85  De Luna 2003, 222–25. 86  Fragoulaki 2013, 261–62. 87  Fantasia 2017, 44. 84

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There can be little doubt that Thucydides was not the only one who held this view in Athens and that he must have been supported by many of his fellow citizens, although not by all. Meanwhile, the Molossians and their king, Tharyps, had discovered in their alliance with Athens an additional means of consolidating their recognition as Greeks on the part of Athens, whose restrictive view of Hellenic identity on the part of, at least, some Athenians, they must have been familiar with. A number of indications suggest that this led to a realignment in terms of the foreign policy pursued by the Molossians and the other Epirote ethne, who no longer appear alongside Ambracia in the year 426 when the city once again attacked Amphilochia and Akarnania (Thucydides 3. 105. 1–2).88 In the Ps.-Andocidean oration Against Alcibiades, the orator who delivered the speech (Phaeax?) refers to the fact that embassies had been established in Thessaly, Macedonia, Molossia, Thesprotia, Italy and Sicily ([Andocides] 4. 41). If the order in which they are mentioned is chronological (which is impossible to ascertain), the embassies sent to Molossia would date from before 422 BC, because it was in that year that Phaeax, the alleged author of the oration, went to Sicily, as confirmed by Thucydides (5. 4. 5). Whatever the case may be, the list shows that both Molossia and Thesprotia were destinations for Athenian embassies. Based on Athens’s support for Tharyps, in addition to the changes undertaken in Molossia, it is possible that the Molossians sought to occupy the position that the Chaonians had enjoyed before the defeat at Stratus, whilst also reaffirming their Hellenic identity even further. In this respect, their influence and control over the sanctuary of Dodona would have favoured both goals. In Euripides’ Andromache, Orestes intends to travel to the Oracle of Zeus in Dodona (Andr. 885–886), without any further explanation; however, in the Phoenician Women, whose chronology continues to arouse debate but which critics tend to date to between 412 and 409 BC,89 Dodona is also mentioned, but here it is located (Euripedes Phoen. 982) in Thesprotia. The sanctuary of Dodona was one of the most famous sanctuaries in the Greek world, being well known from the Homeric poems, serving as the destination of many Greeks who travelled there to consult the oracle. In spite of Homer’s references to the custodians of the sanctuary, the Selloi, and ‘Pelasgian’ Zeus (Iliad 16. 233–235), there is little doubt that the Greeks considered the site to be a Greek sanctuary,90 this being the first sanctuary to receive offerings from the Hyperboreans (Herodotus 4. 33). The sanctuary also received illustrious Greek visitors in search of oracles and even received an Athenian dedication following Athens’s victory in a naval battle over the Peloponnesians, which some authors date at around the mid5th century,91 but others consider to be linked with the defeat of Cnemus in 429 BC.92 Even some modern authors who consider the inhabitants of Epirus to have been nonGreek concede that Dodona was a Greek sanctuary.93 Whatever the case may be, Dodona became a well-known site that was recognised in Athens, as it already was in other territories, including Lydia (Herodotus 1. 46) and, 88

 Fantasia 2011, 262–63.  Lamari 2010, 201–03. 90  Davies 2000, 240. 91  Dieterle 2007, 92–93. 92  Fantasia 2011, 268; 2017, 73. 93  Nilsson 1909, 34–36. 89

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although Thucydides makes no mention of it at any point, Herodotus offers us some details of interest regarding the sanctuary, which he had visited in person (Herodotus 2. 52–57) and the above-mentioned Athenian dedication would have certainly promoted awareness of the sanctuary in Athens. Similarly, a passage from Pausanias (8. 11. 12) informs us that, at some time prior to the expedition to Sicily, the Athenians received an oracle from Dodona that ordered them to colonise (oikizein) Sicily, although they did not interpret it well and they embarked on a war against Syracuse. We do not know whether Dodona was under Molossian control at that time or, on the contrary, continued under Thesprotian control. However, whatever the case may have been, the Athenian embassies would have been favoured by the new relations established with the Molossian monarchy and the Athenians would have found a source of support for their activities at this remote sanctuary, backing that would have been difficult to obtain at Delphi.94 It is, therefore, difficult to know with any certainty when the Molossians assumed control of the sanctuary of Dodona (Strabo 7. 7. 11),95 but this probably occurred during the reign of Tharyps, which is to say, in the transition period between the 5th and the 4th century BC.96 Amongst the tablets that have recently been published featuring oracular consultations at Dodona, a couple reveal questions that the Molossians posed to the oracle; they date from the end of the 5th century97 and show, nevertheless, how the existence of a Molossian identity is perfectly evidenced by internal references, over and above the testimonies provided by ancient authors. We have no further details regarding how the Molossians gained control over the sanctuary, but we do know that, not long afterwards the Molossian koinon or, according to some authors, the Molossian monarchy, began to use Dodona as the site where it publicised its political decisions, as witnessed by various epigraphs dating from the reign of Neoptolemus, son of Alcetas (370–368 BC).98 Whether Dodona at that time was the centre of a Molossian koinon or, as some author has suggested, it was only an ‘amphictyony’,99 is something that does not affect the fact that the Molossians ended up becoming the owners of the sanctuary, which would undoubtedly have had some important repercussions in terms of consolidating their Hellenic identity. It may well be the case that, throughout the course of the 4th century, all and any doubts regarding the Hellenic identity of the Molossians were dissipated, at least in Athens. The incorporation of Molossia within the Second Athenian League, represented by king Alcetas and his son, Neoptolemus,100 as well as the support that Alcetas provided to an Athenian contingent when crossing over to Corcyra (Xenophon Hellenica 6. 2. 11), not to mention the fact that the king himself, an Athenian citizen and ally of Athens,101 94

 Fragoulaki 2013, 273.  He Dodone toinun to men palaion hypo Thesprotois en […] hysteron de hypo Molottois egeneto. 96  Meyer 2013, 13, with part of the previous debate. 97  Dakaris et al. 2013, nos. 110A, 4195A. 98  Meyer (2013, 21, 46–60), although accepting that they must correspond to this 4th-century king, suggests the epigraphs ‘may be in their physical form a re-inscription of these fourth-century grants’, which is also difficult to prove. What the author seeks to show is that, at this time, there was no koinon of the Molossians, but a state governed by monarchs. See a recent survey of the history of Epirus in Pascual 2018. 99  Meyer 2013, 115. 100  Rhodes and R. Osborne 2003, 105. 101  M. Osborne 1983, 50. 95

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travelled to Athens to testify in favour of general Timotheus (373/2 BC) ([Demosthenes] 49. 10. 22) may well have convinced the most recalcitrant observers of the Hellenic identity of the king and his people. It is also possible that the Syracusans had no doubts regarding Alcetas’ Hellenic identity when they granted him refuge after he was expelled from his kingdom (385/4 BC) (Diodorus Siculus 15. 13. 2) for reasons we are unaware of. The intensity of Alcetas’ contacts in Syracuse are witnessed by the fact that he was adopted by Leptines, the brother of the tyrant, Dionysos the Elder, and it was this family link that would be highlighted in an honorary dedication made to Alcetas in Athens (IG II2 101), dating from around the period when he travelled to Athens in order to attend Timotheus’ trial.102 In order to recover his crown, he relied on the help of Syracuse and the Illyrians, which led to a large number of deaths amongst the Molossians (15,000), which propitiated the intervention of Sparta in order to stop the massacre (Diodorus Siculus 15. 13. 2–3). It is curious that Diodorus no longer considers the Molossians to be barbarians, given that, after relating the Molossians losses, he declares that the Spartans sent them help ‘so that they could put an end to the great insolence of the barbarians’. In spite of Sparta’s help, it appears that Alcetas continued with his proAthenian approach, a policy that would be continued by his son, Arybbas, whose renewal of Athenian citizenship, after his expulsion from his kingdom by Philip II, we have already mentioned.103

4. CONCLUSION: TOWARDS THE MOLOSSIANS

A

NEW WAY

OF

PERCEIVING

THE

ETHNICITY

OF

The definition and affirmation of the Molossians’ Hellenic identity witnessed a series of different periods and moments that were not especially explicit in terms of their specific details, which means the overall picture is not quite as clear as we might like. Nevertheless, it seems that we can be quite sure that, in the 6th century BC, Molossian aristocratic circles, which had entered into contact with other parts of the Greek world through trade and the reception of products from other parts of Greece, considered themselves to be part of this Greek world they interacted with. The language factor would have played a part in this, given that there appears to be no doubt that the inhabitants of Epirus spoke a Greek north-western dialect. This does not mean that the inhabitants of Epirus did not also maintain contacts (even including matrimonial relations?) with peoples from other neighbouring territories, and with peoples they shared a way of life with, including some non-Greeks (Illyrians)104 and others whose Hellenic identity would be questioned (Macedonians).105 It would be absurd to state that, in the 6th century BC (or beforehand), all of the characteristics that would define to Hellenikon in the 5th century were present. Language may well have played an important role in defining Greek identity, as may the religious cults. In this respect, who can doubt the Greek character of the Zeus cult in Dodona when the Homeric poems had mentioned it and when, over the centuries 102

 Lawton 1995, 93.  Domínguez 2018, 4–5. 104  Cabanes 1979, 196–97. 105  J. Hall 2001; Mari 2011. 103

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that followed, so many anonymous Greeks would travel there to pose questions to their god and make their offerings? Similarly, other Epirote sanctuaries, such as the Nekyomanteion of Acheron were consulted, both by anonymous individuals and by illustrious figures such as the tyrant Periander of Corinth (Herodotus 5. 92). It is true that ways of life in Epirus were different from those that existed in other parts of Greece, in which the city-state or polis had become the main form of political organisation,106 although it is also true that some of these poleis also existed on Epirote territory or in its outlying areas, such as Corcyra and Ambracia. Nevertheless, with regard to other parts of Greece located closer to Epirus, such as Akarnania or Aetolia, such differences did not really exist, given that these territories (like many others in Greece) did not have permanent urban settlements that we are aware of during the 7th and 6th centuries, and not even during the 5th century BC. Whether this was a factor when it came to considering inhabitants living outside the poleis as Greeks is something we cannot definitely conclude, even though we have the example of Alcon the Molossian, who probably attended the Olympic Games and certainly competed for the hand of Agariste as just another Greek, which would seem to indicate that it was not a factor. Although, in the 4th century, Aristotle was reluctant to understand or even consider types of state such as the koina,107 this was still his own perception (however influential it may have subsequently proved to be), one that was undoubtedly not shared by the many Greeks who organised themselves using these kinds of structure, which provides obvious proof of the relative nature of Aristotle’s arguments. However, the period we are analysing here is significantly earlier than Aristotle’s age, in which respect his ideas are of limited value in this case. The increasing contacts between Epirus and other parts of the Greek world brought about a two-fold process. On the one hand, Greeks from other parts sought to integrate these territories into their mental universe through legendary accounts, in the same manner in which they used these accounts to internally explain their own past. This, then, was not only a process aimed at the ‘other’, but also affected their perception of their own history and identity. However, at the same time, the inhabitants of these ‘peripheral’ regions also used this repertoire of legends to establish their own status and identity within a world they considered themselves to be part of. This generated a diverse range of traditions, which were not always compatible, according to the different interests of those who developed them. The poets, who were the ones who gave tangible form to these traditions and publicly expressed them, through their greater or lesser contact with the authorities, created, modified or recombined different threads of the story in order to cater for the specific needs of the time. We have the impression that, in Molossia, the figure of Neoptolemus may well have played a key role at an early stage in order to link up the royal dynasty with what we might call the ‘mainstream’ assignation of identities at the time, which has to do with the prestige of the accounts featuring those who took part in the Trojan War. In the case of neighbouring Thesprotia, this process was favoured by the explicit references to Odysseus’ stay in this territory in the Homeric poems. Molossia’s choice of the Aeacid dynasty would be linked to Thessaly, as has often been argued, which would not be surprising given the fact that they were neighbouring territories. 106

 Cabanes 1979, 194.  Davies 2000, 237.

107

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As is frequently the case in Greek ethnogenetic traditions, the identity of the ‘founding hero’, sometimes also the eponymous hero, is passed on to the people as a whole or to the ethnos. In this respect, in Molossia, these processes, which focused on the hero Neoptolemus and his various offspring, served to provide an additional dimension to the Hellenic identity of the Molossians by making use of founding legends, something that would become increasingly important within the Greek world as an identity marker.108 As is well known, there are no references made from within or from Molossia, which makes it difficult to observe and analyse these processes. However, the references made by some authors, such as those of Pindar analysed above, show that this poet provided details of interest regarding the processes that were taking place in Molossia to an external audience. Pindar does not appear to have been the creator of the Molossian monarchy’s Aeacid lineage, but he certainly must have contributed to the dissemination of this idea outside this territory, and there are no reasons to believe that the Hellenic identity of the Molossians was not accepted throughout a good part of the Greek world. In fact, some time later, Herodotus would include them amongst the (Greek) settlers of Ionia. In recent years it has been argued, based on different perspectives, that the GraecoPersian Wars were key when it came to defining Greek ethnic identity, with considerable emphasis being placed on the importance of tragedy109 and the articulation of different (fictitious) genealogies and lineages.110 However, a series of new power balances were also generated that tended to reinterpret identities based on other postulates, with one side allocating, assessing and ‘measuring’ the greater or lesser suitability of others with regard to this idea founded on subjective criteria, seeking to endow this idea with general value.111 This is exactly what we saw when one group of Ionians attempted to consider themselves to be more Ionian or better Ionians than others, something that was criticised by Herodotus; Thucydides also followed this approach with regard to the peoples whose Hellenic identity he questioned (the Aetolian Euritanians), partially accepted (Amphilochian Argos and the Amphilochians) or rejected (Chaonians, Thesprotians, Molossians). This could be the consequence of a general trend, sometimes attributed to Athens as a whole, of setting the limits to Hellenic identity. However, it could also be the stance, either individual or collective, chosen by a section of these Athenians and possibly by other Greeks, although not by all. In this respect, we have seen how, in Athens itself, which was involved in a military confrontation with the Epirotes in 429, the Athenians had no problem in taking in one of the enemy monarchs (be it a minor and, therefore, not responsible for his actions), educating him and granting him Athenian citizenship, a privilege that his descendants would continue to enjoy. And, in the same manner, the Athenians’ interest in the traditions that the Molossian monarchy had made its own can be observed in Euripides’ Andromache, with the interesting detail that the Athenian poet, in contrast to other versions that mentioned various children sired by the hero, Neoptolemus, only attributed one child to him, Molossus, whom Thetis, as the dea ex machina, guaranteed dominion over the land of the same name, in an act that, although 108

 J. Hall 2002.  E. Hall 1989. 110  J. Hall 2002. 111  Cabanes 1988, 97. 109

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we are unaware of all its implications, simply served to reinforce the role of the new Athenian citizen, king Tharyps. These external attributions of Greek ethnic identity, which contrast with the perceptions of those they are aimed at, demonstrate that the 5th century was undoubtedly a key period.112 As we suggested above, it was the demand made by certain parties to add new requirements to those of language and cult (such as, for example, ‘customs’) which permitted this new discrimination. And it is not surprising that Thucydides should be among those who accepted these demands and made them criteria for determining ethnicity, especially when we bear in mind that, in his ‘Archaeology’, he contrasted the ancient and the new based on customs, among them piracy and the idea of always bearing arms, which were not considered shameful in ancient times (ouk echontos po aischunen touto tou ergou) and even brought glory (pherontos de ti kai doxes mallon; Thucydides 1. 5. 2). And this served him to establish an initial catalogue of those who, in his time, continued to live in the ancient manner (to palaio tropo), amongst whom he mentioned the Ozolan Locrians, the Aetolians, the Akarnanians and ‘all that part of the continent’ (Thucydides 1. 5. 3) (a reference to Epirus?).113 These customs are not typical of the Greeks because, as Thucydides tells us, it can be demonstrated that ‘the ancient Greek world observed the same customs as those kept today by the barbarian world’ (to palaion Hellenikon homoiotropa to nun barbariko diatomenon; Thucydides 1. 6. 6). Naturally, before telling us this he states that the Athenians were amongst the first to ‘give up iron’ (en tois protoi de Athenaioi ton te sideron katethento; Thucydides 1. 6. 3). The question, therefore, is not whether we should ‘measure’ the greater or lesser degree of ‘Hellenisation’ of the Molossians or of any other people by accepting the view (biased or interested) of certain ancient authors. This view would undoubtedly give rise to ‘wholly non-Aristotelian Universes’,114 because we would end up granting objective value to definitions of Hellenic identity that, in the last analysis, emerged within a certain context and at a certain time, definitions that were not necessarily shared by the participants (up until that time) of the ethnic identity. However, if we focus on the internal aspects (‘emic’) that a group develops in order to shape its own ethnic identity, without taking into account the external view or view of others (‘etic’), at the beginning of our analysis at least we can observe what criteria and mechanisms are employed when it comes to adopting a specific ethnic identity and why one identity is chosen rather than another. And we should recognise that, in the case we are dealing with here, that of the Molossians, they managed to satisfy sufficient aspects to be accepted as Greeks, at least up until Thucydides’ age, by those who shared this ethnic identity. They undoubtedly made use of similar mechanisms: an emphasis on language and on the cults, and the use 112  It is also key because, according to J. Hall 2001, 166, it was the moment when ‘both the form (aggregative > oppositional) and the content (ethnic > cultural) of Greek identity underwent a profound (though not necessarily strictly simultaneous) development’. 113  Kai ten taute epeiron. Could this expression, of clearly geographical nature, refer to the territory that we call Epeiros? I do not believe it is unlikely, even though some authors reject the idea, above all because in other parts of his work Thucydides considers the Epirote peoples to be barbarians: Mari 2011, 545–46. However, there are contradictions within Thucydides’ work itself; for example, in his ‘Archaeology’ he includes Aetolia within Hellas (Thucydides 1. 5. 3) and, yet, he raises doubts regarding the Greek character of the Aetolian Euritanians in Thucydides 3. 94. 5. 114  Davies 2000.

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of traditions that were well established amongst the Greeks and were linked to the Trojan War and to heroes who, after the war, found refuge in new territories. The success of this endeavour can be observed in the acceptance of the Molossians as Greeks in early 6th-century Sicyon. At some given point, which we might place in the 5th century, some of those who recognised themselves as Greeks, especially the Athenians, incorporated a new identity criterion, one which served as a means of excluding from to Hellenikon those who, in the judgment of those imposing the criterion, did not fulfil the new requirement. This criterion consisted of customs or ways of life (tropos) and, as we have seen, Thucydides states that ancient ways of life are similar to those of the barbarians, in which respect those who continue in the ancient manner are barbarians because they continue to behave like them.115 This leads to the exclusion or possible exclusion (as in the case of the Aetolian Euritanians or the Amphilochians not resident in Argos) of this community. Some communities, such as the Epirotes, were not even granted the benefit of the doubt regarding the language they spoke, because then the ideological construction would collapse, given that there is little doubt that the peoples of Epirus (Thesprotians, Molossians and Chaonians) spoke Greek as their native language.116 We do not know what consequences this new approach may have had for the ‘debased’ peoples and we suspect that not all Greeks accepted this new classification. Of course, we do not know whether the Ambraciotes who were allied with the Chaonians in 429 considered the latter to be barbarians, governed as they were, according to Thucydides (2. 80. 5) by annual prostatai who, in that year, bore names as evidently Greek as Photius and Nicanor. And, as we have seen, it is unlikely that the Athenian authorities would take in Tharyps and grant him citizenship whilst considering the Molossian king to be a barbarian, at the same time as Euripides established the Hellenic identity of the Molossians by reaffirming the Aeacid origin of their royal dynasty. Being Greek was an option for those who assumed this identity, and external acceptance of that identity depended on the consensus of those who shared the identity, based on the fulfilment of the basic criteria required to form part of the ethnic group. When some party introduced new criteria, it was normal for tensions and anxieties to arise, especially when a wide-ranging consensus was achieved that was susceptible to become a form of discrimination. Thucydides, who gives us a methodological lesson in this respect, as some author has recently observed,117 would represent the exaltation of one of these new criteria, in this case certain ways of life. What is more, he himself applies the criterion when defining certain peoples as Greeks or barbarians. Although we do not know how these restrictive criteria were regarded by the recipients in question, for many of them it may have meant the loss of their consideration as Greeks. We have some references to such cases; for example, as we have seen, in the case of Tharyps, various subsequent authors such as Plutarch and Justin, using contemporary sources, end up making this king the ‘civilising’ figure of his people, and in this manner they would have achieved

115  J. Hall observes (2001, 172) that, for Thucydides, ‘their seemingly more primitive way of life makes them Hellènes manqués’. 116  Hatzopoulos 1997, 140–42. 117  Mari 2011, 558.

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(or recovered) their Greek identity. Over and above a reflexion of any real activity, we should regard the emphasis that Plutarch (Pyrrh. 1, 1) places on the idea that Tharyps introduced ‘Greek customs’ (Hellenikois ethesi) and other new developments as the Molossian response to the challenge posed by those who had questioned the Hellenic identity of this ethnos. All of this was part of a calculated enterprise undertaken by the reigning dynasty in Molossia.118 The entire ‘political programme’ which, under Athens’s influence, Tharpys carried out, or is credited with carrying out, suggests that the new criteria for belonging to to Hellenikon, although the product of certain intellectual circles, may have included exclusivist requirements, in which respect, those who defined themselves as Greeks or who wished to continue being considered as such by other Greeks were prepared to adapt to them. The cases we have analysed here (and in particular the case of the Molossians) not only show the changeable and dialectic nature of ethnic identities, but also how they were used internally and externally for political purposes, and how all those who formed part of this ethnic community and wished to continue to form part of it, were obliged to adapt to any new consensus that might emerge regarding the very definition of the ethnic identity in question.

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De Luna, M.E. 2003: La Comunicazione linguistica fra Alloglotti nel Mondo Greco: Da Omero a Senofonte (Studi e testi di storia antica 13) (Pisa). De Sanctis, G. 1911–12: ‘I thearodokoi d’Epidauro’. Atti della Accademia di Scienze di Torino 47, 442–50. De Vido, S. 2011: ‘Il matrimonio di Agariste (Hdt. VI, 126–131). Ancora sui pretendenti’. In Lombardo, M. and Marangio, C. (eds.), Antiquitas: Scritti di storia antica in onore di Salvatore Alessandrì (Università del Salento, Dipartimento di beni culturali 19) (Galatina), 67–75. Dieterle, M. 2007: Dodona: Religionsgeschichtliche und historische Untersuchung zur Entstehung und Entwicklung des Zeus-Heiligtums (Spudasmata 116) (Hildesheim). Domingo-Forasté, D. 1988: A History of Northern Coastal Akarnania to 167 B.C.: Alyzeia, Leukas, Anaktorion and Argos Amphilochikon (Dissertation, University of California at Santa Barbara). Domínguez, A.J. 2006: ‘Hellenic identity and Greek colonisation’. Ancient West and East 4, 446– 57. —. 2014: ‘Filipo II, Alejandro III de Macedonia y Alejandro I el Moloso. La unidad de acción de sus políticas expansionistas’. Polifemo 14, 203–36. —. 2017: ‘Adivinación en los confines del mundo griego: el oráculo de Dodona’. In Ferrer Albelda, E. and Pereira Delgado, A. (eds.), Profecía y adivinación en las religiones de la Antigüedad (Seville), 67–106. —. 2018: ‘New Developments and Tradition in Epirus: The creation of the Molossian State’. In Domínguez, A.J. (ed.), Politics, Territory and Identity in Ancient Epirus (Diabaseis 8) (Pisa), 1–42. Douzougli, A. and Papadopoulos, J.K. 2010: ‘Liatovouni: A Molossian Cemetery and Settlement in Epìrus’. Jahrbuch des deutschen archäologischen Instituts 125, 1–88. Dubois, L. 1995: ‘Une tablette de malédiction de Pella: s’agit-il du premier texte macédonien?’. REG 108, 190–97. Fantasia, U. 2006: ‘Formione in Acarnania (Thuc. II 68, 7–8) e le origini della guerra del Peloponneso’. Incidenza dell’Antico 4, 59–98. —. 2011: ‘Ambracia, l’Epiro e Atene prima e dopo il 431 A.C.’. In De Sensi Sestito, G. and Intrieri, M. (eds.), Sulla rotta per la Sicilia: l’Epiro, Corcira e l’Occidente (Diabaseis 2) (Pisa), 253–74. —. 2017: Ambracia dai Cipselidi ad Augusto. Contributo alla storia della Grecia nord-occidentale fino alla prima età imperiale (Diabaseis 7) (Pisa). Filos, P. 2018: ‘The Dialectal Variety of Epirus’. In Giannakis, G.K., Crespo, E. and Filos, P. (eds.), Studies in Ancient Greek Dialects: From Central Greece to the Black Sea (Trends in Classics Suppl. 49) (Berlin/Boston), 215–47. Fragoulaki, M. 2013: Kinship in Thucydides: Intercommunal Ties and Historical Narrative (Oxford). Funke, S. 2000: Aiakidenmythos und epeirotisches Königtum: Der Weg einer hellenischen Monarchie (Stuttgart). Gómez Espelosín, F.J. 2001: ‘Los límites de Grecia en la Geografía griega’. In López Barja, P. and Reboreda, S. (eds.), Fronteras e Identidad en el mundo griego antiguo (Santiago de Compostela), 87–105. Hall, E. 1989: Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition Through Tragedy (Oxford). Hall, J.M. 2001: ‘Contested Ethnicities: Perceptions of Macedonia within Evolving Definitions of Greek Identity’. In Malkin 2001b, 159–86. —. 2002: Hellenicity: Between Ethnicity and Culture (Chicago). Hammond, N.G.L. 1936–37: ‘The campaigns in Amphilochia during the Archidamian War’. Annual of the British School at Athens 37, 128–70. —. 1967: Epirus: The Geography, the Ancient Remains, the History and the Topography of Epirus and Adjacent Areas (Oxford). —. 1982: ‘Illyris, Epirus and Macedonia’. CAH III.32, 261–85. —. 1997: ‘Prehistory and Protohistory’. In Sakellariou, M.B. (ed.), Epirus: 4000 Years of Greek History and Civilization (Athens), 34–45. Hatzopoulos, M.B. 1997: ‘The Boundaries of Hellenism in Epirus during Antiquity’. In Sakellariou, M.B. (ed.), Epirus: 4000 Years of Greek History and Civilization (Athens), 140–45.

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—. 2018: ‘Recent Research in the Ancient Macedonian Dialect: Consolidation and New Perspectives’. In Giannakis, G.K., Crespo, E. and Filos, P. (eds.), Studies in Ancient Greek Dialects: From Central Greece to the Black Sea (Trends in Classics Suppl. 49) (Berlin/Boston), 299–328. Herda, A. 2006: ‘Panionion-Melia, Mykalessos-Mykale, Perseus und Medusa. Überlegungen zur Besiedlungsgeschichte der Mykale in der frühen Eisenzeit’. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Istanbul 56, 43–102. Hornblower, S. 1991: A Commentary on Thucydides I: Books I–III (Oxford). —. 2004: Thucydides and Pindar: Historical Narrative and the World of Epinikian Poetry (Oxford). Huxley, G.L. 1969: Greek Epic Poetry from Eumelos to Panyassis (London). Jebb, R.C., Headlam, W.G. and Pearson, A.C. 1917: The Fragments of Sophocles (Cambridge). Konstan, D. 2001: ‘To Hellenikon ethnos: Ethnicity and the Construction of Ancient Greek Identity’. In Malkin 2001b, 29–50. Kyriakides, S.P. 1990: The Northern Ethnological Boundaries of Hellenism (Hidryma Meletōn Chersonēsou tou Haimou 5) (Amsterdam). Lamari, A.A. 2010: Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae (Trends in Classics Suppl. 6) (Berlin/Boston). Lawton, C.L. 1995: Attic Document Reliefs: Art and Politics in Ancient Athens (Oxford). Lenardon, R.J. 1978: The Saga of Themistocles (London). Lepore, E. 1962: Ricerche sull’antico Epiro. Le origini storiche e gli interessi grec (Collana di studi greci 38) (Naples). Lohmann, H. 2012: ‘Ionians and Carians in the Mycale: the Discovery of Carian Melia and the Archaic Panionion’. In Cifani, G. and Stoddart, S. (eds.), Landscape, Ethnicity and Identity in the Archaic Mediterranean Area (Oxford), 32–50. Loraux, N. 1984: Les Enfants d’Athéna: Idées athéniennes sur la citoyenneté et la division des sexes (Paris). McInerney, J. 2012: ‘Heraclides Criticus and the problem of taste’. In Sluiter, I. and Rosen, R.M. (eds.), Aesthetic Value in Classical Antiquity (Mnemosyne Suppl. 350) (Leiden/Boston), 243–64. —. (ed.) 2014: A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean (Malden, MA/Oxford). Malkin, I. 1998: The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity (Berkeley). —. 2001a: ‘Greek Ambiguities: “Ancient Hellas” and “Barbarian Epirus”’. In Malkin 2001b, 187–212. —. (ed.) 2001b: Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity (Center for Hellenic Studies Colloquia 5) (Washington, DC). Mari, M. 2011: ‘Tucidide e la frontiera settentrionale dell’Hellenikon’. In Lamboley, J.L. and Castiglioni, M.P. (eds.), L’Illyrie méridionale et l’Épire dans l’Antiquité V, vol. 2 (Actes du colloque international de Grenoble, 8–11 octobre 2008) (Paris), 535–58. Méndez Dosuna, J. 1985: Los dialectos dorios del Noroeste: gramática y estudio dialectal (Salamanca). —. 2012: ‘Ancient Macedonian as a Greek dialect: A critical survey of recent work’. In Giannakis, G.K. (ed.), Ancient Macedonia: Language, History, Culture (Salonica), 133–45. Meyer, E.A. 2013: The Inscriptions of Dodona and a New History of Molossia (Heidelberger althistorische Beiträge und epigraphische Studien 54) (Stuttgart). Nilsson, M.P. 1909: Studien zur Geschichte des alten Epeiros (Lunds universitets årsskrift n.f., afd. 1, bd. 6.4) (Lund). Osborne, M.J. 1982: Naturalization in Athens 2: Commentaries on the Decrees Granting Citizenship (Verhandelingen van de Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten van België, Klasse der Letteren 101) (Brussels). —. 1983: Naturalization in Athens 3: The Testimonia for Grants of Citizenship; 4: The Law and Practice of Naturalization in Athens from the Origins to the Roman Period (Verhandelingen van de Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten van België, Klasse der Letteren 101) (Brussels). Pascual, J. 2018: ‘From the fifth century to 167 B.C.: Reconstructing the History of Ancient Epirus’. In Domínguez, A.J. (ed.), Politics, Territory and Identity in Ancient Epirus (Diabaseis 8) (Pisa), 43–99.

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Penwill, J.L. 1978: ‘The Letters of Themistokles: An Epistolary Novel?’. Antichthon 12, 83–103. Pérez Jiménez, A. 1998: ‘Grandeza retórica de un exiliado: los diálogos de la Carta Veinte de Temístocles’. In Gil, L., Martínez Pastor, M. and Aguilar, R.M. (eds.), Homenaje al Profesor José S. Lasso de la Vega (Madrid), 351–59. Perret, J. 1942: Les origines de la légende troyenne en Rome (281–31) (Paris). Piccinini, J. 2017: The Shrine of Dodona in the Archaic and Classical Ages. A History (Macerata). Pliakou, G. 2011: ‘Searching for the seat of Aeacids. Eiostheisan oi basileis en Passaroni, chorio tes Molottidos’. In De Sensi Sestito, G. and Intrieri, M. (eds.), Sulla rotta per la Sicilia: l’Epiro, Corcira e l’Occidente (Diabaseis 2) (Pisa), 89–108. Podlecki, A.J. 1975: The Life of Themistocles: A Survey of the Literary and Archaeological Evidence (Montreal/London). Prontera, F. 1991: ‘Sul concetto geografico di “Hellás”’. In Prontera, F. (ed.), Geografia storica della Grecia antica: Tradizioni e problemi (Incontro perugino di storia della storiografia antica e sul mondo antico 4, 1989, Acquasparta, Italy) (Biblioteca di cultura moderna 1011) (Rome), 78–105. Rhodes, P.J. and Osborne, R. 2003: Greek Historical Inscriptions, 404–323 BC (Oxford). Robertson, D.S. 1923: ‘Euripides and Tharyps’. Classical Review 37, 58–60. Sakellariou, M.B. 1958: La migration grecque en Ionie (Ekdoseis tou Gallikou Institoutou Athēnōn 17) (Athens). Siewert, P. 2002: ‘Il ruolo di Epidamno e dei greci di oltremare a Olimpia in una nuova iscrizione arcaica’. In Braccesi, L. and Luni, M. (eds.), I Greci in Adriatico, vol. 1 (Hesperia 15) (Rome), 67–71. Squire, M. 2015: ‘Figuring Rome’s Foundation on the Iliac Tablets’. In Mac Sweeney, N. (ed.), Foundation Myths in Ancient Societies: Dialogues and Discourses (Philadelphia), 151–89. Stevens, P.T. 1971: Euripides Andromache (Oxford). Vicente Sánchez, A. 2006: Las Cartas de Temístocles. Lengua y técnica compositiva (Saragossa). Visconti, A. 2011: ‘Una nota sui rapporti tra Atene e gli ethne epiroti nel V secolo a.C. e un nuovo progetto di ricerca sulla Grecia Centrale e Nord-Occidentale’. In Lamboley, J.L. and Castiglioni, M.P. (eds.), L’Illyrie méridionale et l’Épire dans l’Antiquité V, vol. 2 (Actes du colloque international de Grenoble, 8–11 octobre 2008) (Paris), 701–13. Vokotopoulou, J. 1982: ‘I Ipiros ston 8o kai 7o aiona p.Chr.’. In Grecia, Italia e Sicilia nell’VIII e VII sec. a.C. = Annuario della Scuoloa Archeologia Italiana di Atene 60, 77–100. —. 1986: Vitsa: ta nekrotafia mias molossikis komis (Athens). —. 1987: ‘Vitsa. Organisation et cimetières d’un village molosse’. In Cabanes, P. (ed.), L’Illyrie méridionale et l’Epire dans l’Antiquité [I] (Actes du colloque international de Clermont-Ferrand, 22–25 octobre 1984) (Clermont-Ferrrand), 53–64. Vürtheim, J. 1901: ‘De Eugammonis cyrenaei Telegonia’. Mnemosyne 29, 23–58. West, M.L. (ed.) 2003: Greek Epic Fragments from the Seventh to the Fifth Centuries BC (Cambridge, MA). von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. 1884: Homerische Unterschungen (Berlin). Zachos, K.A. 2008: ‘Latreia’. In Zachos, K.A. (ed.), Archaiologiko Mousio Ioanninon. Syntomi istoriki anadromi (Ioannina), 91–92.

ALEXANDER JANNAEUS’ DEFENSIVE LINE AGAINST ANTIOCHUS XII DIONYSUS REVISITED ONCE AGAIN* Alexander FANTALKIN and Oren TAL

ABSTRACT The term ‘Yannai Line’ (Alexander Jannaeus’ defensive line against Antiochus XII Dionysus) was coined by Kaplan in a series of publications that appeared from the early 1950s onwards. Some 20 years ago, based on the analyses of Josephus’ testimony and archaeological finds from Kaplan’s excavations, we offered a re-examination of the historical and archaeological data, concluding that Kaplan’s interpretation of the excavated remains, which used to be widely accepted by scholars dealing with the Late Hellenistic period in ancient Israel, is misleading. However, several new studies challenged our interpretation, trying to validate once again the historicity of the ‘Yannai Line’. In this contribution we return to the main arguments presented in our original study, adding new information collected in a number of archaeological excavations which were conducted in the area in question during the last two decades. It is our intention to demonstrate that our original reconstruction should be maintained.

It has been almost 20 years since we offered a re-examination of the historical and archaeological data regarding the existence of a so-called ‘Yannai Line’ (that is Alexander Jannaeus’ defensive line against Antiochus XII Dionysus),1 the term that was coined by the late J. Kaplan in a series of publications that appeared from the early 1950s onwards.2 In accordance with Josephus’ accounts (BJ 1. 99–100; AJ 13. 390–391),3 Kaplan has attempted to identify archaeological remains discovered in Tel Aviv and Bené Braq (some distance south of the Yarqon basin), as belonging to Alexander Jannaeus’ defensive line, erected in ca. 86/5 BC (Fig. 1). Before our re-assessment, Kaplan’s assumptions and interpretations of the excavated remains used to be widely accepted in historical and archaeological studies dealing with the Late Hellenistic (Hasmonean) period in ancient Israel.4 Based on the analyses of Josephus’ testimony (mainly copied from Nicolaus of Damascus) and archaeological finds from Kaplan’s excavations, however, we have concluded that his interpretation of the excavated remains as belonging to a Jannaeus’ defensive line is misleading. Although our reconstruction has been accepted by many scholars,5 several

* It is with a pleasure that we dedicate this study in honour of Gocha Tsetskhladze, a dear colleague and friend, acknowledging his major contribution to the field of classical archaeology. 1  Fantalkin and Tal 2003. 2  Kaplan 1951; 1953; 1955; 1959; 1971; 1972; 1992; Kaplan and Ritter-Kaplan 1993. 3  BJ = The Jewish War; AJ = Antiquities of the Jews. 4  For example, Feldman 1984, 253; Kasher 1990, 160, n. 125; Shatzman 1991, 81, n. 172a; Arav 1989, 48; Berlin 1997, 38–39. 5  For example, Dąbrowa 2010, 90, n. 27; Seeman 2013, 456; Isaac 2014, 26; Grabbe 2020, 423.

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Fig. 1. Reconstruction sketch of the ‘Yannai Line’ from Antipatris to the Hill Country (after Kaplan 1972, fig. 12).

new studies challenged our interpretation, trying to validate once again the historicity of the ‘Yannai Line’. Thus, according to Atkinson,6 Archaeology provides some insight into Josephus’s story. A series of rectangular and hexagonal-shaped stone foundations uncovered from the vicinity of Aphek (Herodian Antipatris) to Tel Aviv along with coins of Jannaeus support the identification of this structure as the barrier that Jannaeus constructed to stop Dionysus. Furthermore, he states that our reconstruction ‘fails to take into consideration the revised chronology of this period based on the numismatic evidence’. Atkinson returns to this affair in several additional studies, taking his reconstruction even further, on the authority of George Syncellus: The Byzantine chronographer George Synkellos supplements Josephus’ account of this period with information that he obtained from an unspecified source. He mentioned that Jannaeus had been victorious in a war that he launched against Dionysus. Because Dionysus died during his campaign against the Nabateans, after he has destroyed Jannaeus’ wall and fortifications, the conflict documented by Synkellos must have preceded Josephus’ account. In light of this earlier conflict, it is clear that the campaign of Dionysus recorded by Josephus was actually against both Nabatea and Judea. The location of Jannaeus’ wall at the southern coast of Judea shows that Dionysus did not merely intend to transit Judea. Rather, he clearly meant to annex its port cities as retribution for Janneaus’ prior attack. Jannaeus’ fortifications described 6

 Atkinson 2016, 130.

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by Josephus were designed not to keep Dionysus from reaching Nabatea, but to keep him from capturing Judea’s coastal region.7 Another study, fully dedicated to this problem, has been published by Hofeditz,8 who suggests that once one takes into consideration a variety of factors, such as the topography, the surviving historical accounts and the archaeological remains, the existence of the Jannaeus line is quite probable, including the identification of the excavated structures as belonging to a fortification line, although the description given by Josephus is far from being reliable. In what follows, we shall return to the main arguments presented in our original study, adding new information collected in a number of archaeological excavations which were conducted in the area in question during the last two decades. It is our intention to demonstrate that despite critical voices our original reconstruction should be maintained.

JOSEPHUS’ TESTIMONY BJ 1. 99–100 [IV, 7]: Disturbance arose in his [Alexander’s] reign again with Antiochus, surnamed Dionysus, brother of Demetrius and last among the Seleucids. Since Alexander feared him because of his campaign against the Arabs, he dug a deep gully between the mountain-side above Antipatris and the sea shore of Joppa, and in front of the ditch he erected a high wall with inserted wooden towers, blocking up weak spots easy to attack. But he failed in restraining Antiochus, who burnt the towers, levelled the ditch and marched across with his army. AJ 13. 390–391 [XV, 1]: Alexander, fearing an invasion by him, dug a deep ditch, beginning at Chabarsaba which is now called Antipatris, as far as the sea of Joppa, where alone it was assailable; and he erected a wall after setting up wooden towers and spaces between the towers [firing platforms] for [a distance of] a hundred and fifty stades against Antiochus’ attack. But Antiochus, after burning these [constructions], led over his army to Arabia.9 The historical background for the above-cited episode lies in the clash over the crown between the two Seleucid brothers, Antiochus XII Dionysus and Philip. The conflict led Dionysus to campaign against the Arabs who actively supported his brother. Josephus says that Dionysus and his army advanced towards the Arabs via Judah and southern Edom. However, Jannaeus, mistrusting Dionysus’ intentions, had erected in alarm a defensive alignment, including a ditch (taphros), behind which were a wall (teichos), wooden towers (xulinoi purgoi) and probably firing platforms (metapurgia, though mentioned only in AJ ), for a distance of 150 stades, from Caphersaba/Antipatris to the Sea of Joppa, in order to prevent Dionysus’ advance. In an article dealing with the battle between Ptolemy Lathyrus and Alexander Jannaeus in the Jordan Valley, Bar-Kochva has addressed these historical aspects;10 Josephus’ 7

 Atkinson 2011, 19; see also Atkinson 2007; 2012, 149–51.  Hofeditz 2011. 9  Translations from the B. Niese critical edition by authors. 10  Bar-Kochva 1999, 15, n. 33. 8

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accounts regarding this episode, all copied from the accounts of Nicolaus of Damascus, raise chronological and geographical difficulties. According to Bar-Kochva, during the 80s BC Dionysus, under pressure in his capital Damascus, could not pose any serious threat and, therefore, Jannaeus did not erect such a defensive alignment against Dionysus; rather, these defences may have been erected previously, even before Jannaeus’ time. On the other hand, Josephus’ description of this alignment raises even more difficulties. Assuming that the advance of Dionysus’ army from Damascus towards the southern Sharon Plain took no more than 10–15 days (as they are ca. 200 km apart), Jannaeus would not have been able to complete such a large-scale project, consisting of digging a ditch as long as 150 stades (ca. 28 km), with a wall behind it, flanked by wooden towers and probably equipped with firing-platforms. It should be emphasised that such a defensive alignment does not take into consideration the natural strategic qualities of the Yarqon basin, which in itself is a deep ditch.11 Acknowledging this very fact, Bar-Kochva suggests that the presumably existing defensive alignment was concentrated east of the sources of the Yarqon, in the ca. 4 km plain between the western part of the Samaria foothills and Aphek. He also suggests that Josephus has copied more selectively than usual the information from Nicolaus of Damascus, without analysing its geographical and chronological validity. In addition to Bar-Kochva’s observations, we must point out the dissimilarities and confusions existing between Josephus’ two accounts. Suffice it to mention that according to BJ Antiochus intended to pass through Judah (from Damascus) in order to attack the Arabs, and thereafter Jannaeus erected his fortified constructions; AJ on the other hand states that Antiochus returned from Arabia via Judah (13. 389), and after destroying Jannaeus’ fortified constructions passed to Arabia, which does not make sense.

ARCHAEOLOGICAL DATA First of all, we present a short summary of Kaplan’s excavations along the assumed fortification line of Jannaeus.12

‘Abd el Nabi/Meẓad HaYarqon Kaplan discovered the remains of an ancient structure at ‘Abd el Nabi, by the eastern garden of today’s Hilton Tel Aviv hotel (where the structure is still visible), during a visit on 16 December 1949. The site is located upon the kurkar (fossilised dune sandstone) hill overlooking the Mediterranean and its remains are visible today. The excavation was carried out from 18 January to 16 February 1950 intermittently, because of rainy days. During the excavation foundation walls of two rooms (A+B) were unearthed (Fig. 2). Room A measures ca. 5.4 × 4.3 m, with an entrance (ca. 0.9 m) located close to the centre of its west wall. Room B measures ca. 4.3 × 2.75 m, with an entrance (ca. 0.8 m) located close to the centre of its joint wall with Room A. Walls of both rooms are built 11

 As already mentioned by Kaplan 1951, 22.  For the full excavation report, which includes publication of architecture, pottery and coins, see Fantalkin and Tal 2003. 12

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Fig. 2. ‘Abd el Nabi/Meẓad HaYarqon, site plan (modified after a plan found in the site’s archives).

of small fieldstones (ca. 0.2 × 0.15 m), ca. 0.6 m thick, and consist of two rows of stones with a stone and earth fill in between. The continuation of the west and east walls of the building southward, including the remains of a floor, led Kaplan to assume the existence of an additional room (Room C) with the measurements of Room B. The same holds true of the eastern part of the building, as the northern wall continues to the east, suggesting a longitudinal room the full length of the building. Neither south nor east parts of the building are preserved, owing to modern sand mining activity. The reconstructed building measures ca. 13.5 × 9 m and is identified by Kaplan as a Hasmonean fort. Kaplan reported on the findings of fragments of a Rhodian amphora in the western section and a coin of Alexander Jannaeus in the northern section,13 as well as a stamped Rhodian amphora handle in the north-east corner of Room A. The excavation logbook shows, however, that both coin and stamped amphora handle, were found upon surface level, about 5 m outside the northern limit of the building.14 Trial trenches to the north of Room B and to the west of Room A yielded no architectural remains except for pottery fragments and an intact bowl found ca. 0.5 m below surface. Additional architectural 13

 Kaplan 1951, 18–19.  We were able to locate only one illegible Rhodian stamped amphora handle with a round-framed rosette in the IAA warehouses (Fantalkin and Tal 2003, figs. 8, 13), which may be related to archons of Grace’s Period III (ca. 220–180 BC) (Grace 1985; and Finkielsztejn 2001, dating to approximately a decade later). 14

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remains were discovered about 20 m south of the building, from which a round-shaped cistern and silo were discerned.15 Most of the finds (numbering ca. 774 fragments, of which 64 were described) were retrieved from the building and dated according to Kaplan to ca. 150–50 BC, with the exception of two or three fragments. The identifiable ones that were kept in the Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA) warehouses were re-checked by us, pointing to a chronological range spanning from the Persian to Late Hellenistic period. It can be summarised that a structure discovered by Kaplan possessed a central courtyard (though not acknowledged as one), with a court (Room A) open to the west and flanked by three rooms (Rooms B, C and D) on three of its sides. The cistern and silo about 20 m to its south suggest that the building or its related structures extended to the south and were not preserved, owing to the sand mining activities. The thickness of the walls, ca. 0.6 m, does not indicate that these were intended for defence or as foundations for a monumental superstructure. All the evidence (including the varied ceramic assemblage) suggests a building of domestic nature, probably an agricultural estate of Persian date with continuation to Late Hellenistic (Hasmonean) times, of which only the north corner has been preserved.

Arlozorov Street On 26 November 1949, during a survey in the north-eastern part of Tel Aviv, Kaplan discovered the remains of an ancient structure at the intersection between Arlozorov and Bloch Streets. The structure was partly unearthed as a result of construction works undertaken at the site. Kaplan collected the pottery visible on the surface around the structure and identified it as Hellenistic in date, and thus logically attributed the structure to the Hellenistic period. Excavation started on 2 January 1950, and continued for four days. Kaplan described the remains discovered on Arlozorov Street in the following manner: This was a wall, about 1.5 metres thick, that had formed part of a hexagonal structure, each side of which measured approximately eight metres … Inside this hexagonal area were found fragments of Hellenistic pottery, and traces of soot and charcoal. This structure stood isolated from any other structures in the vicinity. It may be supposed that this was a Hellenistic military tower, inside which stood a wooden observation turret, and that the wall was there to protect the defenders against surprise attack.16 The interpretation of these poorly preserved architectural remains (Fig. 3) as part of a Hellenistic military tower is highly conjectural. Alternatively, they could have formed part of an enclosure connected with farming activities. Even if we accept the proposed reconstruction as a wooden turret enclosed by a hexagonal wall (which is definitely uncertain), the evidence does not necessarily point to a military character, since the building could have served an agricultural estate. Kaplan mentions that the discovered 15

 Kaplan 1971, fig. 93.  Kaplan 1971, 205.

16

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Fig. 3. Arlozorov Street, drawing of the wall discovered (after Kaplan 1971, fig. 94).

remains stood isolated from any other structures in the vicinity, but in the excavation logbook he mentions other ancient remains visible to the south of the excavated ones, upon the southern side of the road. Kaplan adds that these remains were not found in situ, as they were displaced by mechanical tools from their unknown original location. Unfortunately, there is no further information regarding these remains or the pottery they produced. Perhaps the reason for this silence is that the pottery found there did not support a strictly Hasmonean date for the excavated structure. Even if these remains were indeed displaced from their original location, it seems logical to assume that they came from the immediate vicinity, which may contain additional undiscovered ancient remains. In any case, it appears that Kaplan’s statement, suggesting that ‘this structure stood isolated from any other structures in the vicinity’, is incorrect (and see below). In published articles, Kaplan mentions only the fragments of Hellenistic pottery that were discovered during the excavation on Arlozorov Street. Regrettably, despite prolonged investigations conducted at the IAA warehouses, we were unable to locate the ceramic finds collected during this excavation. According to the excavation logbook, the recorded finds consisted of 36 sherds, including six rims of storage jars, three rims of bowls, three rims of cooking-pots, 14 handles, three bases and seven body fragments. Most interesting, however, is a reference to a coin, also uncovered within the context of the excavated structure. According to Kaplan’s logbook, it is a Roman provincial coin assigned (in Kaplan’s days) to the Roman Procurator Antonius Felix (i.e. AD 58–60), but as with the pottery, we were unable to retrace its present location. It is worth mentioning that at the two other excavated sites (‘Abd el Nabi and el Waqf), the presence of coins of Alexander Jannaeus was used by Kaplan as ultimate evidence in support of the Jannaeus date. In the excavation logbook, Kaplan resolves this problem by explaining the

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presence of a ‘Felix’ coin with the fact that some of the towers erected by Jannaeus were not destroyed by the Syrians, but continued to exist during the Early Roman period.

el Waqf/Pardess Katz Not much is known about the site of el Waqf/Pardess Katz, a site located today within the city limits of modern Bené Braq. Kaplan carried out a survey and excavation at el Waqf as early as 1948, where discovered remains were identified by him as a Hasmonean encampment.17 Additional information comes from a typewritten archival report signed by Kaplan and dated to 2 February 1950. The report, written on behalf of the Tel Aviv Municipality and the Department of Antiquities and Museums, deals mainly with the finds from the excavation on Arlozorov Street with some reference to the excavations of ‘Abd el Nabi and el Waqf. The reference to the excavation at el Waqf is described as follows: I saw similar [to Arlozorov Street and ‘Abd el Nabi – A.F. and O.T.] foundation remains in trenches dug for constructional works in el Waqf hill at Ramat Gan; where I conducted a year ago an archaeological excavation. There, too, many Hasmonean coins were discovered, but also similarly dated pagan coins. I realised then that during this period a military encampment was located there (translated from the Hebrew – A.F. and O.T.). Other archival material is scant and mostly illustrative, and Kaplan’s publications mentioning this site refer mostly to an additional excavation carried out in 1961, summarised below: Further confirmation of our thesis [for the existence of the ‘Yannai Line’ – A.F. and O.T.] was supplied in 1961, when in Pardes Katz, one of the highest points overlooking the Yarqon basin, were found the remains of a hexagonal base [see below], each of whose sides measured only 1.5 metres, much less than those of the structure in Arlozoroff Street; but here too the pottery fragments were Hellenistic, and a coin of Alexander Yannai was also found.18 It is probable that the hexagonal form of this small base was connected with the method of construction: the wooden columns of the tower were first erected, and the stone walls built round them.19 In 1961, an additional section of the line was discovered at Pardes Katz, near BeneBerak…, where the foundations of another hexagonal structure were exposed. This structure is smaller than the one excavated on Arlosoroff Street. It also dates to the Hellenistic period; here, too, a coin of Jannaeus was found.20 It is more than obvious that Kaplan identified the remains at el Waqf as a part of the ‘Yannai Line’ only after excavating the sites on Arlozorov Street and at ‘Abd el Nabi about a year later. However, the proposed architectural and chronological correlation 17

 Kaplan 1951, 22.  Kaplan 1971, 205. 19  Kaplan 1971, 205, n. 2. 20  Kaplan and Ritter-Kaplan 1993, 1455. 18

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between these three sites, permitting their identification as belonging to a unified defensive alignment, is a rather imaginary one. The architectural correlation is based on the presence of hexagonal walls on Arlozorov Street and at el Waqf. However, Kaplan explains the foundation remains of the presumably existing hexagonal base on Arlozorov Street as a defensive enclosure that had the function of protecting the defenders of the wooden tower against sudden attacks,21 whereas similar foundation remains at el Waqf are explained differently, with reference to the method of construction of the wooden tower. Needless to say, the remains discovered at ‘Abd el Nabi have no architectural correlation with the two other sites. The chronological correlation, on the other hand, is actually based on the presence of Jannaeus’ coins at ‘Abd el Nabi and el Waqf. However, the coins of Alexander Jannaeus are among the commonest numismatic finds unearthed in the Hasmonean and, sometimes even post-Hasmonean strata, in the Land of Israel. Therefore, in order to establish a reliable chronological correlation, one needs to compare both the numismatic and ceramic evidence from all three sites. The numismatic evidence from Arlozorov Street points to its existence during the Early Roman period. The pottery kept from ‘Abd el Nabi, as shown above, has a chronological span from the 4th to the 1st centuries BC. Unfortunately, we were unable to locate the finds from Kaplan’s excavation at el Waqf, except for a few specimens. The most important is the Jannaeus’ coin of Type Ce from el Waqf reported by Kaplan.22 According to its registration card, it was found on the surface before excavation began. Moreover, Jannaeus’ Type Ce coins are commonly dated to after 79/8 BC.23

New (and Old) Excavations Data In 2016, a new excavation was conducted at the corner of Remez and Arlozorov Streets at Tel Aviv. Two excavation areas, consisting of 55 squares were opened, around 90 m north-west of the hexagonal structure excavated by Kaplan in 1949, labelled above the Arlozorov Street site. The architectural remains and associated finds retrieved from this new wide-scale excavation are dated solely to the Late Ottoman and the Early Mandate period.24 Rather diminutive trial excavations at the site of el Waqf have been carried out recently on several occasions. During an excavation conducted in 1995 on behalf of the IAA, along the eastern slope of the site (Tiberias Street) only later periods remains (Byzantine and Early Islamic) were discovered.25 In an excavation conducted in 1998 on behalf of the IAA, a few wall foundations of about 1 m thick, with no secured floors abutting them were found. The walls were attributed to a structure of a general Hellenistic date, 21

 Kaplan 1971, 205.  Kaplan and Ritter-Kaplan 1993, 1455; and cf. Meshorer 1982 I, 122, Type Ce1. 23  For example Meshorer 1982 I, 79–80, who later termed them as coins of Group L, minted at the end of Jannaeus’ reign; cf. Meshorer 2001, 41. Some scholars have even dated them to post-Jannaeus’ death: see, in this respect, Shachar 2004, 7, Types 5 and 7 and also pp. 10–11. Moreover, it must be stressed out that owing to their size, and similarly to that of Late Roman bronze coins, Jannaeus’ coins remained in circulation for a long time. The fact is that many are discovered worn which normally suggest a longer period of circulation. Ample demonstration of this practice may be seen in several coin hoards of Byzantine date such as at Gush Ḥalav (Bijovsky 1998, 78 [table 1], 80, 87, coins nos. 1–2 and n. 1, with further literature). 24  Elad 2009. 25  Ben-David 1999. 22

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based on the modest pottery finds, as well as an additional recovered coin of Alexander Jannaeus.26 This Jannaeus’ coin (IAA 68381), though not yet published, is also of Type Ce, commonly dated post-79/8 BC.27 However, finds from the Late Bronze and Iron I Ages, as well as of the Roman and Ottoman periods, have been also reported by Kletter, and may well be connected to these walls that were close to the surface level, since another building (possibly a bathhouse) of Late Roman/Byzantine date was discovered nearby.28 Another small-scale excavation along the eastern slope of the site took place in 2005. It exposed the remains of buildings and installations that were ascribed to four strata spanning the 20th century to the Byzantine period. A few fragments of earlier pottery vessels, found on the surface and in mixed assemblages, were mostly dated to the Hellenistic period.29 Among these was a local imitation of a mould-made bowl as well as a Seleucid-period coin (IAA 102227). These remains too do not change our understanding of the Hellenistic remains discovered at the site. The archaeological remains exposed at sites related to the so-called ‘Yannai Line’ are not sufficient to suggest a military character and may be explained in terms of civilian occupation, most probably related to farming activities.30 According to the data examined by us the site on Arlozorov Street could have been occupied during Hellenistic and Early Roman times; that of ‘Abd el Nabi was occupied during Persian and Hellenistic times; and that of el Waqf had a long history of occupation from Biblical times (if not earlier) to modern times. Kaplan’s excavations revealed finds from various periods, but two coins of Alexander Jannaeus’ found at ‘Abd el Nabi and at el Waqf were taken as ultimate evidence in establishing the absolute dating of these sites. We were unable to locate the present location of the Jannaeus’ coin found at ‘Abd el Nabi, but the one found at el Waqf is dated to after 79/8 BC, and thus cannot relate to the ‘Yannai Line’ erected in ca. 86/5 BC. A similar argument can be applied on the Jannaeus’ coin found at el Waqf in Kletter’s excavation as it is of the same type. Moreover, the coin-type Ce is probably the most common coin-type identified as ‘Jannaeus’; therefore, it is likely that the coin found at ‘Abd el Nabi whose whereabouts is now unknown also postdates 79/8 BC. Leaving aside the sites excavated by Kaplan (‘Abd el Nabi/Meẓad HaYarqon; Arlozorov Street; el Waqf/Pardess Katz) as belonging to Alexander Jannaeus’ defensive line, one cannot escape the similarity of this (assumed) defensive line to that of the First World War Battle of el Auja, using parts of the Yarqon river as a border zone between the British forces (on the south bank) and the Turks (on the north bank) during November– December 1917.31 26

 Kletter 2000.  D.T. Ariel, pers. comm. 28  Shaḥam and Ayalon 1991. 29  Golan 2009. 30  Interestingly, quite a similar case is observed in Kaplan and Ritter-Kaplan’s reconstruction of a number of Iron Age II sites discovered in the same area (1993, 1454). A fairly small number of 8th-century BC pottery finds from a few sites at Tel Aviv (i.e. Kikar Hill, Giv‘at Beth Ha-Mitbaḥayim, and in areas bordering Yehoshua Bin Nun and Yehohanan Hyrcanus Streets) were identified as probably belonging to Judahite military camps established on the eve of Sennacherib’s campaign of 701 BC. Obviously, these finds could be interpreted differently, and preferably be connected to Joppa’s agricultural hinterland (Fantalkin and Tal 2009, 242–43). 31  Detailed descriptions of the battle from a number of perspectives could be found in numerous publications; just to name a few: Nicol 1921, 167–76 passim; Powles 1922, 161–63; 1928, 179–82; Falls 1930, 214–17, 265–75. 27

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Fig. 4. Central sites along the Yarqon river (Nahr el ‘Auja).

In the context of our final report on Tell Qudadi, which is located on the north bank of the Yarqon river-mouth, we have put forward evidence for the use of the site at the time of this battle.32 It is thus logical to assume that Jannaeus’ defensive line would have made use of the mounds located along the Yarqon, especially those of its south bank (given the location of the sites excavated by Kaplan) (Fig. 4). These mounds would have provided strategic advantages; being located high above their immediate terrains thus enabling control and alert over their eyesight areas. Still, when one surveys the archaeological evidence of these ‘south bank’ mounds hardly any Hasmonean occupation is attested. For example at Tel Ḥashash, down the stream off the Yarqon river-mouth south bank, Hellenistic (Hasmonean) remains were restricted to pottery and possibly tombs of civilian nature.33 At Tel Gerisa and Tell Abu Zeitun, which are located further down the stream, hardly any Hellenistic (Hasmonean) occupation is attested. A similar picture is also seen in the ‘north bank’ mounds, such as Tell Qudadi and Tel Qana. The Hellenistic (Hasmonean) remains at Tell Qasile (Stratum V) were restricted to pottery and tombs of civilian nature and it seems likely that the mounds in the present-day area of Tel Aviv, Ramat Gan and Bené Braq belonged to Joppa’s agricultural hinterland during the Hellenistic (Hasmonean) period given the civilian nature of their remains.34 It remains to be added that relatively many other sites in close proximity to the Yarqon basin, excavated in the last two decades,35 lack real Hellenistic (Hasmonean) occupation and 32

 See, in this respect Fantalkin and Tal 2015, 22–27.  See Tal and Taxel 2010, 97–103. 34  See Tal and Fantalkin 2009, 93–102. 35  See Glick 2016 for a yet unrecorded site at Ramat Gan, as well as references to other sites such as Khirbat el-Ḥadra (Ramat HaḤayal). For the latter, see also Tal, Taxel and Jackson-Tal 2013. 33

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this for itself lend further support to our interpretation of the character of the sites excavated by Kaplan.36

EPILOGUE The archaeological analysis undertaken above permits us to conclude that Kaplan’s interpretation of the excavated remains as belonging to Jannaeus’ defensive line is misleading, and thus one cannot refer to the ‘Yannai Line’ as identified by Kaplan. Kaplan’s reconstruction of the ‘Yannai Line’ may be seen not only as a simple desire to illustrate Josephus’ accounts by using archaeological remains, but also as an outcome of particular historical circumstances, which no longer seem plausible. His explicit statement, that ‘in general features this defensive line, which extended from the sea to the hills of Ephraim, recalls the modern fortified lines built before the Second World War’,37 does not seem to be a coincidence. This kind of argument should be clearly considered in the context of his personal engineering background as well as of a fresh memory of the modern fortified lines, such as the Maginot or Siegfried Lines, which were erected in the context of the 20th-century World Wars. The discovery of the above-described remains in 1949, only a few years after the Second World War, and their immediate interpretation as the ‘Yannai Line’, provide additional corroboration for that assumption. After all, it is well known that every generation (including ours) writes its own history. The same picture emerges from the historical analysis undertaken by Bar-Kochva,38 whose thorough historical analysis of Josephus testimony, relevant to the description of Alexander Jannaeus’ defensive line against Antiochus XII Dionysus, tends to dismiss its historical validity. Although one can always suspect that there is nothing inherently implausible in Josephus accounts, the region’s topography verifies the improbability of erecting such a line (including its constructions) during the available period. We do not suggest that Josephus invented such a story, but we rather believe that he was confused while copying Nicolaus’ accounts.39 We are inclined to assume that the actual account of Nicolaus was related to a completely different historical event, and most probably to a completely different geographical setting. However, Josephus had his information from Nicolaus, who himself wrote about events before his own time, and we cannot ignore the 36  Some reference must be given to Aphek-Antipatris, as during the excavations at this site a wall of ca. 20 m long and 1 m thick was found, which formed, according to the excavator, M. Kochavi, the western wing and the north-western corner of a fortress which may have served the bolt of the ‘Yannai Line’ (1989, 93, fig. 79). The wall was discovered in Area A in the north-western part of the high tel, and built of two faces of roughly dressed stones with earth fill in between, the northern corner of which is made of ashlar masonry. Here we must point out that Kochavi in an earlier publication dates these architectural remains to the beginning of the 3rd century BC, suggesting they were probably outside the confines of the city (1975, 40). Since Hellenistic remains of Kochavi’s excavations at Aphek-Antipatris were published in a very preliminary form, not much can be added on his reconstruction. We do know, however, of a border-guard (oruphulax) at Pegae, which is customarily identified with Aphek-Antipatris, mentioned in one of the Zenon papyri (PSI 406; and cf. Tcherikover 1937); these architectural remains therefore may well be connected to the Ptolemaic administration. 37  Kaplan 1971, 201. 38  Bar-Kochva 1999, 15, n. 33. 39  For additional examples of confusions in the writings of Josephus’ copied accounts from Nicolaus of Damascus, see Wacholder 1989.

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possibility that Nicolaus is to blame for the confusion. On the other hand, Bar-Kochva considers the probability of the existence of a defensive alignment, erected before Jannaeus’ days in the ca. 4 km plain, east of the Yarqon sources, between the western part of the Samaria foothills and Antipatris. It should be noted, however, that in the present state of archaeological research, we are unable to pinpoint the traces of such a defensive alignment, even as proposed by Bar-Kochva. Atkinson, on the other hand, suggests a different scenario: George Syncellus mentions two military campaigns that Josephus omits from his narrative. The first is Alexander Jannaeus’s invasion of the Seleucid Empire, during which he defeated its king, Antiochus Dionysus (reigned 87–84 BC), in battle. Josephus does not mention this incident. He only records Antiochus Dionysus’ later invasion of Judea when he burnt Alexander Jannaeus’s great wall. A series of rectangular and hexagonal-shaped stone foundations, commonly known as the ‘Jannaeus Line’, uncovered between the ancient port city of Aphek and modern Tel Aviv, are the likely remnants of this fortification. However, such a complex and lengthy defensive wall would have taken considerable time to construct. Alexander Jannaeus, having attacked Antiochus Dionysus earlier, likely expected a Seleucid invasion and began construction of this wall to protect his coastal holdings.40 As we have demonstrated, however, Atkinson’s insistence on accepting Josephus’ testimony of the related episode as historically reliable and even corroborated by archaeological finds actually rests on more than shaky ground.41 His reliance on Syncellus (1. 559),42 that suggests two military campaigns of Alexander Jannaeus, against Antiochus Dionysus and against the Tyrians, is hardly defensible, since there is no way to validate the historicity of Syncellus’ source. Or, in Bar-Kochva’s words: Syncellus I.559 mentions a siege of Tyre by Alexander Jannaeus, which is not recorded by any other source. Be the historicity of this information as it may, there is no reason to believe that Jannaeus made territorial gains in the neighbourhood of the great Phoenician cities. Ptolemaïs (Acre) and its chora, which were much closer to Judea proper, were not occupied by the Hasmoneans.43 The main lesson that may be learned from the case of the ‘Jannaeus/Yannai Line’ is that uncritical acceptance of Josephus’ historical account copied from other sources (such as Nicolaus of Damascus) or of Syncellus’ questionable testimony, may lead to potential misrepresentation of certain archaeological remains. At present, we tend to maintain our original proposal that the term ‘Yannai Line’ must be excluded from future scholarly 40

 Atkinson 2012, 149–50.  It is peculiar to find out that for Atkinson, Aphek, which is located at the perennial springs of the Yarqon river, is an ancient port city. 42  ‘Jannaios, also known as Alexander, was victorious in the war he prosecuted against Grypos’ son Antiochos, also known as Dionysos. He proceeded against the land of the Tyrians and besieged their Island’ (translated by Adler and Tuffin 2002, 355). 43  Bar-Kochva 1996, 103, n. 152. 41

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works, unless some archaeological discovery, more convincing than those described above comes to light. In contrast, Josephus’ own historical accounts regarding the events that took place in the eve of and during the First Jewish War, especially in the case of Galilee, seem to be (in the main), both historically and archaeologically corroborated.44 However, even in this case, caution is best, and each paragraph and topic in Josephus’ testimony should be assessed separately, with as few general assumptions and preconceptions as possible.45

BIBLIOGRAPHY Adler, W. and Tuffin, P. 2002: The Chronography of George Synkellos: A Byzantine Chronicle of Universal History from the Creation. Translated with Introduction and Notes (Oxford). Arav, R. 1989: Hellenistic Palestine: Settlement Patterns and City Planning, 337–31 B.C.E. (BAR International Series 485) (Oxford). Atkinson, K. 2007: ‘Representations of History in 4Q331 (4Qpaphistorical Text C), 4Q332 (4QHistorical Text D), 4Q333 (4QHistorical Text E), and 4Q468E (4QHistorical Text F): An Annalistic Calendar Documenting Portentous Events?’. Dead Sea Discoveries 14, 125–51. —. 2011: ‘The Historical Chronology of the Hasmonean Period in the War and Antiquities of Flavius Josephus: Separating Fact from Fiction’. In Mor, M., Stern, P. and Pastor, J. (eds.), Flavius Josephus: Interpretation and History (Journal for the Study of Judaism Suppl. 146) (Leiden/ Boston), 7–28. —. 2012: Queen Salome: Jerusalem’s Warrior Monarch of the First Century B.C.E. (Jefferson, NC). —. 2016: A History of the Hasmonean State: Josephus and Beyond (Jewish and Christian Texts in Contexts and Related Studies 23) (London). Aviam, M. 2002. ‘Yodefat/Jotapata: The Archaeology of the First Battle’. In Berlin, A.M. and Overman, J.A. (eds.), The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology (London/New York), 121–33. Bar-Kochva, B. 1974: ‘Notes on the Fortresses of Josephus in Galilee’. Israel Exploration Journal 24, 108–16. —. 1996: Pseudo Hecataeus, On the Jews: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora (Hellenistic Culture and Society 21) (Berkeley). —. 1999: ‘The Battle between Ptolemy Lathyrus and Alexander Jannaeus in the Jordan Valley and the Dating of the Scroll of the War of the Sons of Light’. Cathedra 93, 7–56 (in Hebrew; English summary at p. 181). Ben-David, I. 1999: ‘Bené Beraq, el-Waqf’. Ḥadashot Arkheologiyot – Excavations and Surveys in Israel 109, 96*. Berlin, A.M. 1997: ‘Between Large Forces: Palestine in the Hellenistic Period’. Biblical Archaeologist 60, 2–51. Bijovsky, G. 1998: ‘The Gush Ḥalav Hoard Reconsidered’. ‘Atiqot 35, 77–106. Dąbrowa, E. 2010: The Hasmoneans and Their State: A Study in History, Ideology, and the Institutions (Electrum 16) (Cracow). Elad, I. 2019: ‘Tel Aviv, Remez Street’. Hadashot Arkheologiyot – Excavations and Surveys in Israel 131 (https://www.hadashot-esi.org.il/Report_Detail_Eng.aspx?id=25559&mag_id=127: consulted 25.03.2020). Falls, C. 1930: Military Operations: Egypt and Palestine 2: From June 1917 to the End of the War, part 1 (London). Fantalkin, A. and Tal, O. 2003: ‘The ‘Yannai Line’ (BJ I, 99–100; AJ XIII, 390–91): Reality or Fiction?’. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 135, 108–23.

44

 Cf., for example, Bar-Kochva 1974; Tal, Tepper and Fantalkin 2000; Aviam 2002; Syon 2002.  As pointed out by Rappaport 1992, 100.

45

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—. 2009: ‘Navigating Between the Powers: Joppa and Its Vicinity in the 1st Millennium B.C.E.’. Ugarit-Forschungen 40, 225–76. —. 2015: Tell Qudadi: An Iron Age IIB Fortress on the Central Mediterranean Coast of Israel (with References to Earlier and Later Periods) (Colloquia Antiqua 15) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). Feldman, L.H. 1984: Josephus and Modern Scholarship (1937–1980) (Berlin/New York). Finkielsztejn, G. 2001: Chronologie détaillée et révisée des éponymes amphoriques rhodiens, de 270 à 108 av. J.-C. environ: premier bilan (BAR International Series 990) (Oxford). Glick, A. 2016: ‘Ramat Gan’. Hadashot Arkheologiyot – Excavations and Surveys in Israel 128 (http://www.hadashot-esi.org.il/report_detail_eng.aspx?id=25033&mag_id=124) (consulted 25.03.2020). Golan, D. 2009: ‘Bene Beraq, El-Waqf’. Hadashot Arkheologiyot – Excavations and Surveys in Israel 121 (http://www.hadashot-esi.org.il/Report_Detail_Eng.aspx?id=1267&mag_id=115) (consulted 25.03.2020). Grabbe, L.L. 2011: A History of the Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple Period 3: The Maccabaean Revolt, Hasmonaean Rule, and Herod the Great (175-4 BCE) (London). Grace, V.R. 1985: ‘The Middle Stoa Dated by Amphora Stamps’. Hesperia 54, 1–54. Hofeditz, U. 2011: ‘Die Jannäus-Linie: Ein Problemkomplex oder auf der Suche nach einer Hermeneutik des Flavius Josephus’. Biblische Notizen 150, 55–73. Isaac, B. 2014: ‘Ioppe: Introduction’. In Ameling, W., Cotton, H.M., Eck, W., Isaac, B., KushnirStein, A., Misgav, H., Price, J. and Yardeni, A. (eds.), Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae 3: South Coast 2161–2648 (Berlin), 19–31. Kaplan, J. 1951: ‘Excavations on the Yannay Line’. Bulletin of the Israel Exploration Society 16.1–2, 17–23 (in Hebrew; English summary at pp. I–II). —. 1953: ‘Archaeological Survey on the Left Bank of the Yarkon River’. Eretz-Israel 2, 157–60 (Z. Lif Memorial volume) (in Hebrew). —. 1955: ‘Exploration archéologique de Tel-Aviv-Jaffa’. Revue Biblique 62, 92–99. —. 1959: The Archaeology and History of Tel-Aviv–Jaffa (Tel Aviv) (in Hebrew). —. 1971: ‘The Yannai Line’. In Applebaum, S. (ed.), Roman Frontier Studies 1967 (The Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress Held at Tel Aviv) (Tel Aviv), 201–05. —. 1972: ‘The Archaeology and History of Tel Aviv-Jaffa’. Biblical Archaeologist 35, 66–95. —. 1992: ‘Bene-Berak’. The Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol. 1 (New York), 668. Kaplan, J. and Ritter-Kaplan, H. 1993: ‘Tel Aviv’. The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, vol. 4 (Jerusalem), 1451–57. Kasher, A. 1990: Jews and Hellenistic Cities in Eretz-Israel (Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 21) (Tübingen). Kletter, R. 2000: ‘Bené Braq, el-Waqf’. Hadashot Arkheologiyot – Excavations and Surveys in Israel 111, 37*–38*. Kochavi, M. 1975: ‘The First Two Seasons of Excavations at Aphek-Antipatris, Preliminary Report’. Tel Aviv 2, 17–42. —. 1989: Aphek-Antipatris: Five Thousand Years of History (Tel Aviv) (in Hebrew). Meshorer, Y. 1982: Ancient Jewish Coinage, 2 vols. (Dix Hills, NY). —. 2001: A Treasury of Jewish Coins from the Persian Period to Bar Kokhba (Jerusalem/Nyack, NY). Nicol, C.G. 1921: The Story of Two Campaigns: Official War History of the Auckland Mounted Rifles Regiment, 1914–1919 (Auckland). Powles, C.G. 1922: The New Zealanders in Sinai and Palestine (Auckland). —. (ed.) 1928: The History of the Canterbury Mounted Rifles 1914–1919 (Auckland). Rappaport, U. 1992: ‘How anti-Roman was the Galilee?’. In Levine, L.I. (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity (New York), 95–102. Seeman, C. 2013: Rome and Judea in Transition: Hasmonean Relations with the Roman Republic and the Evolution of the High Priesthood (American University Studies Ser. 7, Theology and Religion 325) (New York). Shachar, I. 2004: ‘The Historical and Numismatic Significance of Alexander Jannaeus’s Later Coinage as Found in Archaeological Excavations’. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 136.1, 5–33.

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Shaham, Z. and Ayalon, E. 1991: ‘Ramat Gan’. Excavations and Surveys in Israel 9, 173. Shatzman, I. 1991: The Armies of the Hasmonaeans and Herod (Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 25) (Tübingen). Syon, D. 2002: ‘Gamla: City of Refuge’. In Berlin, A.M. and Overman, J.A. (eds.), The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology (London/New York), 134–53. Tal, O. and Fantalkin, A. 2009: ‘The Region of Tel Aviv during the First Millennium BCE – Between Kingdoms and Empires’. In Gophna, R., Ayalon, E. and Bashkin-Yosef, N. (eds.), The Secret History of Tel Aviv (Tel Aviv/Jerusalem), 81–111 (in Hebrew). Tal, O. and Taxel, I. 2010: ‘A Re-Appraisal of the Archaeological Findings at Tel Ḥashash: On the archaeology of the Yarqon Estuary from Classical Times to Late Antiquity’. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 142, 95–126. Tal, O., Taxel, I. and Jackson-Tal, R.E. 2013: ‘Khirbet al-Ḥadra: More On Refuse Disposal Practices in Early Islamic Palestine and Their Socio-Economic Implications’. Strata: The Bulletin of the Anglo-Israel Archaeological Society 31, 117–48. Tal, O., Tepper, Y. and Fantalkin, A. 2000. ‘Josephus’ fortifications at Beersheba (Galilee)?’. In Schwartz, J., Amar, Z. and Ziffer, I. (eds.), Jerusalem and Eretz Israel (Tel Aviv), 155–63 (in Hebrew; English summary at p. 107*). Tcherikover, V. 1937: ‘Palestine under the Ptolemies (A Contribution to the Study of the Zenon Papyri)’. Mizraim 4–5, 9–90. Wacholder, B.Z. 1989: ‘Josephus and Nicolaus of Damascus’. In Feldman, L.H. and Hata, G. (eds.), Josephus, the Bible, and History (Detroit/Leiden), 147–72.

WANDERING SAMIANS IN THE WEST Flavia FRISONE

ABSTRACT Samian activity in the Greek West is of less relevance than that elsewhere. They were, however, involved in some secondary colonising activity, among which was the settlement near the Opician Cumae, which they called Dicaearchia. What was going on at the time to bring this about? The engagement of Samians in Crete, southern Italy and Sicily during the last quarter of the 6th and in the first decade of the 5th century outwardly involved incidental and isolated diasporas, while in fact they were exploiting long-lasting forms of mobility which included (more or less) enduring settlements and ‘colonisations’.

In contrast with their actions in the Aegean and the Levant, Samians played no significant role in the Western apoikia.1 They were apparently active colonisers in two areas of their earliest interest abroad: Cilicia and the Propontis. In the former, indeed, alleged Samian outposts were placed perhaps at the end of the 8th or beginning of the 7th century BC at Kelenderis and Nagidos, in a coast strongly interested in the traffic with Cyprus.2 In the Propontis, at the end of the 7th century BC, Samians competed with Milesians, Megarians and Lesbians to establish their settlements of Perinthos (ca. 602 BC), Bisanthe and Heraion Teichos. In Italy, Sicily and further west, however, they did not participate in the primary colonisation of the 8th, 7th and beginning of the 6th century BC. It seems rather that they were involved in some peculiar experiences of secondary colonisation in Sicily and Magna Graecia, insofar as sources connect them to a couple of secondary settlements promoted by Greek poleis which were colonial foundations in their turn.3 The most famous episode occurred after the defeat of the Ionian Revolt, but also around the last quarter of the 6th century a phantasmic group of Samian refugees escaping Polycrates’ tyranny is said to have settled in one epineion of the Opician Cumae, which they called Dicaearchia,4 whose evocative name was assumed by some scholars as a sign of their Pythagorean leaning.5 Both of these experiences are considered to have been consequences of dramatic domestic and external political changes undegone by the Samian polis. Those transformations 1  On Samian colonial enterprises in Archaic times, see Shipley 1987, 41–42, 47–48, 50–52. On East Greek colonisations, see in general Frisone and Lombardo 2007, 214–15 (Lombardo) with references. 2  Pomponius Mela De chorogr. 1. 13. 77; Barron 1961, 59–60, 64–65; Shipley 1987, 41–42. For both sites, see Hansen and Nielsen 2004, 1218–19, nos. 1008 and 1010 (Keen and Fischer-Hansen). 3  Lombardo and Frisone 2009; Frisone 2023. 4  Strabo 5. 4. 6 C 245; Eusebius Hierom. 104 Helm ad Ol. L–LXII (544–529 BC) 2; Stephanus of Byzantium s.v. Ποτιόλοι and see Stephanus s.v. Δικαιάρχεια. Berard (1957, 292) describes Dicaearchia as an epoikìa to enforce Cumae in the area of Campi Flegrei. 5  Berard 1957, 61; Adinolfi 1977; Accame 1980, 37; Talamo 1988–89, 90–91; Osborne 2009, 262.

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are believed to have had not only direct and indirect implications for its maritime dynamism but also to have caused Samos’ inclusion in some way in the scenario of crisis which gave rise to the Ionian ‘refugee’ movements in the West.6 This paper will show that, on the contrary, if we place these relocations of Samians in the wider context of Mediterranean mobility, in which they were still involved at the end of the Archaic period,7 they will appear in a very different light. To understand this issue it is important to gain a broader perspective on Samian affairs at the historical turning point of the third quarter of the 6th century BC. Apparently in the same years that saw Phocaea and other poleis seek an escape from the Persian domination of Ionia, Samos was engaged in building up its maritime power, which eventually resulted in the well-known thalassocracy of Polycrates.8 As scholars have recently reaffirmed, such seapower had little to do with the idea of maritime imperialism which Herodotus, Thucydides and other ancient sources who recorded lists of thalassocracies had in mind.9 Well before the realisation of the Athenian model of seapower, as Constantakopoulou has shown,10 it was rather a strong concentration of means to control the insular network of the Aegean and its more distant connexions, including an explicit relation with piracy, or sylia, as attested in literary and epigraphic sources.11 Therefore, two points of some relevance for our analysis are to be considered here: how far ranged the scope of the sea connexions Samians were involved in at that time, and how did their approach to that network change under the tyrant(s)? On the second point, as Osborne has rightly pointed out,12 we should not expect a radical transformation. As to the first question we will consider some of the stories provided by our most important source on Samos in Archaic times, Herodotus, who dedicated three very articulated logoi to events, places and people concerning Samos.13 As many scholars have remarked, Herodotus enriched his narrative with details gathered during his long stay on the island, which gave him access to direct sources, family memories 6  For the ancient topos of a mass move of the Ionians, see Asheri 1989, 362; recently also Garland 2014, 57–66. For Samians as refugees, see Berard 1957, 259; Gras 2000, 130; Lombardo 2000, 189–90. Literary sources are collected in Frisone 2000. As regards the Samians in Zancle, Consolo Langher (1996, 399–401) describes a mass escape of propertied men with their goods and chattels. In this line also Garland 2014, 65. 7  A detailed study of Samian emporìa between the 7th and 5th centuries BC and for its relevance in the western Mediterranean in Frisone 2022. 8  On the debated issue of the chronology of Polycrates’ tyranny and possibly of other Samian tyrants in the 6th century, see White 1954; Barron 1964; Shipley 1987, 70–80; Asheri and Medaglia 1990, 256–59. Mitchell (1975, 79–82) has shown that the synchronism of the 16 years’ sea power of Polycrates with the reign of Cambyses (530–522 BC) is based on Thucydides’ misunderstanding (1. 13. 6) of the essential factors which led the tyrant’s fatal alliance with Persia as well as on his schematic knowledge of earlier thalassocracies. Although the synchronism Polycrates/Cambyses remains a strong historiographical element, as Herodotus’ narrative confirms (Immerwahr 1957, 316), a longer duration of the tyrant’s reign, from the 540s until his fall in 522 BC, is highly probable (Shipley 1987, 80). 9  On the Thalassocracy List, see White 1954, 39–40 with earlier bibliography; Forrest 1969; Miller 1971. On the Samian model of domination over the sea, see recently Deremaix 2014. 10  Constantakopoulou 2007, 19, 47–49. 11  Mitchell 1975; Shipley 1987, 94–96; Deremaix 2014. Sources for sylia in Samos: Anonymous Horoi FGrHist 544 F 3; ML (1988 ed.) nos. 16, 30–31 (perhaps later). On the significance of the personal names containing syl-, see Garlan 1978, 3. 12  Osborne 2009, 261. 13  Herodotus 3. 39–60, 120–125, 139–149. And see also the shorter account of Colaeus at 4. 152.

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and local traditions as well as allowing him to see places and monuments.14 It is equally well known, however, that these Herodotean chapters, which have attracted a sizeable critical debate, should not be regarded as an impartial informative account of the facts but as an historiographical construction that reflects the nature of Herodotus’ sources15 as well as both his historiographical intents16 and narrative technique.17 Bearing these precautions in mind when we consider his various accounts of the Samians, let us start with some chapters of his Book 3, from 44 to 59, in which he tells the complicated adventures of a strange group of Samian pirates. At the beginning of the story (3. 44) we are informed that these men were sent by Polycrates to Cambyses, in 40 ships, at the time of the Persian attack against Amasis and that he had requested Cambyses not to send them back. These men, after sailing as far as Karpathus, the limits of Polycrates’ area of influence, decided to sail no further and returned to Samos where they clashed with the tyrant. Rejected, they turned to Sparta, aiming that this powerful city send troops against Polycrates (3. 45. 2). After some difficulties (3. 46), they eventually obtained what they sought, probably in the name of the ties of aristocratic friendship which had long connected the elites of both cities and which in the circumstances were reinforced (3. 47. 1; 3. 54).18 But Herodotus also affirms that the expedition was encouraged by the Corinthians, who had their own reasons to attack Samos, quite different from those adduced by the Spartans and related to Polycrates’ piracy (3. 48. 1). They seem indeed hostile to the Samians for their good relationships with Corcyra. And this might mean, in my opinion, that a connexion which had probably given impulse to the navigations of the Samians toward Italy, the Tyrrhenian Sea and the Adriatic had put Corinth in jeopardy of finding these fearsome seafarers and their ships in a sea loch crucial to their interests, and as friends of their bitter enemy. The Spartans, however, failed in taking Samos (3. 54–56), and the Samians who had driven them against Polycrates, when it became clear that they were to be left alone, sailed away too (3. 57. 1) and started a new common enterprise. As they were in need of money, they assaulted and pillaged the very prosperous Siphnians (3. 57–58). Then they turned against Hermione, and the narrative suggests they could have been acting on behalf of or in agreement with the Troezenians. Indeed, Herodotus writes that when, instead of money, they received from Hermione a little island near to the coast of the Peloponnese, Hydra, the Samians gave it to the Troezenians (3. 59. 1). They themselves rather set sail for an incursion against the Zacynthians whom they would drive away from their island (3. 59. 1). In this case, as they were aiming at a pivotal place for navigation in the Ionian Sea and toward the Gulf of Corinth, it is not unlikely that they were following external direction. Corinth, which had supported their requests to Sparta for help against Polycrates, might be a candidate for this role. The Samians however, changed their mind and settled in Cydonia, in western Crete facing the Peloponnese, where they flourished 14  Mitchell 1975, 75–76 and nn. 3–7; Tölle-Kastenbein 1976, 60–82, 105. With a rather different perspective Irwin 2009, 396–97. 15  Mitchell 1975; Cartledge 1982, 246–48; Murray 2001. 16  Immerwahr 1957. 17  Murray 2001, 21; Osborne 2002, 504–05; Forsdyke 2002, 524–28. 18  Pindar Pythian 5. 73–81; Herodotus 4. 145–150; cf. Strabo 10. 5. 1, C 484. Nafissi 1980–81, 202–03, 208–09; Cartledge 1982, 258–59, who dates that friendship back to the ‘Tyrtaic war’ against the Messenians; 2002, 93, 110.

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for five years, as stressed by Herodotus who elsewhere calls them ktistai (founders) of the town (3. 44. 1; 3. 59. 2), whence they were finally expelled in the sixth year by the Aeginetans who had defeated them at sea (3. 59. 3) and seized this important Cretan station.19 The Samians were enslaved and the Aeginetans made an offering of the prows of their ships in the temple of Athena Aphaia, the main sanctuary of their polis. The dedication, however, as well as some considerations which Herodotus mentions concerning the ‘political’ significance that the Aeginetans attached to the victory as revenge for an earlier Samian offence (3. 59. 4), suggest that they did not consider those in Cydonia as a group of misfits occasionally carrying out piracy. We do not know whether all of the defeated Samians were enslaved or if some of them escaped. Herodotus, though he gathered most of his information about this in Aegina, probably learnt some details about these expatriates also in Samos, where memories of their vicissitudes were probably maintained within their family contexts.20 It is an intriguing coincidence, however, that about the same time as the beginning of this story some Samians appeared in Magna Graecia as ‘founders’ of Dicaearchia.21 Two particular aspects seem to be quite interesting from our point of view: first that the place where the Samians established themselves already existed – as Gras has noted22 – as a port of trade (epineion) near Cumae. Second, but no less important, Cumae was then under the rule of the tyrant Aristodemus Malakos, who is known to have employed mercenaries and troops of epikouroi widely, both against hostile Etruscan neighbours and to enforce his domestic power.23 In this respect the story seems to be remarkably similar to that of the Samians who arrived in Zancle after the defeat of the Ionians at Lade in 494 BC. Concerning them Herodotus (6. 22–6. 23. 1–6; 6. 24. 2) is again our main source, although his account is confirmed by other authors.24 Also in 494 BC these Samians, who Herodotus specifies were oi ti echontes (those who had properties), are depicted as dissidents in contrast with the tyrant Aiakes. They are represented by Herodotus in a favourable light, which reflects, according to some scholars, the opinion of Samian aristocrats on whose familiar memories the historian’s tale is based.25 But it is easy to observe that they are depicted in the best perspective also later, when they are said to have opposed the will of the powerful tyrant of Gela, refusing to slay the 300 most eminent Zanclaeans that he had given into their hands (6. 23. 4). This version blatantly in favour of the Samians seems to have the same origin as other sympathetic expressions 19

 Hansen and Nielsen 2004, 1170–71, no. 968 (Perlman).  Forsdyke 2002, 527. 21  Whereas the adventures of those Samian rebels could be dated around the years 525/4–520/19 BC, it is particularly difficult to specify an exact chronology for Dicaearchia. Sources (see n. 4) might suggest various years from 531 to 528 or 521 BC: Berard 1957, 75, n. 57; Barron 1964, 228, n. 2; Mitchell 1975, 87, n. 57. Berard (1957, 61, 75, n. 58), who firmly dates the foundation to 531 BC, that is, in his idea, two years later the putsch which gave Polycrates the power (but see above n. 8), drastically rejects the hypothesis of Pais (1894, 309–10) that these were the Samians from Cydonia. For Samian foundation see above n. 5 and Luraghi 1994, 87 and n. 39; Lombardo 2000, 214–16. Archaeological remains pertaining to the Archaic period are so small in number on the spot that Zevi 1993 even doubts they could refer to Dicaearchia. 22  Gras 1986. 23  Luraghi 1994, 105–18. 24  Thucydides 6. 4. 5–6; Aristotle Politics 5. 1303a. On the Samians in Zancle, see Luraghi 1994, 130–44; Nenci 1998, 189–92, both with references. 25  Mitchell 1975, 75, n. 7, 91. 20

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of Herodotus, but some details, such as those concerning the agreements with Hippocrates (6. 23. 3), hint at an informed source and indicate that, as in the case of Cydonia, the Samians in Zancle did not break their connexions with their mother-city.26 These propertied Samians were also well provided with ships and means, so they struck the route towards the West, which at that moment must have seemed a path of opportunity for the Ionians, as we can see also in the case of Dionysius of Phocaea (6. 17). He had been commander of the Ionian fleet at Lade, sailing to Sicily after the defeat and finding there a base – in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea, as some scholars have suggested – to set himself up as a pirate, robbing Carthaginians and Tyrrhenians. The Samians in their turn seem to have opted for an apoikia that they would realise in a peculiar sense, as we shall see. They indeed accepted the invitation of the Zancleans who, possibly before the disaster of Lade,27 had called the Ionians to join them to found a ‘city of Ionians’ in Sicily, at the Kale Aktè (Fair Coast), in that part of the island which looks towards the Tyrrhenian Sea. Stopping off on their voyage to Sicily, however, these Samians were persuaded by Anassialos of Rhegion to seize Zancle itself while the city was deserted by its men. Hippocrates – the tyrant of Gela, nominally the Zancleans’ powerful ally, in fact controller of the city by means of a client-ruler – betrayed them to the Samians, who thus obtained Zancle. They remained in possession of it for five years, and in that time they enjoyed an autonomy that was clearly the result of the terms of the sworn pact they had exchanged with Hippocrates (6. 23. 4–5). As Luraghi has stressed, from the terms of the agreement as Herodotus describes them – namely that Hippocrates should take for his share half of the moveable goods and slaves in the city, and all that was in the country – we can see that the tyrant of Gela was not interested in direct control of Zancle, but he wanted to get money.28 For their part the Samians obtained control of a wonderful port (originally, as one can remember, a cove of lestai: Thucydides 6. 4. 5), open to trade, which they now targeted less on Sicily but more widely, as demonstrated by the choice of the weight of their famous coinage (the silver tetradrachm).29 Like the Samians in Cydonia, who had built temples and sanctuaries even in the short time of their success (3. 59. 2), in such a strange situation the occupants of Zancle acted not only as seafarers and warriors, but as a polis (in the sense of a unanimous and organised group of men able to secure themselves defence and freedom: see Alcaeus 427 L-P; Thucydides 7. 4–7). The coins they struck represent them well: the lion’s scalp on the obverse, well known as a Samian type, tells of their origin; the typical prow of their famous ship, the Samaina, on reverse, speaks about their identity.30 But like their fellow citizens in Cydonia before them, the fortune of the Samians in Zancle was also short-lived: a few years later, as we learn from Thucydides (6. 4. 5–6),

26

 Mitchell 1975, 88, n. 63.  Luraghi 1994, 128, 131–34, 137, 207; contra Nenci 1998, 190. 28  Luraghi 1994, 144–45. With substantal differences Consolo Langher 1996, 403–09. 29  On Samian coinage in Zancle, identified by Robinson 1946, see also Barron 1966, 40–43; Consolo Langher 1996, 403–06; Caccamo Caltabiano 1993. The Samians struck their coins on the Euboian–Attic standard. On some a retrograde letter of the sequence A to E probably represented one year’s coinage, and thereafter has been hypothesised that the letter sequence corresponds to the years of Samian occupation of Zancle: Kraay 1976, 19. 30  The lion’s scalp and the connexion with Heracles hints at the cult of Hera at Samos but also identified the group as warriors and stresses the connexion with local cults: Frisone 2017. 27

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they were expelled by Anassilaos, the tyrant of Rhegion. During this short period, however, the markers of their identity, their silver coins, were accepted and circulated in a wide trade circuit, up to the farthest points of Mediterranean trade, as attested by the Asyut hoard, collected in Egypt around 15 years later (ca. 475 BC).31 To conclude, the sources covering a period of about 35 years, between the last quarter of the 6th and the first decade of the 5th century BC, show a recurrent model of Samian presences abroad. We see, from the different stories distilled from Herodotus, that at different times in that short span, various organised groups of Samian males, provided with ships, means and relationships, displayed their ability to exploit the opportunities that circumstances were offering them, to build up their confidence, increase their connexions and gain relevant positions abroad. It seems that they were able to deal with poleis as well as with powerful autocrats and to forge agreements and formal alliances with them. They had the capability to occupy a settlement, maintain their domain and govern it, but at the same time they maintained their contacts with their island of provenance. In short, these supposed Samian exiles or refugees of the end of the 6th and beginning of the 5th century BC seem to have conducted themselves in the same way as those individual groups of men, provided with their own ships and well organised in contingents, which for centuries moved around the Mediterranean, from Ionia to Egypt and the Levant, in the northern Aegean and in the farther West to trade and pillage, to fight and create new settlements.32 It is well known that they are often difficult to identify unambiguously. Actually, they were, in time, travellers, raiders and pirates;33 they could transport and trade their goods as well as making available their experience in warfare, being engaged like epikouroi. These men moved autonomously but they usually belonged to the higher ranks of society at home and were partakers of a widely recognised code of ‘aristocratic’ behaviour abroad. This latter aspect is well exeplified by two of these groups of men in the western Mediterranean in the 6th century: Pentathlos the Cnidian, ‘descendant of Heracles’ and victor at Olympia, and his companions (Diodorus 5. 9. 4), and the Spartan prince Dorieus with his group of men (Herodotus 5. 42–5. 44. 1). Both of them, the first in around 580/79 BC, the second in 510 BC, experienced unfortunate involvements in local wars and more or less durable settlements in Sicily and elsewhere. Samians, on their side, probably acted in some of the best known events of Archaic Greek history.34 It is well known that many of them served under arms in Egypt and in the Levant, together with other mercenaries from Ionia and Caria; either they had come autonomously, like those famous ‘bronze men’ who first fought in Egypt under Psammetichus I (Herodotus 2. 152. 4–5), or had been despatched by tyrants like Polycrates, as we have seen above.35 31  Price and Waggoner 1975, 26–28, 89–90; Caccamo Caltabiano 2000, 298–99. The settlement where the treasury was found is placed in internal Egypt, 400 km south from Cairo. 32  Giangiulio 1996, 515–17. 33  The model has been clarified by Mele 1979 and Tandy 1997. See also Crielaard 2012. 34  Forrest 1968, 36 (Lelantine and First Messenian War); Cartledge 1982, 258–59 (Second Messenian War); Shipley 1987, 37–38, 46 (Lelantine). 35  Herodotus 3. 39. See Braun 1982, 44–52, with references (especially 36–37 for sources); Boardman 1999, 135–60. See recently on Carian mercenaries in Egypt Agut-Labordère 2012; Mariaud 2013.

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In at least one example it seems that they preserved in time their original organisation and they were recognisable as a group after generations. This is the case of the ‘possessors’ of the city of Oasis, an establishment in the desert seven days’ march from Thebes on the way to Siwa.36 According to Herodotus (3. 26. 1–2), they were pretending to be Samians and still reconnected to an ‘Aeschrionian phyle’, possibly a military unit named from a true Samian name, Aischron.37 Probably they landed in this remote place in southwestern Egypt as mercenaries, be that at the time of Psammetichus II’s campaign against the Nubians or during the reign of Amasis, who received military assistance from Polycrates. Those Samians had changed themselves into islanders amidst a sea of sand, and were still occupying what they had named the ‘Island of the Blessed’ at the time king Cambyses conquered Egypt.38 So, coming back to the West and to the experiences in which groups of Samians were involved in Crete, southern Italy and Sicily during the last quarter of the 6th and the first decade of the 5th century, we can conclude that they also were following a similar pattern. Outwardly involved in incidental and isolated diasporas, they were in fact exploiting the long-lasting forms of mobility which included (more or less) durable settlements and ‘colonisations’. Furthermore, interestingly, they seem to be framed in similar social contexts in the Late Archaic period to a century before. This probably reflects the long-lasting structures of the conservative aristocracies which dominated Ionia and the Aegean islands,39 Samos among them, forces that would remain unchanged at heart even with the new organisation imposed by the Persians and that would wait until the end of the Persian wars and to the great transformation led by Athens to be replaced.40

BIBLIOGRAPHY Accame, S. 1980: ‘Pitagora e la fondazione di Dicearchia’. Miscellanea Greca e Romana 7, 5–44. Adinolfi, R. 1977: ‘Ricerche sulla fondazione e sul periodo greco di Dicearchia’. Puteoli 1, 7–26. Agut-Labordère, D. 2012: ‘Plus que des mercenaires! L’intégration des hommes de guerre grecs au service de la monarchie saïte’. Pallas 89, 293–306. Asheri, D. 1989: Erodoto, Le Storie: Libro I, La Lidia e Persia (Milan). Asheri, D. and Medaglia, S. 1990: Erodoto, Le Storie: Libro III, La Persia (Milan). Aubet, M.E. 1987: Tyro y las colonias fenicias de Occidente (Barcelona). Bakker, E.J., de Jong, I.J.F. and van Wees, H. (eds.) 2002: Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden/ Boston). Barron, J.P. 1961: The History of Samos to 439 BC (Dissertation, Oxford). —. 1964: ‘The sixth-century tyranny at Samos’. The Classical Quarterly n.s. 14, 210–29. —. 1966: The Silver Coins of Samos (London). Bérard, J. 1957: La Colonisation grecque de l’Italie méridionale et de la Sicile dans l’antiquité, 2nd ed. (Publications de la Faculté des lettres de Paris 4) (Paris). 36  Braun 1982, 48; Asheri and Medaglia 1990, 243–44. The settlement was an oasis or caravan station in the Libyan desert towards Siwa, generally identified with el-Kahrga about 200 km west of Thebes and 650 km from Siwa. See Hansen and Nielsen 2004, 1240, no. 1024 (Austen). 37  Shipley 1987, 106, no. 19. 38  Shipley (1987, 106) suggests that these ‘Samians of the Aeschronian tribe’ arrived in Lybia among the mercenaries gathered in Samos by Arkesiaos III of Cyrene (Herodotus 4. 162–164) but this seems in contrast with the chronology Herodotus alludes to. 39  Frisone and Lombardo 2007, 210–15 (Lombardo); Corsaro 1996, 27–36. 40  Davies 1996, 135–50.

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Boardman, J. 1999: The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Colonies and Trade, 4th ed. (London). Braun, T.F.R.G. 1982: ‘The Greeks in Egypt’. CAH III.3, 32–56. Caccamo Caltabiamo, M. 1993: La monetazione di Messina: con le emissioni di Rhegion dell’età della tirannide (Antike Münzen und geschnittene Steine 13) (Berlin/New York). —. 2000: ‘Circolazione monetaria’. In Magna Grecia e Oriente Mediterraneo prima dell’età ellenistica (Atti del Trentanovesimo Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 1–5 ottobre 1999) (Taranto), 292–327. Cartledge, P. 1982: ‘Sparta and Samos: A Special Relationship?’. The Classical Quarterly, 32.2, 243–65. —. 2002: Sparta and Laconia: A Regional History, 1300–365 BC, 2nd ed. (London). Consolo Langher, S.N. 1996: Siracusa e la Sicilia greca tra età arcaica ed alto ellenismo (Biblioteca dell’Archivio storico messinese 23; Studi superiori NIS. Storia antica 1) (Messina). Constantakopoulou, C. 2007: The Dance of the Islands: Insularity, Networks, the Athenian Empire and the Aegeaan World (Oxford). Corsaro, M. 1996: ‘I Greci d’Asia’. In Settis, S. (ed.), I Greci: Storia, Cultura, Arte, Società, vol. 2.2 (Turin), 27–59. Crielaard, J.P. 2012: ‘Hygrà keleuthà. Maritime Matters and the Ideology of Seafaring in the Greek Epic Tradition’. In Alle origini della Magna Grecia: Mobilità, migrazioni, fondazioni (Atti del Cinquantesimo Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 1–4 ottobre 2010) (Taranto), 135–57. Davies, J.K. 1996: ‘Sparta e l’area peloponnesiaca. Atene e il dominio del mare’. In Settis, S. (ed.), I Greci: Storia, Cultura, Arte, Società, vol. 2.2 (Turin), 109–61. Deramaix, A. 2014: ‘Une thalassocratie samienne au VIe s. a.C.?’. In Bonnin, G. and Le Quéré, E. (eds.), Pouvoirs, îles et mer, Formes et modalités de l’hégémonie dans les Cyclades antiques (VIIe s. a.C.–IIIe s. p.C.) (Scripta Antiqua 64) (Bordeaux), 25–44. Forrest, W.G. 1968: A History of Sparta 950–192 BC (London). —. 1969: ‘Two Chronographic Notes’. The Classical Quarterly 19, 95–110. Forsdyke, S. 2002: ‘Greek History, 525–480 BC’. In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 521– 49. Frisone, F. 2000: ‘Appendice le fonti letterarie’ to Lombardo 2000, 224–77. —. 2017: ‘“Tirando il dio per la giacchetta…”. Eracle e la Sicilia antica fra Calcidesi, Dori e altri’. In Congiu, M., Miccichè, C. and Modeo, S. (eds.), Eracle in Sicilia. Oltre il mito: arte, storia, archeologia (Caltanissetta), 137–61. —. 2022: ‘From emporia to “diaspora”? The Samians in Western Mediterranean (7th–5th centuries BC)’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Ionians in the West and East (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘Ionians in the East and West’, Empúries/L’Escala, Spain, 26–29 October, 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 27) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 469–91. —. 2023: ‘Secondary Colonisation’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, vol. 3 (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). Frisone, F. and Lombardo, M. 2007: ‘Periferie? Sicilia, Magna Grecia, Asia Minore’. In Giangiulio M. (ed.), Storia d’Europa e del Mediterraneo: Il mondo antico 2. La Grecia 3: Grecia e Mediterraneo dall’VIII sec. a.C. all’età delle guerre persiane (Rome), 177–25. Garlan, Y. 1978: ‘Signification historique de la piraterie grecque’. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 4, 1–16. Garland, R. 2014: Wandering Greeks: The Ancient Greek Diaspora from the Age of Homer to the Death of Alexander the Great (Cambridge). Giangiulio, M. 1996: ‘Avventurieri, mercanti, coloni, mercenari. Mobilità umana e circolazione di risorse nel Mediterraneo arcaico’. In Settis, S. (ed.), I Greci: Storia, Cultura, Arte, Società, vol. 2.1 (Turin), 497–525. Gras, M. 1986: ‘Il Golfo di Napoli e il Tirreno arcaico’. In Neapolis (Atti del Venticinquesimo Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 3–7 ottobre 1985) (Taranto), 11–35. —. 2000: ‘Commercio e scambi tra Oriente e Occidente’. In Magna Grecia e Oriente Mediterraneo prima dell’età ellenistica (Atti del Trentanovesimo Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 1–5 ottobre 1999) (Taranto), 125–64.

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Hansen, M.H. and Nielsen, T.H. (eds.) 2004: An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis: An Investigation Conducted by The Copenhagen Polis Centre for the Danish National Research Foundation (Oxford). Immerwahr, H.R. 1957: ‘The Samian Stories of Herodotus’. The Cassical Journal 52, 312–22. Irwin, E. 2009: ‘Herodotus and Samos: Personal or Political?’. Classical World 102, 395–416. Kraay, C.M. 1976: Archaic and Classical Greek Coins (London). Lombardo, M. 2000: ‘Profughi e coloni dell’Asia Minore in Magna Grecia (VII–V sec. a.C.)’. In Magna Grecia e Oriente Mediterraneo prima dell’età ellenistica (Atti del Trentanovesimo Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 1–5 ottobre 1999) (Taranto), 189–277. Lombardo, M. and Frisone, F. (eds.) 2009: Colonie di colonie: Fondazioni subcoloniali greche fra colonizzazione e colonialismo (Atti del convegno internazionale, Lecce, 22–24 giugno 2006) (Università del Salento, Dipartimento di beni culturali 16) (Galatina). Luraghi, N. 1994: Tirannidi arcaiche in Sicilia e in Magna Grecia da Panezio di Leontini alla caduta dei Dinomenidi (Studi e testi 3) (Florence). Mariaud, O. 2013: ‘De Siris à Saqqarah. Remarques sur les modalités d’installation et les processus d’intégration des Ioniens et Cariens en Méditerranée archaïque’. In Delrieux, F. and Mariaud, O. (eds.), Communautés nouvelles dans l’antiquité grecque: Mouvements, intégrations et représentations (Sociétés, religions, politiques 24) (Chambéry), 37–61. Miller, M. 1971: The Thalassocracies: Studies in Chronography II (Albany, NY). Mitchell, B.M. 1975: ‘Herodotus and Samos’. JHS 95, 75–91. Murray, O. 2001: ‘Herodotus and Oral History’. In Luraghi, N. (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus (Oxford), 16–44. Nafissi, M. 1980–81: ‘A proposito degli Aigheidai: grandi ghéne ed emporia nei rapporti SpartaCirene’. Annali Facoltà di Lettere Università di Perugia 18, 183–213. Nenci, G. 1998: Erodoto, Le Storie: Libro VI, La battaglia di Maratona (Milan). Osborne, R. 2002: ‘Archaic Greek History’. In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 497–520. —. 2009: Greece in the Making, 1200–479 BC, 2nd. ed. (London). Pais, E. 1894: Storia della Sicilia e della Magna Grecia (Storia d’Italia dai tempi più antichi sino alle guerre Puniche 1) (Turin/Palermo). Price, M. and Waggoner, N. 1975: Archaic Greek Coinage: The Asyut Hoard (London). Robinson, E.S.G. 1946: ‘Rhegion, Zankle-Messana and the Samians’. JHS 66, 13–20. Shipley, G. 1987: A History of Samos 800–188 BC (Oxford). Talamo, C. 1988–89: ‘Intorno a Dicearchia’. Puteoli 12–13, 87–93. Tandy, D.W. 1997: Warriors and Traders: The Power of the Market in Early Greece (Classics and Contemporary Thought 5) (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London). Tölle-Kastenbein, R. 1976: Herodot und Samos (Bochum). White, M.E. 1954: ‘The duration of the Samian tyranny’. JHS 74, 36–43. Zevi, F. 1993: ‘Da Dicearchia a Puteoli: “La città del governo giusto”’. In Zevi, F. (ed.), Puteoli (Naples), 9–15.

CERAUNUS, CHRESTUS AND OTHERS: ‘DOUBLE-LAYER’ EPITHETS?* Oleg GABELKO

ABSTRACT This article discusses two rather rare epithets, Ceraunus (‘Thunderbolt’) and Chrestus (‘the Good’), which several Hellenistic rulers possessed. The first one is admitted for the son of Ptolemy I and Eurydice, who for a short time (281–279 BC) established himself on the Macedonian throne, and for the king Seleucus III (225–222 BC). The bearers of the second nickname were the younger brother, namesake and co-ruler of Mithridates VI Eupator (apparently killed by him), as well as Socrates, the half-brother of the last king of Bithynia, Nicomedes IV, whom Eupator used in the struggle for domination of Bithynia and then eliminated ca. 90 BC. Both of these nicknames are distinguished, first of all, by their peculiar character, ‘intermediate’ between official throne epithets and informal sobriquets; secondly, by their seemingly very likely hidden implication with ironic connotations. So, the nickname Ceraunus which, according to the most adequate explanation (Memnon FGrHist 434 F. 8), does not have a positive meaning, could be given to Ptolemy after and as a result of the unexpected (‘like a bolt from the blue’) and treacherous murder by him of his benefactor Seleucus I Nicator, which action not only provided power and authority to the murderer, but rather contributed to the posthumous glory of those who were killed. Seleucus III, who, according to Appian, was sickly and poor and unable to command the army (Syr. 66), could receive this nickname from his soldiers, who mocked his slowness. As for Socrates, he was called Chrestus personally by Mithridates Eupator (Granius Licinianus 35. 30. 5–6 Flemisch), who possibly added a simple and cynical sense of ‘useful’ to this nickname. The consideration of these topics not only provides an opportunity to examine in more detail specific episodes of political history, but also helps us to understand better some important features of monarchic ideology and social psychology in Hellenistic society.

I have known Gocha Tsetskhladze since, horribile dictu, 1986 – probably much longer than most of the other contributors to this volume. Then a freshman of the Faculty of History at Kazan University, I arrived at the University of Kharkov to attend my first academic conference and met him: he was a fifth-year student and one of the organisers of the event. What impressed me most was his vitality, knowledge and erudition, sense of humour and, of course, inimitable Georgian accent, over which, as it proved later, neither time nor geography has any power. In the years to follow we saw each other rather infrequently but we always enjoyed those meetings – there was probably a feeling of returning to our remote youth for a short moment… And I would like to wish our friend * I would like to express my gratitude to Y.N. Kuzmin, S.V. Obukhov, A.I. Solopov, A.V. Unzhakov and A.L. Zelinskiy for their assistance in the work on this subject. As always, any inaccuracies, errors and disputable conclusions remain my own.

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Gocha – now a wise and experienced specialist and world-class authority, a prominent historian and archaeologist, a distinguished organiser of editorial activity and research – to stay young at heart! * * * The chief objects of this research are the epithets Ceraunus (‘Thunderbolt’) and Chrestos (‘the Good’) belonging to the Hellenistic rulers. Their peculiarity lies in the fact that, although they possess a seemingly positive emotional colouring (the first one possible, the second one quite clear), on closer inspection, it appears that they may reveal a certain covert meaning. Historiography knows similar examples, although not very numerous, of purely informal nicknames belonging to political figures of the Hellenistic period,1 and they will also be touched upon in this paper; the case of these epicleses, however, is somewhat more difficult. As we see it, the ambiguous episodes in the political career of each bearer of the informal names Ceraunus and Chrestus make one treat these sobriquets from a rather untraditional perspective. The nickname of Ceraunus was borne by two Hellenistic rulers – by the eldest son of Ptolemy I Soter and Eurydice, Antipater’s daughter, who became king of Macedon in 281–279 BC, and by king Seleucus III (225–222 BC). To understand the nature of this nickname, it should, in the first place, be noted that the use of Ceraunus as a given name was known, but rather scarce in the Greek world. According to Justin/Trogus (16. 5. 11) and the Suda (s.v. Κλέαρχος), it was the name of the son of Klearchos, the tyrant of Heraclea Pontica;2 and in the Roman historian’s opinion, it was ‘mocking the gods’3 as it served to support the tyrant’s claim to divine origin4 (here, however, we ought to make allowances for Justin’s inclination to moralise). Apart from the Heraclean examples, its use as a forename has been attested, to my knowledge, only twice – in Rhegion (in the Hellenistic period) and in Stabiae (1st century BC – M. Virtius Ceraunus)5 (what attracts attention here is the westward geographical context). It may be added that, as far as we know, there is only one occurrence of the semantically close women’s forename of Sterope (‘Lightning’) – it was the name of Strabo’s maternal great-grandmother, who was of Macedonian origin (Strabo 10. 4. 10).6 To all appearances, a rare use of these forenames, directly associated with the image of Zeus as the thunder god, was, to some degree, caused by certain sacral beliefs/bias, which now seem hardly possible to reconstruct with more accuracy. In general, this nickname seems to occupy some ‘intermediate’ position between official and unofficial epicleses, although F. Muccioli does not put it on the list 1  The ironic subtext in such situations requires use of the materials collected in the dedicated papers: Touloumakos 2006; Coloru 2014. 2  Quite revealing, this name is also attested on the Heraclean amphora stamp dated by 370–350 BC (the same period of Klearchos’ rule) (LGPN VA, 244 s.v.). 3  filium quoque suum Ceraunon uocat ut deos non mendacio tantum, uerum etiam nominibus inludat. 4  On Klearchos’ religious policy, see Burstein 1976, 61, 131, nn. 94–97; Bittner 1998, 29–31; Saprykin 1986, 106–07. 5  LGPN IIIA, 240 s.v. 6  It may be assumed that the choice of this forename might have been determined by its owner’s birth to a milieu of professional soldiers, mercenaries and condottieri; it stands to reason that Dorylaus the Tactician, a general par excellence, would have married a woman from that kind of family. See Gabelko 2013b, 144, n. 4.

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of formal regnal names. It is quite pertinent here to draw an analogy with the nickname of the Seleucid prince Antiochus who was surnamed Hierax: despite the fact that it receives negative treatment on Justin’s part (27. 2. 8: ‘… He was called Hierax, because, in taking away the possessions of others, he conducted himself, not like a man, but like a bird of prey’; translation by J.S. Watson), there are occurrences of such a given name, and, according to LGPN, not so rare.7 It is no coincidence that in The Life of Aristides Plutarch puts side by side such epithets as Besieger,8 Thunderbolt, Winner, Eagle,9 Hawk (Πολιορκηταὶ καὶ Κεραυνοὶ καὶ Νικάτορες, ἔνιοι δ’ ᾿Αετοὶ καὶ ῾Ιέρακες) (Plutarch Arist. 6. 2); Eustathius calls Poliorketes and Ceraunus ‘frightening epithets’ – τὰ φοβερὰ ἐπίθετα (Comm. ad Hom. Il. 1. 53). It is quite interesting that Ceraunus was also a nickname of the Roman emperor Julian (the Apostate), which he received in AD 363 from his enemies(!) in the course of Persian campaign actually due his energetic and quick military actions (Libanius Or. 18. 305);10 in this case, beyond doubt, the very sense of this sobriquet is quite valid. But Athenaeus (10. 416f–417a) mentions a certain Damippus, a character of Anaxippus’ comedy The Thunderbolt (Kock 3. 299), named Ceraunus for his voracity: ‘For I think he will overturn all tables / Which he once strikes with his consuming jaw’ (translation by C.D. Yonge); and so the threatening and majestic meaning of this nickname did not exclude the possibility of ironic colouring in some situations. Of the same nature is Plutarch’s report that Mithridates VI Eupator ‘… was by far the greatest drinker among his contemporaries, and so was nicknamed Dionysos’ (Mor. 624a). Plutarch himself believes that the nickname gained credence without good grounds, but it cannot be ruled out that the Pontic ruler’s subjects might have actually come up with that jocular explanation of his quite formal epithet (which is, moreover, ‘divine’ and attested in several inscriptions!11), based on the peculiarities of their lord’s lifestyle and habits – probably, in some accord with the way he, being no stranger to irony (see below),12 would have wished to present his own image in various situations. We should, therefore, bear in mind that, in principle, there may exist various ways of perceiving and interpreting the 7  This word, according to LSJ (820, s.v.), could mean either hawk (with possible negative connotations) or falcon – much more suitable as a personal name: see Thompson 1895, 66–67. The winged diadem on the coins of Antiochus Hierax (on his coinage, see Houghton and Lorber 2002 I, 291–324) does not give good reason for an assumption that this detail could be connected with his nickname, because such a symbol also appears already on the coins of Antiochus II (Erikson 2018, 119–21 with fig. 3.2). As for the portrait on the Hierax’s tetradrachms, it could be identified not only with himself, but also with his grandfather Antiochus I (Erikson 2018, 143–44 with fig. 3.14). 8  Plutarch Dem. 42, however, points to a negative moral colouring of this epithet that highlights Demetrios’ pride: ‘Demetrios’ delight was the title most unlike the choice of the king of gods. The divine names were those of the Defender and Keeper, his was that of the Besieger of Cities’ (translation by J. Dryden). 9  This nickname is attested for Pyrrhus of Epirus; see the selection of evidence and its analysis in Muccioli 2013, 150–51. 10  F.G. Mishchenko suggests the same understanding of the nickname Ceraunus for Ptolemy: Ptolemy has received such a nickname ‘for his swiftness in action’ (1994, 259, note to 2. 41. 2). Our sources, however, do not provide reliable grounds for such a statement: see below. 11  On Mithridates as Dionysos, see Poseidonius FGrHist 87 F 36 apud Athenaeus 5. 212e; Cicero Pro Flac. 61; Appian Mithr. 10, 113; OGIS 320; IDélos 1562, 1563, 2039, 2040; CIRB 31, 979; Vinogradov et al. 1985, 595; Ballesteros Pastor 1995; Kuznetsov 2007, 241; Arseneva et al. 1995–96, 217–19; Saprykin 2016, 403–23. 12  The Pontic ruler, however, was not mentioned in the sections of O. Coloru’s article where examples of ‘royal humour’ are listed (Coloru 2014, 21–32).

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kings’ epithets, and they may explicitly differ from those conventionally intended based on their formal and ‘normal’ meaning. On the other hand, one should not over-interpret nearly all epithets of kings to discover an ironic subtext in each: every individual case requires a close analysis of available evidence to support or to reject such a conclusion. So, Ptolemy, nicknamed Ceraunus, (born ca. 319 BC) originally had claims to the Egyptian throne but was forced to leave Egypt to find shelter at the court of Lysimachus and, later, at that of Seleucus Nicator.13 We are informed of his nickname by many Greek and Roman authors (Polybius 2. 41. 2; 9. 35. 4; Plutarch De sera num. vind. 10; Pausanias 1. 16. 2; Memnon FGrHist 434 F 8; Appian Syr. 62; Eusebius Chron. Schoene. I. 235, 241, 249; Cornelius Nepos De reg. 3. 4; Pliny NH. 6. 31; Justin 24. 1. 1; Trogus Proleg. 17; 24 bis), who, unfortunately, quite rarely give an explanation of it (see below). Ptolemy’s nickname is associated with its bearer rather closely in ancient tradition as well as modern historiography, and this is a priori supposed to indicate its early acquisition; anyway, as far as we know, no one has ever wondered when exactly and for what reason Ptolemy became Ceraunus and, more importantly, whether it happened before the bestknown of his deeds – the treacherous murder of Seleucus in the autumn of 281 BC, after which murder he became king of Macedon and held that status until his own quite inglorious death that came soon in the battle against the Galatians in February 279 BC. The scanty information about the early stage of his political career does not give a hint to that effect whatsoever: it is not at all related to any kind of military and political activity and concerns only court intrigues – inter alia, the removal of Lysimachus’ son, Agathocles.14 In modern scholarship, however, our character is referred to as Ceraunus nearly as soon as he starts his political activity. In this context, heed should be taken of the instances where certain Hellenistic rulers, according to some late literary sources lacking adequate understanding of the situation, receive their epithets ‘in advance’, although, in fact, they were given those sobriquets at a later time. There are several examples of such kind. One case could be connected with Antigonus the One Eyed: as I tried to prove, initially after the loss of one eye he received a quite neutral sobriquet ὁ Ἑτερόφθαλμος and was called by the much more widely known nickname ὁ Μονόφθαλμος (with hidden negative subtext = ‘The One Eyed as Cyclops’) relatively shortly before the end of his life.15 An assumption has recently been put forward that Antiochus I Soter might have actually received his regnal name a long time after his famous victory over the Galatians,16 although the prevalent belief in literary tradition (as well as historiography) is that the origin of his title was that very military accomplishment. Diodorus then refers to Antiochus IV as Epiphanes even before the latter became king (33. 4a); Appian (Syr. 45) also seems to be somewhat ahead of the development of events.17 Particularly important is that Memnon, one of the few authors who offers an explanation (quite adequate, as will  On his political career in general, see Spickermann 2010; cf. Worthington 2020.  Historiography, however, has made not altogether groundless attempts to ‘acquit’ Ptolemy, partly at least, of this crime. H. Heinen, for that matter, was the first to give convincing reasons in favour of the assumption, which was also supported by other scholars, that Agathocles might have been murdered by Ptolemy, the son of Lysimachus and Arsinoe: Heinen 1972, 11–17. Cf. Hammond and Walbank 1988, 239–40, n. 4; Lund 1992, 188; Ogden 1999, 61; Delev 2004, 257, 326–27; Carney 2013, 53, 154, n. 63, 156, n. 20; Spickermann 2010, 348–49. 15  Gabelko 2016. 16  Coşkun 2012. 17  See Van Nuffelen 2009, 100, 102. 13 14

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be shown below) of Ptolemy Ceraunus’ nickname, also distorts the course of events contemporary with the latter’s life when describing the Diadochs’ matrimonial and dynastic policies; and that adds a nearly comic aspect to his description (FGrHist 434 F 4. 9): ‘But later Lysimachus transferred his affection to the daughter of Ptolemy Philadelphos (who was called Arsinoe), and this caused Amastris to part from him’.18 Not only is Ptolemy II confused here with his own father, Ptolemy I Soter (who was also Arsinoe’s father); but Memnon also ascribes to the second representative of the Lagids the epiclesis which he was given as a result of the marriage to his own sister, who is mentioned here in a context preceding her considerably earlier marriage to Lysimachus! Back to the analysis of the meaning of Ceraunus and the circumstances under which Ptolemy was given that nickname: based on the examples above, it seems quite probable that there might have been a direct connexion between that sobriquet and the unexpected and, at first sight, unmotivated (‘like a bolt out of the blue’) murder of Seleucus by Ptolemy. This explanation may follow from Memnon’s phrase (FGrHist 434 F 5. 6) that Ptolemy was called Ceraunus ‘because of his rudeness and recklessness’ (διὰ τὴν σκαιότητα καὶ ἀπόνοιαν).19 The tone of Memnon’s reasoning considerably differs from Pausanias’ (1. 16. 2): ‘… Ptolemy…, generally ready for brave deeds (ἄλλως δὲ τολμῆσαι πρόχειρος) named for this reason Ceraunus…’:20 the literary sources, as we have mentioned before, do not report of any kind of ‘brave deeds’ on Ptolemy’s part prior to his murder of Seleucus. The murder of Seleucus may also be viewed from a somewhat different angle. Interesting details are offered by the Suda dictionary that, in all probability, reflects here the views popular among the Greeks: ‘a thunderbolt does not kill, but glorifies’ (οὐκ ἀναιρεῖ δὲ ὁ κέραυνος, ἄλλ᾽ ἐπιφλέγει) (s.v. Κέραυνος): this metaphoric translation of the last verb seems more appropriate in this case than the common ‘ignites, kindles’.21 The belief that a thunderbolt is not only divine punishment (Zeus’ for the most part), but a certain sign to mark the chosen, was widely spread in ancient times22 and has survived even to the present day. Quite eloquent are some more specific examples from literary sources. Perhaps, one of the best-known of them is the legend of the birth of Dionysos who became immortal after a bolt hit the womb of Semele who was pregnant with him (Hesiod Theog. 940–942; Euripides Bacch. 1–9, 88–98, 286–297; Pindar Odes 11. 25–28; Pausanias 2. 37. 5). There also existed a similar myth about the birth of Alexander the Great (Plutarch Alex. 11). We know as well of two ‘thunderbolt episodes’ (which are, doubtless, a propaganda fiction) in Mithridates Eupator’s biography to emphasise the 18  ῞Υστερον δὲ πρὸς τὴν θυγατέρα Πτολεμαίου τοῦ Φιλαδέλφου (᾿Αρσινόη δὲ ἦν τὸ ὄνομα) τὸν ἔρωτα μεταθεὶς, διαζυγῆναι τὴν ῎Αμαστριν αὐτοῦ παρέσχεν αἰτίαν. 19  Cf. Diodorus 22. 3. 1 – who points out (without explanation of his nickname) that Ceraunus at all was ‘inexperienced in the business of war, and [was] by nature rush and impetuous, exercising no prudence and foresight’ (translation by C.H. Oldfather). W. Spickermann (2010, 346) tells of Ptolemy’s Unbeherrschtheit, which was a reason for his nickname. Cf. literal translations – French: ‘Sa grossièreté et ses colères démentielles’ (Davaze 2013, 256); Russian: Grubost’ i rezkost’ (Dzagurova 1951, 294). There is an explanation in the Latin version of Eusebius’ Chronicon that Ptolemy Ceraunus, id est ira, vocabatur, but, evidently, this is a result of confusion with the wording of Armenian version, and the right understanding should be fulmen (p. 235, n. 4 [Schoene]). 20  Cf. Muccioli 2013, 153, where the author highlights the differences in Memnon’s and Pausanias’ reports, but does not draw any specific conclusions based on that. 21  See various meanings of this verb: LSJ 621 s.v. 22  Cf. Orphic Hymn 20. 6 – death by thunderbolt is considered a good death.

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future greatness of the king and his identification with Dionysos.23 Making reference to Callimachus (NH. 7. 152), Pliny the Elder reports that two statues of the athlete Euthymus of Epizephyrii were struck by lightning in the course of one day – those in Locri and in Olympia; and after that the Delphic oracle ordered to make offerings to Euthymus as if he were a god as long as he lived and after his death. According to Suetonius (Aug. 97. 2), lightning struck the statue of Augustus that stood on the Capitol and destroyed the first letter of the name ‘Caesar’. On the basis of this the seers said that on the hundredth day he would receive some divine destiny because AESAR means ‘god’ for the Etruscans (but the role of lightning here is also important). No doubt, the list of such episodes can be enlarged, and their individual interpretations may differ, but the common tendency takes quite a discernible outline: a lightning hit meant a certain association with the divine. On the whole, the murder of Seleucus also fits this scheme. After Ptolemy had assassinated the king, the body was bought from the former by Philetaerus, the ruler of Pergamum, and the burial urn was later given to Antiochus I, who held a stately funeral in Seleucia Pieria and founded a sanctuary called the Nicatorium, which became the site of a post-mortem cult of the dynasty’s founder (Appian Syr. 63).24 It should by no means be asserted that the connexion between the worship of Seleucus after his death and the acquisition of the corresponding epiclesis by Ptolemy was of direct and official nature; it should rather be regarded as associative perception shaped in the mass mind of the Macedonians (primarily soldiers who had unwittingly been involved in those events) that the tragic and unexpected death of Seleucus Nicator, who had lived a long life of dignity and who had seemingly achieved all his goals by his declining years, ought to have looked far more dignified than the treacherous murder of Seleucus by Ptolemy, especially considering Seleucus’ generous attitude to the exile (Appian Syr. 62).25 Apart from Ptolemy, Seleucus III (225–222 BC)26 was also nicknamed Ceraunus, who, according to Appian, was sickly and poor and unable to command the obedience of the army (Appian Syr. 66).27 The reason for his nickname remains unknown; leading his troops to Asia Minor against Attalus I of Pergamum, no deeds of valour could this king have possibly performed being very young and lacking any military and political experience; soon he was killed by a court conspiracy as early as the third year of his reign (Eusebius Chron. I. 251, 253 Schoene = Porphyry FHG 260 F. 32; Hieronymus In Daniel. 11; Synk. P. 343 Mosshammer). Historiography commonly associates Seleucus III’s nickname (probably by analogy with Ptolemy Ceraunus’ characteristics from literary sources cited above) with hypothetical evaluations of the young king’s personality in which he is, for instance, credited with a hot and unstable temper,28 although this does not quite accord 23

 On these examples, see Saprykin 1997, 86.  On post-mortem worship of Seleucus, see Muccioli 2013, 106–07. 25  Seleucus’ death was accompanied by a whole set of religious and propagandist connotations, consisting, primarily, in predictive signs of the death and motive of inflicting punishment on the murderer, Ptolemy Ceraunus (Ogden 2017, 247–69). 26  For this king the throne epithet Soter is also attested (though in only source): OGIS 245, ll. 16, 38 (see Muccioli 2013, 162–63). The reason of this solemn naming is completely obscure; perhaps, it could be connected with the character of the inscription itself – a royal list that includes several unique epicleses for other kings as well. 27  Σελεύκῳ μὲν δή, ἀσθενεῖ τε ὄντι καὶ πενομένῳ καὶ δυσπειθῆ τὸν στρατὸν ἔχοντι… 28  Bevan 1902, 204; Bouché-Leclercq 1913, 120; Grainger 1997, 63. 24

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with Appian’s information cited above, and there is no description of Seleucus III’s character traits in the literary sources. It is probably the king’s inability to command the obedience of the army, as described by Appian, that should be emphasised here – caused, for instance, by his sluggishness (unlike the emperor Julian; see above). Certain grounds for this assumption are given by Polybius. He reports that on ascending the throne in 225 BC, Seleucus learnt that Attalus I of Pergamum had already conquered all of Asia on this side of the Taurus,29 but the expedition against Attalus, which led to his death, was started only in 223 BC (Polybius 4. 48. 7–8).30 Therefore the ironic colouring of the nickname Ceraunus seems quite probable in this case as well. The circumstances, under which Seleucus III, as emphasised by Eusebius (Chron. Vers. Arm. 347), acquired his nickname (the troops’ sanction: Ceraunus tamen ab exercitu appellabatur), may serve as indirect evidence that Ptolemy Ceraunus acquired his one in a similar situation when he took command of Seleucus Nicator’s troops, who, as stressed by Memnon, were forced to accept him ‘of necessity’ (ὑπὸ τῆς ἀνάκγης) (FGrHist 434 F 8. 3); so most of the soldiers and generals did not, in all probability, have any good feelings towards their new commander.31 According to Muccioli, it is quite likely that the very unhappy fate of the two bearers of the nickname Ceraunus might have resulted in the absence of that nickname among other representatives of the Hellenistic political elite; he says that the epithet might have even been ‘desecrated’ by the two unlucky monarchs.32 But I am inclined to believe that a more probable reason for that might have been the inherent ambiguity as well as semantic and moral variance of this epithet: as a consequence, it did not quite take root in the Hellenistic monarchies. In sum, first of all, Ptolemy Ceraunus might have received his nickname after and due to his murder of Seleucus;33 secondly, it was not purely positive,34 but rather

29  In fairness, it should be noted that Seleucus (apparently, from the very beginning of his reign) tried to regain the lost positions in Asia Minor, sending his generals there, as well as coordinating actions with the loyal dynast Lysias (see the analysis of epigraphic sources in Allen 1983, 35–36). 30  R. Allen (1983, 38, n. 6) rightly admits that Polybius compresses the chronology by saying that Seleucus crossed the Taurus ὡς θᾶττον παρέλαβε τὴν βασιλείαν. 31  Cf. Plutarch De sera num. vind. 10, where the prophecy of Ptolemy’s forthcoming death in revenge for the murder of Seleucus comes from Ceraunus’ ‘friends’; in all probability, most of them used to be Seleucus’ milieu before he was murdered by Ptolemy. 32  Muccioli 2013, 155. 33  The last stage of his political career, 281–279 BC, is treated in much more detail in literary sources than the whole of his preceding life, and, in a way, this fact increases the probability that it was the period when he received the epiclesis. 34  Muccioli gives examples of the rise of symbols related to a thunderbolt in the religious and political propaganda of the Greeks and the Macedonians (Muccioli 2013, 153–55), but there is no evidence that Ptolemy Ceraunus used them (we should, however, allow for the brief time of his reign and incomplete source base). An attempt was made to attribute to him the rare bronze coins with the legend ΒΑΣ ΠΤΟ found in Thrace (Arslan and Özen 2000, 59–66). On their reverse side, there is an eagle without a thunderbolt – in contrast to the symbol that had taken root in Ptolemaic coinage (see Mørkholm 1991, 64: ‘The personal badge of Ptolemy [I], an eagle standing on a thunderbolt, appears as a symbol on the transitional and following issues’; 67 – on the continuity of Ptolemy I’s and Ptolemy II’s coinage; 101 – on the coinage in the first decade of Ptolemy Philadelphos’ reign, during which period the chief novelty was the image of a Celtic shield added to the old symbols). It would be very tempting to explain this by Ceraunus’ supposed negative attitude to his nickname – along the lines of the above interpretation. But it was later proved that those coins should be linked with the arrival of Ptolemy II’s troops in Thrace during the Second Syrian War and that issue should be attributed to Philadelphos (Psoma 2008).

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ambiguous;35 and finally, the circumstances of the murder reflected in the epithet might have contributed to the creation and maintenance of Seleucus Nicator’s positive image even after his death. It is harder to give an opinion about the meaning of Seleucus III’s nickname, but it cannot be ruled out that it might have also had an ironic subtext. As may be seen from an analysis of the evidence, the epithet Ceraunus does not at all appear to be the only one that may be suspected of such ambivalence. If we turn to the Antigonid history, the first to spring to mind is the famous Demetrius Poliorketes – ‘the besieger of cities’ – but not a taker of cities?36 Mention should also be made of Demetrius the Fair (ὁ Καλός) who was his son by Ptolemais, daughter of Ptolemy I and Eurydice. He had a bright yet transient career as a king of Cyrene,37 which came to a tragic end with a touch of farce – he was killed by order of his own wife, Berenice, because of his love affair with her mother, Apama (Justin 26. 3. 2–8; Porphyry apud Eusebius Chron. I. 237, 240 Schoene).38 His nickname also allows for interpretations that are different from the simplest one: it may have shades that are difficult to convey when translating it from the Greek language. It is well known that, being associated with symposiac culture39 and its homosexual aspect,40 the characteristic καλός in regard to young men is quite common on Greek wine vessels. And quite probable, as it seems, is an erotic and homosexual reference in this case as well, as Diogenes Laertius (4. 41) points out that Arcesilaus, the philosopher and academician, was particularly enamoured of ‘Demetrius who sailed to Cyrene’.41 We cannot, however, rule out the presence of another negative (and, unfortunately, also very elusive) shade of meaning about the epiclesis ὁ Καλός – not merely ‘the nice’ or ‘the fair’, but ‘the handsome’ – and it is the shade that we may notice if we take into account moral, rather than other, undertones; what we may obtain is Demetrius’ image as that of a true macho, who is sure of his own irresistibility, who does not hesitate to use it42 and whose death story, incidentally, serves as a vivid illustration to that effect.

35  There is another elegant, but barely provable hypothesis about the nickname Ceraunus. Since the name Bolgios belonging to the Galatian leader (Pausanias 10. 19. 7; another form is Belgius – see Justin 24. 5. 1, 25. 2. 2; Trogus Proleg. 24), whose army fought and killed Ptolemy Ceraunus, may have been of a ceremonial character and had the meaning of thunderbolt (Rankin 1996, 88), an idea has been put forward that it might have been a nickname that was given to the Galatian chief after his victory over Ptolemy Ceraunus (Ó h Ógáin 1999, 41; cf. Spickermann 2010, 356–57). 36  Gomme 1945, 17, n. 1; cf. Heckel 1984; Campbell 2006, 82; Rose 2015, 231–32. However, P. Wheatley, a leading expert on Demetrius I’s military and political activity, disputes this view (Wheatley 2020). 37  The most detailed account is given in Le Bohec 1993, 68–81. 38  On these events, see McAuley 2016. 39  See, for instance, Robinson and Fluck 1937; Bremmer 1990, 138–48. On symposiac culture in Macedonia, see Borza 1983, 45–55; 2014, 311–12. It should, however, be noted that by the 3rd century BC the traditional constituents of the Greek symposium had already undergone considerable changes; moreover, there can be no absolute certainty that the Macedonian symposium was initially fully identical to the Greek one (doubt thereof is cast, at least, by the habit, quite common among the Macedonians, of drinking undiluted wine; see Y. Borza 2014, 348). 40  On homosexual relationships at the Argead court, see Mortensen 2007; Antela Bernandez 2009. 41  Cf. Clayman 2014, 37. 42  See the character that he receives from Justin/Trogus: Demetrius … fiducia pulchritudinis, qua animis placere socrus coeperat, statim a principio superbus regiae familiae militibusque inpotens erat studiumque placendi a virgine in matrem contulerat.

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It seems that the case of the nickname Chrestus – ‘the Good’ – is no less interesting. Muccioli lists it among quite official epicleses;43 and this is how it differs from the informal names above, but, as will be discussed below, this case here is also far from unambiguous. It was first attested as an epithet of Dionysius, a tyrant (and, later, king) of Heraclea Pontica (Memnon FGrHist 434 F 4. 8, who reports: ‘he was a very mild ruler and earned the epithet Chrestus from his character’). The epithet was obviously given to him by his subjects.44 Its best-known occurrences, however, are linked to the time of Mithridates VI Eupator. One of the bearers of this sobriquet was his younger brother, whose forename was also Mithridates:45 his epithet may be seen in the inscriptions of Delos (OGIS 368–369) – hence there is no doubt as to its purely official character. The sobriquet would have become politically appropriate in those conditions when, as a result of the conflict with his mother, Mithridates Eupator went into voluntary, yet forced, exile; his younger brother, whom their regent mother apparently meant to ascend the throne, in all probability, changed the name which he had been given at birth (and which remains unknown) for the first and main regnal dynastic name.46 It seems quite natural to assume that the queen dowager Laodike, who was managing all state affairs, chose a corresponding regnal epiclesis for her younger son: ‘the good’ Mithridates – Chrestus – as opposed to ‘the bad’ Mithridates, Eupator. Under such circumstances, it comes as no surprise that after his return to Sinope and a short period of ‘peaceful coexistence’ with his brother (as shown by the inscriptions of Delos) Eupator, evidently, organised the assassination of Chrestus (Sallust Hist. 2. 76 Maurenbrecher; Memnon FGrHist 434 F 22. 2; Appian Mithr. 112): he did not need him at all, who could even pose a threat as a potential claimant to the throne.47 It is more difficult to explain the fact that the epiclesis of Mithridates VI’s unfortunate brother ‘emerges’ again in the course of the former’s political activity. According to literary reports, the nickname of Chrestus was borne by the unscrupulous adventurer Socrates, the half-brother of Eupator’s ‘favourite enemy’ and the last Bithynian king Nicomedes IV Philopator (ca. 95–74 BC) (Granius Licinianus 35. 30. 5–6 Flemisch; Appian Mithr. 10). After Nicomedes had fled Bithynia, he was set up by the Pontic monarch as Nicomedes’ rival who could claim the throne, thus destabilising his half-brother’s position. With Mithridates’ political and military assistance, he temporarily took a part of Bithynia (it might hardly have been the whole country) and expelled Nicomedes; but later, Eupator, who was at that moment fearing untimely confrontation with the Romans, decided to kill Chrestus.48 Of particular interest is the fact that, according to Granius Licinianus, Socrates received his nickname directly and immediately from Mithridates himself: hac Socrates ad regem refert bellum contra fratrem incitavisse. Exceptus a rege munifice, Chrestus etiam quasi meliore nomine ab eodem voca... (35. 30. 5–6 Flemisch).49 43

 Muccioli 2013, 199–201.  See Muccioli 2013, 32–33. 45  On this Mithridates, see Portanova 1988, 342–43, 500–01. 46  See Berzon and Gabelko 2018, 242–43. 47  Some doubts about Eupator’s assassination of Chrestus are expressed by Portanova (1988, 342–43), but they do not seem convincing enough. 48  The most detailed account of Socrates’ activity is given in Gabelko 2005, 373–83. 49  Let us not forget that history has preserved another fact of re-naming (of a somewhat different kind though) a person by Mithridates Eupator, who, for the courage displayed by his wife (or concubine) 44

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Muccioli points to the situation in which he received this nickname (which none of the rulers in the Hellenistic world except for those mentioned above possessed), but confines himself to making a cautious assumption about a possible role of the geographical factor in its emergence: this nickname for the rulers is indeed attested only in the region of North Anatolia – in Bithynia, Heraclea Pontica and Pontus.50 Theoretically, it may be assumed that it was a certain political expression of some local Greek-Persian-Anatolian beliefs of the political and sacral nature relating to a king’s personality.51 A far more plausible explanation, however, seems to rest on specific political circumstances. In Mithridates’ giving this nickname to Socrates we could see the Pontic king’s wish to emphasise that the Bithynian was fully under his control that was, in all probability, similar to the subjection in which he had kept his younger brother;52 it should be noted here that the circumstances of death of both Chresti were also similar – practically at the hands of Mithridates. This version may be substantiated by one more fact. As is known, apart from the meaning that the word χρῆστος carries when used as a king’s epiclesis, it may also express a simpler and more trivial idea of being ‘useful, good for its kind, serviceable; good for its purpose, effective’.53 In all probability, Mithridates Eupator, who ranked Socrates as low as a means or tool of achieving the set goal of conquering Bithynia, might have given his protégé such an ambiguous name in agreement with the actual political spectrum and his disdain for his puppet – albeit definitely needful and useful at the moment. The fact that Mithridates was no alien to humour (albeit rather black) is attested in the episode of the negotiation followed by his assassination of the young Cappadocian king Ariarathes VII, who was, incidentally, his own nephew (Justin 38. 1. 7–10). It is quite probable that in the course of the dynastic crisis in Bithynia, Eupator might have given free rein to his irony and, in addition, projected the recent collisions in the dynastic history of his own state onto the situation. In sum, the analysis of epithets of Hellenistic monarchs offered here shows that, first of all, in certain cases (as demonstrated by the examples of Ceraunus and Chrestus)54 it is hard to draw a precise borderline between official epithets and informal nicknames; secondly, it should be taken into account that some names of the kind may have an ironic subtext, even though they may appear quite serious at first glance. In all probability, these conclusions may, to a certain extent, be applicable to other question-raising epithets of Hellenistic monarchs providing that researchers exercise due caution in making assumptions. Finally, there is no a necessity to agree completely with P. Van Nuffelen, Hypsikrateia, called her using the male name Hypsicrates (Plutarch Pomp. 32. 8; cf. Valerius Maximus 4. 6 ext. 2; Festus 16. 1; Eutropius 6. 12. 3); it was even reflected in epigraphy – in the inscription on the base of her tomb statue discovered in 2005 during underwater excavation in Phanagoria (Kuznetsov 2007; Gabelko 2013a). 50  Muccioli 2013, 201; cf. Ballesteros Pastor 2013, 244. Nevertheless, this name, according to LGPN, was quite common in various regions of the Greek world. 51  It is worth noting that in two inscriptions of the Armenian king Artaxias I (189–160 BC), written in Aramaic and dedicated to the delimitation of communal lands, there is the epiclesis tb, which the editors translate exactly as Good (Perikhanyan 1965; Tiratsyan 1980). But still, it is hardly possible to see any common sources of state/political traditions here. 52  Cf. Ballesteros Pastor 2013, 244. 53  LSJ (2007) s.v. 54  It should be noted that in every occurrence of either of the nicknames, we can point to their concrete ‘authors’ with a high degree of certainty. This may hardly be a coincidence.

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who asserts that ‘The lack of knowledge that Roman historians have of the precise origins of the Hellenistic titles is evident from the irony or sarcasm they identify in these epithets when the actual deeds of the king do not match the promise of the epithet,’ and that ‘Late Hellenistic and Roman historians have a strong tendency to offer a fanciful explanation for the origin of an epithet, especially for early Hellenistic kings.’55 As I have tried to show, ironic nicknames could be given to political figures of the Hellenistic period by their contemporaries.

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Thompson, D.A.W. 1895: A Glossary of Greek Birds (Oxford). Tiratsyan, G.A. 1980: ‘Eshche odna arameiskaya nadpis Artashesa I, tsarya Armenii’. VDI 4, 99–104. Touloumakos, J. 2006: ‘Politischer Witz und Karikatur in der Hellenistischen Zeit: Ausdruckformen und Stellenwert’. Ancient Society 36, 111–34. Van Nuffelen, P. 2009: ‘The Name Game: Hellenistic Historians and Royal Epithets’. In Van Nuffelen, P. (ed.), Faces of Hellenism. Studies in the History of the Eastern Mediterranean (4th Century B.C.–5th Century A.D.) (Studia Hellenistica 48) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 93–111. Vinogradov, Y.G., Molev, E.A. and Tolstikov, V.P. 1985: ‘Novye epigraficheskie istochniki po istorii Mitridatovoi epokhi’. In Lordkipanidze, O.D. (ed.), Prichernomor’e v epokhu ellinizma (Materialy III Vsesoyuznogo simpoziuma po drevnei istorii Prichernomor’ya. Tskhaltubo 1982) (Tbilisi), 589–601. Wheatley, P. 2020: ‘The Implications of “Poliorcetes”: Was Demetrios Besieger’s Nickname Ironic?’. Histos 14, 152–84. Worthington, I. 2020: ‘Ptolemy I and Succession Issue’. Hermes 148.2, 236–41.

THE EARLY PHASES OF CULT PLACE 2 IN ELEA-VELIA: AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL PALIMPSEST Verena GASSNER

ABSTRACT This contribution focuses on the early phases of Cult Place 2 at Elea-Velia. The sanctuary is situated on the hill immediately east of the Acropolis, which belonged to the most ancient settlement area. While the architecture of the sanctuary of the 2nd century BC can be reconstructed quite well, the remains of the preceding cult place of the 4th and 3rd centuries BC have been nearly totally destroyed and are only present as cuttings for foundation ditches and in a few walls, among which a circular structure is outstanding. This paper tries to reconstruct the early sanctuary and tentatively proposes an interpretation of the circular structure as a monument for the cult of the hero Kyrnos, connected to the foundation myth of Elea.

INTRODUCTION Elea, a small Greek apoikia situated on the Tyrrhenian coast of southern Italy approximately 50 km south of Poseidonia, was founded about 535 BC by refugees from the Ionian city of Phocaea, who fled from the Persians to the West. It is thus an ideal site to study connexions between the eastern and the western Mediterranean and to follow the different acculturation phenomena that characterised the interaction of these refugees with their new home country. In spite of the long history of research on the site our knowledge of the most ancient sanctuaries remained limited almost exclusively to the Acropolis.1 It was thus an important moment when C.P. Sestieri, exploring the hilltop immediately to the east of the Acropolis (now Sector II) in 1949, found a simple stele with an inscription, published shortly afterwards by M. Guarducci, who read it as a dedication to Poseidon Asphaleios and dated it to the 4th century BC.2 Coming to the site today visitors will see the remains of the sanctuary of the 2nd century BC, if they are happy enough to come when the area was cleaned, but nothing can be discerned of the more ancient phases. Their faint remains, detected by our excavations in 2006, are only readable as a palimpsest and constitute the topic of this contribution, dedicated to Gocha Tsetskhladze. Sector II represents the second hilltop in the central ridge that divided the ancient town into a southern and a northern part. Together with the Acropolis it dominated the so-called Western quarter and belonged to the most ancient part of the settlement.3 The terrain of the hill is gently rising to the east and reaches the highest point in the east 1  For the history of research, see Cicala 2012a; Vecchio 2012. For the earliest sanctuaries, see G. Greco 2010; 2016; 2017; Gassner 2022. 2  Sestieri 1949; Guarducci 1966; see also Cicala 2012a, 278–79; Vecchio 2003, 50–53, no. 7. 3  See Gassner 2014; 2016, with previous bibliography.

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where Tower A9 of the fortification system is situated (Fig. 1).4 The sanctuary occupied the western part of the hill and was first explored by Sestieri in 1949.5 He excavated the entire terrace to the west, but did not touch the rising part to the east, covered then by dense scrub. This section was only cleaned in 1971 when A. Pontrandolfo investigated this area by a series of probably 12 square trenches.6 The results, however, were meagre, as in all the area the natural rock was found immediately under the humus. After a break of more than 30 years research activities were resumed by the University of Vienna in February 2004 in the context of a new study of the area of the ridge, initiated by the Soprintendenza under the direction of G. Tocco Sciarelli in the context of the reorganisation of the archaeological park. These excavations were concentrated on the area west of the Archaic house, excavated by C. Bencivenga in 1978, but we also made a trench on the northern side of the Hellenistic sanctuary where we discovered the first remains of the cult place that preceded the complex of the 2nd century BC.7 In 2006 we uncovered the entire eastern part of the sanctuary, but we had come to realise, however, that the excavations of Sestieri had not left much of the site undisturbed.8 Left apart from the activities of Sestieri, the hilltop had also been badly affected by the continuous erosion on the ridge, which led to the slide of part of the southern and the northern halls. Evidently Late Antique and Post-Antique stone robbery, probably connected with the construction of the mediaeval castle on the Acropolis, had caused the loss of much of the standing architecture. Finally, we must keep in mind that the reorganisation of the site in the 2nd century BC with the construction of the large court had probably destroyed most of the previous buildings, leaving only scant remains, mainly cuttings in the rock and a few walls. In summary, the large complex was interpreted as a sanctuary by Sestieri, who attributed it to Poseidon Asphaleios and proposed to combine the cult with that of Aphrodite Euploia.9 In his diary he also reflected on the possibility of interpreting the complex as an agora, comparing it with the agora degli dei at Camiros on Rhodes.10 This idea certainly was based on the fact that no cult building was found and that Sestieri was fascinated by the problem of the agora: in the same period he explored the building complex in the valley of the Frittolo, interpreted by him as an agora as well.11 His idea of a second, female deity, worshipped in this area, was resumed by us in 2005. When analysing old photographs of 1949 we detected a second stele which could be identified as a well-known stele of Hera, for which the indications of provenance previously had been lost in the depot.12 4  All photographic illustrations are from the Velia archive of the Institute of Classical Archaeology of the University of Vienna. 5  Sestieri 1949. 6  These excavations were short and published only in a very preliminary way by M. Napoli (Napoli 1972); see also Cicala 2012a, 413. A plan of the trenches is reproduced in Bencivenga 1983, fig. 6 (at a very reduced scale), but their location was confirmed by our excavations: see the indications in Gassner 2005, pl. 1. In 2004 we made three test trenches (2/04, 6/04 East, 6/04 West) which brought to light only the genuine rock, Gassner 2005, 44–46, figs. 7–9. 7  Bencivenga 1983; Gassner 2005. Note that some parts of the description given in Gassner 2005 had to be corrected in light of the results of the 2006 campaign. 8  Gassner et al. 2009. 9  Sestieri 1949, 193. 10  Cicala 2012a, 279. 11  Cicala 2012a, 284–312. 12  Gassner 2005, 59–61. For the inscriptions, see Vecchio 2003, 56, no. 10. Whether the stele of Hera Thelxine (Vecchio 2003, 54–56, no. 9) might also belong to this sanctuary is a matter for discussion.

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OF THE

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The complex of the sanctuary of the 2nd century BC consisted of a central court (24 × 13.40 m) which was enclosed by halls to the north, the east and the south, while the open western side allowed a direct view to the Acropolis (Figs. 1–2).13 For the construction of the court the outcropping rock had to be levelled, thus possibly destroying previous monuments of the cult area. Attention is attracted by the trapezoidal form of the complex, as the northern hall followed the direction of the curtain wall A while the southern hall resumed one of the variants of direction 5, namely the most western part of the street that started at Tower B1 and, passing the casa dei capitelli, arrived at the casa degli affreschi. Cicala proposed to see here a later reorganisation of the street system of the Western quarter which would match well with the dating of the sanctuary to the 2nd century BC.14 The chronological classification of this period relies entirely, however, on the use of conglomerate stone for the architecture, as this building material seems to appear in Elea only from the beginning of the 2nd century BC.15 In the previous periods we find the local sandstone and – for small stones – the use of the equally local flysch stones. The southern hall was preserved best, in particular its northern and western walls which indicate the length of the hall with 35.80 m. Its original width can be reconstructed with 7.00 m when we assume that the pillars, two of which are preserved in the eastern part, divide the hall into two equal aisles. The northern hall is very badly conserved and clearly recognisable only in its eastern part. Its length should be assumed equal to that of the southern hall. Its width seems to be less, if we assume that the rear wall of the hall was identical with the Curtain Wall A as observed in most of the other sanctuaries.16 The architecture of the eastern hall had been completely spoliated, leaving only the big foundation ditches cut in the rock. Their dimensions correspond to the width of the walls of the southern hall. Thus the dimensions of the eastern hall can be reconstructed with a length of at least 13.60 m and a clear width of 7.00 m. It was divided by seven pillars which might be complemented by an eight pillar, not preserved in nature. The pillars are massive (0.90 × 1 m) and separated by strikingly narrow intervals of 0.90 m, which do not correspond with the spans usually known from stoas in the Hellenistic period.17 The hall was separated from the northern hall by a passage of 5.50 m that allowed people to pass the sanctuary and to continue to the following cult places. Both the eastern and southern halls lay about 1 m higher than the court;18 for the eastern hall we could not make similar observations. On the inner side of these halls we can reconstruct porticos with a width of 2.70 m in the south and 2.40 m in the east and the north. Pillars have been conserved mainly in the south and east. Sestieri recorded that these porticos have been paved by bricks.19 Only few remains could be observed in 2006 in the northern area of the east portico.

13

 Measures of the sanctuary: 36 × 32.60 m = 1173.6 m2.  The street is called strada 1 in Cicala 2013, 121–23; its westernmost part is called strada 1c: see Fig. 5. 15  Gassner and Trapichler 2009. 16  In this case the width would be about 5 m. 17  Lauter 1986, 115. 18  Level of the court at 77.00 m above sea level; of the rocks in the eastern hall between 78.04 and 78.18 m. 19  Sestieri 1949. 14

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Fig. 1. Cult Place 2 at Elea-Velia, from the east (situation in 2002).

In front of the east portico, 3 m from it, was an elongated structure (11.60 × 1.70/ 1.80 m) that consisted of blocks of conglomerate and sandstone, which alternated with fields of small stones, often missing when we documented the structure in 2004 and 2006. It could be reconstructed as built in tecnica a scacchiera, typical for the Hellenistic architecture of Elea-Velia.20 It was preserved to a height of 0.35–0.40 m, which certainly did not correspond to its original dimensions. Sestieri interpreted this rectangular structure as an altar, comparable to that of the terrace of Zeus.21 Together with the blocks found to the east of it and addressed as bases for stelae (or statues?) it would represent the cultic centre of the complex. According to the notes of Sestieri the base of the stele of Poseidon Asphaleios was found south of it (see Fig. 2A), while the position of the stele of Hera can be reconstructed west of the northern part of the altar (Fig. 2B). Nothing can be said about eventual cult activities as we have no finds connected with this period of the complex.

THE EARLY SANCTUARY The short description of the sanctuary of the 2nd century BC makes clear that the campaigns of 2004 and 2006 could not add much to our knowledge of it. However, the systematic cleaning of the rock surface in the eastern half of the sanctuary brought new 20

 Cicala 2012b.  For the altar of Zeus, see now Gassner and Svoboda 2017.

21

Fig. 2. Plan of Cult Place 2 (design: N. Pieper). The remains of the early sanctuary are dotted.

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results concerning the more ancient phases of the cult place and the stratigraphic sequence of Trench 9/06 immediately to the east of the northern hall even allowed us to make a proposal for the chronological development of the site. The existence of a Late Archaic sanctuary at Cult Place 2 was assumed by analogy to the situation on the Acropolis of Elea, but also of Massalia.22 Until now no tangible architectural remains have been found for this period. References come mainly from the small finds and the pottery: we found an outstanding quantity of Attic black-figure and red-figure pottery as well as fragments of statuettes of so-called Ionian type and several arrowheads among the ceramic finds from the strata which obliterated Archaic House A.I. east of the sanctuary. Their repertory would fit well with what we would expect in a sanctuary. The best evidence is presented by a fragment of an Archaic female statuette on a throne, which finds its closest parallels in the type of dea con fiore di loto, frequent in the urban sanctuary of Hera at Poseidonia.23 It was found in a secondary deposition in a pit beneath the Hellenistic Curtain Wall A in the area of Cult Place 1, immediately west to Cult Place 2. Finally, at the beginning of the 5th century BC, House A.I. was given up and a new building was erected on the destruction debris. It consisted of the well-known polygonal wall, found in 1978 on the highest part of the hill (UMA 23), and of wall US 120/04 to the west.24 These walls allowed the reconstruction of a building of at least 5 × 5 m. Because of these dimensions, but also because of its topographical position, it could hardly be interpreted as the main cult building of the sanctuary, but the thickness of the walls (1 m) equally makes it clear that they were not part of a simple house.25 Perhaps the structure belonged to some annexed building of the sacral complex, while the main building should be assumed rather in the higher eastern part of the hilltop. While the sanctuary of the late 6th and the 5th century BC thus remains very hypothetical, the existence of a cult place in the 4th century BC was confirmed by the testimony of two stelae with the inscriptions for Poseidon Asphaleios and Hera, both dated to the 4th century BC by Guarducci and subsequently by L. Vecchio.26 The traces of this sanctuary are sparse as well and were found mainly on the north and east sides of the later complex. In the northern hall we found the remains of a space, consisting of Wall MK2-6 to the south, documented on a length of about 10 m, and Wall MK2-5 to the east.27 The northern wall had slipped down the steep northern flank of the hill, thus we cannot determine precisely the width of the presumed hall. The eastern wall, MK2-5, is made of big, sometimes irregular ashlar blocks of sandstone with an average height of 0.50 m, laid on a foundation of irregular sandstones. In contrast, Wall MK2-5 was built of smaller blocks of sandstone which are bigger on the southern side and smaller on the

 Gassner et al. 2009. For the Archaic settlement on Hilltop II, see Cicala 2002, 119–30; Gassner 2005; 2014, 428; 2016, 80–81, with previous literature. For the situation on the Acropolis, see further Cicala 2002, 145–48. For Marseilles, see Tréziny 2006, with previous bibliography. 23  Svoboda 2010; Ladurner 2010; Gassner forthcoming. 24  Bencivenga 1982; Gassner 2005, 49–52, fig. 2, and 14, pl. 2. 25  The walls of the Archaic houses on the Acropolis and Hilltop II are normally not wider than 0.60 m. 26  Guarducci 1966; Vecchio 2003, 50–56, nos. 7 and 10. 27  They correspond to UMA 78 (MK2-5) and UMA20 = UM77 (MK2-6) in Gassner 2005, pl. 6. 22

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Fig. 3. Southern hall with the higher level of the rock in correspondence with the possible early wall in the east (not visible on photograph).

northern.28 Between these blocks we find sometimes fields with smaller sandstones that seem like predecessors of the later tecnica a scacchiera (chessboard technique).29 Much more difficult is the situation in the area of the later eastern hall, the construction of which destroyed nearly all earlier traces and left only the remains of foundation trenches cut into the rock as indicators of earlier buildings. Leaving apart all stone cuttings to be connected with the later walls and the pillars, we identified traces of three possible foundation trenches, oriented east to west (Fig. 2).30 Even more difficult to recognise are irregular cuttings that could belong to a north–south-oriented wall which ran in the area east of the later pillars. In the eastern part of the southern hall we found another cutting which was oriented east to west and continued to the west for approximately the same length as Wall MK2-6 to the south. We observed that – extending this line to the west – the natural rock had not been removed, but left at a level of about 1 m higher than the court, perhaps indicating the existence of a previous hall-like structure (Fig. 3). 28

 Gassner 2005, fig. 17 and pl. 7.  Cicala 2012b. 30  Their average width was 0.30–0.40 m and would thus correspond with that of MK2-6. 29

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Fig. 4. Early Wall MK2-1 and the Trench MK2-2 (photograph from the west).

In the north-west corner of the later eastern hall we found an approximately circular pit, cut into the rock, in which the fragments of a small pot without rim and a fragment of a Graeco-Italic amphora of type Gassner 8 had been deposited (Fig. 2C). Both vessels would fit well into the late 4th or the first half of the 3rd century BC31 and might be interpreted as remains of a ritual deposition, destroyed by the construction of the later eastern hall. Better preserved, but enigmatic as well, were the remains of Wall MK2-1, which was identified immediately east of the eastern hall. The wall, with a height of 0.30–0.50 m was partially cut out of the rock, partially built of stone blocks (Fig. 4). To its east follows a trench with a width of 2.40 m, carefully cut in the rock (MK2-2). It must belong to the same period as MK2-1 and is delimited to the east by rocky sandstone formations that showed traces of vertical cuttings as well. Thus the wall and the trench to its east seem to form a unit, while the western side was later cut by the foundation trench for the eastern wall of the eastern hall. The only area where we were able to document a small sector of the original stratigraphical sequence was Trench 9/06N, located on the outer side of the northern hall where the steep sloping down terrain had allowed the accumulation of strata (Fig. 5).32 In this trench we identified the construction level of Wall MK2-5, represented by a clayey stratum which contained many chips of sandstone (US 965/06). It lay over a similar stratum (US 966/06) which covered the natural rock. While US 966/06 could be 31

 For the date of amphorae of type 8, see Gassner and Sauer 2015, 4–5, pl. 2.  Trench 7/04, placed in the corner between MK2-5 and the city wall, did not bring a stratigraphical sequence as we found here an old trench probably from the excavations of M. Napoli (see Gassner 2005, pl. 8). 32

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Fig. 5. West section of Trench 9/06N with Wall MK2-5 of the early sanctuary and – on the higher level – the eastern wall of the northern hall of the sanctuary of the 2nd century BC. To the very left the Circular Structure MK2-3 is visible.

dated to the Late Archaic period, US 965/06 contained only few finds; these would suggest a dating to the 4th century BC.33 Most probably the same period saw the Circular Structure MK2-3 built. Preserved is a layer of big stones that form a circular, maybe also polygonal structure of which only a small segment was conserved in Trench 9/06N. Its diameter can be reconstructed between 3.40 and 3.50 m (Fig. 2). Its western part was cut during the erection of the later northern hall, its southern half evidently destroyed by the modern path for tourists (Fig. 6). This horizon of the 4th century BC was covered by a stratum of destruction or abandonment (US 959/06) dated to the first half of the 3rd century BC. In this period the curtain wall of the fortification was built and also the wall or platform (MK2-4) with dimensions of 6.2 × 2.40 m.34 MK2-4 respected the Circular Structure MK2-2, which was only given up with the reorganisation of the sanctuary in the 2nd century BC. To consider the evidence, all structures that might belong to the early sanctuary are limited to the eastern part of the site. For the Late Archaic period no architectural remains were identified, though the finds make its existence probable. For the 4th century BC, the stelae with inscriptions for Poseidon Asphaleios and Hera confirm the 33  Most decisive among the few finds is the rim of a jug, similar to Vegas 1999, 163, fig. 62.7 (inv. 965/06a-6). My thanks for finding the parallel go to Maria Trapichler. 34  For the curtain wall, see Gassner 2005, pl. 8 (UMA 17). Whether MK2-4 should be seen in connexion with the fortifications or rather with the sanctuary not clear, though I would prefer the latter variant.

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Fig. 6. Circular Structure MK2-3 and Trench 9/06N from the west.

existence of a cult place though the archaeological remains are too rare to allow a convincing interpretation. The Wall MK2-6 in the north and – still more hypothetically – the cuts and the formation of the rock in the south could indicate the existence of structures that might be interpreted as predecessors of the later halls, but the situation remains very hypothetical. The area of the later eastern hall showed traces of foundation trenches which indicate some kind of inner articulation, without however allowing an unambiguous reconstruction of the ground plan. East of this area there follows the deep Trench MK2-2, which cuts into the rock to 77.70 m above sea level and thus to a level about 0.60 m deeper than the surface of the eastern hall, although the natural terrain rises to the east.35 As this area including MK2-2 was fully excavated by Sestieri, nothing remains of the original stratigraphic sequence and, in consequence, it is hard to decide if MK2-2 was the foundation trench of an imposing terrace wall or should be interpreted as an area used for ritual activities. Most striking is the existence of a circular or polygonal structure (MK2-3), situated in between the possible hall to the north (MK2-5 and MK2-6) and the Wall MK2-1 to the south. Unfortunately, the modern path here has destroyed not only part of the structure, but also the original connexion between the remains of the northern and the southern parts. MK2-3 was only covered by a thin humus layer and no finds can be attributed to the context. Given its relatively small dimensions (a diameter of 3.50 m) and the position on the inner side of the fortification wall at a distance of 4.50 m from the curtain wall, an interpretation as part of the fortifications 35

 The level of the east hall lies at about 78.30 m above sea level.

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does not seem very probable.36 Thus I want to suggest that MK2-3 is a monument for a hero cult, being fully aware that the proofs for this conjecture are weak and the idea has to remain very hypothetical.

THE CIRCULAR STRUCTURE MK2-3 The Circular Structure MK2-3 (fig. 6) is singular in the context of the sacral architecture of Elea and cannot easily be explained. The best parallels can be found in hero tombs, or tombs of the oikistes of an apoikiai, known from several sites in the Greek world.37 Written sources, especially Herodotus, make it clear that the foundation of Elea did not follow the usual pattern of founding a colony in which mainly young men, guided by an oikistes, were engaged.38 On the contrary, Elea came into being as a community of refugees who had not only lost their homeland, Phocaea, but also failed twice – at Alalia on Corsica and at Rhegion in southern Italy – to find a new place where to live. Important in our context is the passage of Herodotus (1. 167. 4) where he refers to the events connected directly with the foundation of Elea. At Rhegion a ‘man from Poseidonia’ told the refugees that the answer of the Pythia ‘to found Kyrnos’ did not refer to the island of Kyrnos, i.e. Corsica, but to a heros of this name.39 As it is evident that it is not possible ‘to found a hero’, it is generally assumed that the oracle meant ‘to found the cult of a hero’, the hero being mostly addressed as son of Heracles.40 Less concordant is the discussion of where to place this cult as some scholars see a connexion between Kyrnos and the town to be founded, i.e. Elea, while others deny this or try to connect the cult with Corsica. As correctly observed by Vecchio the advice of the ‘man from Poseidonia’ was given at Rhegion and would have been worthless if the cult had already been founded at Alalia. On the other hand, in my opinion ‘to found’ the cult of Kyrnos excludes the previous existence of a cult place in the land of the Oenotrians, but stresses the act of ‘foundation’. Though we could assume that the Eleates founded the cult still in Rhegion and then migrated to the site of their future town Elea, it seems more logical to connect the activities of the foundation of the cult and the town. As observed recently by E. Greco, this would in consequence mean that we have to expect some kind of heroon for Kyrnos at Elea, which until now, however, has not been identified.41 Thus this hypothesis has mostly been dismissed. In the short passage of Herodotus, Kyrnos remains a hero whose characteristics are not specified in any way. His cult definitely cannot be seen as that of an oikistes, though in the narrative of Herodotus the introduction of his cult is strongly connected with the foundation period of Elea. On the other hand, Kyrnos does not correspond to any of the

36

 My thanks for discussion of this topic go to Alexander Sokolicek (Vienna).  For the rich bibliography of Greek hero cults and the cult of the oikistes, see Malkin 1987, 189–266; Hägg 1999; Boehringer 2001; Ekroth 2002; Hartmann 2010; etc. 38  For the foundation of Elea, see now Vecchio 2017, with previous bibliography. My warmest thanks to Luigi Vecchio for the discussion of the historical background. 39  Vecchio 2017, 17–30. 40  See here in particular Malkin 1987, 72–73, who provides as parallel Herodotus 6. 76. 1 where Argos both meant the place and the hero. 41  E. Greco 2000, 201. 37

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types of hero that written sources locate on the Tyrrhenian coast of southern Italy. Most famous and abundantly discussed is the story of the hero of Temesa, a companion of Odysseus called Polites, who, when the ship of Odysseus landed at Temesa, violated an indigenous woman and in consequence was lapidated, appearing afterwards as a daimon that had to be placated.42 Also well known is Palinurus, the mate of Aeneas, who fell into the sea near today’s promontory of Palinuro, not far south of Elea, came to death and was then venerated as a hero.43 In the context of Elea let us remember the introduction of sacrifices and games for the Phocaean prisoners who were lapidated by the Etruscans of Caere. Though the hero Kyrnos cannot be connected clearly with any of the categories mentioned above, we can suppose that the monument or sacral complex for his presumed cult should correspond in some way to those of the other hero cults. Looking at clearly identified parallels in Italy the nearest example is the so-called heroon of PoseidoniaPaestum, a cenotaph in the form of a chamber tomb.44 The cult of an oikistes is also known from Megara Hyblaea and – probably – from Selinunte.45 Impressive is the sacral complex of Campora, loc. Imbelli, which has been connected with the cult of the hero of Temesa by G.-F. La Torre.46 All these installations are characterised by the existence of escharai and bothroi (in the case of Megara Hyblaea and Temesa) or by some tomblike structures (in the case of Poseidonia and Selinunte). What all have in common is that they did not come into being in the very first period of the town, but were constructed later, evidently when this kind of cult became important for the identity of the settlement. A similar development can also be observed in the most famous archaeological example of a cult for an oikistes, in the so-called tomb of Battos at Cyrene, identified with good arguments on the east side of the agora of the town.47 The most ancient cult place, belonging to the last quarter of the 7th century BC, was enlarged by the addition of a tumulus in the first quarter of the 6th century BC. This tumulus consisted of a ring of stones and, in the middle, a nucleus which contained ash and most probably the cremated remains of a human being. When the agora was extended to the east in the second half of the 5th century BC, the tomb was shifted to the east as well and rebuilt as a chamber grave; later, in the 4th century BC it was replaced by a tomb in the type of a tomba a cappuccina.48 In particular, the tumulus of the 6th century BC could be taken as an analogy to the poor remains of the Circular Structure MK2-3, while the ditches in the area of the later eastern hall could be linked to some kind of cult building, as known from the so-called 42

 La Torre 2008, 136–41; 2017, with previous bibliography. See also Mele 1983; 1993.  De Magistris 2016, 20–27, with previous bibliography. See also the comparable tale of Phrontis, mate of Menelaos, who came to death at Sunion: Boehringer 2001, 64–66. 44  Greco and Theodorescu 1983, 25–33, 139–45. 45  Mertens 2006, 68–69, figs. 81–82 (Megara Hyblaea) and 178–79, fig. 310 (Selinunte) – who for Selinunte also describes circular stone structures, connected by him to the first urban organisation. 46  La Torre 2002. 47  The context is presented by Stucchi 1965, 33–139 and was discussed in many studies. See, for example, Büsing 1978; and recently Hartmann 2010, 424–30, with previous bibliography. 48  Also well studied is the so-called Archegesion at Delos, a precinct which encloses a circular ash altar and is accompanied by a large stoa with several rooms (Bruneau 1970, 413–30; Ekroth 1998, 120–21), while the interpretation of contexts at the West Gate of Eretria as bound to a tomb-cult has been much discussed (see Mazarakis Ainian 1998). 43

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oikos in the south of the tumulus at Cyrene, but also from the building at Temesa. Given the absolutely fragmentary conservation conditions of MK2-3, this interpretation can only remain a hypothesis. If we think, however, about a possible location of a monument for the cult of Kyrnos, Cult Place 2 would represent an ideal place, for it was situated within the limits of the most ancient settlement, which included Sector II.49 Less logical would be the combination of a cult of Kyrnos with the veneration of the deities assumed for Sanctuary 2: Poseidon Asphaleios and Hera. While the possible interpretation of Kyrnos as a son of Heracles would connect the hero with Hera, it is difficult to find an explanation for Poseidon Asphaleios. The assumption that Poseidon was not the main deity of the sanctuary, but some kind of visiting god, that had got its importance for scholars only as it was the sole epigraphic testimony that survived, is not fully convincing as we also know another inscription for Poseidon50 which was found re-used in the western tower on the Acropolis and, given its similarities with the stele of Poseidon Asphaleios, could possibly also be attributed to Cult Place 2. The disturbed conditions of the area and the topographic situation with the steep slope do not allow us to exclude that MK2-3 belonged already to the – hypothetical – sanctuary of the 6th century BC, but it seems rather more probable that the monument was created together with the sanctuary of the 4th century BC, in particular during the second half of the century. In this period the central ridge of Elea saw major changes with the coming into being of several cult places like Cult Place 4, but also the construction of the first buildings of Cult Places 6 and 7.51 Thus the 4th century BC evidently was a period of cultural change at Elea. While the situation at Poseidonia is dominated by the topic of the so-called Lucanisation of the town, the development at Elea is still less clear.52 But, in particular, the study of the sacral monuments on the ridge shows that cultural changes appear here as well, even if the dynamics obviously differ from those known from Poseidonia.53 The expressions of the cult often find correspondences in Lucanian sanctuaries such as, for example (but not only), the small shrines of Cult Place 4, which have their best parallels in Lucanian sites as Roccagloriosa, but also others.54 Possibly these naiskoi can be linked to some kind of cult organised for families or clans. In this context we could assume that the Eleates also felt the necessity to commemorate one of the important figures of the very first period of their town, the hero Kyrnos.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Battiloro, I. 2010: Lucanian Sanctuaries: History and Evolution from the Fourth Century B.C. to the Augustan Age (Dissertation, University of Alberta). Bencivenga, C. 1983: ‘Resti di casa greca di età arcaica sull’acropoli di Velia’. MEFRA 94, 417–48.  In this case Cult Place 3, indicated by the so-called relief naiskos of Cybele, would lie immediately outside the settlement area, see Gassner 2010; 2022. 50  Vecchio 2003, 53–54, no. 8, fig. 32. 51  Gassner 2006; 2008; Gassner et al. 2009. 52  For Poseidonia-Paestum, see Pontrandolfo Greco 1982, 127–42; Cipriani 1996; 2000; critical: Nowak 2014. 53  Gassner 2008; forthcoming. 54  Gualtieri and Fracchia 2016, with previous bibliography; in general, see Battiloro 2010. 49

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Boehringer, D. 2001: Heroenkulte in Griechenland von der geometrischen bis zur klassischen Zeit (Klio Beiheft n.F. 3) (Berlin). Bruneau, P. 1970: Recherches sur les cultes de Délos à l’époque hellénistique et à l’époque impériale (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 217) (Paris). Büsing, H. 1978: ‘Battos, der Gründer von Kyrene’. In Thuri, L. (ed.), Thiasos: Sieben archäologische Arbeiten (Amsterdam), 51–79. Cicala, L. 2002: L’edilizia domestica tardo arcaica di Elea (Quaderni del Centro Studi Magna Grecia 2) (Pozzuoli). —. 2012a: Velia: Conoscenza e ricerca. Il Novecento (Quaderni del Centro Studi Magna Grecia 14) (Pozzuoli). —. 2012b: ‘Le tecniche costruttive di Elea-Velia: un quadro d’insieme’. In Storia dell’Ingegneria (Naples), 625–44. —. 2013: ‘Il Qartiere occidentale di Elea-Velia’. MEFRA 125, 115–37. Cipriani, M. 1996: ‘Prime presenze italiche organizzate alle porte di Poseidonia’. In Cipriani, M. and Longo, F. (eds.), I Greci in occidente: Poseidonia e i Lucani (Exhibition Catalogue) (Naples), 119–58. —. 2000: ‘Italici a Poseidonia nella seconda metà del V sec. a. C. Nuove ricerche nella necropoli del Gaudo’. In Greco, E. and Longo, F. (eds.), Paestum: Scavi, studi, ricerche. Bilancio di un decennio (1988–1998) (Tekmeria 1) (Paestum), 197–211. De Magistris, E. 2016: Elea – Velia. Indicatori di frontiera, economia del territorio (Rivistia di Topografia Antica Suppl. 10) (Galatina). Ekroth, G. 1998: ‘Altars in Greek Hero-cults: a review of the archaeological evidence’. In Hägg, R. (ed.), Ancient Greek Cult Practice from the Archaeological Evidence (Proceedings of the Fourth International Seminar on ancient Greek cult, organized by the Swedish Institute at Athens, 22–24 October 1993) (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska institutet i Athen, 8°, 15) (Stockholm), 117–30. —. 2002: The Sacrificial Rituals of Greek Hero-Cults in the Archaic to the Early Hellenistic Periods (Kernos Suppl. 12) (Liège). Gassner, V. 2005: ‘Elea/Velia, Terrasse I: Die spätarchaische Wohnbebauung und das sogenannte Heiligtum des Poseidon Asphaleios’. Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien 74, 39–71. —. 2006: ‘Das Heiligtum der Naiskoi’. In Amann, P., Pedrazzi, M. and Taueber, H (eds.), Italo – Tusco – Romana: Festschrift für Luciana Aigner-Foresti (Vienna), 233–44. —. 2008: ‘Doni votivi nei santuari di Elea: cippi, naiskoi e il loro contesto’. In Greco, G. (ed.), Doni agli dei: Il sistema dei doni votivi nei santuari (Seminario di studi Napoli 21 aprile 2006) (Quaderni del Centro Studi Magna Grecia 6) (Pozzuoli), 141–60. —. 2010: ‘Die thronende Göttin im Naiskos. Ein weiteres Zeugnis der Kybele in Elea’. In: Aybek, S. and Kazım Öz, A. (eds.), Metropolis Ionia II: The Land of the Crossroads. Essays in Honour of Recep Meriç (Istanbul), 145–52. —. 2014: ‘Die urbanistische Entwicklung von Elea in Grossgriechenland: Von den Anfängen bis zur Umgestaltung der Stadt im 5. Jh. v. Chr.’. In Povahalev, N. (ed.), Phanagoreia und darüber hinaus… Festschrift für Vladimir Kuznetsov (Altertümer Phanagoreias 3) (Göttingen), 419–60. —. 2016: ‘Velia. Fortifications and urban design. The development of the town from the late 6th to the 3rd c. BC’. Empuries 56 (for 2009–11), 75–100. —. 2022: ‘Urban development at Elea (Southern Italy) in the 6th and 5th c. BC.’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Ionians in the West and East (Proceedings of the International Conference, 26–29 October 2015, Empúries/L’Escala, Spain, 26–29 October 2015) (Colloquia Antiqua 27) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 521–40. —. forthcoming: ‘Edifici di culto a pianta quadrata a Velia’. In La Lucanie entre deux mers. Archéologie et patrimoine, Paris, 5–7 novembre 2015. Gassner, V., Ladurner, M. and Svoboda, D. 2009: ‘Le aree sacre sul crinale in età tardo-arcaica e classica’. In Tocco Sciarelli, G. (ed.), Velia: La cinta fortificata e le aree sacre (Verona), 78– 100.

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Gassner, V. and Sauer, R. 2015: ‘Transport Amphorae from Velia’. In Provenance Studies on Pottery in the Central Mediterranean (version 06/06/2015) (http://www.facem.at/project-papers.php). Gassner, V. and Svoboda, D. 2017: ‘Die Zeusterrasse in Velia. Ein Überblick über die Ergebnisse der Forschungen 2008–2013’. Parola del Passato 70.1 (for 2015), 191–221. Gassner, V. and Trapichler, M. 2009: ‘La cronologia’. In Tocco Sciarelli, G. (ed.), Velia: La cinta fortificata e le aree sacre (Verona), 27–28. Gigante, M. 1966: ‘Il logos erodoteo sulle origini di Velia’. In Velia e i Focei in Occidente = Parola del Passato 21, 295–317. Greco, E. 2000: ‘A Rhegion: il posedioniate. I Focei e la fondazione di Velia’. In Gras, M., Greco, E. and Guzzo, P.G. (eds.), Nel cuore del Mediterraneo antico: Reggio, Messina e le colonie calcides dell’area dello Stretto (Corigliano Calabro), 199–206. Greco, E. and Theodorescu, D. 1983: Poseidonia–Paestum 2: L’agora (Rome). Greco, G. 2012: ‘Elea: dalla fondazione alla formazione della città’. In Alle origini della Magna Grecia: Mobilità, migrazioni, fondazioni (Atti del cinquntesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 1–4 ottobre 2010) (Taranto), 1017–75. —. 2016: ‘Elea/Velia: Lo spazio del sacro e le evidenze di culti e rituali’. Empuries 56 (for 2009– 11), 101–22. —. 2017: ‘Elea-Velia: gli spazi del sacro e i doni votivi’. In Cicala, L. and Ferrara, B. (eds.), «Kithon Lydios»: Studi di storia e archeologia con Giovanna Greco (Quaderni del Centro Studi Magna Grecia 22) (Pozzuoli), 253–78. Gualtieri, M. and Fracchia, H. 2016: ‘Archeologia di un “culto familiar”: Il complesso A di Roccagloriosa’. In Calderini, A. (ed.), Atti del Terzo Convegno Internazionale di Studi Umbri dell’IRDAU, Istituto di Ricerca e Documentazione sugli antichi Umbri 2011 (Rome), 387–410. Guarducci, M. 1966: ‘Divinità fauste nell’antica Velia’. In Velia e i Focei in Occidente = Parola del Passato 21, 280–82. Hägg, R. (ed.) 1999: Ancient Greek Hero Cult (Proceedings of the Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult, organized by the Department of Classical Archaeology and Ancient History, Göteborg University, 21–23 April 1995) (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska institutet i Athen, 8°, 16) (Stockholm). Hartmann, A. 2010: Zwischen Relikt und Reliquie: objektbezogene Erinnerungspraktiken in antiken Gesellschaften (Studien zur alten Geschichte 11) (Berlin). Horsnæs, H.W. 2002: The Cultural Development in North-Western Lucania c. 600–273 BC (Analecta Romana Instituti Danici Suppl. 28) (Rome). Isayev, E. 2014: ‘The Lucanians: A history of the 4th century dynamism through archaeology’. In Aberson, M., Biella, M.C. and Di Fazio, M. (eds.), Entre archéologie et histoire: dialogues sur divers peuples de l’Italie préromaine (Berne/Berlin/New York/Oxford), 331–48. La Torre, G.F. 2002: Un tempio arcaico nel territorio dell’antica Temesa: L’edificio sacro in località di Campora san Giovanni (Archaeologica 133) (Corpus delle stipi votive in Italia. XIV, Regio III 4) (Rome). —. 2008: ‘Alla periferia dell’impero di Sibari. Le genti indigene lungo la fascia tirrenica cosentina dalla protostoria alla lucanizzazione’. In De Sensi Sestito, G. (ed.), La Calabria tirrenica nell’antichità. Nuovi documenti e problematiche storiche (Atti del Convegno di Rende, 23–25 novembre 2000) (Istituto regionale per le antichità calabresi classiche e bizantine, Studi e testi 9) (Soveria Mannelli), 115–218. —. 2017: ‘Polites ed Autyhmos, eroi a Temesa’. In Cicala, L. and Ferrara, B. (ed.), «Kithon Lydios»: Studi di storia e archeologia con Giovanna Greco (Quaderni del Centro Studi Magna Grecia 22) (Pozzuoli), 299–311. Ladurner, M. 2010: ‘Die Terrakotten vom Kultplatz 1 in Velia’. In Gassner, V. and Meyer, M. (eds.), Standortbestimmungen (Akten des 12. Archäologentages am Institut für Klassische Archäologie der Universität Wien, Wien, 28.02.–01.03.2008) (Wiener Forschungen zur Archäologie 13) (Vienna), 113–20. Lauter, H. 1986: Die Architektur des Hellenismus (Darmstadt). Malkin, I. 1987: Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece (Studies in Greek and Roman Religion 3) (Leiden/New York).

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Mazarakis Ainian, A. 1999: ‘Reflections on Hero cults in Early Iron Age Greece’. In Hägg, R. (ed.), Ancient Greek Hero Cult (Proceedings of the Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult, organized by the Department of Classical Archaeology and Ancient History, Göteborg University, 21–23 April 1995) (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska institutet i Athen, 8°, 16) (Stockholm), 9–36. Mele, A. 1983: ‘L’eroe die Temesa tra Ausoni e Greci’. In Lepore, E. and Mele, A. (eds.), Pratiche rituali e culti eroici in Magna Grecia: Forme di contatto e processi di trasformazione nelle società antiche (Atti del Colloquio Internazional, Cortona, 24–30 maggio 1981) (Pisa/Rome), 847– 97. —. 1993: ‘Il tirreno tra commercio eroico ed emporia classica’. In Hackens, T. (ed.), Flotte, commercio greco, cartaginese ed etrusco nel Mar Tirreno (Atti del Simposio Europeo, Ravello, 19–25 gennaio 1987) (Pact 20) (Strasbourg), 57–68. Mertens, D. 2006: Städte und Bauten der Westgriechen von der Kolonisationszeit bis zur Krise um 400 vor Christus (Munich). Napoli, M. 1972: ‘L’attività archeologica nelle province di Avellino, Benevento e Salerno’. In Le genti non greche della Magna Grecia (Atti dell’undicesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, 10–15 ottobre 1971) (Taranto), 381–402. Nowak, C. 2014: Bestattungsrituale in Unteritalien vom 5. bis 4. Jh. v. Chr. Überlegungen zur sogenannten Samnitisierung Kampaniens (Italiká 3) (Wiesbaden). Pontrandolfo Greco, A. 1982: I Lucani: Etnografia e archeologia di una regione antica (Archeologia 5) (Milan). Sestieri, C.P. 1949: ‘Velia’. Fasti Archeologici 4, 191–93. Stucchi, S. 1965: L’agorà di Cirene 1: I lati nord ed est della plateia inferiore (Monografie di Archeologia Libica 7) (Rome). Svoboda, D. 2010: ‘Der Kultplatz 1 in Velia. Überlegungen zur chronologischen Einordnung’. In Gassner, V. and Meyer, M. (eds.), Standortbestimmungen (Akten des 12. Archäologentages am Institut für Klassische Archäologie der Universität Wien, Wien, 28.02.–01.03.2008) (Wiener Forschungen zur Archäologie 13) (Vienna), 103–11. Tréziny, H. 2006: ‘Marseille et Velia, villes ioniennes’. In Velia (Atti del quarantacinquesimo Convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto, Marina di Ascea, 21–25 settembre 2004) (Taranto), 507–31. Vecchio, L. 2003: Le iscrizioni greche di Velia (Velia-Studien 3) (Vienna). —. 2012: ‘Velia’. In Nenci, G. and Vallet, G. (eds.), Bibliografia Topografica della Colonizzazione Greca in Italia e nelle Isole Tirreniche 21: Siti, Torre Castelluccia–Zambrone (Pisa/Rome/Naples), 588–719. —. 2017: Elea. Un profilo storico 1: Dalle origini alla fine del V secolo a. C. (Fonti e studi di Storia Antica 19) (Alessandria). Vegas, M. 1999: ‘Phöniko-punische Keramik aus Karthago’. In Rakob, F. (ed.), Karthago 3: Die deutschen Ausgrabungen in Karthago (Mainz), 93–219.

ARE TWO GREAT KINGS TOO MANY? SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON PARTHIAN KINGSHIP IN THE CLASSICAL SOURCES Leonardo GREGORATTI

ABSTRACT On several occasions in the history of the late Parthian empire at the head of the state, sometimes even on the Parthian throne itself, there was more than one man. It was not rare that two pretenders fought for supremacy until the defeat of one of them, or that a usurper arose to challenge the rule of a legitimate Great King. Less commonly two claimants to the throne found mutual agreement, which implied the partition of the satrapies under their control and the creation of two spheres of influence. Furthermore, cases of co-rule of heir princes along with their fathers and Great Kings are attested. This paper aims to take into consideration all the situations evidenced in Western sources in which the highest authority of the Late Arsacid state was complicated by the existence of different candidates or shared by more personalities. The analysis of the cases of coexistence of two or more rulers described by classical sources reveals that this was not always proof of a political crisis, an expression of the chaotic nature of the Parthian state, as Western chroniclers would let us think. In a polity where local authorities enjoyed considerable autonomy, maybe also the role of Great King could be considered as collective and exerted in a shared way. This idea would force scholars to think about late Parthian kingship more in terms of collegiality than before.

All scholars dealing with ancient Iran are well aware of the fundamental transformations that have taken place in the field of Parthian studies in recent decades.1 The way scholars now look at Western literary sources dealing with the Parthians, the ‘eastern barbarians’, has changed radically.2 In parallel, Parthian sources, and among them the most important, the Arsacid coinage, have also been reconsidered in the light of the new approach to studying the Parthian empire,3 an approach much more critical of ancient Roman historians. The first long-awaited volume of the Sylloge Nummorum Parthicorum (2012) by Fabrizio Sinisi4 has revolutionised views on Arsacid kingship. He introduced new elements that forced scholars to put into discussion established convictions concerning Parthian kingship in the periods of internal strife and civil war. Sinisi proved the existence of regents (Artabanus III, AD 80–82), who ruled in place of a too young legitimate king, and crown princes (Pacorus II, AD 77–79) who shared

1

 Since at least Wiesehöfer 1998.  See Lerouge 2007. For some aspects: Gregoratti 2012a; 2012b; 2016; 2018. 3  Sinisi 2012a; 2014; 2015. 4  Sinisi 2012b; Invernizzi 2013. 2

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part of the power and ruled alongside their father, the Great King in charge. Between AD 76/7 and 79, King of Kings Vologases I, in his last tetradrachms wore the royal hooked tiara instead of the usual diadem.5 In the same years, one of his sons, the young prince Pacorus, minted his coins wearing a diadem.6 According to Sinisi the attempt to present Pacorus as the legitimate heir to the throne in a sort of co-rule with his father is clear. Vologases aimed at preparing the succession of his chosen heir to avoid possible dynastic strife like those in the past, thus assuring the survival of his ruling system. In this case, the co-rulers are the Great King and his chosen heir (king/heir co-rule). Other examples are attested, like Orodes II and Pacorus (I)7 in 39 BC, but this case is particularly relevant since it excludes the possibility of internal strife in the Arsacid empire due to a rebellion of the pretender known in the past as ‘Vologases II’.8 Another case of ‘usurper’ who probably was something else follows. In AD 80, after the death of Vologases I, a certain Artabanus (III) emerged in Mesopotamia minting coins in Seleucia on the Tigris until AD 82, where he appears wearing only the diadem.9 Artabanus has been a long time considered a rival to the throne against the young Pacorus10 until Sinisi’s careful investigations on Pacorus’ later coins from AD 83, the first as sole ruler, suggested the hypothesis of a regency. Artabanus would have been a relative of the young prince in charge of formally co-ruling, but de facto leading, the state after Vologases I’s death until the coming of age of the young prince (regent/heir co-rule).11 This solution concerning the last years of Vologases I has the advantage of clearing the field from rival pretenders and usurpers (Artabanus III and the former ‘Vologases II’), that is to say from situations of internal strife suggested almost exclusively by the existence in the same years of coins minted by different rulers. Sinisi’s work demonstrated the existence of phenomena of shared or enlarged royal power instead, previously too hastily labelled as cases of Gegenkönige, usurpers in opposition to the legitimate sole ruling Great King. These new considerations drew the attention of scholars to the most discussed and obscure period of Parthian history: the so-called Parthian ‘Dark Age’ between the death of Mithridates II (88 BC) and the rise of Orodes II (57 BC) when several rulers seem to have minted coins at the same time. For those years during which the Seleucid authority in the Near East did not exist anymore and nor as yet the Roman one, the literary sources cannot provide much useful information: for Pompeius Trogus/Justin, for example, Orodes II immediately follows Mithridates.12 5  Sellwood 1980, typ. 72.1–7: 232–34; Sinisi 2012b, Vologases typ. III, IVa-b, nos. 689A–722, 752– 770 and 782A–803: 59–61, 64–65, 167–70, 215–16 and 222–23; Olbrycht 2016, 215–16 and 219–20; Sinisi 2016, 15. 6  Sellwood 1980, typ. 73.1–18: 236–38; Sinisi 2012b, Pacorus typ. I, nos. 633–781: 84–86, 95–96, 166–67, 171–74 and 228–31; Invernizzi 2013, 79; Olbrycht 2016, 222–24. 7  Sellwood 1980, typ. 49: 158. 8  Along with Sinisi, I reject the existence of a king named Vologases (the old Vologases II) in these years; all the homonymous kings will, therefore, be numbered accordingly in this paper: Sinisi 2012b, 164–67. 9  Cassius Dio 66. 19. 3c; Zonara 11. 18; Sellwood 1980, typ. 74: 240–42; Frye 1984, 241; KarrasKlapproth 1988, 35; Shore 1993, 153; Olbrycht 1999, 90. On the city and its mint: Gregoratti 2012c. 10  Wolski 1993, 176. 11  Sinisi 2012b, Artabanus III, typ. I–II, nos. 836–865A, 873A–905A: 104–08, 175–78, 243–44; Pacorus typ. Vb, nos. 866–872: 89–90, 179–80, 237; Invernizzi 2013, 7–83; Olbrycht 2016, 215–16 and 225–28. 12  A probably fragmentary text: Justin 42. 4. 1–2.

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Thus for this still debated period, the scholarly discussion has still been based almost exclusively on numismatic sources. What about the later period, when Rome’s presence was firmly established in the East and Parthia had become the main rival of the Urbs for supremacy in western Asia? For this period the literary sources can provide more information, still, it is hard to individuate some useful elements to integrate and better understand the numismatic data. In general, classical authors, when more than one Arsacid ruler exists at the same time, seem unable to perceive different solutions concerning Parthian power beyond the traditional view of a sole despotic king fighting usurpers and rebels, or the mortal struggle between brothers, a view transmitted to modern scholars. It is nonetheless useful to analyse what ancient authors say about the periods of Arsacid history when two or more rulers co-existed in order to spot any references to a more articulated system of co-rule, whether based on dynastic reasons and aimed at avoiding succession problems (Mithridates III and Pacorus II) or on a territorial partition. In general, due to the short span of time normally involved and the fact that a major ruler is nonetheless acknowledged, it is expected that Western sources fail to note, with the possible exception of Pacorus (I), the existence of a king/heir or regent/heir co-rule like in the case of Vologases I, Mithridates III and Pacorus II. This happened in particular when no internal struggle was involved and therefore the authority, formal or effective, of the sole king was probably not perceived as weakened or put under discussion. In such cases, the only sources proving the existence of more personalities, self-defined ‘kings’ and minting at the same time and in the same places, are the coins and the debate about ‘co-rule’ or ‘rebellion’ are determined solely by their interpretation. In cases of co-rule based on territorial partition or areas of influence, the co-existence of two ‘kings’ is treated in various ways: sometimes in terms of open civil war, sometimes as a succession of kings with no overlapping, sometimes one of the kings, usually the most eastern one is simply ignored. It seems that also when two kings are present in different areas the idea of a co-rule could hardly make it into the conception of Western authors. The proposed investigation will of course leave aside the several cases of rebellions and more or less violent takeovers within the ruling family, like that of Orodes II and his brother Mithridates against their father Phraates III (Cassius Dio 39. 56. 2), or that of Phraates IV (Justin 42. 4. 16–5. 1; Plutarch Crass. 33. 5; Ant. 37. 1; Cassius Dio 49. 23. 3) and Phraates V (Velleius Paterculus 2. 100; Cassius Dio 55. 10. 18; Joseph Ant. Jud. 18. 42) against their parents, which normally implied a quick substitution of the person in charge and rarely generated a situation where the existence of more than one Arsacid claiming the throne for a long time led to a partition of the royal power. The same is valid for all the monarchs eliminated and/or substituted by Parthian nobility, or Parthian primores, like Phraates V and Musa (Joseph Ant. Jud. 18. 42–44), Orodes III (Joseph Ant. Jud. 18. 45-46), Vardanes (Tacitus Annals 11. 10) and Gotarzes II (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 74). An investigation concerning Parthian usurpers or Gegenkönige also excludes foreign interventions like in the cases of Roman supported pretenders Tiridates II (Justin 42. 5. 4–6; Cassius Dio 51. 18), Tiridates III (Tacitus Annals 6. 41–42) and Meherdates (Tacitus Annals 12. 10–14), who besides their extra-Arsacid origins did not last long enough to let the ‘usurpers’ develop their own ruling structure beyond the phase of open conflict, even though in some cases they managed to mint their own coins.

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A particular case seems to be the dynastic strife between the two brothers Orodes II and Mithridates III (56–54 BC). After killing their father, according to Cassius Dio, the latter was assigned to Media by his brother, before being forced by the same Orodes to leave his kingdom and seek shelter in Roman Syria (Justin 42. 4. 2–4; Cassius Dio 9. 56. 2–3).13 This fact seems to suggest that at least at the beginning of the brothers’ rule, a certain degree of power-sharing was implied, a circumstance probably reflected by the many coins minted by Mithridates, which led some scholars to suppose a sub-regency for him or even for both princes, already during their father’s reign (king/heir(s) co-rule).14 We cannot exclude that Orodes and Mithridates after putting an end to Phraates III’s reign, continued the co-ruling system devised by their father, possibly based on ParthiaMedia dualism, until Orodes’ greed for power gained the upper hand. This introduces a new type of co-rule among same rank pretenders based on areas of territorial control or influence (territorial co-rule). If this is the case it is nonetheless clear that the system failed and the co-rule of the two brothers quickly escalated into civil war. The first situation of internal strife between pretenders to the throne of different origin, about which the ancient authors can provide more than a vague reference is the short struggle between Vonones and Artabanus at the beginning of the 1st century AD. In AD 8 after the fall of Musa and her son Phraataces and the assassination of Orodes III, Parthia entered a new period of political crisis. According to Tacitus the Parthians sent envoys to Rome to ask Augustus to choose their new king among the Arsacids living in Rome.15 Vonones was chosen, but after a few years of rule, dissatisfied by the Western customs of the new king and feeling ashamed at being ruled by a hostage/ slave sent by an enemy who never defeated them, they offered the throne to the ‘half Scythian’ (Tacitus Annals 6. 36) Artabanus in AD 10.16 Between AD 10 and 12, Vonones and Artabanus fought for the throne. After an initial military success by the former, celebrated by his coins,17 which forced the rival to withdraw to the east, the majority of Parthian dignitaries took the field at Artabanus’ side, defeating Vonones and forcing him to flee to Armenia. Nothing in the sources suggests a truce or some sort of agreement between the rivals, which cannot anyway be completely excluded due to the brevity of the accounts available concerning a period of two years of civil war. Vonones minted in Ecbatana claiming victory18 and in Seleucia before being driven out by Artabanus, who probably immediately started to mint his coins there in AD 11 or 12.19 An alternative scenario, suggested by numismatic sources,

13  For the role of the Median kingdom as the seat of a cadet branch of the ruling family and its relevance in Parthian history, see Schottky 1989; 1991; 1998; and the recent hypothesis by Hauser 2016. 14  Sellwood 1980, typp. 40–41: 124–26; Shore 1993, 117–22. 15  Joseph Ant. Jud. 18. 46; Suetonius Tib. 16. 1; Res Gestae 33; Tacitus Annals 2. 1–3, 6. 36 and 6. 42; Cassius Dio 40. 15. 3–4; Arrian Parth. frg. *31 = Suda s.v. Ἐπαγγέλλέι; Debevoise 1938, 151; Kahrstedt 1950, 17–18; Ziegler 1964, 56; Schippmann 1980, 49; Dąbrowa 1983, 44–45; Frye 1984, 237; Wolski 1993, 150; Hackl et al. 2010, 44, 53, 67–69. 16  Sellwood 1980, typp. 61–63: 197–206; Shore 1993, 140–43; Olbrycht 2012, 215–16. 17  ΒΑS(ΙLΕUS) ΟΝΟΟΝES ΝΕΙΚESΑS ΑRΤΑΒΑΝΟΝ, McDowell 1935, 187 and 223; Sellwood 1980, typ. 60: 193–95; Bivar 1983, 68; Shore 1993, 139; Gonnella 2001; Simonetta 2006, 45. 18  Sellwood 1980, typ. 60.5: 193. 19  Sellwood 1980, typ. 61.1–6: 197.

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would imply the minting of coins by both pretenders in Seleucia on the Tigris in the same years and even months. This could have been possible only as a result of some kind of agreement, even temporary, between the parts that the literary sources exclude (territorial co-rule). Another Gegenkönig backed by the Parthian aristocratic opposition against a legitimate Arsacid ruler in Western sources is a certain Cinnamus.20 Information regarding this episode is rather scarce since he is mentioned only by Joseph/Flavius Josephus while narrating the history of the Jewish Parthian kingdom of Adiabene (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 54–69)21 and its influential king Izates, the first monarch to adopt the ‘new’ religion. According to the Judean historian, the Great King Artabanus discovered a plot by his satraps (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 54). Assassination was a common means for aristocratic factions to get rid of too old, too cruel, or too troublesome sovereigns. Well aware of this, Artabanus with his relatives and thousands of his supporters, fled to the powerful Adiabenian king seeking for shelter, but also support to restore his rule (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 54). Joseph wants to show Izate’s magnanimity and sense of honour: even in disgrace, Artabanus is regarded as a superior king (Ant. Iud. 20. 55–61). Izates’ role as mediator is fundamental in convincing the nobles to come to terms with the former Great King. These contacts seem to take place behind Cinnamus’ back (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 62–63). Once he realises that he is only kept on the throne by the fear that his armed opposition to the return of Artabanus could lead to a civil war, he decides to give up and offers Artabanus the royal diadem (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 63–65). In this case, the co-existence of two monarchs ceases with the withdrawal of one of them in the face of the risk of a civil war. If the episode is not entirely made up by Joseph through mixing elements from previous attempts to dethrone Artabanus (for example, Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 2), it represents a good example in Roman Western sources of how a Parthian civil war can originate entirely within the Arsacid state. Cinnamus surely had an army at his disposal to defend his newly acquired throne, most probably with the support of noble groups, governors and client-kings. The inability of the conspirators to immediately kill Artabanus and his relatives, who found safety in Adiabene, is the main cause of a possible stasis, a civil war. From Joseph’s point of view, Artabanus’ survival led to the co-existence of two Great Kings, exponentially increasing the risk of a war for the throne. This seems to be a key element: a successful usurper not only had to be a member of the Arsacid household but also had to clear any rival or legitimate successor from his way. The risk otherwise was to become involved in a difficult and unpredictable conflict. All possible competitors had to be immediately eliminated to avoid any alternative to satraps, noble houses and dependent kings. According to Tacitus’ account, another Gegenkönig was well aware of these coup d’état techniques. After Artabanus’ death (AD 38–40), one of his adopted sons, Gotarzes22 (II) 20  No coins are attributed to this rather obscure monarch: Kahrstedt 1950, 52; Schippmann 1980, 51–53; Karras-Klapproth 1988, 69–70; Fowler 2010, 66–67; Marciak 2014, 32–33, 71, 237. 21  On Adiabene, see Marciak 2017 with an extensive bibliography. 22  Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 2; Debevoise 1938, 166–68; Ziegler 1964, 64–65; Schippmann 1980, 53; Sellwood 1980, typp. 65–66: 215–19; Dąbrowa 1983, 118–19; Bivar 1983, 75; Karras-Klapproth 1988, 60–64; Wolski 1993, 150; Shore 1993, 144–46; Olbrycht 1997, 82–85; Dąbrowa 2017, 177–78.

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took immediate control of the court at Ctesiphon, putting the legitimate successor, his brother Artabanus and all his family to death (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 2). The rapid and ruthless plan, conceived to prevent civic strife, nonetheless failed. Vardanes,23 one of Artabanus’ natural sons was left alive (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 3). Tacitus says that once informed of the coup he quickly reached the capital. Marching day and night with only a small military force, he covered 570 km in two days (Annals 11. 8. 3). Vardanes was far away from the capital, probably in Armenia or northern Mesopotamia, and so could not be eliminated in Gotarzes’ lighting plot. An Arsacid alternative, more legitimate for some nobles than Gotarzes, was left and brought together all the nobles terrified by Gotarzes’ takeover (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 3). Gotarzes’ plot was probably a court conspiracy, supported by some nobles and dignitaries, but without troops on the spot. There were no ‘tanks on the bridges over the Tigris, or soldiers in the streets of Ctesiphon’, to recall some not so recent, but still vivid images. Vardanes with a small and high mobile military unit was able to drive out Gotarzes and the conspirators. It is hard to think that Gotarzes and his supporters would have planned the action without taking Vardanes into account. He is in fact considered by the sources a valid candidate as the natural son of the dead Great King (Joseph Ant. Jud. 20. 69). Gotarzes probably relied on the distance that separated Vardanes from the court, confident that it would have given him the time to establish his rule by appointing governors and officers loyal to him. This did not happen and an ignarum et exterritum Gotarzes was taken by surprise and forced to leave the palace, it seems without major fights (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 3). Vardanes now had all the time to do what Gotarzes had not managed. He occupied the nearby provinces (praefecturae) (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 3), appointing his own men and punishing the conspirators who betrayed his father and his brother, while Gotarzes was finally building an army with reinforcements from Hyrcania and the Dahians (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 4). This is the discordia Parthorum, the situation of summa imperii ambigua, the incertitude at the top in the Parthian state that, according to Tacitus, convinced the Iberian Mithridates to take control of Armenia in AD 41/early 42 (Tacitus Annals 11. 8. 1). The confrontation between the two pretenders and their armies had not yet triggered an open war. It was still a war of influences over client-kingdoms, noble groups and governors. The two Parthian imperatores (Tacitus Annals 11. 9. 3), leaders, as Tacitus defines them in this phase, to point out the uncertainty concerning the royal seat (summa imperii), realising that as in the past a real threat could come from those powerful noble circles who were ready to request a candidate from Rome, foedus repente iaciunt (Tacitus Annals 11. 9. 3).24 They made a treaty, they promised to take revenge on the common enemies and inter se concedere, that is to say, to meet on middle ground as equals, and reach a mutual agreement. This probably in the first months of AD 42. Tacitus explains the terms of the agreement: Vardanes was to be the rightful heir to the throne, retinendo regno (Annals 11. 9. 4). It is striking that in Tacitus’ account the equidistance that characterised the two leaders, imperatores, completely disappears once 23

 Sellwood 1980, typ. 64: 207–08; Shore 1993, 143–44; Karras-Klapproth 1988, 186–89.  Gregoratti 2013, 47–49.

24

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one of the two is acknowledged as the Great King. Against what the term concedere would suggest describing their agreement, Gotarzes abandoned the court and reached the remote recesses of Hyrcania renouncing any political role (Tacitus Annals 11. 9. 4). Vardanes immediately occupied all the most powerful satrapies and established a firm rule over the empire. While Gotarzes is placed by Tacitus in the remote forests of Hyrcania, the audax king Vardanes puts an end to Seleucia on the Tigris’ independence (summer AD 42) and threatens a war against Rome for Armenia, or for some disputed villages as he himself explains to his guest Apollonios of Tyana in Philostratus’ account of the mystic’s life (Tacitus Annals 11. 10. 1; Philostratos Vita Apoll. 1. 37). The opposition of Vibius Marsius, Roman governor of Syria from AD 42 to 44, and the powerful monarch of Adiabene, says Joseph (Ant. Jud. 20. 69–72), prevented such a foolish plan. Joseph presents a linear succession of Great Kings: having assassinated Vardanes due to his insane war plans, the Parthians handed over the government to Gotarzes (Ant. Iud. 20. 73). Instead, Tacitus deals with the confrontation between the two imperatores in more in detail. The Hyrcanian aristocracy supporting Gotarzes, but not keen to submit to Vardanes (Tacitus Annals 11. 10. 1),25 convinced his man to take up arms and rebel with disastrous results, Vardanes vanquished his eastern enemies reaching the limits of the Parthian world (Tacitus Annals 11. 10. 2–3).26 According to both Tacitus and Joseph, made arrogant by his victories, Vardanes was slain by his own subjects during a hunting party. Tacitus places these events sometime before the fourth consulate of emperor Claudius and the third of Vitellius, AD 47 (Annals 11. 11. 1). What happened between the fall of Seleucia on the Tigris in the summer of AD 42 and Vardanes’ victory and assassination in AD 45? The Parthian coinage provides some clues. Vardanes mints in Seleucia from AD 42/3 until June 45.27 Between June AD 44 and January 45, both Vardanes and Gotarzes use the local mint, which in some months produces coins for both.28 From AD 46/7, after the death of Vardanes, Gotarzes mints alone indicating his proper name and Artabanus as his father.29 The search for the simplest solution requires avoiding a scenario in which for more than two years the fights between the two armies were so fierce around Seleucia to determine the rapid changes of control over the royal mint. More probably the numismatic scenario there and in Ecbatana reflects the above-mentioned accords (inter se concedere) between the two, which obviously involved, differently from what Tacitus said, a certain division of royal powers and subdivision of the empire in areas of political influence (territorial co-rule), a situation perhaps suggested by the very words that Vardanes pronounced on meeting Apollonios.30 The coin sources portray Gotarzes as an active and influential ruler within the Parthian empire (and mints) between AD 42 and 46, following the mutual agreement, not as a minor local lord lost in the forests of Hyrcania, completely submitted to his master. Also, the literary accounts stress the fact that Gotarzes enjoyed the support of the leading classes in the east of the empire.  Debevoise 1938, 170–72; Olbrycht 1997, 86–89; 1998a, 160; Hackl et al. 2010, 404–07.  Olbrycht 2013. 27  Sellwood 1980, typ. 64.1–30: 208–09. 28  Sellwood 1980, typ. 65.4–30: 214–15. 29  Sellwood 1980, typ. 66: 218–19. 30  As may be suggested by the king’s references to a Persia out of his control: Philostratos Vita Apoll. 1. 33.

25

26

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Recently Sinisi’s ‘Ockham‘s Razor’ expunged from Gotarzes II’s coins the tetradrachms from Seleucia dated between AD 44 and 4531 due to a misreading of the date. This hypothesis, if accepted, would remarkably simplify the reconstruction of the relationship between the two rivals suggesting a scenario where the territorial partition of power was more clear-cut. The numismatic data seem to contradict the narration of Western authors concerning Arsacid rule. Joseph prefers a linear succession of Great Kings. Tacitus underestimates the possibility of an accord between the two: before the agreement, there were two equal imperatores, neither worthy of being called king, after it for Tacitus only the acknowledged king counts. The other disappears into the remote areas of Hyrcania to avoid any competition, eventually becoming a ‘rebel’, a Gegenkönig. It is furthermore worth noting in consideration of later period examples of co-rule that the Eastern ‘king’ disappears from the main scene, that is to say, the one whose area of political influence was more distant from Rome. In general, the inability to understand a political scenario implying the existence of different royal leaders and political centres with a possible solution of co-rule (a territorial co-rule in this case) is evident. For Tacitus, the civil strife can only be solved with the choice of a Great King. Once one of the two prevails the other disappears into the background until he decides to rebel or is recalled to substitute the assassinated king. This same inability to perceive different solutions concerning Parthian power beyond the traditional view of a sole despotic king fighting usurpers and rebels is also evident in later authors dealing with periods when the partition of central power and the empire was more accentuated and indubitably proved by numismatics. At the beginning of the 2nd century AD on the eve of the great Parthian offensive by optimus princeps Trajan (AD 114–117), Parthia was again divided between two Great Kings: Vologases II and Osrhoes. For long these two kings had been considered usurpers struggling for supremacy after the Great King’s death.32 Great King Pacorus II’s coins are attested to until AD 105,33 or AD 96/7 only according to Sinisi,34 but it cannot be excluded that he remained an active ruler until AD 109/10 when he sold some territorial rights to the kings of Osrhoene.35 A series of bronze coins dated to AD 104/5–107/8 and depicting a bearded prince wearing a diadem is generally attributed to Vologases II36 who will rule until AD 147.37 Since the last coins of Pacorus II portray a mature monarch wearing a tiara and since the sources attest to a longer rule than the datable coins, Vologases’ diadem emissions would testify to his role of co-ruler alongside his father as designated heir to the throne (king/ heir co-rule). Following the example showed by Sinisi of Vologases I and Pacorus II a 31

 Sinisi 2012 144–45, n. 502; 2015, 366.  Debevoise 1938, 216–17; Schippmann 1980, 59–60; Frye 1984, 241. 33  Sellwood 1980, 243. 34  Sinisi 2012 (Pacorus typ. IV, nos. 1179–1219A), 189, 193–94, 198. 35  Pliny Ep. 10. 74; Cureton 1884, 41; Wolski 1993, 177; Luther 1999, 190–91; Ross 2001; Laude 2003, 89; Hackl et al. 2010, 46, 313–14; Sommer 2018, 238. 36  Sinisi 2012, 195, 198–99. Still, for him, this attribution is far from being sure. In particular, it is possible but not demonstrated at all that the heir prince portrayed in the 104/5–107/8 series without a tiara is the same who later minted coins wearing it and who is identified with Vologases II. 37  Sellwood 1980, typ. 79.1–39: 253–55; Sinisi 2012, 195. 32

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few decades before, only after his father’s death in AD 118/9 did Vologases also adopt the tiara as well.38 This date can be inferred as AD 111/2 including an earlier ‘tiarabearer’ bronze series attributed to him.39 Osrhoes is identified as the monarch wearing a diadem in a bronze series dating from AD 111/2 to 125/6.40 Immediately after the death of Pacorus then, two different Arsacids minted coins in the same cities and years, one wearing a tiara the other a diadem. Following the example of Pacorus II and Artabanus III, we would be led to think that Vologases II, whether to identify him with the ‘heir’ designated by Pacorus or not, would represent himself as the legitimate Great King, while his uncle Osrhoes (Cassius Dio 68. 19. 4), like Artabanus III would play a secondary role, as a co-regent or senior advisor (king/regent co-rule). Different from Artabanus III, Osrhoes seems to have enjoyed major powers in Armenia,41 Babylonia42 and the western part of the empire, particularly43 in the years before Trajan’s invasion AD (113–114), the period after Pacorus’ death when his influence on Vologases would have reached its peak. Thus if the existence of a king/ regent co-rule is in doubt the creation of a territorial co-rule seems evident. Osrhoes is the only Parthian king mentioned in Cassius Dio’s account of Trajan’s Parthian wars (68. 17. 2, 68. 19. 4, 68. 22. 1; Pausanias (5. 12. 6) since his area of influence was closer to the Roman empire. After the war he is mentioned as Hadrian’s antagonist in AD 123 (Historia Augusta Hadrian 13. 8), and only after his coins are no longer attested, Vologases is taken into consideration by Western sources (Cassius Dio 69. 15. 1). For the Graeco-Roman authors like in the case of Gotarzes and Vardanes, only one king can exist at a time and this is Osrhoes. As expected there is no hint of a possible king/ regent co-rule. The territorial co-ruler of numismatic sources becomes the sole Great King of the literary ones, where similarly to Gotarzes who disappeared in the East, Vologases II the Eastern co-ruler is simply ignored. The only reference to another authority beyond Osrhoes is by Cassius Dio, who explaining the easy march of Trajan’s legions towards Babylonia writes (68. 26. 4): ‘Parthian power (dúnamis) had been destroyed by civil conflicts and was still at this time a subject of strife.’ Nonetheless, there is no reference to actual battles nor to the role the other co-ruler must have played in the conflict with Rome. The inconclusive sources available do not let it be established exactly if there was an accord between the two and what it was or if they were openly fighting one another from Pacorus II’s death until AD 129. The choice of different headgear and the contemporary coin production would suggest a partition of power, a co-rule on the model of Artabanus III and Pacorus II’s (king/regent co-rule), or at least a sort of agreement, but with a partition of the empire into areas of competence (territorial co-rule). The two scenarios envisaged by Western authors instead: a generic state of internal strife or the rule of the sole king Osrhoes, seem to exclude even a territorial co-rule. 38

 Sinisi 2012, 195; Sellwood 1980, typ. 79.43–47: 255; Olbrycht 1998b, 138–40.  Sinisi 2012, 195–96; Sellwood 1980, typ. 79.39–42: 255. 40  Sinisi 2012, 196; Sellwood 1980, typ. 80.3–5 and 8–10: 258–59. 41  Where he seems to have the authority to appoint and remove kings: Cassius Dio 68. 17. 1–3. 42  Nippur and its fortress in lower Babylonia seem to have been a major centre of power for Orodes: Keall 1970, 41–43, 155–60, 169–73, 185–86; 1975a; 1975b, 628–30. 43  Bivar 1983, 87; Verstandig 2001, 295. 39

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A century later the situation was in some aspects similar. Before Caracalla’s Parthian campaigns (AD 216–217) the Parthian empire was divided between the two sons of Vologases IV, who died in AD 208: Artabanus IV and Vologases V.44 Differently from the case of Osrhoes and Vologases II, here there was only one legitimate successor and ruler from AD 208 to 213/4: Vologases V. At the beginning of Caracalla’s reign when the Roman emperor was looking for a pretext to move war to Parthia Vologases was, in fact, his political counterpart.45 In AD 213/4 according to the numismatic sources Artabanus IV,46 a brother of the ruling king rebelled and quickly conquered most of Parthia except for Seleucia on the Tigris and Babylonia where Vologases V continued to mint his coins until AD 221/2.47 Since then Artabanus appears to be in control of most of the empire, or at least of the portion facing a Roman invasion, and therefore like Osrhoes, he is the only Great King mentioned by both Cassius Dio and Herodian. Caracalla offers to marry one of Artabanus’ daughters to unify the two empires and create the most powerful kingdom in the world; no mention is made of Vologases’ rule (Herodian 4. 10. 1–3). According to Cassius Dio (79. 1) marrying Artabanus’ daughter would have meant to get the whole Parthian kingdom. Artabanus fights back ‘with his entire eastern horde’ (Herodian 4. 14. 6) forcing emperor Macrinus to surrender and finally Artabanus is the only king mentioned as a victim of the rise of the Sasanians (Cassius Dio 80b. 3. 2; Herodian 6. 2. 1, 7; 6. 3. 5). The only mention of a dual kingship is in Cassius Dio (78. 12. 2–3) who, like in the previous case, speaks about Vologases IV’s death and the war between the two ‘brother kings’, a topic introduced to establish a grim link with the assassination of Geta by his brother Caracalla. Furthermore, nothing is said about this strife’s ending. The question is left open in the literary sources, but the coins testify that Artabanus did not manage to take control of the whole empire, establishing de facto a territorial co-rule with his brother. Again as in the case of Gotarzes II and Vardanes, Western sources prefer to present a linear succession of Great Kings that does not contemplate the existence of a co-rule or to avoid the problem by simply obliterating one of the two co-rulers like with Osrhoes and Vologases II, in this case Vologases V, the less influential or less involved in Caracalla’s plans. Normally the ruler who appears in Western narratives is the one closer to the Roman border like Osrhoes and Vardanes, or the most powerful like Artabanus IV, in all cases the one with whom the Romans had diplomatic relationships. Sinisi’s considerations on Arsacid coinage place in question previous interpretations of the numismatic sources, opening the way for a more flexible and dynamic conception of the Parthian empire, less weakened and torn by civil strife as scholars thought in the past. Like in other cases the Graeco-Roman writers failed to note or rather decided to ignore the complexities of Parthian internal policy to a adopt a simplified point of view. 44  Debevoise 1938, 263–65; Simonetta 1956; Chaumont 1976, 155; Angeli Bertinelli 1979, 80; Wolski 1993, 191–92; Ziegler 1964, 70–72; Schippmann 1980, 133. 45  In a fragmentary passage Cassius Dio (78. 19. 1) speaks about a Vologases’ refusal to deliver some refugees as a pretext for Caracalla’s campaign. In Cassius Dio (68. 21. 1), he says that the Parthian king changed his mind about the refugees and the Roman military campaign was aborted. 46  Sellwood 1980, typ. 88: 287–89; Chenevier 2015, 155–56. 47  Sellwood 1980, typp. 89–90: 291–92; Chenevier 2015, 157–58.

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Even with the evidence of power shared between two princes or at least when the division of the enemy empire in two was under their eyes, Roman writers refuse to take into consideration a scenario other than a sole king-ruler of the entire empire forced to face rebels and rivals to the throne. From the Western point of view only one Parthian Great King could exist at one time, any other solution is never taken into serious consideration. Only one is the Great King, all others, if they do not vanish in the background, can only be rebels trying to take his place. Shortsightedness for too long shared also by modern scholars.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Angeli Bertinelli, M.G. 1979: Roma e l’Oriente. Strategia, economia, società e cultura nelle relazioni politiche fra Roma, la Giudea e l’Iran (Problemi e Ricerche di Storia Antica 7) (Rome). Bivar, A.D.H. 1983: ‘The Political History of Iran under the Arsacids’. In Yarshater, E. (ed.), The Cambridge History of Iran 3.1: The Seleucid, Parthian and Sasanian Periods (Cambridge), 21–99. Chaumont, M.-L. 1976: ‘L’Arménie entre Rome et l’Iran I. De l’avènement d’Auguste à l’avénement de Dioclétien’. ANRW II 9.1, 71–194. Chenevier, A. 2015: ‘Crépuscule de l’Empre Parthe – Les dernières dracmes’. Electrum 22, 155–58. Cureton, W. 1884: Acta Šarbil. Ancient Syriac Documents Relative to the Earliest Establishment of Christianity in Edessa and the Neighbouring Countries (London/Edinburgh; repr. Amsterdam 1967), 41–63. Dąbrowa, E. 1983: La politique de l’état parthe à l’égard de Rome – d’Artaban II à Vologèse I (ca 11– ca 79 de n. è.) et les facteurs qui la conditionnaient (Uniwersytet Jagellónski, Rozprawy Habilitacyjne 74) (Cracow). —. 2017: ‘Tacitus on the Parthians’. Electrum 24, 171–89. Debevoise, N.C. 1938: A Political History of Parthia (Chicago). Fowler, R. 2010: ‘King, Bigger King, King of Kings: Structuring Power in the Parthian World’. In Kaizer, T. and Facella, M. (eds.), Kingdoms and Principalities in the Roman Near East (Oriens et Occident 19) (Stuttgart), 57–77. Gonnella, R. 2001: ‘New Evidence for Dating the Reign of Vonones I’. Numismatic Chronicle 161, 67–73. Gregoratti, L. 2012a: ‘Parthian Women in Flavius Josephus’. In Hirschberger, M. (ed.), Jüdischhellenistische Literatur in ihrem interkulturellen Kontext (Frankfurt), 183–92. —. 2012b: ‘Fighting a Dying Enemy: Western view on the Struggle between Rome and the Parthians‘. In Dobre, C., Epurescu-Pascovici, I. and Ghita, C. (eds.), Myth-Making and Myth-Breaking in History and the Humanities (Bucharest), 25–36 (= MemoScapes, Romanian Journal of Memory and Identity Studies 2.2 [2018], 43–52). —. 2012c: ‘The Importance of the mint of Seleucia on the Tigris in the Arsacid History’. Mesopotamia 47, 129–36. —. 2013: ‘The Journey east of the Great King, East and West in the Parthian Kingdom’. Parthica 15, 43–52. —. 2016: ‘Legendary and Real Wealth in the Arsacid Kingdom’. In Santangelo, F. and Bissa, E. (eds.), Studies on Wealth in the Ancient World (Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Suppl. 133) (London), 83–92. —. 2018: ‘Tacitus and the Great Kings’. In Whiskin, M. and Bagot, A. (eds.), Iran and the West: Cultural Perceptions from the Sasanian Empire to the Islamic Republic (International Library of Iranian Studies 42) (New York/London), 21–34. Hackl, U., Jacobs, B. and Weber, D. 2010: Quellen zur Geschichte des Partherreiches: Textsammlung mit Übersetzungen und Kommentaren. 2: Griechische und lateinische Texte, Parthische Texte, Numismatische Evidenz (Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments 83) (Göttingen).

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Hauser, S.R. 2016: ‘Münzen, Medien und der Aufbau des Arsakidenreiches’. In Binder, C., Börn, H. and Luther, A. (eds.), Diwan: Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean/Untersuchungen zu Geschichte und Kultur des Nahen Ostens und des östlichen Mittelmeerraumes im Altertum. Festschrift für Josef Wiesehöfer zum 65. Geburtstag (Duisburg), 433–92. Invernizzi, A. 2013: ‘Sulla Sylloge Nummorum Parthicorum da Vologese I a Pacoro II’. Parthica 15, 75–88. Kahrstedt, U. 1950: Artabanos III. und seine Erben (Dissertationes Bernenses, ser. 1, 2) (Bern). Karras-Klapproth, M. 1988: Prosopographische Studien zur Geschichte des Partherreiches auf der Grundlage antiker literarischer Überlieferung (Bonn). Keall, E.J. 1970: The Significance of Late Parthian Nippur (Dissertation, University of Michigan). —. 1975: ‘Parthian Nippur and Vologases’ Southern Strategy: A Hypothesis’. Journal of the American Oriental Society 95, 620–32. —. 1975: ‘Osroes: Rebel King or Royal Delegate?’. Cornucopiae 3.2, 17–32. Laude, M.G. 2003: ‘La politique des rois d’Edesse, entre Rome et les Parthes’. In Dąbrowa, E. (ed.), The Roman Near East and Armenia (Electrum 7) (Cracow), 83–99. Lerouge, C. 2007: L’image des Parthes dans le monde gréco-romain. Du debut du Ier siècle av. J.-C. jusqu’a la fin du Haut-Empire romain (Oriens et Occidens 17) (Stuttgart). Luther, A. 1999: ‘Elias von Nisibis und die Chronologie der edessenischen Könige’. Klio 81, 180–98. Mcdowell, R. 1935: The Coins from Seleucia on the Tigris (University of Michigan Studies. Humanistic Series 37) (Ann Arbor). Marciak, M. 2014: Izates, Helena, and Monobazos of Adiabene: A Study on Literary Traditions and History (Philippika 66) (Wiesbaden). —. 2017: Sophene, Gordyene, and Adiabene: Three Regna Minora of Northern Mesopotamia between East and West (Impact of Empire 26) (Leiden/Boston). Olbrycht, M.J. 1997: ‘Vardanes contra Gotarzes II. – Einige Überlegungen zur Geschichte des Partherreiches ca. 40–51 n. Chr.’. Folia Orientalia 33, 81–100. —. 1998a: Parthia et ulteriores gentes. Die politische Beziehungen zwischen dem arsakidischen Iran und den Nomaden der eurasiatischen Steppen (Munich). —. 1998b: ‘Das Arsakidenreich zwischen der mediterranen Welt und Innerasien, Bemerkungen zur politischen Strategie der Arsakiden von Vologaeses I. bis zum Herrschaftsantritt des Vologaeses III. (50–147 n. Chr.)’. In Dąbrowa, E. (ed.), Ancient Iran and the Mediterranean World (Proceedings of an international conference in honour of Professor J. Wolski held at the Jagellonian University, Cracow, in September 1996) (Electrum 2) (Cracow), 123– 59. —. 1999: ‘Bemerkungen zur Parthischen Münzpragung unter Vologaeses I. und Pakoros II.’. Notae Numismaticae 3–4, 69–93. —. 2012: ‘The Political-Military Strategy of Artabanos/Ardawān II in 34–37’. Anabasis. Studia Classica et Orientalia 3, 160–78 —. 2013: ‘From Babylonia to the “Fields of Bactria” – Parthia after the Death of Artabanos II’. Przegląd Humanistyczny 2, 101–07. —. 2016: ‘Vologases I, Pacoros II and Artabanos III; Coins and Parthian History’. Iranica Antiqua 51, 215–33. Ross, S.K. 2001: Roman Edessa: Politics and Culture on the Eastern Fringes of the Roman Empire, 114–242 CE (London). Schippmann, K. 1980: Grundzüge der parthischen Geschichte (Grundzüge 39) (Darmstadt). Schottky, M. 1989: Media Atropatene und Gross-Armenien in hellenistischer Zeit (Alte Geschichte 27) (Bonn). —. 1991: ‘Parther, Meder und Hyrkanier. Eine Untersuchung der dynastischen und geographischen Verflechtungen im Iran des 1. Jhs. n. Chr.’. Archäologisches Mitteilungen aus Iran n.F. 24, 61–134. —. 1998: ‘Quellen zur Geschichte von Media Atropatene und Hyrkanien in parthischer Zeit’. In Wiesehöfer 1998, 435–72.

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Sellwood, D. 1980: An Introduction to the Coinage of Parthia, 2nd ed. (London). Shore, F.B. 1993: Parthian Coins and History: Ten Dragons Against Rome (Quarryville, PA). Simonetta, A. 2006: ‘Overstrikes, Mules, modified Dies and retouched Coins in the Arsacid Coinage: a Discussion of their Significance’. Parthica 8, 41–54. Simonetta, B. 1956: ‘A Note on Volagases V, Artabanus V and Artavasdes’. Numismatic Chronicle and Journal of the Royal Numismatics Society, ser. 6, 16, 77–82. Sinisi, F. 2012a: ‘The Coinage of the Parthians’. In Metcalf, W.E. (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage (Oxford), 275–95. —. 2012b: Sylloge Nummorum Parthicorum 7: Vologases I.–Pacorus II. (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften: Denkschriften der Philosophisch-Historischen Klasse 433; Veröffentlichungen der Numismatischen Kommission 56) (Vienna). —. 2014: ‘Sources for the history of art of the Parthian period: Arsacid coinage as evidence for continuity of imperial art in Iran’. Parthica 16, 9–59. —. 2015: ‘Qualche nota di metodo sulla definizione dei criteri tipologci nella numismatica partica’. In Szaivert, W., Schindel, N., Beckers, M. and Vondrovec, K. (eds.), TOYTO APECH TH XWPA: Festschrift für Wolfgang Hahn zum 70. Geburtstag (Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Numismatik und Geldgeschichte 16) (Vienna), 363–75. Sommer, M. 2018: Roms orientalische Steppengrenze: Palmyra-Edessa-Dura Europos-Hatra, Eine Kulturgeschichte von Pompeius bis Diocletian (Oriens et Occidens 9), 2nd ed. (Stuttgart). Verstandig, A. 2001: Histoire de l’Empire Parthe (-250–227): À la découverte d’une civilisation méconnue (Brussels). Wiesehöfer, J. (ed.) 1998: Das Partherreich und seine Zeugnisse (Beiträge des internationalen Colloquiums, Eutin, 27.–30. Juni 1996) (Historia Einzelschriften 122) (Stuttgart). Wolski, J. 1993: L’Empire des Arsacides (Acta Iranica 32) (Leuven). Ziegler, K.-H. 1964: Die Beziehungen zwischen Rom und dem Partherreich. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Völkerrechts (Wiesbaden).

THE MEDIAN EMPIRE AND THE HIGHSTAND WATERS OF THE CASPIAN SEA Yervand GREKYAN

ABSTRACT One of the major points of contention of the last two decades is the question of the existence of the Median empire in and beyond the Iranian plateau. Modern scholarship is starting to reject previous reconstructions of the history of the Medes that were based mostly on the works of ancient Greek historians, especially concerning so-called ‘independent Media’, i.e. the history of the Medes in the 7th–6th centuries BC. The new data on the palaeo-environment of the ancient Near East for the period under discussion, as well as the close parallels and common background of the developments in other regions of the ancient Near East, reveal that the conditions of that period were not favourable to the birth of any noticeable state formation on the Iranian plateau.

INTRODUCTION In his Μηδικός Λόγος Herodotus (1. 130) described Media as a vast empire, whose kings reigned over the part of Asia stretching eastwards from the Halys river. He ascribed the foundation of Media to Deioces (Δηϊόκης), son of Phraortes (Φραόρτης), the autocratic ruler of the Medes (whose reign spanned the end of the 8th to the beginning of the 7th century BC) and described the deeds of the Median kings.1 One of them, Phraortes, son of Deioces, even claimed the Assyrian territories (the Median invasion of Assyria, according to the traditional dating, was ca. 653–652 BC).2 The accounts of the ancient historians were accepted indisputably and laid the basis of the historiography, giving birth to the traditional idea of the Median empire. However, there are clear contradictions between ancient Greek historiography, on the one hand, and cuneiform and archaeological sources on the other.3 We can now add also the data of palaeo-climatological investigations to these sources, among which the results of the studies of the water level changes of the Caspian Sea and the reasons of fluctuations should be highlighted. Accordingly, in this contribution I shall try to compare the palaeo-environment of the ancient Near East in the 7th century BC with the situation outlined by the written and archaeological data of the same period, once more reconsidering the question of the existence of the Median empire. 1  Herodotus 1. 102–103. On the identification of those kings and for chronology, see Diakonoff 1985, 110–19; Medvedskaya 2010, 156–62. 2  Diakonoff 1985, 117. 3  For discussion of problematic issues of the history of Media, cf., especially, the contributions presented at the conference in Padua in 2001 (Fales 2003). For other studies, see Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1988. Cf. also Tuplin 2004; Curtis 2005a, 118–23; Genito 2005; Razmjou 2005; Waters 2005; Ball 2012; Stronach 2012; Radner 2013, 453–54.

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THE LEVEL OF THE CASPIAN AND THE PALAEO-ENVIRONMENT NEAR EAST IN THE 7TH CENTURY BC

OF THE

ANCIENT

The impact of the Caspian Sea level changes on its environment can also be observed in the present day. The sea level is unstable; only in the last century the amplitude of fluctuations reached up to 3 m (~ 6 m as total amplitude),4 to 25 m in the last millennium and about 150 m starting from the Early Holocene.5 Located at about –27.4 m below the oceanic level (in 2014),6 the Caspian Sea reached its maximum highstands in the historical period twice: in the middle of the 7th century BC and at the end of the 14th–beginning of the 15th century AD. At those times, the Caspian Sea level was approximately –22 m7 and –21.4 m8 respectively (about 5.5–6 m higher than it is currently). In the latter case, the high level of water corresponds to the so-called Little Ice Age (14th–19th centuries).9 The sharp rise of the level of the Caspian Sea was probably connected with the decrease in solar activity, which led to global changes on the Earth.10 This process was accompanied by the decline of the average temperature and the setting of the cooler weather conditions, increasing the surface area of glaciers and lakes, the elevation of groundwater levels, etc.11 Another factor affecting the amount of precipitation in western Asia is an atmospheric process called North Atlantic Oscillation;12 in particular, its impact on the streamflow of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, the two most important freshwater sources not only for the Armenian Highlands, but especially for Syria and Mesopotamia, could reach ~ ± 40%.13 In the case of the Caspian Sea, the impact of the streamflow of the Volga on sea level changes, along with surface evaporation, is extremely great, as it accounts for 80% of the water input of the Caspian Sea.14 As for the ancient Near East, in the period under discussion (700–600 BC), a decline in the water temperatures of the Mediterranean and the Ionian is observed.15 The climate became drier in the Aegean region16 and the Levant17 starting from 700 BC. The palaeoclimatological investigations indicate drier weather conditions in Central Anatolia for the period 670–630 BC.18 According to the same studies, the mid-7th century BC was one of the driest periods of Holocene.19 Although the data for the inner regions of the Iranian plateau are scarce, however, the shift to drier conditions compared with the comparatively humid weather previously reported for these regions is evident.20  Kakroodi et al. 2012, 102; Haghani et al. 2016b, 94, fig. 1.  Kroonenberg et al. 2007, 137–38; Kakroodi et al. 2012, 100–01. 6  Haghani et al. 2016b, 94, fig. 1. 7  Kakroodi et al. 2012, 102; 2014. 8  Kroonenberg et al. 2007, 140–42; Naderi Beni et al. 2013, 1645 and table 3; Haghani et al. 2016a, 13. 9  Naderi Beni et al. 2013, 1647; Haghani et al. 2016a. 10  Raspopov et al. 2000, 513–15; Dergachev et al. 2004, 677; Kroonenberg et al. 2007; Drake 2012. 11  Kroonenberg et al. 2007, 141–42; Kakroodi et al. 2015, 123; Dergachev et al. 2004. 12  Kroonenberg et al. 2007, 138; Weiss 2015, 36; Schneider and Adalı 2016, 160. 13  Cullen and deMenocal 2000, 853, 861. 14  Kroonenberg et al. 2007, 138, 142. 15  Drake 2012, 1867, fig. 3. 16  Psomiadis et al. 2018, 280–81. 17  Langgut et al. 2013, 161; 2015, 230–31 and fig. 5. See also Kuzucuoğlu et al. 2011, 185. 18  Kuzucuoğlu et al. 2011, 183. 19  Schneider and Adalı 2014, 436–37. See also Schneider and Adalı 2016, 161–65, 168–71 and fig. 2. For the long-lasting drought in Assyria in the 7th century BC, see now Sinha et al. 2019. 20  Schneider and Adalı 2014, 437; Talebi et al. 2016, 49. 4 5

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Now, in light of the palaeo-climatological data mentioned, let us analyse the economic and political situation outlined by the written and archaeological sources for the ancient Near East, the Armenian Highlands and the Iranian plateau, in particular during and after the formation of the Median empire.

THE ‘7TH-CENTURY BC CRISIS’: THE CASE

OF

ASSYRIA

AND

URARTU

In contrast with the royal inscriptions of Neo-Assyrian kings, which tend not to mention economic difficulties specifically, some of the preserved sources indicate serious problems. Starting from the beginning of the 7th century BC, Neo-Assyrian cuneiform sources frequently mention water shortage. In this respect, the inscriptions left by the Assyrian king Sennacherib (705–681 BC) stand out, explaining the king’s enormous hydraulic projects21 with the population’s high need of water.22 It seems strange, given the fact that the Assyrian heartland and especially the regions around the city of Nineveh, the new residence of Sennacherib, lies within the limits of rain-fed agriculture (about 400 mm precipitation annually), allowing for farming without resorting to artificial irrigation.23 The emergence of kārīz (qanāt) systems in Assyria during the reign of Sennacherib proves the existence of a water shortage.24 The introduction of šādūfs and other technical ‘innovations’ in the same period was also conditioned by the need of additional volumes of water taken from the Tigris, since the river’s deep and upright banks only allowed limited access to its waters.25 The consistent efforts of the Assyrian king Esarhaddon, son of Sennacherib (680–669 BC), to conquer Egypt, for which he concentrated all the available resources of his kingdom,26 in all probability was conditioned by the need to control Egypt’s rich grain reserves. With this in mind, it is not strange to find information about significant population losses in the Neo-Assyrian sources of that period.27 The surface area of cultivated lands was dramatically reduced.28 Additionally, from the middle of the 7th century BC, unusually high prices for barley and years of crop failure are mentioned in Assyrian texts.29 Both the Assyrian and Babylonian sources report droughts and famine in the land, starting in the late 650s BC.30 It is not coincidental that a large number of texts refer to the local population borrowing grain from the palace or temple granaries.31 Some Assyrian texts also note massive losses of cattle, etc.32

21

 For Sennacherib’s hydro-projects, see Reade 1978, 47–48; 2000, 404–07 and fig. 9; Bagg 2000a, 169–227; 2000b, 316–20; Dalley 2001–02, 451–52; Ur 2005, 321–45; Bonacossi 2017a, 135–36, fig. 25.1; 2017b, 139–41, fig. 26.3. 22  For example, Grayson and Novotny 2014, 313 (no. 223, 5b–7). 23  Bagg 2000b, 303–04, fig. 2. 24  Burney 1972, 181. Cf. Dalley 2001–02. 25  Tamburrino 2010, 36–38. 26  Cf. also Adalı 2017, 316. 27  Galil 2007, 346, tables 33–34, 352. 28  Galil 2007, 348. 29  For textual sources and interpretations, see Deller 1964, 260–61; Eph‘al 2009, 124–27. 30  Grayson 1980, 234; Schneider and Adalı 2014, 438; Schneider and Adalı 2016, 166–68. Cf. Sołtysiak 2016. 31  Ponchia 1990. 32  Fales and Postgate 1995, 59 (no. 94).

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In the period under discussion we come across evidence of the crisis also in the kingdom of Urartu, the northern neighbour of the Assyrian empire, which we call the ‘7th-century BC crisis’. Signs of the crisis were visible as far back as the last decades of the 8th–the beginning of the 7th century BC, when the Urartian state was faced with a serious problem of water shortage. The Urartian inscriptions of this period mention the construction of ‘lakes’, i.e. reservoirs (at least four out of five archaeologically attested dams and artificial reservoirs were built in the period mentioned) and new canals stretching several hundred kilometres. The foundation of new administrative centres close to the available water sources, and the shift to the cultivation of drought-resistant crops (such as millet), etc. also testify to the hardships in the state. The Urartian inscriptions regarding sacrifices made to the gods, the deified mountains and lakes, in exchange for abundant rains and fully filled water channels are also dated to the same period. Similar texts from earlier periods are unknown.33

Political Instability The first evidence of political instability in Assyria was the assassination of Sennacherib by his elder son and his supporters.34 Esarhaddon, who succeeded his father on the Assyrian throne after the civil war which lasted several months, was concerned about the stability both of his and the crown prince’s future power.35 He tried to gain the loyalty of local kings and rulers. We know about this from the so-called ‘loyalty oaths’ (Akk. adê), which were signed between the Assyrian king and the crown prince on one side and the kings and rulers of particular kingdoms or even governors of the Assyrian provincial administration, on the other side.36 They were thus obliged to remain faithful to the Assyrian king and the crown prince. Esarhaddon’s attempt to move his residence to Kalḫu,37 the former ‘capital city’, was probably linked to that instability. Several texts mention a conspiracy against the king.38 In 670 BC, Esarhaddon ordered the execution of many Assyrian magnates.39 Immediately after the death of Esarhaddon, following the queen mother’s will, the brothers and other members of the royal family, the high officials and ‘all Assyrians, high and low’ swore an oath of loyalty to Ashurbanipal, the newly enthroned king of Assyria (668–631 BC).40 In spite of this fact, texts mention at least one major revolt against the Assyrian king by the end of the 650s BC.41 From about 630 BC onward, the crisis in Assyria, along with the weakening of royal authority, culminated in a civil war, and several kings ruled in different parts of Assyria for a time, not counting those who claimed the throne of Assyria.42 Two decades later 33

 See in detail Grekyan 2014.  Glassner 2004, 198–201 (no. 16, ll. 34–38). See also Parpola 1980. 35  Starr 1990, 148–57 (nos. 139–148). For discussion, see also Adalı 2017, 309–11. 36  Parpola and Watanabe 1988, 28–59 (nos. 6–7). For discussions, see Fales 2012; Ponchia 2014. 37  Postgate and Reade 1976–80, 321; Oates and Oates 2001, 23–24. 38  See Radner 2003b, 172–76; Eph‘al-Jaruzelska 2016, 133–39; Frahm 2017, 187–88. 39  Glassner 2004, 202–03 (no. 16, l. 29). 40  Parpola and Watanabe 1988, 62–64 (no. 8). 41  Grayson 1980, 233–34. 42  Na’aman 1991; Zawadzki 1995; Reade 1998. 34

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the Assyrian empire was fighting for survival and soon after the fall of Nineveh in 612 BC it came to its violent end.43 The very dim prospects for military success during this period of political instability in Assyria are also documented archaeologically. Specifically, several years before the collapse of the empire, during the reign of Sin-Sharra-Ishkun (626–612 BC), son of Ashurbanipal, the walls of Nineveh underwent repairs.44 Other defensive activities were also conducted. For example, the city gates were additionally reinforced, and some were narrowed, including the Ḫalzi, Šamaš and Adad gates of Nineveh (the gate of Ḫalzi was narrowed from 7 to 2 m).45 The gates were also narrowed in Kalḫu,46 new defensive walls were erected inside the city of Assur, additional stocks of grain were accumulated in several halls of the Old Palace, and various parts of the Eastern Palace were also transformed into granaries. Even one of the halls of Anu-Adad temple was repurposed.47 It is interesting that the discovered volumes of grain were enough to feed the population of Assur for about a month.48 In addition, the shift of new population groups to the urban centres is documented for this period – the so-called squatters’ occupations in Nimrud (Kalḫu),49 Nineveh,50 Khorsabad (Dūr-Šarrukīn),51 Ziyaret Tepe (Tušḫan)52 and Assur.53 Although these movements are usually considered in the post-Assyrian context, the boundary between preand post-612 BC is not always clear. Thus, it is not impossible that the population movements began before the seizure of these cities by the Babylonian and Median armies. Additionally, there is no break in material culture between these stages.54 At the same time in Urartu we also witness a situation characterised by political instability and a dim prospects of political/military success. Some of the first evidence of political instability in Urartu is the scant information about a civil war that broke out and the destruction of one of the largest Urartian centres, Rusai URU.TUR (‘Rusa’s small city’, the site of Bastam in north-western Iran), in around 640 BC, still during the reign of its founder Rusa Argištiḫi (ca. 680–640 BC), or shortly thereafter.55 The construction of defensive works during this period in almost all Urartian administrative centres also testifies to the political instability in the kingdom. The citadel walls of those centres were additionally reinforced and the construction of walls surrounding unfortified outer towns below the citadels begun. These remained unfinished (for example, the wall of the outer town of Karmir-Blur).56 The gates of most of these citadels were 43

 For the latest period of history of the Neo-Assyrian empire, see now Frahm 2017, 190–93.  Pickworth 2005, 298, fig. 3. 45  Stronach and Lumsden 1992, 231–32, fig.; Pickworth 2005, 299–300, figs. 8, 27; Reade 2000, 401–02 and fig. 4. 46  Oates and Oates 2001, 148–52 and fig. 94. 47  Miglus 2003, 88–89. 48  Miglus 2003, 89. 49  Oates and Oates 2001, 64–65; Curtis 2003, 158–59. 50  Stronach 1989–90, 108. 51  Loud and Altman 1938, 95; cf. Curtis 2003, 161. 52  MacGinnis and Matney 2009, 15–16. 53  Miglus 2003, 90–92; Curtis 2003, 161. 54  Oates and Oates 2001, 257; Curtis 2003, 161; Kreppner 2008, 154–55. 55  Kroll 1984, 170; Kleiss 1989, 217; Zimansky 1995, 1141; Medvedskaya 2010, 152–53. 56  Sorokin 1952, 79; Oganesyan 1955, 11–12, fig. 1. 44

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either closed, leaving only one entrance, or were significantly narrowed (Kayalıdere,57 Upper Anzaf,58 Karmir-Blur,59 Ayanis,60 Erebuni,61 Bastam,62 etc.). Steps were taken to accumulate additional food supplies using wine cellars with large pithoi and various halls of the citadels (Karmir-Blur,63 Argištiḫinili-Armavir,64 Ayanis,65 Haykaberd-Çavuştepe,66 Erebuni67). There is clear evidence of a large number of population shifts to these centres. Some newcomers took refuge in Urartian elite houses and state-owned buildings, dividing their inner spaces with irregular walls and making them habitable for numerous families (Karmir-Blur,68 Argištiḫinili-Armavir,69 Ayanis,70 Upper Anzaf,71 Haykaberd-Çavuştepe,72 Bastam,73 Erebuni74). After a short time all of these developments were brought to an end with the destruction and abandonment of the major Urartian centres.75

Ethnic Migrations Major ethnic migrations historically often coincide with climate changes and are interconnected. One such episode in the history of the ancient Near East is the Gutian invasion of Mesopotamia and the fall of the kingdom of Akkad around 2200 BC (the so-called 4.2–3.9 ka BP event – the abrupt megadrought).76 The new wave of Hurrian migrations towards Syria, Cilicia and northern Mesopotamia, and the invasions of the Hyksos into Egypt77 can be linked with an episode of drought in 1700–1650 BC.78 The crisis of the 12th century BC in the Near East resulted in the movements of the population en masse known as the ‘Sea Peoples’, etc.79 The same is true for the period under discussion. Among the foreigners to have appeared in the ancient Near Eastern arena at that time were the Muški (Phrygians), who began to move from Central Anatolia to the east, towards the upper Euphrates basin and the Armenian Highlands,80 and the Cimmerian tribes, whom we first encounter in the Armenian 57

 Burney 1966, 66–67, pl. 3b.  Belli 2001, 168–69 and fig. 6. 59  Piotrovskii 1955, 8, fig. 1. 60  Çilingiroğlu and Işıklı 2014, 312. 61  Deschamps et al. 2011, 127–28, 132; Deschamps 2016, 212. 62  Kleiss 1970, 39, table 19.3. 63  Piotrovskii 1952, 19–20. 64  Ghafadaryan 1984, 88–89. 65  Çilingiroğlu 2001, 71–75. 66  Erzen 1976, 47. 67  Demskaya 1968, 182. 68  Piotrovskii 1950, 21–24, figs. 4–5. 69  Ghafadaryan 1984, 38, 72–73, 115–21, figs. 38–40. 70  Çilingiroğlu et al. 2002, 292, fig. 6. Cf. also Stone and Zimansky 2003, 220–22, 225–27; 2004, 240–42. 71  Belli 1997, 386. 72  Erzen 1978, 57–58, fig. 43, table XLIX a–e. 73  Kleiss 1974, 107 and fig. 2. 74  Loseva 1958, 191–93; Khodzhash et al. 1979, 17; Deschamps 2016, 214, fig. 11. 75  See Grekyan 2009, 109–10. 76  Weiss et al. 1993; Weiss 2015; 2017; Cullen et al. 2000; Roberts et al. 2011, 150–53. 77  Cf. also Finkelstein and Langgut 2014, 233–34. 78  Roberts et al. 2011, 152–53. 79  See, for example, Yasur-Landau 2010; Kaniewski et al. 2010, 211–14. 80  Kosyan 1999, 256–57. 58

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Highlands and then in the regions of Asia Minor and the Iranian plateau.81 In the first quarter of the 7th century BC, we come across the first mentions of the Scythian tribes in cuneiform sources, who for a while played a significant role in the political life of the ancient Near East.82 The increasing mobility and migrations of the population are recorded in the regions of the Aegean Sea, which is known as the ‘Greek colonisation’. It should be noted here that the main stages of colonisation took place in the 7th century BC.83

Depopulation The drying climate, abrupt drop in rainfall and long-lasting drought had catastrophic consequences on the ancient Near Eastern societies based on artificial irrigation, leading not only to the collapse of state structures but also to the mass migrations of populations and even the total abandonment of formerly densely populated regions. In particular, about 87% of the settlements in the Khabur river valley that flourished during the Akkadian period were abandoned as a result of the above-mentioned megadrought. Moreover, by the turn of the 2nd millennium BC, that whole region became effectively uninhabited.84 The picture is the same in the Levant, Asia Minor and elsewhere.85 As a result of the ancient Near Eastern crisis in the 12th century BC, a sharp decline in the population of Mycenaean Greece has been noted. The heartland of the Hittite empire in the central regions of Asia Minor was also depopulated during this period, etc.86 The same phenomenon is also observed in Mesopotamia and the Armenian Highlands in the 7th century BC. A first manifestation of this process is the information of the Neo-Assyrian texts about mass flight of populations from the agricultural regions of the Assyrian empire.87 Meanwhile, the masses tried to find shelter in the foothills or mountainous regions, particularly in the land of Shubria located in the Taurus Mountains north of the Upper Tigris.88 The Neo-Assyrian texts of the period also testify to the significant (up to one-third) decline in the average size of individual families, resulting in serious shortage of labour, etc.89 The internecine war in Assyria that blossomed into the conflict between Assyria and Babylonia ended not only with the collapse of the Assyrian empire but also the almost total abandonment of the Assyrian heartland.90 Along with the capture and destruction of major Assyrian centres, including Assur, Kalḫu and Nineveh,91 many others were abandoned peacefully – the important provincial centres Til Barsip (Tell Ahmar) and Tušḫan (Ziyaret Tepe), for example.92 The dramatic content of one of the letters found

81

 For textual evidence, see Ivantchik 1993.  See, for example, Diakonoff 1994. 83  Graham 1982, 160–62. 84  Weiss 2015, 42–46; 2017, 139–44, table 6.1, fig. 6.6–7. 85  Weiss 2017, 143. 86  Desborough 1975, 663–69. 87  Lanfranchi and Parpola 1990, nos. 35, 52; Fales and Postgate 1995, 100 (no. 159), etc. 88  Leichty 2011, 79–80 (no. 33 Obv. ii 3). 89  Galil 2007, 346–48 and tables 33–34. 90  Curtis 2003; MacGinnis 2018, 283; Koliński 2018, 109. 91  MacGinnis 2018, 280–82. 92  Bunnens 1997, 28; MacGinnis and Matney 2009, 14–15. 82

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in Tušḫan about the inability to carry out an order because of the absence of any personnel is perhaps a conspicuous result of this process.93 Archaeological research shows that by the end of the 7th century BC, the majority of the settlements in the main agricultural regions of the Assyrian empire, located in the Khabur and Balikh basin (Upper Jazireh) were no longer inhabited (in the post-Assyrian period the number of settlements was reduced by 84%).94 The territories between the Upper Tigris and Upper Greater Zab also show significant reduction in the number and size of rural settlements (around 70%) in the post-Assyrian period.95 The Assyrian heartland, having lost the majority of its population, turned into a periphery of the Neo-Babylonian empire.96 The same phenomenon is also observed in the Urartian empire. At some point in the second half of the 7th century BC, almost all Urartian administrative centres were captured, destroyed and/or abandoned, and the main agricultural regions of the state were generally depopulated.97 To illustrate the aftermath of the crisis for the Urartian empire, one can point to the fact that the majority of more than 70 fortresses and settlements attested archaeologically in the former Urartian territories in north-western Iran were abandoned, and only a dozen sites show traces of further, sparse occupation.98 Thus, the evidence of the crisis noted above includes, first of all, extensive hydraulic works, ethnic migrations, mass departure of population from agricultural regions, evidence of political instability, then, in the later stages and just before the collapse, the movements of population groups to the major urban centres, attempts to secure additional food supplies, additional defensive works such as reinforcements of city walls or narrowing of gates, destruction and/or abandonment of the major centres, followed by almost total depopulation. Now, we can turn towards the Median centres in the Iranian plateau and compare the processes recorded in the Median heartland with the above-mentioned phenomena.

THE ‘7TH-CENTURY BC CRISIS’ AND THE MEDIAN HEARTLAND: SOME PARALLELS Historical Background A new stage of Assyrian expansion in the Iranian plateau took place during the reigns of the Assyrian kings Tiglath-pileser III (744–727 BC) and Sargon II (722–705 BC).99 In 744 BC, Tiglath-pileser III conquered the lands of Parsua and Bīt-Ḫamban in the Zagros Mountains, converted them into Assyrian provinces and also inflicted a heavy defeat on the Medes.100 Preparing for a decisive battle against Urartu, Tiglath-pileser III once again moved his army deep into Median territories in 737 BC.101 The distant 93

 Parpola 2008, 86–95 (no. 22).  Ur and Wilkinson 2008, 309; Koliński 2018, 107. 95  Koliński 2018, 101–03, 105–06, figs. 3–4. 96  Kuhrt 1995; Curtis 2003. Cf. also Baker 2012, 927–28; Frahm 2017, 193–94. 97  Grekyan 2014, 73–75. 98  van Loon 1979, 370; Kroll 2004, 47. 99  On the Median campaigns of Tiglath-pileser III, see in detail Diakonoff 1985, 76–80; Radner 2003a, 44–57; 2013, 443–44; Medvedskaya 2010, 126–29. 100  Tadmor and Yamada 2011, 30–33 (nos. 7–8), etc. 101  Tadmor and Yamada 2011, 47–49 (no. 15), 51–54 (no. 17), 102 (no. 41), etc. 94

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regions reached during that campaign were Niššā or Nišāi, the Nisaean plain known from the Graeco-Roman sources in the region of Qazvin, Rūa (possibly Rey near Teheran) and the Salt Desert (probably, Dasht-e Kavir).102 In 716 BC, Sargon II conquered the city of Kišessim, a key site in western Iran. Its ruler, Bel-šarr-uṣur, was captured and the local population was deported. A new province was formed, with its centre Kišessim renamed Kār-Nergal.103 New population groups brought from other conquered regions were resettled there.104 The city of Ḫarḫar shared the same fate, and another province was organised.105 The campaign ended with collection of taxes from 28 rulers (bēl ālani ‘city lords’) of the Medes.106 In 713 BC, the land of Karalla in the Zagros Mountains rebelled. The rebellion was quelled, after which the Assyrian army raided the territories of dozens of Median tribes. The sources related to these events report the receiving of taxes from 45 rulers of the Medes.107 Another revolt in Karalla broke out in 706 BC. Before his fatal Tabalean campaign, Sargon II again moved his army to the East and suppressed the rebellion.108 The Assyrians made no further attempts to expand noticeably their territories in the East. During the reign of Sennacherib, the eastern borders of the Assyrian empire probably stretched from present-day Sanandaj (Kurdistan Province in Iran) to Kangavar (Kermanshah Province), Nahavand (Hamadan Province), Khorramabad (Lorestan Province) and Dehloran (Ilam Province).109 In general, the Assyrians organised at least five ‘Median’ provinces in the East, including Parsua(š), Bīt-Ḫamban, Kišessim, Ḫarḫar and Kār-Kašši (or Bīt-Kāri), while the existence of two more provinces in this general region (i.e. Saparda and Madāya) is still doubtful.110 Strong fortresses and military outposts were founded in those territories, as the sources point out, ‘for the subjugation of the land of the Medes’ (ana šuknuš KUR.madāyu).111 At the same time, Assyrian rule over vast territories in western Iran gave an opportunity for the Medes to be widely involved in the economic, military and even administrative structure of the state. The mediatory role in the long-distance eastern trade passed into the hands of the Medes who used Bactrian camels as pack animals.112 Therefore, the Assyrians characterised the Medes as the ‘Arabs of the East’ (lúaribi ša nipiḫ dŠamši).113 It is not accidental that Assyrian administrative-military centres in the ‘Median’ provinces were usually given names with the component kāru(m) ‘port/quay’, i.e. ‘trading place, market’, such as Kār-Šarrukīn (former Ḫarḫar), Kār-Nergal (former Kišessim), Kār-Adad (former Anzaria), Kār-Sîn (former Qindau), Kār-Nabû (former Kišešlu), 102

 As in Diakonoff 1985, 79. But see now Alibaigi and Rezaei 2018.  Fuchs 1994, 101–03, 317–18 (Die Annalen 91–95); 209–10, 346 (Prunkinschrift 58–60); Levine 1972, 38–39 (Najafehabad Stela ii 33–41). 104  For example Fuchs and Parpola 2001, 36–37 (no. 54). 105  Fuchs 1994, 103–05, 318 (Die Annalen 96–100); 210–12, 346–47 (Prunkinschrift 61–66); Levine 1972, 38–41 (Najafehabad Stela ii 41–46). 106  For the mention of Median tax payers, see Levine 1972, 40–45 (Najafehabad Stela ii 46–70). 107  Fuchs 1994, 121–23, 323 (Die Annalen 184–193); 212–13, 347 (Prunkinschrift 66–70). 108  Frame 1999, 41, 48–52. 109  Parpola and Porter 2001, maps 11–12. 110  Diakonoff 1985, 83; 1991, 17. Cf. Radner 2003a, 57, table 7; 2006, 57. 111  Fuchs 1994, 108, 319 (Die Annalen 114); 212, 346–47 (Prunkinschrift 65). 112  Radner 2003a, 51–52; Vér 2014, 797–98. 113  Fuchs 1994, 122, 213 (Die Annalen 188, Prunkinschrift 69). 103

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etc. The name of one of the ‘Median’ provinces meant ‘Trading post/colony’ (KUR.bīt kāri).114 The Median traders began to operate in Assyria, for example in Assur, where we come across craftsmen who had Median background.115 It is interesting also that persons bearing the name ‘the Mede’ (mmādāyu) are attested in various Neo-Assyrian texts as a witness to a contract, as a royal bodyguard or as an official.116 The role of the Medes in the army increased.117 It is thought that the bodyguard of the crown prince or the palace guard was composed of Median soldiers.118 Medes serving the Assyrians are also reported in the accounts of Greek historians.119

Political Instability The increased tension recorded in the ‘Median’ provinces of Assyria during the reigns of Sargon II and Sennacherib reached its peak in the time of Esarhaddon. The Median rulers linked with some ties to their Assyrian overlords had to retain their authority based on military assistance provided by the Assyrian provincial administrations. Among such rulers the Assyrian sources specifically mention Uppis of Partakka, Zanasana of Partukka and Ramateia of Urakazabarna, the city lords of the ‘Medes from a distant place’ (KUR. madāya ša ašaršunu rūqu). These rulers had been evicted from their lands by their own countrymen, but later would return with the help of the Assyrian troops.120 Similar events were recorded in earlier periods in the texts dated to the last part of the reign of Sargon II.121 The sources do not mention any immediate cause of the internecine fights between the Medes. It could have been a struggle for resources, water resources in particular,122 given the fact that the Assyrian sources especially testify to the drought and famine in the land of Elam at about the same period.123 In time the Assyrian interventions proved to be useless. It became more and more difficult for Assyrian provincial administrations to retain control of the Medes and collect taxes effectively. Meanwhile, tax collection gradually turned into punitive military campaigns, with uncertain prospects of success. In several Assyrian texts mentioning queries to the Sun god, there was anxiety regarding the fate of military units that had been sent to collect taxes from the Medes.124 At some later time it became clear that Assyrian control in the eastern provinces was limited to the line of fortification walls of the provincial centres and main strongholds. The situation worsened with the rebellion led by Kaštaritu, Dusanni and Mamitiaršu, the  Starr 1990, 364. Cf. Radner 2006, 65.  Radner 2003a, 62; 2013, 448. 116  Åkerman and Baker 2001, 673–74. 117  Diakonoff 1985, 84; Lanfranchi 1998, 107–08; 2003, 79–80. 118  Liverani 1995, 60–62; Lanfranchi 1998, 105. 119  For references to primary sources, see Lanfranchi 2003, 118. 120  Leichty 2011, 20 (no. 1 iv 32–45), 32 (no. 2 iv 1–20), 39 (no. 3 iv 3′–19′), 44 (no. 4 iii′ 12′–16′), 50 (no. 6 iii′ 25′–32′). See in detail Diakonoff 1985, 103–04; Radner 2003a, 58–59. 121  Fuchs and Parpola 2001, 58 (no. 85), 68–69 (nos. 101–102). 122  An example of this is the case of the two Syrian kingdoms, Arpad and Hamath, which struggled over the division of the waters of the Orontes river. See Grayson 1996, 203–04 (A.0.104.2). 123  Borger 1996, 94–95, 222 (Prismen B §28, IV 18–26; C §38, V 24–5). 124  Starr 1990, 73–80 (nos. 64–72). 114 115

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city lords of Kār-Kaššî, Saparda and Madāya (the ‘Great Median Revolt’).125 In a short period Assyria lost some of its ‘Median’ provinces. The counter-offensives of the Assyrian army ended without success, while the Medes, aided by Mannean and Cimmerian and/or Scythian troops, begun successful penetration of the territories of western Iran. Some texts refer to Median incursions into the Assyrian provinces of Bīt-Ḫamban and Parsumaš,126 reaching Ṣiṣṣirtu, ‘a fortress of Ḫarḫar, which is located on the border of Ellipi’.127 Finally, the Assyrians concluded a treaty with one of the allies of the Medes, the Scythians, and the latter took the side of Assyria.128 In all probability, there were attempts to hold negotiations also with other Median rulers, including Kaštaritu of Kār-Kaššî.129 Perhaps, some of the adê-treaties signed in 672 BC should be considered in this context. Judging by the names of some of the rulers mentioned in the texts, namely Ramate/aia of Urakazabarna, Ḫatarna of Sikriš and Būr-Dadi of Kār-Zitali, these treaties were signed with the Medes.130 The Medes had to withdraw their troops from the conquered territories, except for the core regions of the rebellion. In one of the reports related to the same period (as it mentions Ḫumbareš of Naḫšimarti, known from an adê-treaty mentioned above),131 there is clear evidence of Assyrian garrisons appointed to keep guard against the fortresses of Urartu, Ḫubuškia, Mannea and Media.132 Thus, 672/1 BC is regarded as the first year of independent Media.133

Abandonment No matter how strange it may seem, the existence of independent Media was not reflected in contemporaneous cuneiform or archaeological sources. From ca. 670 BC to 615 BC, the Medes are rarely mentioned in Assyrian sources and had no significant political role.134 The Assyrian campaign conducted in 660/659 BC against the Manneans (described in detail in the annals of Ashurbanipal) is the last source that mentions the subjugation of some Median tribes and the capture of their rulers.135 The prolonged silence of the cuneiform sources is not accidental when we look at the Median heartland from inside and see clear evidence of crisis. 125

 Starr 1990, 46–61 (nos. 41–55), 65–73 (nos. 59–63).  Starr 1990, 40–43 (nos. 35–40). 127  Starr 1990, 86–87 (no. 77). For the ‘Great Median revolt’, see in detail Diakonoff 1985, 101–08. 128  Starr 1990, 24–27 (nos. 20–22). 129  Starr 1990, 61–64 (nos. 56–57). 130  Parpola and Watanabe 1988, xxix–xxxi, 28–58 (no. 6, A; T; G). Cf. also Diakonoff 1985, 108–09; Radner 2003a, 60; Fales 2012, 151. 131  Parpola and Watanabe 1988, 28 (no. 6, § 1:3). 132  Luukko and Van Buylaere 2002, 128–29 (no. 148). 133  See, for example, Grantovskii 1998, 139, 174–75; Medvedskaya 2010, 132–37. 134  The first source is a cuneiform text dated to 660–652 BC, representing a list of toponyms including Media: see Fales and Postgate 1995, 4 (no. 1 ii 14). For discussions, cf. Radner 2003a, 57, n. 54, 62–63. Furthermore, the names of two individuals (mparamu[…], muaksatar) preserved in the Neo-Assyrian texts of that period could represent the Medians: see Luukko and Van Buylaere 2002, 12 (no. 15). The publishers inclined to see here the names of Phraortes and Cyaxares. Although these interpretations seem doubtful, at least one of them, Uaksatar, was connected to the Median world and is known from other texts too: see, for example, Fuchs and Parpola 2001, 68–69 (no. 101 r. 6). It should be noted that the name Cyaxares was written in Babylonian texts as mumakištar: see Glassner 2004, 220–21 (no. 22 l. 29). 135  Borger 1996, 37, 221–22 (Prismen B §26, IV 3–8; C §36, IV 130–V 12). 126

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The first evidence is of economic instability. In fact, in all Median centres, steps were taken to accumulate additional food supplies at some point during their existence. In particular, the palatial complex at Godin Tepe (Kermanshah Province, western Iran) was expanded with new constructions, the so-called North (Phase II: 2b) and South Magazines (Phase II: 2c).136 Adjacent to the ‘Fort’ in Tepe Nuš-e Jān (Hamadan Province, western Iran), a complex of storehouses was built (the Northern Magazines).137 The Median complex at Gūnespān (Hamadan Province, western Iran) was expanded with rectangular storage rooms in Phase II.138 The same phenomenon is observed in Tepe Ozbaki (Tehran Province, north-central Iran)139 and Mūsh Tepe (Hamadan Province, western Iran).140 The next evidence relates to political instability in the Median heartland. At some point in the 7th century BC, great efforts were taken to protect the formerly open, unfortified palatial/temple complexes in the Median sites. In particular, the gates in Tepe Nuš-e Jān were narrowed,141 and the temple complex was surrounded by an outer wall.142 The palatial complex in Godin Tepe in Phase II:2d was strengthened with strong defensive wall.143 The Median complex at Gūnespān in the Phase III period was protected with a newly erected oval wall.144 The same is true for Tepe Ozbaki. In the last phase of its existence the site was surrounded with an oval fortification wall,145 etc.146 The burning of a very important Median site at Bābā Jān Tepe (Luristan Province, western Iran) at the beginning of the 7th century BC may have been a result of political instability.147 If these actions make sense as a response to some processes, then in the next phase we must deal with the serious consequences of those processes. In particular, the main Median centres had to serve as shelter for additional population groups: to the squatters’ occupations fixed in almost all major Median centres, including Tepe Nuš-e Jān,148 Bābā Jān Tepe149 and Godin Tepe (Phase II:1150). Monumental buildings, such as the columned hall in Tepe Nuš-e Jān, were filled up with the squatters’ hastily erected dwellings. The hall was split up by thin, mud-brick walls erected between the columns, dividing the interior space into numerous rooms with domestic installations and clear evidence of further occupation.151

136

 Young and Levine 1974, 31–33, pl. 29; Gopnik 2011, 310 and fig. 7.7.  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 142–43, 206–07, fig. 11.4. 138  Naseri et al. 2016, 109, 112, pls. 18a–b, 21. 139  Azarnoush and Helwing 2005, 222. 140  Mohammadifar et al. 2015, 240; Naseri et al. 2016, 112, pl. 21. 141  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 139, pl. 50b. 142  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 131, 134–37, fig. 5.1–3, 5. 143  Young and Levine 1974, 35; Gopnik 2011, 311, fig. 7.7. 144  Naseri et al. 2016, 110, 112. 145  Stronach 2003, 238 and fig. 6; Azarnoush and Helwing 2005, 222; Naseri et al. 2016, 110. 146  Perhaps, we can say the same for the site at Tell Gubba (Hamrin basin, Iraq), the central building of which was later surrounded with a strong outer fortification wall (Fujii 1981, 150–51, fig. 10). For the Median character of that site, see Stronach 2012, 670–72. 147  Goff 1978, 41. 148  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 177–80, 209, figs. 9.1, 11.7. 149  Goff 1977, 105, 127–35. 150  Young and Levine 1974, 34–35, pls. 32–33; Gopnik 2011, 314–15 and fig. 7.18. 151  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 158, 178. 137

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Later, the population that found shelter in the Median centres quit their dwellings, trying to conserve the standing monumental structures in advance by filling them with shale and covering them with several layers of mud-brick. This is best documented in Tepe Nuš-e Jān,152 Mūsh Tepe,153 as well as in Zar Bolağ and Vasun-e Kahak/Qal’eh Sangi (both in Qom Province, central Iran).154 Meanwhile, the conservation of the temples in Tepe Nuš-e Jān is reminiscent of the Akkadian example when the public buildings of Tell Brak (Nagar) were ritually closed and sealed, followed by the desolation and abandonment of the city.155 In fact, the Median centres that flourished under Assyrian domination were abandoned in the time of independent Media, such as Tepe Nuš-e Jān (at the second half of the 7th–beginning of the 6th century BC)156 or Godin Tepe (to the mid-7th century, ca. 650 BC).157 Moreover, most of the sites were abandoned peacefully (Tepe Nuš-e Jān,158 Godin Tepe,159 Gūnespān160) and can hardly be connected, for example, with such events as the Scythian invasions (the period of the so-called ‘28-year Scythian rule over Asia’: Herodotus 1. 102, 107). Actually, no single archaeological site from the ‘Imperial period’ of Media (612–550 BC) is attested,161 and one may conclude that the Median heartland was completely abandoned. The septuple walled Ecbatana proclaimed as the capital city of the Median empire by Herodotus is dated archaeologically no earlier than the Achaemenid period,162 while a number of structures formerly considered to be Median belong to the post-Achaemenid (Parthian/Sasanian) period.163

SUMMARY Thus, after the end of Assyrian hegemony over the Median territories of western Iran, there is no evidence of the inheritance of Assyrian state structures, the replacement of the Assyrian administrative system with the Median and no trace of the existence of a territorial state (such as permanent settlements and large, fortified, urban centres, chains of fortresses, a communication system, palatial or religious structures, traces of the existence of state correspondence, etc.).164 In such conditions, it is arbitrary to conclude that a 152  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 88–90, 171–76, 208–09, fig. 11.6. The question here is whether the squatters’ occupation in Tepe Nuš-e Jān should necessarily be followed by the filling and conservation works recorded for that site (as the excavators think), especially when the works remained unfinished. It seems that there are no grounds to reject the possible dating of the squatters’ occupation prior to the filling and other conservation works. This opinion, expressed in earlier studies by the excavators, was later rejected completely. See Stronach 1975, 188; but cf. later Stronach and Roaf 2007, 213–18, fig. 11.9–10. 153  Mohammadifar et al. 2015, 235–38. 154  Azarnoush and Helwing 2005, 226; Malekzadeh et al. 2014, 164–65. 155  Weiss 2017, 136. But cf. Oates 2005, 11–13. 156  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 217. Cf. Curtis 2005b, 237–44. 157  Gopnik 2011, 344–47, table 7.1–2. 158  Stronach and Roaf 2007, 158, 178. 159  Young and Levine 1974, 35; Gopnik 2011, 346–47. 160  Naseri et al. 2016, 112–13. 161  Roaf 2003, 17–19, 22; Rollinger 2003a, 305–19; 2003b. 162  For artefacts dated to this period, see Brown 1997. 163  Liverani 2003, 2–3 and n. 6; Mohammadifar et al. 2012, 13, 34–35. Cf. Sarraf 2003; also Stronach 2003, 242–45; 2012, 679; Stronach and Roaf 2007, 43–44 and n. 3. 164  Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1988.

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stable, centralised Median state with institutes of government under the rule of a powerful dynasty was formed. The idea of a Median ‘pastoral state’, which would soon turn into a ‘pastoral empire’, together with primitive territorial domination based on the threat of permanent invasion, seems more plausible.165 The economic crisis, political instability, ethnic migrations, collapse of the local powers and the total abandonment of the Median heartland in the 7th century BC are notable features and were similarly repeated in Urartu and in the Assyrian empire. At the same time, these phenomena have also been observed previously in the dramatic stages of the history of the region and, as a rule, have been conditioned by climate changes.166 The formation of the Median empire in a period when we observe an unfavourable environment seems to be highly doubtful. The highstand waters of the Caspian Sea can be adduced as evidence.

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 Liverani 2003, 7–9; Tuplin 2004, 242–43.  Riehl 2009, 217–26, fig. 1.

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—. 2017: ‘Seventeen Kings Who Lived in Tents’. In Höflmayer, F. (ed.), The Late Third Millennium in the Ancient Near East: Chronology, C14, and Climate Change (Papers from the Oriental Institute Seminar ‘The Early/Middle Bronze Age Transition in the Ancient Near East: Chronology, C14, and Climate Change’ Held at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 7–8 March 2014) (Oriental Institute Seminars 11) (Chicago), 131–62. Weiss, H., Courty, M.-A., Wetterstrom, W., Guichard, F., Senior, L., Meadow, R. and Curnow, A. 1993: ‘The Genesis and Collapse of Third Millennium North Mesopotamian Civilization’. Science 261 (5124), 995–1004. Yasur-Landau, A. 2010: The Philistines and Aegean Migration at the End of the Late Bronze Age (Cambridge). Young, T.C. and Levine, L.D. 1974: Excavations of the Godin Project: Second Progress Report (Royal Ontario Museum Occasional Paper 26) (Toronto). Zawadzki, S. 1995: ‘A Contribution on the Chronology of the Last Days of the Assyrian Empire’. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischer Archäologie 85.1, 67–73. Zimansky, P.E. 1995: ‘The Kingdom of Urartu in Eastern Anatolia’. In Sasson, J.M. (ed.), Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 2 (New York), 1135–46.

MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR: THE ROLE OF ISLANDS IN CONNECTING ANCIENT WEST AND EAST Louise A. HITCHCOCK, Laura PISANU and Aren M. MAEIR*

What I didn’t realize was how much all pirates had in common. (Michael Scott Moore, The Desert and the Sea) ABSTRACT From an ecological standpoint, islands once held allure as imagined laboratories for the isolated study of social and cultural change. However, in The Corrupting Sea, Horden and Purcell have compellingly demonstrated that in reality islands were places of ‘strikingly enhanced interaction … central to the history of the Mediterranean’. Although their detailed meta-history focuses on the historic periods, much of what they discuss can be identified in prehistory. Our contribution focuses on the unique role that island-scapes play in shrinking maritime space among the disparate cultures of the Mediterranean, bringing ancient West and East together through cultural and economic entanglement. Through strong interaction, islands could promote security, but in isolation, they could be a source of danger. However, from Sardinia to Cyprus, like the Magical Mystery Tour, islands had ‘everything you need’, because they were connected nodes in a globalised, unrestricted flow of people and goods, the ancient version of capital, where ‘satisfaction was guaranteed’.

INTRODUCTION This contribution takes its inspiration from Gocha’s journal, Ancient West and East, a journal in which two of the authors were most honoured to have published in. Gocha’s work has played an early and prominent role in promoting the study of connexions between the western and eastern Mediterranean and its broader territories. Ancient West and East is among the first journals to promote what may now be regarded as post-orientalist scholarship.1 The view that islands once held allure as imagined laboratories for the isolated case studies of isolated social, biological and cultural settings, (new and unique species, social * We are grateful to James Hargrave for the invitation to contribute to Gocha’s tribute volume and to Gijs Tol for supporting the inclusion of our presentation at the AAA/NZAA meeting. LAH is additionally grateful to Pietro Militello and the University of Catania, the DAAD and the University of Melbourne’s Universal Grant Scheme (FIGS) for support. LP similarly acknowledges the University of Cagliari for supporting her research trip to Melbourne. We are also grateful to Francesco Iacono for providing us with a prepublication text of his book. All mistakes are our own. 1  ‘Post-orientalist’ scholarship might be regarded as a stance that dismantles the binary of East versus West, rejecting the accompanying hierarchy of value (see Fiddian 2017, 156–74, especially 161).

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formations and so on) represents an ecological position.2 Blake and Knapp later questioned the stereotype of Mediterranean islands and their cultures as being backward and isolated, yet their work did not go far enough, continuing to refer to islands as bounded and separated by the sea, rather than connected by it.3 In The Corrupting Sea, Horden and Purcell have compellingly demonstrated that in fact, islands were and are places of ‘strikingly enhanced interaction … central to the history of the Mediterranean’.4 Although Horden and Purcell’s detailed meta-history focuses on the historic periods, much of what they discuss can be identified in prehistory. Thus, this paper focuses on the unique role that island-scapes play in maritime activities, whereby improving ship technology shrank maritime space and facilitated interactions among the disparate and entangled cultures of the Mediterranean.5 In doing so, they brought ancient West and East together through cultural, ritual and economic entanglement. From Sardinia to Cyprus, like the Magical Mystery Tour, islands have ‘everything you need’, because they were connected nodes in a globalised, largely unrestricted flow of people and goods, the ancient version of capital movement spreading prosperity throughout the region, where ‘satisfaction was guaranteed’.6

THE WEST

AND

EAST

The research interests of Hitchcock and Maeir are primarily located in the eastern Mediterranean however, they have recently begun giving more attention to the western Mediterranean and have benefited from the collaboration with Laura Pisanu of the University of Melbourne. Although much research has been done in both of these regions, very little research adequately spans all of them.7 When it does, the emphasis is on trade, as a subcategory of the maximalist – minimalist debate.8 That is, maximalism refers to those applying a diffusionist model of cultural interaction throughout the Mediterranean as opposed to those promoting a minimalist model. What we refer to as a minimalist model almost always interprets the presence of foreign items as a function of trade, often indirect with little or no discussion of interaction zones or opportunities for the exchange of cultural knowledge.9 As a result, cultural entanglement within and the geographical characterisation of the seascape, has been restrained.10 In contrast, we recognise the agency of foreign objects in cultural entanglement and regard maritime activity, whether mercantile or piratical, as representing the activities of shipboard cultures that incorporate influence from places visited into a unique semi-bounded milieu – the ship. In turn, the agency 2

 Fitzhugh and Hunt 1997.  Blake and Knapp 2005a, 9 4  Horden and Purcell 2000, 76; Purcell 1995. Horden and Purcell’s work has itself spawned a large bibliography of follow-on approaches (see Cancannon and Mazurek 2016; Mathisen 2014; Broodbank 2013; Knapp 2018, all with further references). 5  As discussed in Broodbank 2000. 6  On the movement of capital through seafaring, see Leeson 2011. 7  For example, Pisanu’s expertise in Sardinian archaeology enabled her to detect many errors in the published Anglophone research on Sardinia, although a good overview of Sardinia’s relationship to the broader Mediterranean world can be found in Iacono 2019. 8  See Iacano 2019; Blake and Knapp 2005a. 9  For a discussion of the transfer of cultural knowledge as documented in the Amarna letters, see Knapp 1998. 10  In terms of how geographical variation affects maritime interaction, see Galvin 1999. 3

Fig. 1. Map of some trade routes and pirate geography of the Late Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean, with sites mentioned in the text (adapted from Galvin 1999 and Crielaard 1998 by Jay Rosenberg, courtesy of Tell es-Safi/Gath Excavation).

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of traded objects can bring changes to the cultures that interact with them.11 In the era of the Barbary pirates, the incorporation of hundreds of Greek and Italian nautical terms into the Turkish language and the emergence of an under-deciphered Creole, the Lingua Franca or Sabir, indicate maritime unification with unique shipboard cultures.12 Whether islands were a locale that threatened danger or promoted security, in many instances was dependent a lot on geography and subsistence strategy. Hitchcock and Maeir’s research on the geography of pirate interaction in the eastern Mediterranean drew from research in historical pirate geography. The geography that made islands most susceptible to danger from pirates and others included lack of a strong and highly networked presence. Such a presence, which promoted security, is exhibited in the Minoan palatial system or so-called thalassocracy of Crete whereby centres were located in strategic areas such as near river valleys, areas that might otherwise shelter bandits, pirates and other military entrepreneurs.13 A different strategy may be observed in Sardinia where a system of thousands of small and large nuragic centres, also strategically located, might discourage any kind of attack. In fact, Sardinia presents a network of Protonuraghi at first, followed by simple and complex nuraghe, which control the territory in a detailed way. The nuraghe are widespread in all geographic Sardinian contexts: on small islands near the coast (for example Mal di Ventre’s island), coasts, valleys, hills, plateaux and mountains – even in eastern Sardinia, although it is protected by a high and rocky coast. All in all, the nuraghi are widely diffused, where they possibly served as checkpoints for interior routes that were constituted by river valleys. Smaller islands such as Rhodes and Kythera fell prey to pirates of the modern era, while the collapse of sea lanes with the fall of the Minoan followed by the Mycenaean civilisation by the end of the 13th century BC resulted in the peoples of Crete moving to defensible settlements in the mountains and on cliff sides, which were frequently fortified.14 The close proximity of many Mediterranean islands, such as the Cyclades or Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, the Aeolians and Malta, led Horden and Purcell to liken the Mediterranean islands to a string of beads.15 We would like to suggest that the beaded string as a metaphor for a chain of island connectivity may be represented by the famous necklace swinger motif, bearing the gift of a necklace in the 17th-century BC fresco at Xeste 3 at the site of Akrotiri on the island of Thera.16 Akrotiri was organised as a manufacturing, ritual and trading site that benefited greatly from interaction with the surrounding  For example Maeir et al. 2015; Stockhammer 2012.  As a trade language, much of it went unrecorded, although fragments are known from various sources including East London dialect as well as fragments from opera librettos, however it remained a language without a nation, see Corré 2010. Horden and Purcell (2000, 564) observe that over 800 terms used in common suggest maritime unification; see also Kahane and Tietze 1988. Even today, crews of merchant ships are multiethnic (Moore 2018). Leighton (1999, 7–8) notes a steady increase in contact with Greece and the eastern Mediterranean from the end of the 3rd millennium BC, but with little continuity after the demise of the Mycenaean palaces. However, he also notes that Sicily does not enjoy the same long history of study in the prehistoric era as Greece and Cyprus, for example Lolos 1995. The same can be said for Sardinia, in that while Sardinia, itself is well studied its relationship to the East requires more in-depth study, broader exposure and a more refined chronology. 13  Hitchcock and Maeir 2018. 14  Nowicki 2011; Hitchcock and Maeir 2018. 15  Horden and Purcell 2000, 142. 16  On metaphor in Minoan art, see Hitchcock et al. 2016. On the ‘necklace swinger’, see Younger 2009 and Rehak 2004. 11 12

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region and from its position in what is today sometimes referred to as the ‘western string’, a string of islands leading from Crete to the Mainland.17 Despite its numerous Minoan features, the pottery of Akrotiri was local, and it is likely that it served as an interaction zone.18 Other interaction zones lay at the sites of metallurgical trade going back to the Neolithic in coastal Anatolia, as at Çukuiçi Höyük, an Early Bronze Age (ca. 2900–2750 BC) metallurgical manufacturing area that was originally close to the sea.19 A 12th-century BC interaction zone was likely the coastal trading site of Hala Sultan Tekke in Cyprus, where a wealthy trader displayed his knowledge of globalised manufacturing and exchange in the form of exotic items for display, as well as an engraved weight, and a style of Minoan room known as a ‘lustral basin’.20 Hala Sultan Tekke was situated in close proximity to the religious site at Kition where maritime symbolism such as ship graffiti and anchors were incorporated into the religious architecture.21 Kition also served as a metallurgical production centre.22 The geographical position of Sardinia, in the centre of the western Mediterranean Sea, and its resources probably favoured contacts with mainland Italy and neighbouring islands from the Neolithic period onwards. In particular, between 17th and 11th centuries BC Sardinia had an important role in Mediterranean long-distance inter-relations.23 During the Bronze Age, several imported objects of different materials appeared in Nuragic contexts. The most ancient of these finds are: an ivory warrior head with a boars’ tusk helmet (Late Helladic IIIA-2/IIIB) found at Mitza Purdia (Decimoputzu), during a surface survey, in association with an internal brim olla with dot decoration (Middle Bronze Age II);24 a Mycenaean vase fragment (LH IIIA-2/IIIB), found in a disturbed layer at Su Muru Mannu village (Cabras), associated with an advanced period of the Sardinian Middle Bronze Age;25 a Mycenaean alabastron26 (LH IIIA:2) at Nuraghe Arrubiu (Orroli), again Sardinian Middle Bronze Age, although its context does not permit association with artefacts from this phase.27 If contacts with the eastern Mediterranean are documented during the end of the Sardinian Middle Bronze Age, they become more frequent during the Sardinian Recent Bronze (ca. 1350–1200 BC), so that a widespread presence of Mycenaean and Cypriot 17  For criticism of the idea of the western string, see Berg 2006. For a discussion of industry at Akrotiri, see Hitchcock 2016. On the inter-island interactions of Crete, see Rackham and Moody 1996, 202–08; also Hitchcock 2000. 18  On interaction zones, see Janes 2010. 19  Horejs and Mehofer 2016. 20  Hitchcock 2009. 21  Karageorghis and Demas 1985; Webb 1999. 22  Knapp 1986. 23  Vagnetti 2016, 148; D’Oriano 2016, 153–54. 24  Sanna 1981–85, 64–65; Ferrarese Ceruti et al. 1987, 12–15; Depalmas 2009a, 127; Vagnetti 2016, 151. 25  Depalmas 2009a, 128. The Middle Bronze Age in Sardinia is dated ca. 1700–1350 BC. 26  Another fragment of a Mycenaen alabastron has been found in S. Antioco (Pompianu-Soro 2013). This fragment is dated from LH IIIA:2 and LH IIIB but it was found in a context dated to the 2nd century AD (Pompianu-Soro 2013, 293). The discovery of the alabastron fragment in this context could be due to the earthworks that characterised the hill slope in the various ancient periods to readjust to the housing needs (Pompianu-Soro 2013, 294). 27  Depalmas 2009a, 125. The Mycenaean alabastron from Nuraghe Arrubiu is the oldest evidence of Mycenaean pottery in Sardinia (see Vagnetti 2016, 150). Thanks to archaeometric analysis of Arrubiu and Orosei allogenic ceramics, it can be confirmed that they were produced in the Peloponnesian area (for example, Vagnetti 2016, 150).

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artefacts is evident. These include import and imitation pottery of LH IIIB discovered at the Sardinian sites of Antigori (Sarroch),28 Monte Zara (Monastir),29 maybe Corti Beccia (Sanluri)30 and Orosei territory.31 In Nuraghe Antigori (layer IV, tower C) a wishbone handle of a Cypriot milk bowl (Late Cypriot II) was found, along with a fragment of iron sheet and Nuragic ceramics. This association of materials allowed a contextual dating to between the 15th and 13th centuries BC.32 The iron sheet represents very early evidence for the appearance of iron technology in the Mediterranean and it may be connected with the general Cypriot influence on, or interest in, Sardinian metallurgy.33 During the Recent Bronze Age, in the south of Sardinia there appeared a ceramic style known as ‘slate grey’ pottery.34 Archaeometric analysis of the slate grey pottery found at Baccu Lau (Selargius) confirmed that it is a local production made without the use of the wheel but using technological innovations such as long settling clays and precise control of firing temperatures in a reducing atmosphere.35 The achievement of a highly specialised level in pottery production does not seem to interrupt the continuation and consolidation of relations between Sardinia and the Aegean area. This is perceptible not only in ceramics but also in the progress of metallurgy techniques.36 Nuragic Recent Bronze Age pottery, such as carinated bowls37 and slate grey pottery forms were also found in Kommos.38 Recent excavations have also brought to light Nuragic ceramics from Pyla-Kokkinokremmos and Hala Sultan Tekke (Cyprus).39 It’s also believed that during the Recent Bronze Age, the Cypriot contribution to Nuragic culture was increasingly relevant with regard to the circulation of ideas and craftsmen. It led to the cultural stimuli and transmission of technical knowledge, to a formative phase in Nuragic culture that became the Late Bronze Age’s (ca. 12th–10th centuries BC in

28  Ferrarese Ceruti 1983; 1985; Relli 1994; Depalmas 2009b, 133. In Nuraghe Antigori, fine table ceramics and storage vessels dated from the 13th to the 12th century BC was discovered. Pottery found in Nuraghe Antigori could be part of international exchange networks as demonstrated by finds on the Uluburun and Cape Iria wrecks and in Eastern, Cypriot and Aegean ports (for example Vagnetti 2016, 148). Nuraghe Antigori was the most frequently visited western Mediterranean site between the 13th and 12th centuries BC (see Watrous 1992; Phels et al. 1991; Yalçin et al. 2005; Vagnetti 2016, 148). 29  Ugas 1982, 210; Depalmas 2009b, 133. 30  Ugas 1982, 42; Depalmas 2009b, 133. 31  Vagnetti 1983, 320–25; 2016, 150; Depalmas 2009b, 133. 32  Depalmas 2009b, 137. 33  Ferrarese Ceruti et al. 1987, 36. 34  For the name, see ‘slate grey’: Ferrarese Ceruti 1981, 606; or ‘Nuragic grey’, also Lo Schiavo et al. 2004, 373. This style of pottery is used to identify a type of Nuragic production that spread throughout Cagliari’s Campidano Valley and in nearby areas such as Sulcis and Marmilla-Sarcidano on the north-west side of Cagliari (Depalmas 2009b, 137). The slate grey pottery is characterised by purified dough, thin walls, carefully finished surfaces and with colour varying from black-dark grey to olive (Depalmas 2009b, 137). 35  Lugliè 2005, 159; Depalmas 2009b, 137. 36  Depalmas 2009b, 137. 37  Ciotola carenata (carinated bowls) are characterised by a convex profile that can be distinguished from the rim thanks to a carination (Depalmas 2009b, 133). 38  Slate grey production forms were found in sites dated to Late Minoan IIIA:2 and Late Minoan IIIB (see Watrous 1989, fig. 2a, e; 1992, 164–67; Rutter 1999; Depalmas 2009b, 133, 136). Archaeometric analysis has confirmed these ceramics are from Sardinia (Watrous et al. 1998; Vagnetti 2016). 39  Karageorghis 2011; Fregoli and Levi 2011; Vagnetti 2016; Gradioli et al. 2020; Sabatini and Lo Schiavo 2020.

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Sardinia) flourishing metallurgical industry.40 In addition, during the Late Bronze Age the imports of foreign objects and the assumed arrival of craftsmen continued. This resulted in the production of imitation forms and new creations.41 With regard to pottery, a fragment found in Nuraghe Antigori (room n) is dated to Mycenaean IIIC but it’s not certainly attributable to a continental production centre.42 In addition to the ivory, pottery and metallurgical evidence that points to Sardinia’s farflung international connexions we can add an olivine cylinder seal of Cypriot origin found in the Su Fraigu Tomb of the Giants (San Sperate).43 It is in the Late Bronze Age (ca. 1200–930 BC) that Nuragic pottery arrived in Huelva (Spain) and in the area of the Castle at Lipari Island.44 Italic contacts with Huelva started during this period but they seem more evident during the Early Iron Age (from the 9th century BC in the west).45 Imported pottery found in Sardinia and Nuragic pottery found at other Mediterranean sites clearly demonstrates that Sardinia was well represented in the international network of trading powers. An Early Iron Age (ca. 930–510 BC) Sardinian askos from Tomb 2 at Khaniale Tekke near Knossos confirms that Sardinia is still in contact with the east side of Mediterranean Sea well into the Iron Age.46 The type of geography that favoured piracy and/or banditry include the aforementioned river valleys, small coastal villages that could be overwhelmed by the secrecy of night as raiders beached at speed, promontories from which to spot prey, and unprotected or difficult to protect maritime choke points. At choke points the seascape becomes narrower, requiring groups of ships to spread out, rendering them more vulnerable to attack. Examples include the straights of the Dardanelles protected by Troy as well as the 40  Lo Schiavo et al. 2004, 376–78; Depalmas 2009b, 140. The relationship between Sardinia and Cyprus is also highlighted by ingots produced with Cypriot copper and the importation of high quality metal objects (for example Vagnetti 2016, 151). However, the question about the origin of copper used in the oxhide ingots (whether Sardinia or Cyprus) remains open. Several studies have cast doubt on the reliability of analytical methods used to determine the origin of copper (see Bernardini 1994, 29–31). Another open question is the chronological relationship between oxhide ingots and bun ingots (for example Bernardini 1994, 32). During the Nuragic age, galena, a type of metal used as a source of silver, was also exploited. Metal objects from Pyla-Kokkinokremos and Antigori have been made from lead metal smelted from the Iglesiente region in Sardinia (see Gale 2011, 107–12). Pyla-Kokkinokremos was inhabited for just one or two generations ca. 1230–1175 BC and had a variety of objects from multiple cultures including Crete, the Mycenaean world and Cyprus (as discussed in Karageorghis and Kanta 2014). The style of housing at Pyla shows similarities with both Crete and Cyprus (as discussed differently by Kanta 2014a; 2014b; 2014c; and Hitchcock 2011), while the technique of building the houses with the backs facing the edge of the mound creates a protective wall (see Hitchcock and Maeir 2014). 41  During the Late Bronze Age, axe production of Cypriot-Aegean origin and imitation began and ended (see Depalmas 2009c, 149). 42  Depalmas 2009c, 143. 43  Ugas 1987; 1993; Vagnetti and Lo Schiavo 1989, 221–22; Vagnetti 2016, 151. 44  Pans, handles of an askos with a circle or a fish herringbone design were found in Huelva. On Lipari Island, the site where Nuragic pottery was found is dated from the 10th–9th centuries BC (Depalmas 2009c, 143). 45  Depalmas 2009c, 143. 46  The askos from Tekke was the first object dated to the Early Iron Age that was recognised in an Aegean site (see Vagnetti 1989, 358). With regard to routes that could have involved both Sardinia and Crete, D. Ridgway was very forward thinking. He refuted the traditional view that the first Western Greeks were not interested in Sardinia and he argued that it was Sardinia’s fame for metal and metalworkers, no less than that of the Etruria, which attracted the Greeks to the West (see Ridgway 1986; Vagnetti 1989, 358).

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Aeolian island of Lipari that was ransacked in AD 1544 by the pirate Barbarossa, who enslaved its population.47 Pirate activity at geographically vulnerable sites, also played an important role in the spread of wealth and capital to other regions as redeployed by pirate activity.48 Connectivity in the Mediterranean was stimulated as early as the Neolithic era by trade, but remained technologically hampered because it was limited to the technology of the oared long boat. Long boats were succeeded by the deep-hulled ship with mast by the Middle Bronze Age, and augmented with the brailed sail, a Canaanite innovation combined with the Mycenaean galley, in the 12th century BC.49 The assumption is that the main drivers or levers of Neolithic trade in the western Mediterranean was the acquisition of flint and especially of obsidian, readily available through the numerous volcanic islands in the region including Sicily, Lipari and Sardinia.50 A similar purpose was assumed for the eastern Mediterranean, with Melos widely regarded as the prime source of obsidian. Recent research presented in 2016 at the SASCAR conference with its focus on the interface of the South East Aegean/South West coastal Anatolian region, however, shows that the quest for metals was already an important driver in this region as early as the Neolithic era. Looking westward, Kassianidou and Knapp demonstrate that Sicily was linked into the broader network of Bronze Age metals trade by the end of the Middle Bronze Age, an era that corresponds to the Late Bronze Age in the eastern Mediterranean.51 Kolb regards the Late Neolithic, ca. 3500 BC, sites on Malta, though poor in raw materials as important destinations serving as centres of ritual and corporate power.52 It is worth considering that Malta early on became a maritime pilgrimage point with trips to the sites located there. We might consider that the accompanying adventures and experiences of such trips were recounted in story-telling, just as journeys with shells becoming tokens of memory through story telling accompanying their acquisition, circulation and re-distribution were important to the Trobriand islanders.53 Faunal analysis, however, also connects early Malta with Sicily, where a number of other commodities were sought, including salt.54 Although difficult to pinpoint and generally understudied in regard to monetarisation, the value of small amounts of traded spices, such as saffron from the Aegean, coriander from the Near East and even cloves from Indonesia, may have functioned as important mediums of exchange. Exotic spices are well known luxury goods used in palatially sponsored feasts in the Aegean.55

47  Leighton (1999, 5) notes that while Sicily fits Braudel’s concept of a continent in miniature, its satellite islands were more vulnerable to disruption. In addition, it remained strangely isolated from Sardinia in prehistoric times. 48  See Leeson 2011. This continues to be illustrated in contemporary times among Somali pirates, Moore 2018. 49  Robb and Farr 2005, 25; Emanuel 2016. 50  Robb and Farr 2005, 28. 51  Kassianidou and Knapp 2005, 237. Thus, we should remain open to the possibility that similar drivers were active in the western Mediterranean, to be revealed by further study. 52  Kolb 2005, 158, 174. 53  Cline 1999. On memory more generally in the Aegean, see papers in Borgna et al. 2019. 54  Robb and Farr 2005, 31. 55  Fox 2008.

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Feasting has a long history in the Mediterranean that merits more cross-cultural study. Blake has suggested hearths near burials indicate ritual activity in Chalcolithic Sicily along with what might be regarded as feasting debris and offerings in pits.56 Feasting activities probably took place in large open air areas in Sardinia such as sanctuaries, temples and holy wells from Late Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age.57 In these ritualised open spaces, bronze objects such as figurines known as ‘bronzetti’ along with other miniature bronzes and swords were offered.58 This is close to a time when similar activities were occurring throughout the Mediterranean, as in the temples at Enkomi59 possibly connected to the movements of traders, warriors, mercenaries and the Sea Peoples and correlating to Homeric feasting practices on Crete and in Philistia.60 However, this is not to say that feasting practices were a product of cultural diffusion, but more likely functioned as practices undertaken in an economically and symbolically similar and transcultural milieu, that may have intensified through seafaring. This brief overview makes it is clear that much more collaborative and cross-cultural research needs to be undertaken.61 Although, Kolb notes that Sicily and Rhodes lack the monumental structures that characterise islands further from central island locales such as Crete,62 a recent re-study of the monumental building at Pantalica on Sicily by the University of Catania, shows that monumental architecture with possible Aegean and/or Sea Peoples connexions was making a strong cultural statement in the west at the end of the Mediterranean Bronze Age. Pantalica’s features include enormous hammer dressed blocks, a rectangular plan, corridor and series of side chambers, as well as a monumental tower.63 In addition to Cypriot and Mycenaean ceramics found in the necropolis at Pantalica, a notched cattle scapula, an artefact with clear Cypriot and Philistine ritual associations, was found in the Piazza Duomo excavations in Syracuse.64 Elsewhere, the absence of a strong island presence serving as a deterrent may have taken its toll on more isolated islands such as Rhodes during the chaos that disrupted the Mediterranean networks of the 12th century BC.

CONCLUSIONS: (IS)LANDS

OF

MILK

AND

HONEY

In conclusion, it has become a leitmotif in many of our collaborative efforts to observe that the people of the coastal areas and islands of the Mediterranean moved about, yet 56

 Blake 2005, 111.  The Late Bronze Age marks the earliest appearance in Sardinia of a style of architecture known as holy wells, where water was captured and collected for ritual purposes (Fadda 2016, 101). During this same time ‘megaron’ temples were also built (Fadda 2016, 101). 58  Araque 2012. 59  For example Webb 1999. 60  Hitchcock et al. 2015. 61  Although Adam Zertal (2011) has connected the Early Iron Age site of el-Ahwat in northern Israel with Sardinia, suggesting that it was a Shardanu site, his ideas have not been accepted by other scholars – for example Finkelstein and Piasetzky 2007. 62  Kolb 2005, 173. 63  However, Pantalica’s circulation patterns are distinct from Aegean architecture (see Militello 2018; Pisanu et al. 2019). 64  For notched scapulae in Cyprus, see Webb 1985; 1999; and in Philistia, see Zukerman et al. 2007. The Sicilian scapula is on display in the Syracuse Museum where it was assigned to the Piazza Duomo excavations. 57

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the people who study them do not do so, or do not do so with great frequency or distance. Rather than fostering isolationism or even boundedness, we seek to build a new consensus viewing Mediterranean islands as being in possession of unique cultural, geographical and ecological niches that made the specialisation in the production of particular goods in different micro-regions possible in the past and in the present.65 Examples include the decorated feasting ware of the Aegean, the metals of Sardinia and Cyprus, exotic ritual items from Cyprus,66 such as a notched cattle scapula that turn up from Philistia to Syracuse in Sicily and a bronze stand in Cagliari in Sardinia, the possible spread of the depiction of the panoply of Sardinian Nuragic ‘bronzetti’ to Enkomi on Cyprus,67 gendered and symbolic items communicating masculine warrior identity and beauty from Italy such as the Naue II sword and Italian razors, as well as more intangible goods68 such as caprids, cheese, oil and honey. Horden and Purcell have observed that the diversification of traded goods in island interaction promoted a reduction of risk,69 something that could insulate certain islands from banditry and piracy, and even promote peace. There is a lesson for the present here in terms of the role of free trade and porous borders in promoting peace and security through the spread of wealth, capital and economic interdependence.70 Thus we can (e)scape from the traditional historian’s view that the Biblical world was the land of milk and honey, and turn to the Mediterranean as (is)lands of milk and honey.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Araque, R. 2012: ‘Sardinian bronze figurines in their Mediterranean Setting’. Praehistorische Zeitschrift 87.1, 83–109. Barako, T.J. 2000: ‘The Philistine Settlement as Mercantile Phenomenon’. AJA 104.4, 513–30. Berg, I. 2006: ‘The ‘Western String:’ A Reassessment’. In Detorakis, T. and Kalokerinos, A. (eds.), Proceedings of the 9th International Congress of Cretan Studies, Elounda, 1–6 October 2001, vol. A1 (Heraklion), 135–50. Bernardini, P. 1994: ‘Considerazione sui rapporti tra la Sardegna, Cipro e l’area egeo-orientale nell’età del Bronzo’. Quaderni Archeologici della Soprintendenza per le province di Cagliari e Oristano 10, 29–67. Blake, E. 2005: ‘The Material Expression of Cult, Ritual and Feasting’. In Blake and Knapp 2005b, 102–29. 65  As observed by Horden and Purcell 2000, 225, though certainly equally applicable to the Bronze and Early Iron Ages. 66  An example of the change from views of island insularity to ongoing connexions during the Early Iron Age can be seen in the links between Phoenicia and Cyprus. This is particularly true at Tel Dor (Gilboa and Goren 2015), but also at Ashkelon (Master 2009) and Aphek (Yasur-Landau and Goren 2004), where there is evidence of connexions with Cyprus during the Early Iron Age. This is opposed to the earlier paradigm which believed that there was a break in maritime trade between Cyprus and the Levant in the Early Iron Age (for example Barako 2000). 67  On possible trade routes linking Sardinia and Cyprus as well as Italic items on Crete, see Crielaard 1998, 192–97; also Iacono 2019, 142, who demonstrates how goods could have been transported as far as the Atlantic to and from Cyprus via Sardinia as an intermediary, citing the finds of Italian metalwork on Karphi (Crete). 68  Horden and Purcell (2000, 226) discuss all-around connectivity, which lead us to consider intangible heritage. 69  Horden and Purcell 2000, 224. A similar argument is made today with regard to the more open trading practices advocated by proponents of globalisation. 70  Leeson 2011.

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Blake, E. and Knapp, A.B. 2005a: ‘Prehistory in the Mediterranean: The Connecting and Corrupting Sea’. In Blake and Knapp 2005b, 1–23. —. (eds.) 2005b: The Archaeology of Mediterranean Prehistory (Malden, MA/Oxford). Borgna, E., Caloi, I., Carinci, F.M. and Laffineur, R. (eds.) 2019: MNEME: Past and Memory in the Aegean Bronze Age (Proceedings of the 17th International Aegean Conference, Venice, 17–21 April 2018) (Aegaeum 43) (Leuven). Broodbank, C. 2000: An Island Archaeology of the Early Cyclades (Cambridge/New York). —. 2013: The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World (Oxford). Cancannon, C.W. and Mazurek, L.A. (eds.) 2016: Across the Corrupting Sea: Post-Braudelian Approaches to the Ancient Mediterranean (London). Corré, A.D. (ed.) 2010: A Glossary of Lingua Franca, 5th ed. (Retrieved from the Library of Congress: ). Crielaard, J.P. 1998: ‘Surfing the Mediterranean Web: Cypriot Long-Distance Communication in the Eleventh and Tenth Centuries BC’. In Karageorghis, V. and Stampolidis, N. (eds.), Eastern Mediterranean: Cyprus–Dodecanese–Crete, 16th–6th cent. BC (Proceedings of the international symposium, Rethymnon, 13–16 May 1997) (Athens), 187–206. D’Oriano, R. 2016: ‘La Sardegna nuragica e l’Oriente’. In Minoja et al. 2016, 152–55. Depalmas, A. 2009a: ‘Il Bronzo Medio della Sardegna’. In Atti della XLIV Riunione Scientifica: La preistoria e la protostoria della Sardegna, Cagliari, Barumini, Sassari, 23–28 novembre, 2009, vol. 1 (Florence), 124–30. —. 2009b: ‘Il Bronzo Recente della Sardegna’. In Atti della XLIV Riunione Scientifica: La preistoria e la protostoria della Sardegna, Cagliari, Barumini, Sassari, 23–28 novembre, 2009, vol. 1 (Florence), 132–40. —. 2009c: ‘Il Bronzo Finale della Sardegna’. In Atti della XLIV Riunione Scientifica: La preistoria e la protostoria della Sardegna, Cagliari, Barumini, Sassari, 23–28 novembre, 2009, vol. 1 (Florence), 142–49. Emanuel, J.P. 2016: ‘Maritime Worlds Collide: Agents of Transference and the Metastasis of Seaborne Threats at the End of the Bronze Age’. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 148.4, 265–80. Fadda, M.A. 2016: ‘L’architettura dedicata al culto dell’acqua in età nuragica’. In Minoja et al. 2016, 100–09. Ferrarese Ceruti, M.L. 1981: ‘Documenti micenei nella Sardegna meridionale’. In Atzeni, E. et al., Ichnussa: La Sardegna dalle origini all’età classica (Milan), 605–12. —. 1983: ‘Antigori: la torre f del complesso nuragico di Antigori (Sarroch-Cagliari) – Nota preliminare’. In Vagnetti 1983, 187–206. —. 1985: ‘La Sardegna e il mondo miceneo’. In Arslan, E.A., Sardegna Preistorica, Nuraghi a Milano (Exhibition Catalogue) (Milan), 245–54. Ferrarese Ceruti, M.L., Vagnetti, L. and Lo Schiavo, F. 1987: ‘Minoici, micenei e ciprioti in Sardegna alla luce delle più recenti scoperte’. In Balmuth, M.S. (ed.), Nuragic Sardinia and the Mycenean World (Studies in Sardinian Archaeology 3; BAR International Series 387) (Oxford), 7–37. Fiddian, R. 2017: Postcolonial Borges: Argument and Artistry (Oxford). Finkelstein, I. and Piasetzky, E. 2007: ‘Radiocarbon Dating and Philistine Chronology with an Addendum on el-Ahwat’. Ägypten und Levante 17, 74–82. Fitzhugh, B. and Hunt, T. 1997: ‘Introduction: Islands as Laboratories: Archaeological Research in Comparative Perspective’. Human Ecology 25.3, 379–83. Fox, R. 2008: ‘Tastes, Smells, and Spaces: Sensory Perceptions and Mycenaean Palatial Feasting’. In Hitchcock, L.A., Laffineur, R. and Crowley, J. (eds.), DAIS: The Aegean Feast (Proceedings of the 12th International Aegean Conference, University of Melbourne, Centre for Classics and Archaeology, 25–29 March 2008) (Aegaeum 29) (Liège/Austin), 133–41. Gale, N.H. 2011: ‘Source of lead metal used to make a repair clamp on a Nuragic vase recently excavated at Pyla-Kokkinokremos’. In Karageorghis, V. and Kouka, O. (eds.), On Cooking Pots, Drinking Cups, Loomweights and Ethnicity in Bronze Age Cyprus and Neighbouring

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Regions (International Archaeological Symposium held in Nicosia, 6–7 November 2010) (Nicosia), 107–12. Galvin, P.R. 1999: Patterns of Pillage. A Geography of Caribbean-based Piracy in Spanish America, 1536–1718 (American University Studies Series 25, Geography 5) (New York). Gilboa, A. and Goren, Y. 2015: ‘Early Iron Age Phoenician Networks: An Optical Mineralogy Study of Phoenician Bichrome and Related Wares in Cyprus’. Ancient West and East 14, 73–110. Gradioli, M.G., Waiman-Barak, P., Bürge, T., Dunseht, Z.C., Sterba, J.H., Lo Schiavo, F., Perra, M., Sabatini, S. and Fischer, P.M. 2020: ‘Cyprus and Sardinia in the Late Bronze Age: Nuragic Table Ware at Hala Sultan Tekke’. Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports 33, 102479. Hitchcock, L.A. 2000: Minoan Architecture: A Contextual Analysis (SIMA Pocket Book 155) (Jonsered). —. 2009: ‘Building Identities: Fluid Borders and an ‘International Style’ of Monumental Architecture in the Bronze Age’. In Anderson, J. (ed.), Crossing Cultures: Conflict, Migration and Convergence (Proceedings of the 32nd International Conference in the History of Art [CIHA], University of Melbourne, 13–18 January 2008) (Carlton [Melbourne]), 165–71. —. 2011: ‘Fluid and Flexible: Revisiting the Vernacular Tradition in Bronze Age Crete and Cyprus’. In Glowacki, K. and Vogeikoff-Brogan, N. (eds.), STEGA: The Archaeology of Houses and Households in Ancient Crete from the Neolithic Period through the Roman Era (Hesperia Suppl. 44) (Princeton), 233–45. —. 2016: ‘Entangled Threads: Who Owned the West House at Akrotiri’. Journal of Prehistoric Religion 25, 18–34. Hitchcock, L.A. and Maeir, A.M. 2014: ‘Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Seren’s Life for Me’. World Archaeology 46.4, 624–40. —. 2018: ‘Pirates of the Crete-Aegean: Migration, Mobility, and Post-Palatial Realities at the End of the Bronze Age’. In Proceedings of the 12th International Conference of Cretan Studies, Heraklion, 21–25 September 2016, vol. A (Heraklion), 1–12. Hitchcock, L.A., Maeir, A.M. and Dagan, A. 2016: ‘The Entanglement of Aegean Style Ritual Actions in Philistine Culture’. In Alram-Stern, E., Blakolmer, F., Deger-Jalkotzy, S., Weilhartner, J. and Laffineur, R. (eds.), METAPHYSIS: Ritual, Myth and Symbolism in the Aegean Bronze Age (Proceedings of the 15th International Aegean Conference, Institute for Mediterranean and Prehistoric Archaeology, Department for Aegean and Mycenaean Research and at the Institute of Classical Archaeology, University of Vienna, 22–25 April 2014) (Aegaeum 39) (Leuven/Liège), 519–28. Horden, P. and Purcell, N. 2000: The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford). Horejs, B. and Mehofer, M. 2016: ‘Çukuiçi Höyük: An Early Metallurgical Center in the Aegean Coast of Anatolia’. Paper presented at SASCAR. The Southeast Aegean/Southwest Coastal Anatolian Region: Material Evidence and Cultural Identity at the Italian Archaeological School, Athens, 12–14 May 2016. Iacono, F. 2019: The Archaeology of Late Bronze Age Interaction and Mobility at the Gates of Europe. People, Things, and Networks around the Southern Adriatic Sea (London). Janes, S. 2010: ‘Negotiating Island Interactions: Cyprus, the Aegean and the Levant in the Late Bronze Age to Early Iron Ages’. In van Dommelen, P. and Knapp, A.B. (eds.), Material Connections in the Ancient Mediterranean: Mobility, Materiality and Identity (London), 127–46. Kahane, H.R., Kahane, R. and Tietze, A. 1988: The lingua franca in the Levant: Turkish Nautical Terms of Italian and Greek Origin (Istanbul). Kanta, A. 2014a: ‘Pyla-Kokkinokremos 2012’. In Karageorghis and Kanta 2014, 103–12. —. 2014b: ‘The site and architecture of Pyla in their historical setting’. In Karageorghis and Kanta 2014, 1–102. —. 2014c: ‘Pyla-Kokkinokremos 2010, 2011: The excavation and architecture’. In Karageorghis and Kanta 2014, 113–21. Karageorghis, V. and Demas, M. 1985: Excavations at Kition V: The Pre-Phoenician Levels. Areas I and II, Part I (Nicosia).

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Karageorghis, V. and Kanta, A. (eds.) 2014: Pyla-Kokkinokremos: A Late 13th Century BC Fortified Settlement in Cyprus: Excavations 2010–2011 (SIMA 141) (Uppsala). Kassianidou, V. and Knapp, A.B. 2005: ‘Archaeometallurgy in the Mediterranean: The Social Context of Mining Technology’. In Blake and Knapp 2005b, 215–51. Knapp, A.B. 1986: Copper Production and Divine Protection: Archaeology, Ideology, and Social Complexity on Bronze Age Cyprus (SIMA Pocket Book 42) (Gothenburg). —. 1998: ‘Mediterranean Bronze Age Trade: Distance, Power and Place’. In Cline, E.H. and Harris-Cline, D. (eds.), The Aegean and the Orient in the Second Millennium (Proceedings of the 50th anniversary symposium, Cincinnati, 18–20 April 1997) (Aegaeum 18) (Liège/Austin), 193–207. —. 2018: Seafaring and Seafarers in the Bronze Age East Mediterranean (Leiden). Kolb, M.J. 2005: ‘The Genesis of Monuments among the Mediterranean Islands’. In Blake and Knapp 2005b, 156–79. Leeson, P.T. 2011: The Invisible Hook: The Invisible Economy of Pirates (Princeton). Leighton, R. 1999: Sicily Before History: An Archaeological Survey from the Palaeolithic to the Iron Age (London). Lo Schiavo, F. 2016: ‘La metallurgia e i metalli nel rito dell’offerta’. In Minoja et al. 2016, 174–83. Lo Schiavo, F., Antona, A., Bafico, S. ... Usai, A. and Usai, L. 2004: ‘Articolazioni cronologiche e differenziazioni locali. La metallurgia’. In Genick, D.C. (ed.), L’Età del Bronzo recente in Italia (Atti del Congresso Nazionale di Lido di Camaiore, 26–29 ottobre 2000) (Viareggio [Lucca]), 357–82. Lolos, Y.G. 1995: ‘Late Cypro-Mycenaean Seafaring: New Evidence from Sites in the Saronic and the Argolid Gulfs’. In Karageorghis, V. and Michaelides, D. (eds.), Proceedings of the International Symposium Cyprus and the Sea... Nicosia 25–26 September 1993 (Nicosia), 65–87. Lugliè, C. 2005: ‘Analisi archeometriche preliminari su elementi ceramici del Bronzo Recente dal Campidano meridionale’. In La civiltà nuragica: nuove acquisizioni (Atti del congresso, Senorbì, 14–16 dicembre 2000) (Cagliari), 155–66 and 227–31. Maeir, A.M., Davis, B.E., Horwitz, L.K., Ascher, Y. and Hitchcock, L.A. 2015: ‘An ivory bowl from Early Iron Age Tell es-Safi/Gath (Israel): manufacture, meaning and memory’. World Archaeology 47.3, 414–38. Master, D.M. 2009: ‘The Renewal of Trade at Iron Age I Ashkelon’. In Aviram, J. et al. (eds.), Ephraim Stern Volume (Eretz Israel 29) (Jerusalem), 111*–22*. Mathisen, R.W. 2014: Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations: From Prehistory to 640 CE. 2nd ed. (Oxford). Militello, P. 2018: ‘Incorporating Architecture. LBA Sicily and the Aegean’. In Bettelli, M., Del Freo, M. and van Wijngaarden, G.J. (eds.), Mediterranea Itinera. Studies in Honour of Lucia Vagnetti (Incunabula Graeca 106) (Rome), 33–50. Minoja, M., Salis, G. and Usai, L. (eds.) 2016: L’isola delle torri, Giovanni Lilliu e la Sardegna nuragica (Exhibition Catalogue) (Sassari). Moore, M.S. 2018: The Desert and the Sea: 977 Days Captive on the Somali Pirate Coast (New York). Nowicki, K. 2011: ‘When the House Becomes a Fortress’. In Glowacki, K. and Vogeikoff-Brogan, N. (eds.), STEGA: The Archaeology of Houses and Households in Ancient Crete from the Neolithic Period through the Roman Era (Hesperia Suppl. 44) (Princeton), 349–65. Pisanu, L., Hitchcock, L.A., Maeir, A.M., Harris-Schober, M., Gur-Arieh, S., Miletello, P. and Cicilloni, R. 2019: ‘All in All it’s Just Another Stone in the Wall’. Poster presented at Indagare il Passato. Giornate di studi di Preistoria e Protostoria in onore di Enrico Atzeni, Cagliari, 21–22 giugno 2019. Pompianu, E. and Soro, L. 2013: ‘Nuove testimonianze micenee da Sulky (Sardegna)’. Rivista di Studi Fenici 39.2, 291–302. Purcell, N. 1995: ‘Field Survey of an Asteroid’. Antiquity 69 (262), 186–89. Rackham, O. and Moody, J. 1996: The Making of the Cretan Landscape (Manchester). Rehak, P. 2004: ‘Crocus Costumes in Aegean Art’. In Chapin, A.P. (ed.), Charis: Essays in Honor of Sara A. Immerwahr (Hesperia Suppl. 33) (Princeton), 85–100.

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DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT SELEUCID JEBEL KHALID ON THE EUPHRATES* Heather JACKSON

ABSTRACT This article examines in detail the contents of a dump excavated at Jebel Khalid, a short-lived Seleucid site in North Syria, to investigate whether the deliberately dumped debris throws any light on the debatable function of the area it is associated with, i.e. Area S, which contains at least one colonnaded building. Comparisons are made with other dumps on the site known to be associated with both the housing insula (domestic) and the Governor’s Palace on the Acropolis (public, elite). Often the material published from dumps is biased toward certain categories of finds, such as either the pottery or the bones. This investigation looks at all categories of finds.

Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates is a large 55 ha site, excavated by an Australian team between 1985 and 2010 (Fig. 1). Identified sites include the Governor’s Palace on the Acropolis,1 the Main Gate,2 a Temple,3 blocks of housing insulae, including one fully excavated,4 a palaestra5 and the rather mysterious Area S, tentatively dubbed a commercial area, largely because of its proximity to river access and consequent trade.6 This complex contains a colonnaded building, two large courtyards adjacent to each other and apparent suites of rooms with access to those courtyards. These rooms do not appear domestic in either architecture or artefacts. The complex is surrounded by roads, only the eastern and southern of which are provided with access into the complex. In 2008, the eastern road was excavated, together with its eastern boundary, revealing another complex, which was called Area Z. Here only the rooms along the road have been excavated, one of which, room Z1, contained a dump deposit, most probably from the adjacent Area S. This paper examines its contents as possible evidence of activities that might throw light on the function of Area S, and compares it with dumps elsewhere on the site, that have their associated function defined. Although the site of Jebel Khalid must have looked quite untidy, with its ubiquitous stone quarries, it seems that the inhabitants were usually careful about the siting of their rubbish dumps. There was a large one outside the Main Gate, well away from the settlement * This article has been written in honour of Gocha Tstetskhladze to thank him for his friendship and scholarly collegiality. 1  Clarke 2002a. 2  Clarke 2002b. 3  Clarke 2016a. 4  Jackson 2014. 5  Clarke 2016b. 6  Jackson 2018; 2016a.

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Fig. 1. Contour map of the site of Jebel Khalid (drawing by B. Rowney, 2011).

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Fig. 2. Plan of the room Z1 in its excavated state (drawing by B. Rowney, 2011).

area. It remains unexcavated. There were two smaller ones to the north of the housing insula, on waste ground not used for building and well-separated from the houses. These were sampled in 1987 and 1988 and apparently contained rubbish from the houses below. In 2000, a test pit was dug here to sample the faunal remains.7 In 2008, the excavation of T36, adjacent to Area S, found a rubbish dump more unusually located within the walls of a room, and this dump is the main subject of this paper. Although it is sited in Area Z, its proximity to Area S suggests that the refuse probably came from there. No other dumps have been located in Area S itself. That refuse may well provide some evidence of activities pursued in the area. This room (Z1) (Fig. 2) was adjacent to the road running north to south between the housing insula and Area S; it was also on the north-eastern corner of Area Z, a few metres to the east of Area S. The area to the north of this was not fully excavated in the time available but it was empty of structure on the surface (unusual at Jebel Khalid) and in the two excavated trenches T55 and T47, with a drain running along the northern wall separating it from the built area, implying outdoor space. Rubbish could have been dumped either on the road or in this open area, but instead it was tidily stowed within the walls of room Z1. The room Z1 itself (and therefore the full extent of the dump) has not been fully excavated. The excavation of T36 went to bedrock but the room extends into T55, 7

 Mairs 2003, 187–88.

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Fig. 3. Site of Z1 dump in T36, showing bedrock floor and blocked doorway in south-east (photograph by B. Miller).

which remained unfinished at the end of the 2010 season, after which political strife made return to Syria impossible. The baulk between the two trenches also remains unexcavated. The room has evidence architecturally of at least three phases. All walls were of stone and built on bedrock. In the southern wall was a door deliberately blocked, but above the doorway the wall had been rebuilt in a different style, with stones less evenly packed (Fig. 3). A tertiary phase was also evident in the form of a small oven dug into a poor

DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT SELEUCID JEBEL KHALID ON THE EUPHRATES

1165

floor above the dump, possibly a late squatter phase. Other than that, the only floor surface found was on bedrock at a depth of 2.25 m from surface. On it was a coin of Seleucus III, 225–222 BC.8 The original size of the room is estimated to have been 24.8 m2 (4.2 × 6.2 m), but at the east, a secondary wall built alongside the primary wall, narrowed the east–west length to 5.5 m, giving a room size of 22 m2. It looks as though this change occurred contemporaneously with the blocking of the doorway and rebuilding of the southern wall. In summary: Phase A: Z1 was a room of nearly 29 m2, with access south to another room. Phase B: Z1 became a smaller room of 22 m2, by the construction of a new eastern wall, effectively forming a double wall between it and the rooms to the east, a ploy used in the housing insula to define a boundary, but not necessarily the reason here. The door south was blocked and the wall rebuilt over it. No other access has been found but access there must have been, first of all for normal reuse of the room and secondly for the dumping activity that followed. The most likely site of access is the unexcavated baulk to the east of T55; a great many iron nails and bolts were found in the north-eastern corner of that square. Access to the north would enable rubbish to be brought in from the open area there and for this room to be exclusively used as a dump, cut off from the other rooms in Area Z. Phase C: A new but poor-quality earth floor gradually accumulated on top of the dumped material and was used by late occupants or squatters. This phasing is suggested by the architectural evidence, but supported by the artefactual. Two stamped Rhodian amphora handles were found in the lower levels of the dump: one was dated to the period 152–146 BC and another to the late 150s BC.9 In excavation in 2010 of the blocked doorway, necessitating partial removal of the eastern baulk, one dating to the 160 to 140s BC was found.10 So that evidence gives us a date for the dumping activity of mid-2nd century BC, always bearing in mind that imported amphorae could have a long life of reuse. In addition, Eastern Sigillata A ceramic fragments were found throughout the dump, including the lowest level. Evidence elsewhere on the site strongly tells us that Eastern Sigillata A came to Jebel Khalid post150 BC.11 The rest of Jebel Khalid was active and prosperous during this phase,12 so the rubbish belongs to an inhabited living phase, not a post-abandonment disturbance. Its contents therefore represent a mode of behaviour and activities belonging to that phase, which merits examination. The dump was initially diagnosed as such because of the multiplicity of fragmented artefacts and bones in loose grey ashy soil. The ashy soil grew darker with depth, but there was no obvious stratification or separation of layers, although excavation imposed eight superimposed loci for labelling of objects. The following graph illustrates the different classes of artefacts in the dump. It does not include the 662 fragments of common-ware pottery. 8

 Inv. no. 08.823, Nixon 2016, no. 626.  Clarke 2008, SH 92 and SH 88. 10  Clarke 2016c, SH 101. 11  Jackson and Tidmarsh 2011, 326. See also Lund 2014, 298–99. 12  For the housing insula: Jackson and Tidmarsh 2011, 505; Jackson 2014, 608. This was the period of the elite House of the Painted Frieze: Jackson 2009; 2014, 45–166. 9

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35 30 25 20 15 10 5

ne St o

Ce ra m ic

M et al

G la ss

es Fi gu rin

La m ps

en t

n/ w ea ve Sp i

A do rn m

Co in s

0

Chart 1: Distribution of classes of artefact in dump Z1.

Absences or dearths are significant. There was no tile and no basalt fragments from grinders etc. The ‘adornment’ items (two beads and a metal bracelet fragment) were almost certainly accidental losses, as were the three loom-weights of unfired clay. Metal finds predominate. In the sampled rubbish mound north of the insula, only eight metal items were found, divided equally between nail fragments and tiny bronze pins. Here, in an admittedly larger, but not that much larger context, numbers and variety are greater. Most are nails, bolts and other fasteners used in woodwork, but there are also blades and a swing handle for a pail. A rare gold find, unique to this area, appears to have been a small boss to cover the rounded top of a stool or chair leg. Some of those nails must have come from the wooden fitments of the doorways in Z1 itself, both the blocked one and the one suspected in the baulk north. The wood would have been rescued for reuse and the nails discarded. The quantity is such that one suspects that demolition, involved in the refurbishing of adjacent Area S mid-2nd century BC, resulted in dumping of fragmented nails here. The one stone find was a fragment of architectural stone, either a modelled plinth or top of a slender pilaster, also implying demolition activity nearby. Figurine fragments were very few – four only in contrast with the twelve found in the relatively small sondage of Rubbish Mound II, north of the housing insula. The latter included some significant fragments such as an Astarte plaque and several female heads,13 but the Z1 fragments were very minor and unidentifiable except for the possible Pan/ Silenus head, which is suspected to be a pottery appliqué rather than a figurine (Fig. 4).14 This is certainly not a votive deposit and indeed the room has no association with a sacred building.15 At the very base of the deposit was a damaged faience amulet featuring the dwarf god Pataikos – a rare Egyptian find at Jebel Khalid (Fig. 5).16 13

 Jackson 2006, for example: cat. nos. 14, 24, 87, 107, 113, 177.  Jackson 2016, cat. no. 437. 15  Cf. the 28 figurine fragments in a pit deposit (Lot 880) at the Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Corinth, most published in Merker 2000. I thank Elizabeth Pemberton for providing a list of the other finds in this context. 16  Jackson 2018b. 14

DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT SELEUCID JEBEL KHALID ON THE EUPHRATES

Fig. 4a–b. Pan/Silenus head from Z1 dump, front and side view (photograph by S. Morton).

Fig. 5. Faience amulet (Pataikos) from base of Z1 dump (photograph by S. Morton).

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HEATHER JACKSON

Fig. 6. JK Type 10 lamps (drawing by J. Sellers).

Seventeen lamp fragments came from the dump itself – a high total. Of these, only one cannot be assigned to a known Jebel Khalid (JK) type; all the rest belong to one type, which serves to date both that type and the deposit itself. JK Type 10 is a small mould-made lamp with rayed shoulder and concave rim to the filling hole. On the rayed shoulder was an applied rosette that served as a side grip. The moulded decoration on the flat nozzle top was invariably an amphora, although the shapes differed (Fig. 6).17 The base was stamped with a rosette, a feature also common to Type 11 and Type 12 lamps, with the result that the published catalogues conservatively list such bases as Type 10 to 12. However, the handle that typifies Type 11 and the vegetal decoration characteristic of Type 12 are not manifested on any of the fragments found in the T36 dump, so I strongly believe they are all JK Type 10. The type, dated by other contexts as well as this one, belongs to the post-150 phase and may have lasted into the 1st century BC but seems to have been replaced then by the more elaborately decorated Type 12.18 As stated above, there is no evidence of Type 12 lamps in the dump, unless some of the rosette bases belong to that type. More interestingly, not a single fragment of a Type 9 lamp was found. This is a larger, locally manufactured lamp with rayed shoulder, applied rosette and a differently decorated nozzle featuring rosettes, but the base is plain.19 The author had previously assumed that this type was for some time, after the mid-2nd century, 17  For JK Type 10: Jackson 2002, 178–83; 2016b, 349–69. For examples of different nozzle amphorae, see Jackson 2016b, 363, figs. 12.141–143. 18  Jackson 2002, 185–91; 2016b, 375–88. 19  Jackson 2002, 171–78; 2016b, 335–49.

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1169

overlapping with Type 10, but its absence from this post-150 dump (as proved by the presence of Eastern Sigilllata A) seems to suggest otherwise. The rubbish mounds north of the housing insula yielded several different types of lamp fragments, including Types 10 to 12. Why so many Type 10 lamp fragments here? Does the relatively high number reflect any sort of activity? Such tiny lamps were presumably used for lighting dark rooms and in the housing insula were often found associated with a doorway of a store room, although not exclusively. Room Z1 is fairly near to one of the many stone quarries on the site (and the adjacent road leads there) but it is difficult to believe that such delicate lamps were of any use in a quarry. These lamps are very fragile and any damage to the nozzle rendered them useless, so perhaps the high number trashed is not so remarkable. Several of them have charred nozzles, where the nozzle is preserved, so this is not the case of a damaged consignment being dumped unused. Quantity aside, what is remarkable about this deposit is the homogeneity of the type. There was no glass in the insula rubbish dumps and only five diagnostic fragments in Z1, all of which belonged to cast glass bowls with grooved rims. None of these fragments was found below the mid-centre of the dump, suggesting that the influx of such bowls was a later-than-mid-2nd-century BC phenomenon.20 One expects a high discard rate of pottery in a dump and that was the case. The chart below (Chart 2) only records the 24 inventoried fragments, which were, with only one exception, imported wares, distributed as illustrated in Table 2, which does not include the Rhodian amphora ware: 18 16 14 12 10 8 6 4

ta A Si gi lla Ea ste rn

G re en

-g la z

ed

W

W ar e t-S lo pe -s ty le W es

ed Bu rn ish

Fi ne Bl ac

k

G re y

G la z

W ar e

e

0

ar e

2

Chart 2: Distribution of imported fine wares in dump Z1.

Eastern Sigillata A, as stated above, was found throughout the dump, and is the dominant imported ware, as found elsewhere on the site in this period, and indeed at many other sites.21 The discarded fine ware fragments were mainly associated with 20  Cf. at Tel Anafa, the Early Hellenistic glass phiale G24: Grose 2012, 24. Otherwise at that site, too, the earliest appearance of a cast glass fluted bowl is in a late 2nd-century BC context: Grose 2012, 25. 21  Lund 2014, 298 and n. 27, with further references. Cf. also Berlin et al. 2014, 318, which claims that at Kedesh, the ware appeared in ‘the decade of the 130s BC’.

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bowls (15) and plates (four). The single West Slope ware fragment was of a hemispherical bowl.22 There were no fragments of Megarian or moulded bowls, otherwise ubiquitous on the site in the period. This is puzzling. That they were not out of use is shown by large numbers of them, plus a mould stamp, in the road fill in T18, about 10 m south-west of the dump in T36.23 The dumped material in the Athenian Agora always contained large numbers of moulded bowls, for example, 15 significant fragments in the cistern Area C, plus 13 rims and bases,24 and in the Area E cistern (end of the 2nd century BC), 12 significant fragments.25 Their absence here may mean that that they were not in use in the immediate area. Apart from the fine ware fragments some 662 diagnostic fragments of common ware were recorded, of which 654 could be allocated to the following shapes/vessels: 140 19,2%

18,8% 120 17,3% 100 80

12,4%

60

7,5% 6,4%

40

5,4%

5,0% 3,8%

20

1,4%

1,2% 1,4%

0,2%

w l Ta bl e Ja rc oa rs e A m ph or a A m sta U ng nd ue nt ar iu Co m ok in g po t Pi th os

bo

Ja r

Pl at e

D ee p

Ec h

in u

sb ow l Bo w l/c up Sa uc er Fi sh pl at e

0

Chart 3: Distribution of common-ware vessels in dump Z1.

A survey of the common-ware vessel fragments found in the dump may help to illuminate activities in or adjacent to this area. In the housing insula, which provided the base material for the Jebel Khalid pottery typology, saucers were among the second most common vessels in the whole corpus.26 Here, very few of them have been discarded and the same applies to ‘fishplates’. The echinus bowl, or bowl with incurved rim, is strongly represented and this is not unexpected as it is the most commonly found table vessel at Jebel Khalid. It is generally considered to be an eating vessel, since the in-turned rim precludes drinking. The surprise is the high number of plates; in the housing insula, plates were statistically much fewer in the corpus – less than half the numbers of small saucers.27 Is this the trash from a dining activity associated with this area of the site? Drinking cup/ bowls are also fairly well represented, in spite of the absence of moulded bowls. The only shapes to equal the plates in total are the coarse jars, very few of which are table jars. If one 22

 Tidmarsh 2016b, FW 746.  Tidmarsh 2016b, FW 743. 24  Thompson 1934, 345, 351–35. 25  Thompson 1934, 392, 405–11. 26  Jackson 2011, 25. 27  Jackson 2011, 30, 507. 23

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1171

adds the 57 amphora fragments, there is an impressive total of 199 fragments of potential liquid-carrying or liquid-storing vessels in this dump. Jars are common everywhere, but have been a particularly numerous find in adjacent Area S. Cooking pot fragments are scarce in this dump, so we cannot assume adjacent cooking areas. Bones, however, were plentiful all through the dump (Chart 4). 120 100

58,7%

80 60 40 7,8% 0,6%

1,2%

La r

ge

Bi rd

4,8%

G az el le M am M m ed al iu m m am m al

1,8%

D ee r

Ca m Sh e

Pi g

e

s

Ca ttl

0,6%

el at /g az el le

1,8%

0

O vi ca pr id

10,2%

7,2%

ep /g o

5,4%

Eq ui d

20

Chart 4: Distribution of animal bones in T36 dump.

I thank Karyn Wesselingh for providing the basis for these statistics, which also show that for sheep/goat every part of the body was represented. Of the 167 identifiable bones, 26 were burnt but of the 1467 unidentified fragments also found in the dump, a much greater proportion was burnt. The following table shows which animals were burnt, chopped or dismembered.28 Burnt

Chopped

Dismembered

Sheep/Goat

18

3

2

Cattle

1

Pig

2

Equid

1

Gazelle

2

Medium mammal

2

1 1

Table 1: Incidence of bones burnt, chopped or dismembered in the Z1 dump.

Most of the sheep/goat bones and all of the pig bones belonged to young animals. Traces of chopping were found on some of the larger pelvis fragments, and of dismembering on femurs. The presence of wild animals, i.e. deer and gazelle bones, is evidence of the elite activity of hunting and consequent feasting29 – disposal of the bones here may indicate that the feasting was not too distant from the dump. 28

 See Wesselingh 2018, 40 for the implications of burning.  Wesselingh 2018, 107.

29

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HEATHER JACKSON

The overall picture provided by the bones is typical of the whole site and indeed of the Syrian/Levantine region, with the exception of the exclusion of pig from Hebrewdominated areas, such as the Jerusalem city dump dating to the Early Roman period.30 The total absence of fish bones, in a site so close to the Euphrates, is also typical of Jebel Khalid and has in several publications31 attracted attention to the fact that Jebel Khalid was not far from Hierapolis (modern Manbij), home of the Syrian Goddess, whose fish were to be venerated, not eaten (Porphyry Abst 2. 61, 4. 15. See also Xenophon Anabasis 1. 4). One may compare the trash with that of deposits elsewhere, first in the Athenian Agora in the foundation of a house at the base of the Areopagus, dating to Hellenistic times. Here a large pithos re-used as a rubbish container was ‘quickly filled up with the multifarious refuse of the household’ and later sealed by a wall across its mouth, possibly not long after 166 BC.32 What did this household, contemporary with the Z1 dump at Jebel Khalid, throw away? Pottery gets the main attention in the publication but Thompson also lists eight lamps, eight coins, two figurine heads, a terracotta palmette fragment, two lead weights, a bone flute fragment, painted stucco fragments, nails, ash, charcoal and ‘many bones of birds and animals’. Thompson considered it a ‘kitchen dump’. Indeed, the deposit contained the remains of two cooking pots and a casserole, but the majority of the deposit consisted of fine table wares, including 18 moulded bowls, 14 fine black-glazed vessels and three very fine West Slope ware amphorae, able to be wholly reconstituted from the fragments, implying the vessels were thrown in as soon as they were broken. This seems a very rich kitchen.33 A refuse deposit from a later date in the Athenian Agora was in the cistern associated with the road leading out of the south-west corner of the Agora, therefore perhaps a good comparandum for the road-adjacent dump in Jebel Khalid’s Z1, i.e. not associated with an identified household or building, although Thompson suggests the cistern may have been filled with refuse from houses damaged by the invasion of Sulla in 86 BC, i.e. domestic refuse. This was dated by Thompson to the late 2nd or early 1st century BC.34 The main chamber, which had been filled all at one time, to judge by the lack of stratified levels, as well as a mass of pottery and 29 lamps, contained 12 stamped amphora handles, all Cnidian, 15 coins, two figurine fragments, a lead weight, whetstone, bronze ring, bone ring and astragal. The 29 lamps were of different types, unlike the Jebel Khalid homogeneous deposit in Z1. The pottery included, among the fine wares, 58 blackglazed vessels, 11 West Slope ware vessels and 12 moulded bowls. The plain wares, if indeed all were catalogued, seemed to consist only of jars, pitchers, unguentaria and a brazier with cooking pot. No mention was made of bones. The character of this fill, apart from the lack (or missing record?) of bones, does have something in common with the Areopagus dump previously referred to, which was regarded as domestic. The Z1 dump also has few figurines, multiple lamps and a preponderance of jars in the pottery, but this does not prove it domestic.

 Bar-Oz et al. 2007, 5.  Wesselingh 2018, 162–63; Jackson 2011, 92; 2014, 582. 32  Thompson 1934, 369–70. 33  Thompson 1934, 370–92. 34  Thompson 1934, 394. 30 31

DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT SELEUCID JEBEL KHALID ON THE EUPHRATES

COMPARISON

WITH OTHER JEBEL

KHALID

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DUMPS

Since we are seeking to relate the trash to site function, it is useful to examine other known dump sites at Jebel Khalid itself. 1. The small rubbish mounds north of the housing insula have already been mentioned. In summary, they yielded the following objects: one coin, a posthumous issue of Alexander the Great, dated 310–301 BC;35 one loom-weight fragment of unbaked clay; 12 very small lamp fragments of moulded lamps, most unidentifiable as to type; 12 figurine fragments; eight metal fragments, the majority small bronze pins; eight ceramic fine ware fragments, three of which were of moulded bowls; three basalt grinder fragments; and one plaster fragment. In 2000, Lachlan Mairs undertook to dig small test pits in each mound to assess the bone content.36 He was disappointed to find only 23 identifiable bones representing mainly ovicaprids, with one bird and one equid bone the only variants. Mairs was inclined to query whether this was indeed a dump. 2. A heavy ash/garbage stratum on the Acropolis, outside the Governor’s Palace in Area A, has been interpreted by John Tidmarsh as a rubbish dump from the Palace, used as levelling fill for a floor above associated with Phase III rebuilding.37 Area A is judged to be a barracks area for the Palace guard.38 How do its contents, if trash from an elite building, compare with the Z1 dump? The total of objects is larger than that of Z1 (123 compared with 86) but reflects a larger excavated area. 80 54,4%

70 60 50 40 30 20 10

7,3%

4,0%

4,8%

3,3%

2,4%

8,1%

7,3%

5,7%

2,4%

bo ne ph or aH an dl es

ke d St am

pe d

A m

W or

Fi ne

W ar

e

M et al m ic Ce ra

G la ss

ur in es Fi g

La m ps

en t Sp in /W ea ve

A do rn m

Co

in s

0

Chart 5: Distribution of artefacts in the Acropolis dump.

Datable material is plentiful. Coins range from Antiochus III (222–180 BC) to Municipal Antioch (97–72 BC), and the stamped amphora handles show the same range, with 35

 Nixon 2002, no. 1.  Mairs 2003, 187–89. 37  Tidmarsh 2016a, 3. 38  Tidmarsh 2016a. 36

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HEATHER JACKSON

one from the late 3rd century,39 three from the first half of the 2nd century,40 one from the mid-2nd century,41 and the remainder from the later 2nd century.42 But coins can slip down and amphora handles be re-used for decades. Other dating material is provided by the Eastern Sigillata A fragments (early forms) throughout the dump. Broadly, this dump was being used in the second half of the 2nd century BC, but it may also contain some earlier material than was found in Z1. Contents cover much the same range of artefacts as those in Z1. Like Z1, the dearth of figurines precludes a ritual dump and the lack of loom-weights and spindle whorls reduces the possibility of spinning and weaving activities in the vicinity. Very surprisingly, if this is material dumped from the elite Palace, the percentage of ceramic fine wares (i.e. those inventoried) is significantly lower than in Z1 (7.3% to 28%), in spite of the Acropolis dump site being larger. It does include some moulded bowl fragments, but no green-glaze fragments – a ware not favoured on the Acropolis? Among the other discarded artefacts, metal fragments predominate, as in Z1, and the total of these is even higher, with most being iron nails, again suggestive of demolition and/or refurbishment between phases. The four lamp fragments comprise a wheel-made nozzle, a JK Type 10 to 12 rosette base, a Type 8 or 9 nozzle fragment, and an almost complete Type 9.1 lamp, i.e. a range of types. But the low numbers and the wide range of types make the Z1 homogeneous deposit more remarkable in contrast. An unusual find was a fragment of a bone flute, unique to Jebel Khalid but reminiscent of the deposit in the Areopagus house in Athens.43 Music on the Acropolis (Fig. 7)? Unfortunately, the statistics for the common-ware pottery in this context are not yet available. 3. However, a pottery deposit excavated in 1991 outside the western wall of the Palace in Trench 14, and therefore certainly discarded from the Palace, offers statistical material comparable with the common-ware statistics seen in Chart 3 from Z1. 30 18,9% 17,5%

25 20 10,9%

10,2%

15

8,8%

8,0%

9,4%

10 3,6%

4,4% 2,9% 2,9%

5

0,7%

1,5%

t

os Pi th

m Co

ok in

g

po

ra

ar iu

ue nt

Ja r

ph o

A m

U ng

pl Pl at e at et o 24 Pl D at D e2 ee p 4 bo D w + lo rk ra te r Ta bl ej ar

Sa uc er

Fi sh

Ec hi nu

sb ow l Bo w l/c up

0

Chart 6: Distribution of common-ware vessels in Acropolis T14 dump. 39

 Clarke 2016c, SH 102.  Clarke 2008, SH 85, SH 83; 2016c, SH 105. 41  Clarke 2008, SH 78. 42  Clarke 2008, SH 74, SH 75, SH 76; 2016c, SH 108. 43  Thompson 1934, 369. 40

DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT SELEUCID JEBEL KHALID ON THE EUPHRATES

Fig. 7. Bone flute fragment from Acropolis dump (photograph by J. Travis).

Fig. 8. Graffito on small bowl from Z1 dump (photograph by S. Hay).

1175

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HEATHER JACKSON

As in the Z1 dump, saucers are scarce, but plates numerous. There is a significant number of wide-diameter plates, assumed to be used as platters for serving rather than individual serves. If one added up the fishplates, plates of up to 24 cm in diameter and the larger plates, the plates’ total would be a startling 36.45% of the whole ceramic deposit. This must reflect activities within the Palace, i.e. larger banquets or storage providing for those banquets. But drinking cups are fewer; one might suggest that the elite of the Acropolis drank from metal or glass cups, whereas the denizens of Area S were more used to ceramic vessels. Apart from the discrepancy of the fine wares and lamp statistics between Z1 and the Acropolis dump, and the relative plethora of plates in the Palace T14 dump, discard patterns are not dissimilar. But the analysis of the bones on the Acropolis site does show up some differences. 30 18,9% 17,5%

25 20 10,9%

10,2%

15

8,8%

8,0%

9,4%

10 3,6%

4,4% 2,9% 2,9%

5

0,7%

1,5%

t

os Pi th

m Co

ok in

g

po

ra

ar iu

ue nt

Ja r

ph o

A m

U ng

pl Pl at e at et o 24 Pl D at D e2 ee p 4 bo D w + lo rk ra te r Ta bl ej ar

Sa uc er

Fi sh

Ec hi nu

sb ow l Bo w l/c up

0

Chart 7: Distribution of animal bones in the Acropolis dump.44

Ovicaprids are relatively lower in percentage but still dominant. Pig is less represented than in either Z1 or the housing insula. One of the differences here is in the addition, however small a trace, of pigeon, chicken and fish bones, perhaps part of a more varied Acropolis diet but not detected in Z1. Wild deer bones are significantly higher in proportion, probably attributable, as Wesselingh suggests, to the elite and military pursuit of hunting.45 Much higher are the equid bones (17.8% compared with 1.8%). This Acropolis dump is actually sited within what is thought to be a barracks area outside the Palace, so the presence of horses (cavalry?), donkeys or mules (for transport) is not unexpected; indeed in another trench on the Acropolis there is evidence of a ceremonial horse burial.46 But several of the horse bones in the dump were butchered, implying they were part of the diet – of the Palace or of the barracks? In fact there is more evidence of butchering (chopping and dismembering) here than in Z1. Evidence of burning is much less for these bones than for those in Z1: 44  Thanks again to Karyn Wesselingh for making these statistics available. The faunal remains are fully published in Wesselingh 2018. 45  Wesselingh 2018, x, 99. 46  Wesselingh 2018, 169.

DOWN IN THE DUMPS AT SELEUCID JEBEL KHALID ON THE EUPHRATES

Animal

Chopped

Dismembered

Equid

2

3

Gazelle

1

Sheep/goat

Camel

Burnt 4 (2 completely burnt)

1177

3

1

Table 2: Incidence of bones burnt, chopped and dismembered in the Acropolis dump.

CONCLUSIONS The object of this comparison was to find evidence for activities associated with Area S, possibly defining function: public or domestic or industrial? From the evidence, activities not happening nearby Z1 were cooking, spinning or weaving, and ritual. As far as the artefacts are concerned, the basalt grinders of the insula dumps were missing in both Z1 and the Acropolis dump, and so were the figurines. The housing insula was the most prolific source of figurines on the whole site,47 so they may be regarded as a common domestic feature, lacking in Z1 and indeed in the dump associated with the public Acropolis. This supports the already-published suggestion that Area S was not residential.48 Further evidence may be offered by the dearth of small saucers, a shape that was the second favourite in the housing insula, and was probably associated with small-group family meals.49 There is also no evidence of industrial activities. If not domestic, what are the activities suggested by the dump in Z1? It has already been noted that the percentage of plates in the Z1 dump is much higher than that for the insula; it is in fact closer to the numbers found in the Acropolis Palace itself, where the even greater plethora of plates may be attributed to feasting or public dining. Public dining has been suggested for the function of the colonnaded building in Area S.50 Drinking would accompany the meal, and bowls/cups are well represented in Z1. The absence of Megarian bowls remains inexplicable, but the fine wares discarded otherwise covered all imported wares; they were greater in number than in the Acropolis dump, where the adjacent Palace perhaps used mainly metal vessels. As far as the evidence of the bones is concerned: the Acropolis and Area S share a consumption of deer and gazelle that was probably not domestic fare and also suggests elite dining, although that may be a modern assumption. While examination of the Z1 dump has strongly suggested the area was not domestic in function, it has not offered a clear alternative function. Comparison with the Acropolis dumps provides closer parallels, apart from the discrepancy of the lamps and the number of fine ware discards, but not so close as to define Area S clearly as a public area. If the common-ware statistics and the bones in Z1 suggest dining in Area S, where would the dining have taken place? It is tempting to suggest the above-mentioned colonnaded 47

 Jackson 2006, 230–32.  Jackson 2016a, 71–74. 49  Jackson 2011, 25–26. 50  Jackson 2018a, 47. 48

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building at the heart of Area S, whose function is also unknown.51 But this is mere speculation. The pottery assemblage of Z1 dump would not be expected to resemble the ‘Debris from a Public Dining room in the Athenian Agora’, which was distant from it both in time (5th century BC) and space, and indeed it does not, with the Athenian corpus being far more varied.52 It does match, to some extent, the array of vessels found at Kedesh in the three-room reception complex ‘including a large dining room’. Missing from the Z1 dump, compared with Kedesh, are juglets (generally rare at Jebel Khalid), and saucers are fewer in number.53 It has been suggested that the graffiti markings on some of the Agora vessels found in Pit H4-5 implied state ownership and therefore public dining.54 Markings were not found on the Z1 vessels, with two exceptions. One graffito, ΠΑΙ, was scratched near the exterior rim of a child-sized hemispherical bowl fragment (Fig. 8).55 Use or ownership by a child rather argues against state dining. While the search for the function of Area S has produced only uncertain results, the examination of the dumps has called up some interesting issues, such as the shortage of saucers in both the Acropolis and Area S, compared with the plethora in the housing insula, the date that cast glass vessels were brought in, the slight difference in meat consumption between sites. It is also interesting to note how the inhabitants managed their trash. In one case, on the Acropolis, the trash was re-used as fill for a floor above, but the T14 dump outside the Palace wall was just abandoned there. The insula dumps were well away from the houses. In the case of Z1, a particular room was designated as a dumping ground. This exercise has made it clear that the investigation of dumps can be separated into study categories such as pottery, bones and artefacts, but for the investigation to throw light on living patterns, it must embrace the whole corpus of trashed objects.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bar-Oz, G., Bouchnik, R., Weiss, E., Weissbrod, L., Bar-Yosef Mayer, D.E. and Reich, R. 2007: ‘“Holy Garbage”: A Quantitative Study of the City-Dump of Early Roman Jerusalem’. Levant 39, 1–12. Berlin, A., Herbert, S. and Stone, P. 2014: ‘Dining in State: the Table Wares from the PersianHellenistic Administrative Building at Kedesh’. In Bilde, P.G. and Lawall, M.L. (eds.), Pottery, People and Places: Study and Interpretation of Late Hellenistic Pottery (Black Sea Studies 16) (Aarhus), 307–21. Clarke, G.W. 2002a: ‘The Governor’s Palace, Acropolis, Jebel Khalid’. In Clarke 2002d, 25–48. —. 2002b: ‘The Main Gate, Jebel Khalid’. In Clarke 2002d, 17–23. —. 2002c: ‘The stamped amphora handles from Jebel Khalid’. In Clarke 2002d, 273–89. —. (ed.) 2002d: Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates 1: Report on Excavations 1986–1996 (Mediterranean Archaeology Suppl. 5) (Sydney). —. 2008: ‘Jebel Khalid: the stamped amphora handles 2006–2008’. Mediterranean Archaeology 22–23, 207–19. 51

 Jackson 2016a, 60; 2018, 41–44.  Rotroff and Oakley 1992. 53  Berlin et al. 2014, 315. 54  Rotroff and Oakley 1992, 42. 55  Clarke and Jackson 2015–16, Gr. 73, fig. 5. There was also a dipinto on the base of a small bowl from this dump: Clarke and Jackson 2015–16, Di. 7, fig. 3. 52

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—. 2016a: ‘Area B: the temple’. In Clarke 2016d, 9–36. —. 2016b: ‘Area C: the palaestra’. In Clarke 2016d, 37–47. —. 2016c: ‘Stamped amphora handles 2008–2010’. In Clarke 2016d, 131–44. —. (ed.) 2016d: Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates 5: Report on Excavations 2000–2010 (Mediterranean Archaeology Suppl. 10) (Sydney). Clarke, G.W and Jackson, H. 2015–16: ‘Jebel Khalid: Graffiti and Dipinti 2008–2009’. Mediterranean Archaeology 28–29, 147–50. Grose, D.F. 2012: ‘The Pre-Hellenistic, Hellenistic, Roman and Islamic Glass Vessels’. In Berlin, A.M. and Herbert, S.C. (eds.), Tel Anafa II.ii: Glass Vessels, Lamps, Objects of Metal and Groundstone and Other Stone Tools and Vessels (Ann Arbor), 1–98. Jackson, H. 2002: ‘The Lamps from the Domestic Quarter’. In Clarke 2002d, 147–200. —. 2006: Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates 2: The Terracotta Figurines (Mediterranean Archaeology Suppl. 6) (Sydney). —. 2009: ‘Erotes on the Euphrates: A figured Frieze in a Private House at Hellenistic Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates’. AJA 113, 231–53. —. 2014: Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates 4: The Housing Insula (Mediterranean Archaeology Suppl. 9) (Sydney). —. 2016a: ‘Area S. The Commercial area?’. In Clarke 2016d, 49–76. —. 2016b: ‘Figurine fragments’. In Clarke 2016d, 145–206. —. 2016c: ‘The Jebel Khalid Lamps 1987–2010’. In Clarke 2016d, 299–438. —. 2018a: ‘A colonnaded building in a commercial area at Seleucid Jebel Khalid’. In Massih, J.A. and Nichiyama, S. (eds.), Archaeological Explorations in Syria 2000–2011 (Proceedings of ISCACH – Beirut 2015) (Oxford), 39–48. —. 2018b: ‘An Egyptian at Hellenistic Jebel Khalid?’. In Batmaz, A., Bedianashvili, G., Michalewicz, A. and Robinson, A. (eds.), Context and Connection: Studies on the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honour of Antonio Sagona (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 268) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT), 651–60. Jackson, H. and Tidmarsh, J. 2011: Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates 3: The Pottery (Mediterranean Archaeology Suppl. 7) (Sydney). Lund, J. 2014: ‘Pots and Politics: Reflections on the Circulation of Pottery in the Ptolemaic and Seleukid Periods’. In Bilde, P.G. and Lawall, M.L. (eds.), Pottery, People and Places: Study and Interpretation of Late Hellenistic Pottery (Black Sea Studies 16) (Aarhus), 297–305. Mairs, L. 2003: ‘Archaeozoology’. Mediterranean Archaeology 16, 183–89. Merker, G.S. 2000: Corinth 18.4: The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore. Terracotta Figurines of the Classical, Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Princeton). Nixon, C.E.V. 2002: ‘The Coins’. In Clarke 2002d, 291–335. —. 2016: ‘The Jebel Khalid coins 2008–2010’. In Clarke 2016d, 97–130. Rotroff, S.I. and Oakley, J.H. 1992: Debris from a Public Dining Place in the Athenian Agora (Hesperia Suppl. 25) (Princeton). Thompson, H.A. 1934: ‘Two centuries of Hellenistic Pottery’. Hesperia 3, 311–480. Tidmarsh, J. 2016a: ‘Area A. The Jebel Khalid Acropolis’. In Clarke 2016d, 1–8. —. 2016b: ‘The fine wares’. In Clarke 2016d, 213–58. Wesselingh, K.M. 2016: ‘Faunal remains 2006–2010’. In Clarke 2016d, 269–98. —. 2018: Jebel Khalid on the Euphrates 6: A Zooarchaeological Analysis (Mediterranean Archaeology Suppl. 11) (Sydney).

TIMBRES AMPHORIQUES RHODIENS D’ARCHANGELOS Vasilica LUNGU et Pierre DUPONT

RÉSUMÉ Lors de prospections du Laboratoire d’Archéométrie de Lyon au cours des années 70, une concentration anormalement élevée de timbres amphoriques rhodiens a été relevée sur le site d’Archangelos-Stegna, sur la côte Est de Rhodes, encore siège à l’époque des seuls ateliers de potiers modernes de l’île. Restés inédits jusqu’à aujourd’hui, hormis comme références géochimiques pour l’île de Rhodes, ils font l’objet du présent travail sous l’angle du timbrage amphorique de l’île. Le lot sélectionné est constitué de 17 timbres différents, dont seulement 13 identifiables, porteurs de noms, tant d’éponymes que de fabricants, formant un groupe assez hétérogène couvrant les périodes II–VI du timbrage rhodien. Trouvés en dehors d’un contexte d’artisanat potier antique évident et couvrant un intervalle d’à peu près 200 ans, ces timbres font supposer l’existence à Archangelos, situé au nord du territoire de Lindos, d’un important centre, sinon de fabrication, au moins de transit d’amphores rhodiennes produites alentour. Les données archéométriques obtenues sur ce lot permettent de distinguer un groupe principal assez homogène, scindé en deux ou trois sous-groupes, ainsi qu’un groupe secondaire, aux compositions s’écartant de celles des poteries réalisées par les ateliers modernes encore en activité sur place à l’époque. ABSTRACT During surveys by the Laboratory of Archaeometry from Lyons in the 1970s an abnormal concentration of Rhodian amphora stamps was noted at Archangelos-Stegna on the east coast of Rhodes, at that time centre of the only pottery workshops on the island. Unedited until now, if not as geochemical references for the island of Rhodes, they form the object of the current paper from the point of view of amphora stamping on this island. The selected lot consists of 17 different stamps, of which only 13 are identifiable: names or eponyms of potters forming a rather heterogeneous group corresponding to periods II–VI of Rhodian stamping. Having been found outside an obvious pottery craft context, and covering an interval of ca. 200 years, these stamps allow us to suppose the existence in Archangelos, situated north of the territory of Lindos, of an important centre, if not of fabrication, at least of transit of Rhodian amphorae produced in the vicinity. The archaeometric data obtained from this sample allow us to distinguish a principal group, which is rather homogenous and divided into two or three sub-groups, and a secondary group revealing compositions diverging from those of pottery produced in modern workshops still active at that time at this place.

Les timbres amphoriques présentés dans cet article ont été collectés dans et aux alentours immédiats du hameau moderne d’Archangelos-Stegna sur la côte est de Rhodes, à une quinzaine de kilomètres au nord de Lindos, dans le cadre d’une mission officielle du Laboratoire d’Archéométrie de Lyon à la fin des années 1970.1 Aux abords du village et 1  Le village même d’Archangelos, situé un peu plus à l’intérieur des terres a révélé de nombreux vestiges allant de l’époque archaïque à l’Antiquité tardive. Il est le siège d’une agriculture active, mais celle-ci n’est plus guère dédiée aujourd’hui qu’à la production d’huile d’olive, attestée par la présence de restes de pressoirs.

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en descendant vers la mer, fonctionnaient encore à cette époque plusieurs ateliers de potiers, qui se procuraient leur argile à dos d’âne à une quinzaine de kilomètres vers l’intérieur des terres.2 Les anses timbrées recueillies correspondent à des trouvailles de surface qui abondaient dans les rues mêmes du hameau et sur les pentes descendant à la mer. Elles ont servi en premier lieu d’échantillons d’analyse physico-chimique dans le cadre de la constitution d’une base de données de référence sur l’île de Rhodes incluant, outre des amphores commerciales hellénistiques, un panel beaucoup plus large de vases allant de l’époque archaïque à l’époque moderne. Mais il est clair qu’elles représentent avant tout des documents archéologiques utilisables pour l’étude de la production amphorique rhodienne et de son système propre de timbrage. Sont présentées ici la lecture de ces timbres ainsi que leur chronologie à la lumière des éponymes et fabricants identifiés.3 Le lot retenu pour cette étude est constitué de quatre timbres circulaires et quatorze rectangulaires, se répartissant entre: cinq timbres d’éponymes, dix de fabricants et trois incertains. Les noms identifiés sont déjà tous connus dans l’épigraphie amphorique de Rhodes. À noter, au sein du groupe des fabricants, celui d’une femme-fabricante, Καλλιώ.4 Ces timbres se datent entre les périodes chronologiques II et VI, couvrant donc un intervalle d’à peu près 200 ans, correspondant à la période de plein développement de l’île et de sa Pérée5. Notre présentation des timbres abordera successivement le groupe des éponymes (A), puis celui des fabricants (B) et ce, selon l’encadrement chronologique de chaque nom attesté. Chaque timbre sera accompagné de son numéro d’analyse physico-chimique (sigle RHO).

A. Éponymes, 4: Τιμοκλείδας, Καλλικρατίδας II, Ἀρχιλαΐδας, Καλλιάναξ, Sous-Période IIa, ca. 239–231 av. J.-C. TIMOKLEIDAS L’éponyme Timokleidas fait partie de la sous-période IIa, datée de ca. 239–231 av. J.-C.6 Il est associé, entre autres, avec le fabricant de l’atelier du groupe « d’Hélios » ou au « soleil » sur des timbres rectangulaires, au nom sans préposition surmonté d’un petit soleil, ainsi que ceux des éponymes Onasandros7 et Hagèsippos.8 Il apparaît aussi associé au fabricant Hiérotélès,9 l’un des plus féconds de la période chronologique II. Un timbre avec la même distribution est attesté à Lindos.10 2

 Hampe et Winter 1965, 154–57, fig. 134–135, pls. 54.2, 56.3, 57.1–2; Vasileiadou et Liritzis 2018, 8.  Le système de datation choisi pour ces timbres est celui fondé sur la chronologie de G. Finkielsztejn. Néanmoins, pour les éponymes, la classification de N. Badoud offre les derniers acquis et les années proposées par celui-ci correspondent parfois à celles de Finkielsztejn. 4  J. Franz a identifié les noms de femmes sur les timbres rhodiens, cf. Franz 1851. Voir la description de la Fig. 7. 5  Sur la Pérée de Rhodes, voir Fraser et Bean 1954. 6  Finkielsztejn 1993, 121. Voir aussi, Grace 1950, no 1; Garozzo 2003, 565–66. 7  Conovici et Irimia 1991, no 266; Badoud 2011, 142, fig. 7.a, ca. 220 av. J.-C. 8  Conovici et Garlan 2004, 107, no 4. 9  Τιμοκλείδας, avec la date de ca. 220 av. J.-C., acceptée par Lawall 2007, 9, no 21a–c, avec une enquête exhaustive sur les éponymes associés au fabricant Ἱεροτέλης. 10  Nilsson 1909, 490, no 412. Deux autres exemplaires présentent des distributions différentes de l’écriture à l’intérieur du timbre. 3

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Fig. 1. E1 – RHO 4. Trouvaille de surface hors contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur deux lignes. Dimensions du timbre = 2.6 × 1.5 cm. ἐπὶ Τιμοκλείδα Τιμοκλείδας, éponyme, sous-période IIa, ca. 220 av. J.-C., cf. Finkielsztejn 2001, 191, tableau 19; Jöhrens 1999, 33, no 69; vers 220 av. J.-C., cf. Badoud 2015, 255, no 84; 2018, 130, no 52 (d’Aquillonia); Délos, timbre TD6499: 233–220 av. J.-C.

Sous-période IIId, 175–173 av. J.-C. KALLIKRATIDAS Kallikratidas est le nom porté par deux personnages distincts dans le timbrage rhodien: ceux de Kallikratidas I et Kallikratidas II. Le premier est daté du IIIe siècle av. J.-C., voire ca. 300–240 av. J.-C.,11 234–220 av. J.-C.12 ou 224 av. J.-C.13 Les timbres de Kallikratidas II sont plus fréquents et sont datés, soit de ca. 188–186 av. J.-C.,14 soit de ca. 175/173– 169/167 av. J.-C.15 Le nom Καλλικρατίδας est attesté à Lindos à six exemplaires différents.16 Sur les timbres circulaires, Καλλικρατίδας II est associé au fabricant Damokratès. Les deux noms apparaissent avec la « rose » comme symbole et sur des timbres secondaires.17 À en juger d’après ses traits morphologiques, le présent timbre correspondrait plutôt à ceux de Kallikratidas II. Fig. 2. E2 – RH0 9. Trouvaille de surface hors contexte. Timbre circulaire. ᾿Επὶ Καλ[λικρατίδα - - ] tête avec rayons / ou Soleil Καλλικρατίδας II, ép., sous-période IIId, Nilsson 1909, BA11 2; BA11 4; ca. 175/173; Jöhrens 1999, 420, no 205; Habicht 2003, 572, 574; ca. 175 av. J.-C., cf. Badoud 2015, 257, no 129; sous-période IIId, ca. 175/173 av. J.-C., cf. Finkielsztejn 2001, 192 et tableau 19; fin de la période III, Calvet 1972, 30, 52; Jöhrens 2001, 293, n° 73 (rectangulaire).

Sous-période IIIe, ca. 168–161 av. J.-C. ARCHILAÏDAS L’éponyme Archilaïdas, lu sur un timbre d’Archangelos, est présent sur quatre timbres du dépôt de Pergame.18 Selon l’échelle chronologique de G. Finkielsztejn, il est daté vers 166 av. J.-C.,19 tandis que N. Badoud le place un an plus tard, vers 165 av. J.-C.20 Il est 11

 Grace 1952, 529.  Nicolaou 2005, 11–14, no 288–289. 13  Jöhrens 2005, 97. 14  Grace 1985, 9, suivie pari Sztetyłło 1991, 43, et Nicolaou 2005, 80–81. 15  Finkielsztejn 2001, 196, tabl. 22.1; Garozzo 2003, 592, période IIId, ca. 188–183 av. J.-C. (chronologie V. Grace) ou 167–165 av. J.-C. (chronologie G. Finkielsztejn). 16  Nilsson 1909, 441–42, no 265. 17  Daté de ca. 177/175 av. J.-C.; cf. Lawall 2007 45, AH 36. 18  Probablement dans l’année 177 av. J.-C., voir Rotroff 1982, 99; Grace 1985, 8, 23, n. 61, et 11, où est méntionée son absence de la Middle Stoa. 19  Finkielsztejn 1995, 281 et fig. 1. 20  Badoud 2015, 257, no 139. 12

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attesté plus fréquemment sur les timbres rectangulaires et rarement sur les timbres circulaires. Le nom de cet éponyme rhodien est bien connu à Rhodes,21 Délos,22 Athènes,23 en Égypte,24 à Carthage,25 en Orient,26 à Chypre27 et en mer Noire.28 De nombreux autres timbres remontant au temps d’Archilaidas sont attestés en Italie.29 Fig. 3. E3 – RHO 13. Trouvaille de surface hors contexte. Timbre circulaire. ἐπὶ Ἀρχιλαΐδα [ - - ]ου Ἀρχιλαΐδας ép., sous-période IIIe, Nilsson 1909, Z22 2; BA11 1; ca. 169–163 av. J.-C., Finkielsztejn 2001, 109, 128; Garozzo 2003, 589; ca. 164 av. J.-C.; Nicolaou 2005, 57, n° 13 (rectangulaire); 58, n° 114 (circulaire); Badoud 2010, 166–67 et n. 31 (Damas) où est signalé également un autre timbre avec le nom de l’éponyme sur une anse d’amphore de Beyrouth; ca. 165 av. J.-C., Badoud 2018, 130, no 6–7 (d’Ancone).

Période VI, ca. 107–88/86 av. J.-C.30 KALLIANAX Le timbre suivant appartient à Kallianax, fils de Kleisimbrotos, prêtre d’Athéna Lindia en 116 à Lindos; il figure dans la liste des éponymes rhodiens.31 Il est daté par N. Badoud vers 93 av. J.-C.32 et fait partie du groupe des éponymes attestés avec l’emblème « tête d’Hélios ».33 La légende de ce timbre comprend la préposition, le nom de l’éponyme et celui du mois, tous les trois distribués sur trois lignes. Cet arrangement ne se retrouve pas comme tel dans le catalogue de Lindos, qui comprend même un timbre avec la distribution sur quatre lignes.34 Fig. 4. E4 – RHO 3. Trouvaille de surface hors contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur trois lignes. [ἐ]πὶ [Καλ]λιάνα21  Nilsson 1909, 400–01, no 135 (11 ex. différents, dont 1 ex. circulaire avec rose); Porro 1916, 113, no 50; Maiuri 1921–22, 262. 22  Grace 1952, 529. 23  Dumont 1871, 87, no 79; Grace 1934, 230, no 59. 24  Criscuolo 1982, 46, no 23–24 (Fayum); Sztetyłło 1975, 177, no 58; 1990, 172, no 20; Empereur 1977, 209, no 23 (Alexandrie). 25  CIL VIII, Suppl. 3 22639, p. 44–45; Ferron et Pinard 1955, 64, no 107. 26  Crowfoot 1957, 381 (Samaria); Grace 1949, 187, no 4–5 (Tell Bisseh); Halpern-Zylberstein 1980, 249, no 56 (Tell Keisan). 27  IG XV, App 4, 107, avec f. Nikasion (rose); Sztetyłło 1976, 54–56, no 146–148; 1991, 31–33, no 32; Nicolaou, Empereur 1989, 519–20, no 4. 28  Pridik 1917, 6, no 107–109 (Olbia); Levi 1940, 263–64, no 67–74 (Olbia); Šelov 1975, 45, nos 77–78 (Tanaïs). 29  Pour ses timbres de Syracuse, Tusa, Comisso, Taormina, Lentini, Erice, Lilybée, Agrigente et Ségeste, voir Garozzo 2000, 555–56, no 7. 30  Finkielsztejn 2001, 197, tabl. 22.2. 31  Habicht 2003, 554, 558 (« more than 9 years » après 107), 572. 32  Badoud 2015, 259, no 211. 33  Finkielsztejn 2001, 161, tabl. 13. 34  Nilsson 1909, 439–40, no 262.

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κτος ΘεσμοφορίουΚαλλιάναξ, ép., période VI, ca. 93 av. J.-C., cf. Badoud 2015, 259, no 211; Finkielsztejn 2001, 197, tableau 22.2.

TIMBRE

NON IDENTIFIÉ

Fig. 5. E5 – RHO 11. Trouvaille de surface hors contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur deux lignes. ἐπὶ [---] Δα[λίου] À en juger d’après l’aspect de la pâte, chargée en inclusions brunes, cette pièce pourrait avoir été produite plutôt dans la Pérée.

B. Fabricants: Ἀρίστων, Καλλιώ, Σαραπίων, Ἡράκλειτος, Πίστος, Διόδωρος, Πολέμων, Ἱεροκλῆς II Période IIIb–d, ca. 205–175 av. J.-C. ARISTÔN Ἀρίστων désigne deux éponymes différents (Ἀρίστων I et Ἀρίστων II35) et un fabricant. Le fabricant Aristôn, mentionné sur le présent timbre, est daté de la fin de la période II ou du début de la période III, grâce aux anses sur lesquelles il est associé à des éponymes comme Agémachos36 ou Nikasagoras I.37 Sur les timbres rectangulaires, le fabricant est connu avec le « caducée » comme emblème, placé différemment.38 Parmi les éponymes plus tardifs, on peut citer, par exemple, Athanadotos, avec lequel il figure sur une amphore de Chypre.39 Fig. 6. F1 – RHO 1. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur une seule ligne. Caducée Ἀρίστωνος Ἀρίστων, f., sous-période IIIb: ca. 189–182 av. J.-C.; Börker et Burow 1998, 45, no 430, pl. 16 et p. 85, no 110, pl. 24; période IIId, ca. 170–168 av. J.-C., cf. Chaby 2009, 7, no 12 (Tanis); Alexandrie, ALEX ABC 0324.25: http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres/eponymes/accueil_epon/affiche_recent.php 35

 Finkielsztejn 2001, 55, 109, 110.  Hiller von Gaertringen 1898, 232, 2; Garozzo 2003, 579, no 16 et n. 227. 37  Une amphore complète du Musée de Cambridge présente l’association Ἀρίστων + ep. Νικασαγόρας I, datée ca. 172/171, voir Lawall 2007, 44, AH 34. 38  Nilson 1909, 394, no 114 (deux exemples); Grace 1985, 10. 39  Aristôn et caducée, avec ép. Athanadotos, daté ca. 175/173–ca. 169/167 av. J.-C. (période IIId), dans IG XV, App. 4, 117 (Chypre). Kypros [Rhodes] – Marion-Arsinoe (Polis Chrysochous). Athanadotos est l’un des éponymes attestés très fréquemment à Lindos, voir Nilsson 1909, 537–38, no 23–25, avec plusieurs exemplaires. 36

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Période III/III–IV, ca. 205–175 / 198–161 av. J.-C. KALLIÔ Καλλιώ est le nom d’une femme-fabricante dont l’atelier a dû produire des amphores durant la période III, ou dans les périodes III et IV, d’après les notes de V. Grace.40 Elle passe parmi les femmes-potières les plus actives, enregistrées à Lindos, d’où en proviennent trois exemplaires identiques.41 Sur ses timbres sont utilisés comme symboles quatre étoiles positionnées aux quatre angles du timbre rectangulaire. L’insertion de sa période d’activité dans la période III (ca. 210–175 av. J.-C.) repose sur les premiers timbres retrouvés dans le dépôt de Pergame42 et aussi son association avec des éponymes comme Aristodamos,43 daté dans la sous-période IIIe, ca. 187–186 ou ca. 166–164 av. J.-C.44 Les timbres de Kalliô sont attestés en Égypte, en Grèce, en Palestine, en Phénicie, en Russie, Tunisie, Turquie et Ukraine.45 Garcia Sanchez en a recensé 37 exemplaires de 15 sites différents,46 dont deux de Rhodes, cinq exemplaires de Ialysos et trois timbres de Lindos, toujours avec le nom au génitif. Un exemplaire d’Alexandrie47 semble sorti de la même matrice que celui d’Archangelos.48 De Lindos sont publiés par Nilsson trois exemplaires analogues.49 Les noms de femmes rencontrés dans le timbrage amphorique désigneraient plutôt des propriétaires d’ateliers que des femmes potières; elles pourraient aussi désigner des marchandes de vins, en conformité avec les droits accordés aux femmes dans l’antiquité dans certaines villes de Rhodes.50 Toutefois, leur noms ne se retrouvent pas dans l’épigraphie autre qu’amphorique.51 Fig. 7. F2 – RHO 10. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur une seule ligne. Καλλιοῦς: symbole des quatre étoiles aux angles52 40

 Voir aussi Garcia Sanchez 2008, 290; Vasileiadou et Liritzis 2018, 9 et n. 20.  Nilsson 1909, 101–02 et 443, no 269. 42  Schuchhardt 1895, 467, no 1083–1085; Börker 1998, 48, no 464–466; pour une récente synthèse sur ce fabricant, cf. Garozzo 2011, no 3379–3388. 43  Šelov 1975, 107, no 378. Pour la datation de l’éponyme dans les années 166–164 av. J.-C., voir Finkielsztejn 2001, 192, tabl. 19; voir aussi Garozzo 2003, 560, no 1 (daté ca. 182–176 ou 166–164 av. J.-C., sous-période IIIe); Garozzo 2011, no 3377. Sur la datation de la femme-potière, Kalliô, voir aussi Garozzo 2003, 596–97, no 30: période III, ca. 205–175 ou 198–161 av. J.-C. 44  Ou entre 182 et 176 av. J.-C., voir Grace 1985, 9; Coulson et al. 1997, 53, no 19. Un timbre de Kalliô, trouvé dans le dépôt N 20:7 de l’Agora d’Athènes, a été daté par Rotroff (1982, 105) « first and early second quarters of the second century B.C. ». 45  Garcia Sanchez 2008, 289, tabl. 1. 46  Garcia Sanchez 2008, 295–96 et fig. 2. 47  Garcia Sanchez 2008, 295, fig. 2; 2012, 115, fig. 4, 124 (Alex. ABC 370.1). 48  Voir le timbre de Délos TD6938: http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres_delos/delos_affiche_timbre.php. 49  Nilsson 1909, 443. 50  Nilsson 1909, 59–60 et 101–03; Finkielsztejn 2001, 34; Garcia Sanchez 2008, 287. Sur la participation des femmes, voir aussi van Bremen 1996, 266–67, chez qui l’on peut lire: « these occur on stamps from Pergamon, Rhodes and Knidos (all Hellenistic), but quantitatively they are insignificant ». Les timbres des femmes-fabricants aurait dû justifier leur inclusion dans van Bremen 1983. 51  Garcia Sanchez 2008, 309. 52  N. Badoud, REG 120 (2007), 247, no 320, compte huit fabricants, Aristarchos, Aristokratès, Diokléia, Kalliô, Nysios, Polyxénos, Sarapiôn, avec le même symbole. 41

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Καλλιώ, f., période III/IV, ca. 210–175 av. J.-C., cf. Ariel 1990, 53; ou ca. 198–146 av. J.-C. Garcia Sanchez 2008, 291, tableau 2; Alexandrie, ca. 168/166‒ca. 161 ‒ ca. 145‒ ca. 133 av. J.-C.; Suto 2005, nos 247–254.

Période IIIc–IIIe, 177/173–169/167 av. J.-C. SARAPIÔN Σαραπίων est un fabricant rhodien à la carrière courte, inscrite dans les sous-périodes IIId et IIIe, mais intense, d’après la multitude de sites où ses timbres ont été retrouvés. Il est attesté, parmi d’autres, à Lindos,53 à Pergame,54 à Délos,55 en Israël,56 à Chypre,57 sur les sites de la mer Noire58 et en Méditerranée occidentale par les exemplaires de la nécropole de Lilybée59 ou par l’exemplaire de Larinum.60 Ses timbres sont caractérisés par l’apparition de différents symboles: 4 étoiles aux angles en tant qu’emblème,61 le caducée62 ou l’astérisque au dessus du nom,63 comme dans le présent cas, où le symbole est très mal imprimé. Fig. 8. F3 – RHO 8. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur une seule ligne. Σαραπίωνος Σαραπίων, f., période III, ca. 175–165 av. J.-C., cf. Finkielsztejn 2005, 112; 170– 164 av. J.-C., cf. Badoud 2018, 132, no 137; à Crocodilopolis-Arsinoé, cf. Empereur 1977, 226, no 79, pl. 3; Jöhrens 1999, 74, no 195 (Athènes).

Période IIId–IV, ca. 175/169/7–149 av. J.-C. HÉRAKLEITOS Le nom d’Hérakleitos désigne premièrement l’un des éponymes en charge durant la période VI ou VIIa64 et deuxièmement l’un des fabricants. Le fabricant est attesté, par ailleurs, à Lindos sur quatre exemplaires, dont l’un avec un astérisque (225.4).65 Le recoupement des témoignages révèle l’existence de plusieurs homonymes distincts, à savoir: Hérakleitos I éponyme; Hérakleitos II66 et Hérakleitos III,67 fabricants. Dans le présent 53

 Nilsson 1909, 478, no 370.  Börker 1998, 51, no 503–506. 55  Voir le timbre TD4739 de Délos: http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres_delos/delos_affiche_timbre.php. 56  Ariel 1990, 8, S 257–259; 2014, 142. 57  Nicolaou 2005, 207, no 541, 338–39, no 285–286, 429, no 429a, b. 58  Mirčev 1958, 36, no 162; Levi 1964, 271, no 304–313, pl. 21; Jöhrens 2001, 431, no 261 (Tanaïs). 59  Brugnone 1986, 83–84, no 100, pl. 17; avec les noms d’autres sites aussi. 60  Badoud 2018, 132, no 137. 61  Nilsson 1909, 478, no 370.1–2; Ariel 2014, 142. 62  Nilsson 1909, 478, no 370.3. 63  Grace 1985, 10. 64  Finkielsztejn 2001, 162, tabl. 14. 65  Nilsson 1909, 427, no 225. 66  Avec Théaidetos, ca. 171/169 av. J.-C., cf. Finkielsztejn 2001, 192, tabl. 19; Lawall 2007, 43–44, AH32. Une amphore complète de Tanaïs, voir Jöhrens 2001, 390, no 59; et Nikasagoras I, ca. 172/171 av. J.-C., Finkielsztejn 2001, 192, tabl. 19. 67  Reconnu par Badoud à Aquillonia (?), voir Badoud 2018, 130, no 53. 54

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cas, il s’agit du fabricant Hérakleitos II, avec un astérisque faiblement imprimé au-dessus du nom. Fig. 9. F4 – RHO 6. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur une seule ligne. ῾Ηρακλείτου astérisque? ῾Ηράκλειτος II (?): Finkielsztejn 2001, 98; 2005; Jöhrens 2009, 226, no 61, avec étoile (ou astérisque?) au-dessus; Nicolaou 2005, 172, no 438; ALEX ABC 0623.39 (MGR P.30493): http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres/eponymes/accueil_epon/affiche_recent.php.

Période IV, ca. 160–146 av. J.-C. PISTOS Le timbre rhodien de Pistos est rectangulaire et renferme le nom du mois Thesmophorios suivi par celui du fabricant au nominatif. Ce dernier est dérivé d’un adjectif (πιστός, ή, όν, adj. = digne de foi, fidèle, de confiance; substantif, τὸ πιστός)68 et il apparaît seul69 ou accompagné des noms de divers mois au génitif.70 On connaît deux fabricants homonymes: le premier est Pistos I, attesté sur les timbres circulaires datables de ca. 244/236– 233/220 av. J.-C. (périodes I–II?),71 et le second est Pistos II, rangé par Empereur dans la période chronologique IV, correspondant aux deux intervalles mentionnés par J.-Y. Empereur.72 Le nom apparaît en général au génitif et non au nominatif comme sur notre timbre. Les deux fabricants homonymes rhodiens ont des timbres différents de ceux attribués à Pistos, le fabricant du soi-disant « groupe de Pistos », qui a utilisé un timbre rectangulaire distinct, caractérisé par la présence de lettres séparées, réparties à chacun des angles du timbre, avec une grappe de raisin au centre comme symbole. Le groupe a été daté du IIIe siècle av. J.-C. et attribué hypothétiquement à Laodicée par J.-Y. Empereur et A. Hesnard en 1987.73 Sur la base de caractéristiques communes de pâte, A.K. Şenol et G. Cankardeş-Şenol ont soutenu prudemment, en 2003, l’hypothèse d’une origine cilicienne commune pour le « groupe de Nagidos » et celui de Pistos.74 Nombre de ces timbres ont été trouvés en Egypte,75 en Syrie, à Chypre et en Grande-Grèce.76 Quelle relation peut-on envisager entre Pistos I, de la période I ou II, Pistos II de la période IV d’Empereur et celui du « groupe de Pistos »? À première vue, il semblerait qu’il n’y en ait aucune, à en juger d’après les larges intervalles les séparant. Par contre, le 68

 Nilsson 1909, 93.  Nicolaou 2005, 338, no 283. 70  Avec le mois Artamitios, cf. Mirčev 1958, 36, no 158; avec le mois Badromios, Empereur 1977, 226, o n 77; avec Dalios, cf. Sztetyłło 1992-U, 172, no 35; avec Thesmophorios, à Alexandrie, ALEX ABC 0398.36 (MGRbP.28902); avec Panamos, à Alexandrie, ALEX ABC 0398.34 (MGRbP.28900), voir Nachtergael et Pintaudi 1998–99, 178, no 42; ALEX ABC 0398.35(MGRbP.28901), voir Grace 1950, 139, no 9, cf. Suto 2005, 137, no 236. Le même probablement que celui daté par C. Koehler après 240 av. J.-C., cf. Koehler 1982, 286, n. 7. 71  Alkaç et Cankardeş-Şenol 2016, 194; Cankardeş-Şenol et Canağlu 2009, 156, C25: Période I–II? 72  Empereur 1977, 226, no 77, pl. 38, avec une datation incertaine entre 250–210 ou 175–150 av. J.-C. 73  Empereur et Hesnard 1987, 12, 58–59, pl. 2, no 5. 74  Şenol et Cankardeş-Şenol 2003, 120–23. Sur l’analyse des timbres de Nagidos, cf. aussi Dürügönul et Durukan 2004; Cankardeş-Şenol et Alkaç 2007. 75  Alexandria: Cankardeş-Şenol 2015, 170; Naucratis: Johnston 2013, 19 « Pistos Group ». 76  Empereur et Hesnard 1987, 12, no 1.1.3.3, 44, n. 30; Garozzo 2003, 604. 69

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timbre d’Archangelos est à placer dans la période IV de Pistos II. Il s’agirait alors d’une variante où le nom du fabricant apparaît au nominatif. En fait, le nom Pistos est assez répandu en divers points du monde grec: tant sur les timbres de Sinope en mer Noire, dont un exemplaire trouvé à Callatis,77 qu’à Cos et à Cnide.78 Fig. 10. F5 – RHO 2. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur deux lignes. Θεσμοφω[ρίου] Πίστος Πίστος II, f., période IV, ca. 160–146 av. J.-C.; cf. Finkielsztejn 2001; LGPN I, 373, s.v. Πίστος, no 9 (IIe–Ier siècle av. J.-C.).

Période IV–V? ca. 160–133 av. J.-C. DIODÔROS Si la présence de Diodôros parmi les fabricants d’amphores rhodiennes du IIe siècle av. J.-C. s’avère plutôt discrète, elle suscite l’intérêt si on tient compte du nom de femme Diodôrô identifié sur certains timbres de la même époque.79 Un timbre rhodien de Tel Atrib publié part Sztetyłło en 2000,80 offre une lecture erronée en proposant Diodôtos à la place de Diodôros; sur ce timbre bien lisible (fig. 66), on voit bien Διοδωρώ et non Διοδώτο(υ). P.M. Fraser (LGPN I s.v.), considérait que des anthroponymes du genre Διοδωρώ ou Ἡρακλειτώ correspondent probablement, soit à des nominatifs féminins, soit à des génitifs masculins. Ces timbres sont toutefois rares. Un autre timbre de Διοδωρώ est présent à Délos et d’Ἡρακλειτώ à Cyrène (information due à N. Badoud et transmise par Garcia Sanchez81). La caractéristique principale de l’écriture de notre timbre réside dans sa graphie: les lettres iota et rhô dépassent dans la partie basse les lettres voisines. La même caractéristique se retrouve sur le timbre de Tell Atrib, ce qui pourrait confirmer son attribution au même fabricant Διόδωρος. La forme clairement libellée Διοδωρώ (lue comme Διοδώτο(υ) par Sztetyłło) peut être considérée comme une erreur du graveur utilisant un datif (Διοδώρῳ) à la place du génitif (Διοδώρου). Notre timbre offre la forme correcte du nom masculin au génitif. Il n’est pas attesté à Lindos, où seul un exemplaire présente une forme incomplète Διοδ-, qui pourrait correspondre, mais elle est incertaine. Διόδωρος est aussi le nom d’un éponyme à Cnide.82 Fig. 11. F6 – RHO12. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre ovalaire sur une seule ligne. Διοδώρου Διόδωρος, f., période IV–V, ca. 160–133 av. J.-C.; Garcia Sanchez 2008, 287; ALEX ABC 0341.36, en cadre double.  Buzoianu et Cheluţă Georgescu 1998, no 97, lu par Y. Garlan, REG 115 (2002), 194, no 206.  Jefremov 1995, 237, no 1290; Garozzo 2003, 604 et no 37, timbre circulaire. 79  Garcia Sanchez 2008, 287. 80  Sztetyllo 2000, 96, no 66. 81  Garcia Sanchez 2008, 288 et n. 14. 82  Grace 1985, 33. 77 78

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Période V, ca. 145–108 av. J.-C. POLEMON Πολέμων est le nom d’un fabricant rhodien rarement attesté sur les timbres rhodiens. Il apparaît avec caducée au droit sur un seul exemplaire de Lindos.83 Son nom est présent sur des matrices différentes à Alexandrie84 et Akoris,85 en Égypte. En tenant compte de sa faible présence dans la littérature amphorique, on peut penser qu’il s’agit d’un fabricant qui a travaillé dans un atelier soit en Pisidie, soit dans un autre centre de la Pérée rhodienne. Fig. 12. F7 – RHO 7. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur une seule ligne. Πο[λέμωνος] Thyrse à gauche et casque renversé (?) au-dessous. Πολέμων, f., période V, ca. 145–108 av. J.-C.: Délos, Grace 1951, 527. TD1836 (voir n. 79); Jöhrens 2001, 430, no 258 (Tanaïs).

Périodes Vc–VI, ca. 120/108–88/86 av. J.-C. HIÉROCLÈS Ce nom désigne un éponyme86 et un fabricant87 de Rhodes. Sur les timbres du fabricant Hiéroclès, le caducée figure parmi les emblèmes. Sur la plupart des exemplaires connus, le caducée est positionné en-dessous du nom du fabricant, comme illustré par les timbres trouvés à Lindos,88 Alexandrie89 ou Pergame.90 D’autres exemplaires proviennent d’Éphèse91 et de Délos.92 Une matrice similaire avec le timbre d’Archangelos est celle d’Alexandrie.93 Ἱεροκλῆς est un nom qui apparaît dans les inscriptions funéraires de la Pérée rhodienne,94 mais sans aucune date proposée, ni du fabricant ni de l’éponyme. Hiéroclès est aussi un fabricant cnidien identifié par Empereur et Picon à côté d’Asclépiodôros et Hippogénès dans un atelier de Datça. « Ces trois fabricants sont datés par des timbres d’au moins 18 éponymes différents, à ajouter aux 35 années des trois premiers, soit au moins 53 années d’activité à placer dans la première moitié du IIe siècle av. J.-C. et un peu après ».95 83

 Nilsson 1909, 473, no 355.  Analogie ALEX MGR 1119.35. Autres matrices: voir le timbre TD1836 de Délos: ca. 145–ca. 108 av. J.-C. http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres/eponymes/accueil_epon/affiche_recent.php. 85  Suto 2005, no 158–159. 86  ῾Ιεροκλῆς I, ép. Finkielsztejn 2001, 162: sous-période VIIa, ca. 85–40 av. J.-C.; Cancardeş-Şenol 2015a, 280; ca. 153 av. J.-C., sous-période IVa, cf. Chaby 2009, 15, no 29a/b. 87  ῾Ιεροκλῆς II, f. Finkielsztejn 2001, 143, 150, 151, 160, 161. 88  Nilsson 1909, 435, no 250 (huit exemples), dont 250.7 avec caducée au dessous du nom. 89  ALEX ABC 0644.03; ALEX ABC 0644.04: http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres/eponymes/accueil_epon/ affiche_recent.php. 90  Börker 1998, 90, no 213, pl. 26. 91  Bezeczky 2004, 85, n. 4. 92  Grace et Savatianou-Pétropoulakou 1970, E, 24. 93  ALEX ABC 0644.14: http://www.amphoralex.org/timbres/eponymes/accueil_epon/affiche_recent.php. 94  Voir Bresson 1991, 42 et suiv., no 3 (ca. 200–176 av. J.-C.), no 117 (325–251 av. J.-C.), no 118b (290–285 av. J.-C.), no 179 (400–201 av. J.-C.). 95  Empereur et Picon 1986, 118 et n. 21. 84

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Fig. 13. F8 – RHO 5. Arch., sans contexte. Timbre rectangulaire sur une seule ligne. caducée Ἱεροκλεῦς Sigma lunaire. Ἱεροκλῆς II, f., périodes V–VI, fin du IIe siècle av. J.-C.; Finkielsztejn 2001, 143, 150, 151, 160, 161, tabl. 13; période VI, ca. 107–86 av. J.-C., cf. Chaby 2009, 16, no 30; Badoud 2017, 60, no 112. Le lot comprend aussi quatre timbres non identifiés (Fig. 14–17): deux rectangulaires et deux circulaires. Le premier (Fig. 14) renferme deux lignes inscrites, dont on distingue deux caractères au début de la première ligne, AO[...] et deux autres, KΩ[...], au début de la seconde. Quant à la seconde anse à timbre rectangulaire, contenant au moins deux lignes, on ne peut guère distinguer que les deux dernières lettres de deuxième ligne, qui semblent être [...]OY. Sur les deux timbres circulaires, venant clore le présent catalogue, le contenu des timbres est complètement effacé ou mal imprimé, rendant toute lecture impossible. Index de noms grecs Ἀρίστων, f., Fig. 6 Ἀρχιλαΐδας, ép., Fig. 3 Διόδωρος, f., Fig. 11 Ἡράκλειτος, f., Fig. 9 Ἱεροκλῆς II, f., Fig. 13 Καλλιάναξ, ép., Fig. 4 Καλλικρατίδας II, ép., Fig. 2 Καλλιώ,f., Fig. 7 Πίστος, f., Fig. 10 Πολέμων, f., Fig. 12 Σαραπίων, f., Fig. 8 Τιμοκλείδας, ép., Fig. 1

Index des mois attestés Θεσμοφόριος, Fig. 4, 10 Emblèmes: Astérisque, Fig. 8, 9 Caducée à droite, Fig. 6, 13 Casque renversé et caducée (?), Fig. 12 4 étoiles, Fig. 7 Rose, Fig. 3 Tête d’Hélios, Fig. 2

Approche ethno-archéométrique À l’analyse physico-chimique, l’échantillonnage de timbres amphoriques recueillis au sein même du village moderne d’Archangelos s’est scindé du point de vue des compositions en un ensemble principal A relativement homogène et un groupe secondaire B, lui aussi assez compact. Le premier apparaît formé de deux sous-groupes principaux A1 et A2, mais sans doute artificiellement, les méthodes statistiques de tri ayant tendance à des découpages de ce genre en présence d’une dispersion élevée des teneurs pour un même élément chimique, le calcium dans le présent cas. Quoique ne correspondant très vraisemblablement pas à des entités archéologiques distinctes, les deux sous-groupes ont rassemblé les effectifs suivants, chaque échantillon étant affecté du sigle RHO suivi d’un numéro: – Sous-Groupe A1 à teneur la plus élevée en calcium: RHO 7, 9, 11, 12, 13, 67, 72; – Sous-Groupe A2 à faible teneur en calcium: RHO 1, 2, 3, 6, (8), 10, 11, 66, 68, 71, RHO 8 et 66 se distinguant en outre par des teneurs en manganèse un peu plus faibles.

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Quant au groupe secondaire B, à calcium élevé lui aussi, mais aux teneurs en titane et aluminium sensiblement plus faibles, il ne rassemble que les quatre échantillons RHO 4, 69 et 70. Seul RHO 5 s’est trouvé complètement marginalisé par rapport au reste, du fait de teneurs sensiblement plus élevées en calcium et magnésium, plus basses en potassium et aluminium, plus élevées en manganèse. Au stade des comparaisons avec des matériels similaires d’autres sites extérieurs à Rhodes, il est apparu que cinq de nos échantillons d’Histria, soit 2 anses non timbrées (HIS 737 et 741) et trois frappées d’un timbre « à la rose » (DUP 254, 255, 256) sont venus rejoindre le sous-groupe A1 d’Archangelos et un autre le sous-groupe A2 (HIS 738). Seules deux autres anses non timbrées d’Histria (HIS 739 et 742) se sont rangées au sein du groupe B d’Archangelos, ce qui permet déjà de conclure qu’on a bien affaire à un centre de fabrication représenté à l’exportation. Mais a-t-on bien affaire pour autant à un kérameikos implanté sinon à Archangelos même, du moins à proximité immédiate, en ce qui concerne le groupe géochimique principal mis en évidence par les analyses? Dans l’antiquité grecque, les ateliers amphoriques étaient la plupart du temps implantés en dehors des agglomérations urbaines au plus près des terroirs viticoles,96 ce qui explique que les comparaisons de composition chimique avec les officines de vases s’avèrent souvent bien décevantes. Ainsi, dans le présent cas, les comparaisons entre amphores hellénistiques recueillies sur place, dont aucune ne présentait de traces évidentes de surcuisson, et productions des ateliers modernes de potiers locaux encore en activité, si elles ont bien mis en évidence un net décalage de compositions n’ont-elles présenté qu’un intérêt mineur à l’encontre d’une attribution locale d’origine pour les amphores. À plus grande échelle toutefois, le même décalage de composition a pu être relevé avec la plupart des échantillons du reste de l’île à notre disposition, tant d’argiles que de vases et d’amphores de transport, ce qui conforterait alors l’hypothèse d’un centre de fabrication implanté au voisinage de l’actuelle Archangelos, à l’écart de tout centre urbain antique majeur, le plus proche étant Lindos, à une petite quinzaine de kilomètres au sud à vol d’oiseau. Cependant, le gros de nos échantillons de l’île, tant de vases que d’amphores, provenant de sites du pourtour littoral, il conviendrait de s’interroger si la couverture, pour être complète, ne devrait pas être étendue à l’intérieur même de l’île. En effet, les auteurs tant antiques que modernes, si prolixes sur les grands crus rhodiens et la diffusion outre-mer de leurs emballages, cantonnée essentiellement à l’époque hellénistico-romaine,97 se sont révélés beaucoup moins diserts sur l’emplacement des terroirs viticoles impliqués sur le territoire même de l’île, le seul toponyme précis mentionné semblant encore être celui, encore insituable, de Kymisala.98 En plein XIXe siècle, selon Guérin, « cette culture de la vigne est peu répandue et dans la plupart des villages elle est même inconnue ».99 De nos jours, les principales zones de vignobles semblent localisées dans l’intérieur de l’île sur les pentes du Mont 96  À quelques exceptions près comme toujours, comme par exemple le complexe de 4 fours d’amphores mis au jour en marge de Rhodes-ville dans le secteur du cimetière moderne (Zervoudaki 1985, 400–02, pl. 208-209). 97  Il est pour le moins signicatif qu’aucun type d’amphore de transport n’ait pu être mis au compte de Rhodes pour les époques archaïque et classique. De même, à partir de l’époque byzantine, la viticulture rhodienne ne semble plus avoir bénéficié d’une percée très notable sur les marchés extérieurs. 98  Dzierzbicka 2018, 305. 99  Guérin 1856, 35.

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Attavyros, aux coteaux exposés tant au sud-est qu’au nord-ouest, producteurs de raisin blanc de la variété Athiri, dont la culture en altitude atténue l’acidité. Inversement, c’est une variété de raisin rouge de type Mandilaria, alias « Amorgiano » pour les locaux, qui est cultivée dans les zones semi-montagneuses et en plaine, laquelle fournit un vin rouge tannique. Pour ce qui concerne l’antiquité, les crus rhodiens, sur lesquels les sources antiques n’entrent guère dans le détail,100 étaient rangés, comme ceux de Cos, parmi les tethalassomenoi, ce qui pourrait laisser supposer que leur vinification devait plutôt avoir lieu au plus près des zones littorales, mais que les faibles quantités d’eau de mer requises ne justifiaient guère.101 Quant à la diffusion des vins d’appellation parvenus à maturité, les pistes semblent singulièrement embrouillées par l’onomastique redondante des fabricants, entre Camiros et Lindos notamment.102 Il reste que l’homogénéité des compositions du gros de notre échantillonnage de timbres amphoriques rhodiens collectés dans le village moderne d’Archangelos pourrait bien traduire l’existence sur place, sinon d’un kérameikos d’une certaine ampleur, qui aurait sans doute laissé des traces plus évidentes, du moins d’un groupement d’ateliers de taille intermédiaire disséminés au travers du terroir alentour103 et dont les productions auraient été acheminées en bordure de mer pour y être transférées par cabotage vers le centre urbain exportateur le plus désigné en l’occurrence, celui de Lindos. En pleine chôra, on peut douter en effet qu’il puisse s’agir là d’arrivages d’amphores pleines en provenance de l’extérieur. Reste donc l’alternative entre des amphores vides sorties d’ateliers du voisinage immédiat ou bien acheminées d’un ou plusieurs autres points de l’île, dans les deux cas imputables à plusieurs « fabricants » distincts, qu’il faille entendre par là maîtrespotiers, propriétaires fonciers détenteurs d’ateliers ou négociants en vins.104 La relative homogénéité des compositions chimiques du gros des timbres analysés, de même que l’absence d’éléments permettant de les rattacher à d’autres points de l’île inciterait plutôt à penser qu’on se trouve dans le premier cas de figure.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE Alkaç, G. et Cankardeş-Şenol, G. 2016: ‘Amphora Mühürleri Işığında Miletos ve Alexandria Ticari Ilişkileri’. Olba 24, 191–216. Ariel, D.T. 1990: ‘Excavations at the City of David 1978–1985, II. Imported Stamped Amphora Handles, Coins, Worked Bone and Ivory, and Glass’. Qedem 30, 13–98. —. 2014: ‘The Stamped Amphora handles from Tel Jezreel’. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 146.2, 13–98. Badoud, N. 2010: ‘Amphores rhodiennes vues à Damas par Henri Seyrig’. Syria 87, 165–72. —. 2011: ‘Les colosses de Rhodes’. CRAI 1, 111–52. 100  On ne sait trop si le passum Rhodium parvenu en Italie aux IIe–Ie s. av. J.-C. (CIL IV 9327) ne pourrait pas correspondre au vin doux hypochytos, mentionné par Timarchidas de Rhodes (Athénée I. 31e). 101  Phaenias d’Érésos, à propos de l’élaboration des vins de type anthosmias, rapporte des proportions de l’ordre d’un conge d’eau de mer pour cinquante de moût, soit 2%, ajoutés au moût avant fermentation (Athénée I. 32a). Toutefois, on peut douter que les vins marinés de la sorte puissent avoir compté parmi les grands crus de vieillissement. Il doit s’agir là d’une confusion, les vins de Rhodes faisant plutôt figure de vins ordinaires, alors que l’anthosmias, doux et subtil, semble avoir été un breuvage raffiné, sur lequel les soudards assoiffés de Mnasippos se sont préférentiellement jetés lors de l’invasion de Corcyre en 373 (Xenophon Hellenica 6. 2. 6). 102  Bresson 1986, spéc. 85. 103  Un constat recoupant les observations faites jadis par Empereur et Picon 1986, 115. 104  Garlan 1988.

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—. 2015: Le temps de Rhodes: Une chronologie des inscriptions de la cité fondée sur l’étude de ses institutions (Vestigia 63) (Munich). —. 2017: Inscriptions et timbres céramiques de Rhodes: Docuemnts recueilles par le médecin et explorateur suédois Johan Hedenborg (Skrifter utgivna av Svenska institutet i Athen, 4o, 57) (Stockholm). —. 2018: ‘Bolli rodii a Siracusa, Taranto e nell’area Adriatica sul commercio del vino e del grano in eta’ellenistica’. Dans Benedetis, A. (éd.), Realtà medioadriatiche a confronto: Contatti e scambi tra le due sponde (Atti del convegno, Termoli, 22–23 iuglio 2016) (Campobasso), 121–34. Bezeczky, T. 2004: ‘Early Roman Food Import in Ephesus: Amphorae from the Tetragonos Agora’. Dans Eiring, J. et Lund, J. (éd.), Transport Amphorae and Trade in the Eastern Mediterranean (Acts of the International Colloquium at the Danish Institute at Athens, September 26–29, 2002) (Monographs of the Danish Institute at Athens 5) (Aarhus), 85–97. Börker, C. 1998: ‘Der Pergamon-Komplex’. Dans Börker, C. et Burow, J. (éd.), Die hellenistischen Amphorenstempel aus Pergamon (Pergamenische Forschungen 11) (Berlin), 1–69. Bresson, A. 1986: ‘Remarques sur la dispersion des amphores rhodiennes’. Dans Empereur et Garlan 1986, 81–86. —. 1991: Recueil des inscriptions de la Pérée rhodienne (Pérée intégrée) (Annales littéraires de l’Université de Besançon 445; Centre de recherches d’histoire ancienne 105) (Paris/Besançon). Brugnone, A. 1986: ‘Bolli anforari rodii dalla necropoli di Lilibeo’. Kokalos 32, 19–100. Buzoianu, L. et Cheluţă Georgescu, N. 1998: ‘Noi ştampile amforice de la Callatis’. Pontica 31, 49–98. Calvet, Y. 1972: Salamine de Chypre III: Les timbres amphoriques (1965–1970) (Paris). Cankardeş-Şenol, G. 2015: ‘Early Cnidian Amphora Exports to Alexandria, Egypt’. Dans Laflı, E. et Patacı, S. (éd.), Recent Studies on the Archaeology of Anatolia (BAR International Series 2750) (Oxford), 169–92. Cankardeş-Şenol, G. et Alkaç, G. 2007: ‘Stamped Amphora Handles: Rhodian, Knidian, Cypriot and Local Productions’. Dans Durugönül, S. (éd.), Nagidos: Results of an Excavation in an Ancient City of Rough Cilicia (Suna ve İnan Kıraç Akdeniz Medeniyetleri Araştırma Enstitüsü yayını. Ekyayın dizisi 6) (Istanbul), 297–473. Cankardeş-Şenol, G. et Canağlu, E. 2009: ‘Mısır-Alexandria Greko-Romen Müzesi’nde Bulunan Düğme Formlu Mühürler’. Arkeoloji Dergisi 14.2, 109–64. Chaby, R. 2009: Les timbres amphoriques trouvés à Tanis de 1976 à 2008 (Paris). Conovici, N. et Garlan, Y. 2004: ‘Les timbres amphoriques étrangers trouvés à Sinope (I)’. Anatolia Antiqua 12, 105–22. Conovici, N. et Irimia, M. 1991: ‘Timbres amphoriques et autres inscriptions découvertes à Satu Nou (com. d’Oltina, dép. de Constantza)’. Dacia n.s. 35, 139–75. Coulson, W.D.E., Mook, M.S., Rehard, J.W. et Grace, V. 1997: ‘Stamped Amphora Handles from Tel Beersheba’. BASOR 306, 47–61. Criscuolo, L. 1982: Bolli d’anfora greci e romani: La collezione dell’Università Cattolica di Milano (Studi di Storia Antica 6) (Bologne). Crowfoot, J. 1957: ‘Potter’s Stamps’. Dans Crowfoot, J.W., Kenyon, K.M. et Crowfoot, G.M. (éd.), The Objects from Samaria (Samaria-Sebaste 3) (Londres), 379–87. Dumont, A. 1871: Inscriptions céramiques de Grèce. Archives des Missions Scientifiques et Littéraires (Paris). Durugönül, S. et Durukan, M. 2004: ‘2002 yili Nagidos (Bozyazi) Kazi’. Dans 25. Kazi Sonuçlari Toplantisi, t. 1 (Ankara), 69–73. Dzierzbicka, D. 2018: OINOΣ: Production and Import of Wine in Graeco-Roman Egypt (The Journal of Juristic Papyrology Suppl. 31) (Varsovie). Empereur, J.-Y. 1977: ‘Timbres amphoriques de Crocodilopolis-Arsinoé’. Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale 77, 197–233. Empereur, J.-Y. et Garlan, Y. (éd.) 1986: Recherches sur les amphores grecques (BCH Suppl. 13) (Paris). Empereur, J.-Y. et Hesnard, A. 1987: ‘Les amphores hellénistiques’. Dans Lévêque, P. et Morel, J.-P. (éd.), Céramiques hellénistiques et romaines, t. 2 (Annales Littéraires de l’Université de Besançon 331) (Paris/Besançon), 9–72 Empereur, J.-Y. et Picon, M. 1986: ‘À la recherche des fours d’amphores’. Dans Empereur et Garlan 1986, 105–26. Ferron, J. et Pinard, M. 1955: ‘Les fouilles de Byrsa: 1953–1954’. Dans Cahiers de Byrsa, t. 5 (Paris), 31–81.

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Finkielsztejn, G. 1993: Amphores et timbres d’amphores importés en Palestine à l’époque hellénistique: étude de chronologie et d’histoire (Thèse, Université Paris 1). —. 1995: ‘Chronologie basse des timbres rhodiens et évaluation des exportations d’amphores’. Dans Fischer-Hansen, T. (ed.), Ancient Sicily (Acta Hyperborea 6) (Copenhague), 279– 96. —. 2001: Chronologie détaillée et révisée des éponymes amphoriques rhodiens, de 270 à 108 av. J.-C. environ. Premier bilan (BAR International Series 990) (Oxford). —. 2005: ‘The Stamped Rhodian Handles’. Dans Avissar, M. (éd.), Tel Yoqne’am. Excavations on the Acropolis (Israel Antiquities Authority Reports 25) (Jérusalem), 111–12. Franz, J. 1851: ‘De inscriptione diotarum in Sicilia repertarum’. Philologus 6, 287–305. Fraser, P.M. et Bean, G.E. 1954: The Rhodian Peraea and Island (Oxford). Garcia Sanchez, M. 2008: ‘Les femmes et les amphores: épigraphie amphorique rhodienne et histoire de la femme dans le monde hellénistique’. BCH 132, 283–310. —. 2012: ‘Les dones, les àmfores i la història de la dona en època hellenística’. Dans ZaragozaGras, J. et Fortea-Domenech, G. (éd.), Mulieres: Mirades sobre la dona a Grècia i a Roma (Tarragone), 107–30. Garlan, Y. 1998: ‘Les fabricants d’amphores’. Topoi 8, 581–90. —. 2006: ‘Des consommateurs aux producteurs: nouvelles perspectives dans l’étude des timbres amphoriques grecs’. Dans Descat, R. (éd.), Approches de l’économie hellénistique (Entretiens d’archéologie et d’histoire 7) (Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges), 9–15. Garozzo, B. 2000: ‘I bolli anforari della collezione “Whittaker” al Museo di Mozia’. Dans Terze giornate internazionali di studi sull’area Elima, Gibellina, Erice, Contessa Entellina, 23–26 ottobre 1997 (Pise), 547–632. —. 2003: ‘Nuovi dati sull’instrumentum domesticum bollato – anfore e laterazi – dal Palermitano’. Dans Quarte giornate internazionali di studi sull’area Elima, Erice, 1–4 dicembre 2000 (Pise), 557–683. —. 2011: Bolli su anfore e laterizi dalla Sicilia 1: Province do Agrigento, Palermo, Trapani (Pubblicazioni della Classe di lettere e filosofia, Scuola normale superiore, Pisa 36) (Pise). Giakoumaki, C. et Zervaki, F. 2012: ‘Μνημειακή τοπογραφία της περιοχής του Αρχαγγέλου στη Ρόδο’. Dodekanisiaka Chronika 5. KE’, 114–44. Grace, V. 1934: ‘Stamped Amphora Handles found in 1931–1932’. Hesperia 3, 197–310. —. 1949: ‘Standard Pottery Containers of the Ancient Greek World’. Dans Commemorative Studies in Honor of Theodore Leslie Shear (Hesperia Suppl. 8) (Princeton/Athènes), 175–89. —. 1950: ‘The Stamped Amphora Handles’. Dans Goldman, H. (éd.), Excavations at Gözlü Kule, Tarsus 1: The Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Princeton), 135–48. —. 1952: ‘Timbres amphoriques trouvés à Délos’. BCH 76, 514–40. —. 1985: ‘The Middle Stoa Dated by Amphora Stamps’. Hesperia 54, 1–54. Grace, V. et Savvatianou Petropoulakou, M. 1970: ‘Délos. Les timbres amphoriques grecs’. Dans Bruneau, P. et al., L’îlot de la Maison des Comédiens (Exploration archéologique de Délos 27) (Paris), 227–382. Guérin, V. 1856: Étude sur l’île de Rhodes (Thèse, Paris). Habicht, C. 2003: ‘Rhodian Amphora Stamps and Rhodian Eponyms’. Revue des études anciennes 105.2, 541–78. Halpern-Zylberstein, V. 1980: ‘Timbres amphoriques’. Dans Bried, J. et Humberd, J.B., Tell Keisan (1971–1976), une cité phénicienne en Galilée (Orbis biblicus et orientalis, Series Archaeologica 1) (Fribourg), 243–55. Hampe, R. et Winter, A. 1965: Bei Töpfern und Zieglern in Süditalien, Sizilien und Griechenland (Mayence/Bonn). Hiller von Gaertringen, F. 1898: ‘Einige vergessene Amphorenhenkel aus Rhodos’. Mitteilungen des Kaiserlich Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung, 232–34. Jefremow, N. 1995: Die Amphorenstempel des hellenistischen Knidos (Quellen und Forschungen zur antiken Welt 19) (Munich). Johnston, A. 2013: ‘Stamped Amphorae’. Dans Villing, A., Bergeron, M., Bourogianis, G., Johnston, A., Leclère, F., Masson, A. et Thomas, R. (éd.), Naukratis: Greeks in Egypt (Londres), 1–20.

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Jöhrens, G. 1999: Amphorenstempel im Nationalmuseum von Athen. Zu den von H. Lolling aufgenommen „unedierten Henkelinschriften“. Mit einem Anhang: Die Amphorenstempel in der Sammlung der Abteilung Athen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts (Mayence). —. 2001: ‘Amphorenstempel hellenistischer Zeit aus Tanais’. Eurasia Antiqua 7, 367–479. —. 2005: ‘Der Pergamon-Komplex, die rhodische Stempelchronologie und das Gründungsdatum von Tanais’. Eurasia Antiqua 11, 87–101. —. 2009: ‘Funde aus Milet XXVII. Amphorenstempel aus den Grabungen in Milet 1899–2007’. Archäologischer Anzeiger, 205–35. Lawall, M. 2007: ‘Hellenistic Stamped Amphora Handles’. Dans Mitsopoulos-Leon, V. et Lang-Auinger, C. (éd.), Die Basilika am Staatsmarkt in Ephesos 2: Funde klassischer bis römischer Zeit (Vienne), 28–60. Levi, R.I. 1940: ‘Privoznaja grečeskaja keramika iz raskopok Ol’vii v 1935–1936 gg.’. Dans Žebelev, S.A. (éd.), Ol’vija (Kiev), 105–27. Lund, J. 2011: ‘Rhodian Transport Amphorae as a Source for Economic Ebbs and Flows in the Eastern Mediterranean in the Second Century BC’. Dans Archibald, Z.H., Davies, J.K. et Gabrielsen, V. (éd.), The Economies of Hellenistic Societies, Third to First Centuries BC (Oxford), 280–95. Maiuri, A. 1921–22: ‘Una fabbrica di anfore rodie’. Annuario della Regia Scuola archeologica italiana di Atene 4–5, 249–69. Mirčev, M. 1958: Amfornite pečati ot muzei v’v Varna (Epigrafska poreditsa, Arkheologičeski institut, Bălgarska akademija na naukite 4) (Sofia). Nachtergael, G. et Pintaudi, R. 1998–99: ‘Timbres amphoriques d’Égypte (Collection Donato Morelli)’. Analecta papyrologica 10–11, 161–87. Nicolaou, I. 2005: The Stamped Amphora Handles from the House of Dionysos (Paphos 5) (Nicosia). Nicolaou, I. et Empereur, J.-Y. 1986: ‘Amphores rhodiennes du Musée de Nicosie’. Dans Empereur et Garlan 1986, 513–31. Nilsson, M.P. 1909: Timbres amphoriques de Lindos publiés avec une étude sur les timbres amphoriques rhodiens (Exploration archéologique de Rhodes, Fondation Carlsberg, 5) (Copenhague). Porro, G.G. 1916: ‘Bolli d’anfore rodie nel Museo Nazionale Romano’. Annuario della Scuola archeologica italiana di Atene n.s. 2, 103–24. Pridik, E.M. 1917: Inventarnyj katalog klejm na amfornykh ručkakh i na čerepitsakh Ermitažnogo sobranija (Petrograd). Rotroff, S.I. 1982: The Athenian Agora 22: Hellenistic Pottery: Athenian and Imported Mouldmade Bowls (Princeton). Salviat, F. 1993: ‘Le vin de Rhodes et les plantations du dème d’Amos’. Dans La production du vin et l’ huile en Mediterranée (BCH Suppl. 26) (Paris), 151–61. Schuchhardt, C. 1895: ‘Die Inschriften auf Thon. II. Amphorenstempel’. Dans Fränkel, M. (éd.), Die Inschriften von Pergamon, t. 2 (Altertümer von Pergamon 8.2) (Berlin), 423–98. Šelov, D.B. 1975: Keramičeskie klejma iz Tanaisa III–II vv. do. n.e. (Moscou). Suto, Y. 2005: ‘Stamped Amphora Handles’. Dans Kawanishi, H. et Suto, Y. (éd.), Amphora Stamps: 1997–2001 (Excavations at Akoris in Middle Egypt 1) (Kyoto), 23–185. Sztetyłło, Z. 1975: ‘Timbres céramiques des fouilles polonaises à Alexandrie (1962–1972)’. Études et Travaux 8, 159–235. —. 1976: Les timbres céramiques (1965–1973) (Nea Paphos 1) (Varsovie). —. 1990: ‘Timbres céramiques des fouilles polonaises à Alexandrie (1974–1979)’, Études et Travaux 14, 160–212. —. 1991: Pottery Stamps (1975–1989) (Nea Paphos 4) (Varsovie). —. 2010: Pottery Stamps from Nea Paphos (1990–2006) (Nea Paphos 6) (Varsovie). van Bremen, R. 1983: ‘Women and Wealth’. Dans Cameron, A. et Kuhrt, A. (éd.), Images of Women in Antiquity (Londres/Detroit), 223–42. —. 1996: The Limits of Participation: Women and Civic Life in the Greek East in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 15) (Amsterdam). Vasileiadou, M. et Liritzis, I. 2018: ‘The Historical Ages in the South-Eastern Aegean (800–200 BC): A Review’. Studia Antiqua et Archaeologica 24.1, 5–30. Zervoudaki, I. 1978: ‘Εφορεία Κλασικών Αρχαιοτήτων Δωδεκανήσων’. Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, Χρονικά 33 B2, 396–406.

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Fig. 1. E1 – RHO 4: Timokleidas (éponyme).

Fig. 2. E2 – RHO 9: Kallikratidas (éponyme).

Fig. 3. E3 – RHO 13: Archilaïdas (éponyme).

Fig. 4. E4 – RHO 3: Kallianax (éponyme).

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Fig. 5. E5 – RHO 11: Non identifié (éponyme).

Fig. 6. F1 – RHO 1: Aristôn (fabricant).

Fig. 7. F2 – RHO 10: Kalliô (fabricante).

Fig. 8. F3 – RHO 8: Sarapiôn (fabricant).

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Fig. 9. F4 – RHO 6: Hérakleitos (fabricant).

Fig. 10. F5 – RHO 2: Pistos (fabricant).

Fig. 11. F6 – RHO 12: Diodôros (fabricant).

Fig. 12. F7 – RHO 7: Polémôn (fabricant).

Fig. 13. F8 – RHO 5: Hiéroklès (fabricant).

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Fig. 14. Non identifié.

Fig. 15. Non identifié.

Fig. 16. Non identifié.

Fig. 17. Non identifié.

APPLYING THE BEAZLEY METHOD TO MOSAIC ARTIST ATTRIBUTION Andrew MADDEN

ABSTRACT In the study of art connoisseurship, artist attribution has stood at its forefront. Attribution, however, cannot be established without clearly defined criteria. For this reason, the oeuvre of mosaicists has yet to be reliably distinguished. Mosaics that display similar stylistic characteristics, and are circumscribed by geography and era, in many cases merely represent current regional tastes. By themselves, unity of composition and decorative elements in a regional context cannot suffice to identify the work of individual mosaicists, and it is likely that many were working from widely distributed pattern- and model-books. Weighing these factors, more stringent testing must be applied. The pavements offering the most diversity in terms of stylistic attributes are those with figures. Distinction lies in their fine technical details – they potentially display a great variety in modelling. Even if figures have been derived from model-books, careful analysis of the linear qualities of the tesserae can ascertain the work of different hands and techniques. This echoes the methodology applied to Attic painted vases by John Beazley. When contemporaneous figural mosaics are found displaying analogous technical features, this provides the most effective approach for assigning them to common mosaicists.

Gocha Tsetskhladze undertook his second doctorate at Oxford under the tutelage of the eminent classical archaeologist and art historian Sir John Boardman, adding to the number of distinguished classical scholars to emerge from that university. Boardman, as Lincoln Professor of Classical Art and Archaeology was, like his predecessors Martin Robertson and Sir John Beazley, both custodian and mainstay of Oxford’s tradition of Classical Greek studies. Beazley most notably pioneered and profoundly advanced the study of Attic vase-painter attribution, ultimately establishing an entirely new field of enquiry, given it was painting and sculpture that traditionally came under the scrutiny and judging eye of connoisseurship. Figural mosaics, like painted Attic vases, place great emphasis on the linear qualities of imagery; however, rarely has artist attribution been explored with mosaics. Ancient mosaics have been the focus of numerous scholarly studies, usually dealing with the subject of stylistic development or iconography, or as geographically determined corpora. These are understandable avenues of research as they reflect the diverse array of pictorial designs and subject matter one encounters. There are perhaps four key reasons why scholars have for the most part avoided the issue of mosaic artist attribution. First of all, unlike media such as painting, mosaicists rarely name their work. Secondly, there is an unresolved question regarding the potential mobility of mosaicists, which increases the challenge facing the researcher over how to circumscribe geographically a primary survey of mosaics. Thirdly, many regions of the

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ancient Mediterranean and beyond simply do not boast sufficient assemblages to warrant an intensive study. Lastly, and of most significance, a concise methodology with discrete and clearly defined criteria has yet to be formulated. The essence of the Beazley method maintains that the detailing technique an individual artist applies to his work, and possibly passes on to their pupils, is potentially unique to that artist, and the means by which identity can be ascertained. Considering the similar linear qualities governing figures on Attic vases and mosaic, it seems warranted to adapt this well-established methodology to mosaic. By doing so, the aim would be to establish clear diagnostic criteria based on stylistic and technical affinities that are seen in broadly contemporaneous mosaics. We must then test its attribution validity, in this case with a series of figured pavements from Byzantine-era Palestine and Arabia. This region boasts an extraordinary assemblage of well-preserved mosaic pavements, primarily from churches of the 5th–7th centuries AD, when these provinces witnessed an intensive period in church building.1 The first task we must consider is to define stylistic and technical characteristics, as they form the basis of this analysis of methodology. Stylistic features encompass the formal qualities of the mosaics: the overall composition and decorative programme, including various patterns – be they aniconic or including figures – and other ornamental and filling elements. As we shall see, these factors can designate a stylistically homogenous group, but do not take into account the more discreet elements needed to distinguish more closely the mosaics, which is where technical characteristics afford the fine-tuning. Technical features in mosaic involve the idiosyncrasies of tesserae coursing used to produce the decorative scheme, be it figures, patterns or even the plain background. In the first instance, this extends far beyond the rudimentary parallel and diagonal coursing of geometric patterns. The meticulous (and occasionally haphazard) laying of tesserae has perhaps been grossly underestimated as a means of distinguishing aspects of the mosaicists’ skill and training. For example, rows of tesserae are generally applied to outline figures, and variation exists, with some using as little as one row, whilst others are outlined with repetitious coursing. Several processes can achieve modelling of figures, but all are to some degree the result of tesserae coursing. The pose, whether frontal, three-quarter or in profile, will in part establish the potential dynamic and voluminous quality of a figure. The application of shading and polychrome further advances the pictorial quality; tones are achieved by way of colour gradations and/or variegated patches. Some figures are adorned with almost imperceptible tonal nuances, lending to them a great deal of realism. It must be remembered that toning, however, is very much at the mercy of obtainable raw materials, the dimensions of the area to be decorated and the tesserae density – if little space can be worked with, or tesserae are large, it is difficult for the mosaicist to avoid schematic hues. At the opposite end of the shading spectrum are the striking colour changes seen in decorative elements such as rainbow cables, though even here they can be blended harmoniously by setting the individual tesserae oblique to their natural coursing, so that cubes of one colour (or shade of colour) are partly inserted into the

1  For an overview of the ancient mosaic pavements of Roman Palestine and Arabia, see Ovadiah and Ovadiah 1987; Piccirillo 1993; Hachlili 2009; Madden 2014.

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tesserae course of a second colour.2 Another modelling technique is the use of differing tesserae sizes, especially with smaller parts of the body. Some human figures are rendered with much smaller cubes to delineate the facial features and avoid overt linear tension and a schematic appearance.3

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AND

ERRONEOUS ATTRIBUTION

It is certain that mosaic assemblages found in large settled areas or their surroundings and within a limited temporal scope represent the activity of various groups of mosaicists, or as they are frequently titled in scholarly papers, mosaic workshops. This is confirmed in a rare instance where securely dated and contemporaneous pavements from two churches situated in the environs of Mt Nebo in Jordan name different groups of mosaicists.4 Scholars have in the main focused on unity of composition and decorative motifs to identify mosaicists. One such case is Neil Cookson’s Orpheus Workshop, which he proposes was active in southern Britain during the first quarter of the 4th century AD. As the title suggests, mosaics of the workshop all feature central panels framing Orpheus. Cookson notes several indicators of a close stylistic relationship, including similar arrangements of acanthus scrolls in the roundels, swastika meanders and guilloche, and common use of Solomon’s knots and swastika-peltae.5 On the face of it, the connexion has validity, as they are conspicuous amongst the Orpheus-type mosaics of southern Britain.6 Figural modelling, however, is not scrutinised in the study. This is in no way the fault of the author, as two of the mosaics – those at Woodchester and Stonesfield – survive only through drawings. When examining the published images of the mosaics, it seems clear they betray considerable disparity in the depiction of Orpheus, suggesting different hands created them, or at the very least different pictors.7 Isolating a workshop on the grounds of patterns alone, therefore, raises more questions than answers. With this and several other clustered homogenous groups, the coherency in the design of the assemblage is probably indicative of a regional stylistic taste, and there is little evidence to narrow this to an individual mosaicist or group. A substantial body of tomb-mosaics of the early Christian period unearthed at Tabarka in Africa Procosularis has formed the basis of another attribution study. Following a similar approach to Cookson, Margaret Alexander isolates two workshops (Ateliers I and 2

 See for example, Figs. 23–24 of this current study.  Examples are seen in Figs. 8–9. 4  A mosaic inscription from the Old Diaconicon-Baptistry on Mt Nebo and dated to AD 530/1 names the mosaicists Soel, Kaium and Elias. The nearby Church of St George (AD 535/6) mentions Naoum, Cyriacus and Thomas. For the inscriptions, see Donderer 1989, 70 (A27) and 78 (A37); Piccirillo 1983, 214; 1986, 105. 5  He stresses three pavements in particular, at Stonesfield, Barton Farm and Woodchester: Cookson 1984, 74–75, pls. 41, 43, and 47. The Barton Farm and Woodchester floors also feature a band of quadrupeds that are closely matched. Previously, they have been assigned by Smith (1965, 105–11) to his ‘Corinian School’. 6  Smith 1965, 107, also notes the marked similarities. 7  See, for example, the Orpheus mosaics from Stonesfield and Barton Farm: Cookson 1984, pls. 41 and 47. 3

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II) each with artisans of differing skills, and sees broad divergences in the mosaics primarily in design, style and iconography.8 Both workshops purportedly have a variety of themes and motifs in their repertoires, and the main variance is with the composition and technical quality. The mosaics of Atelier I tend to have small figures arranged loosely about the field without any logical spatial relationship, and are rendered in an unsophisticated manner. Atelier II focuses mainly on large single human figures, especially of the orant type, and which are solidly conceived and illustrated in a more mature fashion than the figures of Atelier I. Alexander notes that both workshops commonly use some of the same subject matter.9 There are two key issues to address here in the process of identifying these workshop groups. The first is the question of the correct differentiation of styles, and the second involves the chronology of the ateliers. On stylistic grounds, the only clear conclusion from the analysis is that the Atelier I group reveals an obvious regional character, unified only by the naïve quality of the artistry. The sheer diversity of composition and motifs, coupled importantly with marked technical disparities, do not appear reminiscent of a common team of mosaicists.10 In relation to the chronology of the Ateliers, it is noteworthy that the Tabarkan tomb-mosaics do not possess a definitive date. Alexander ascribes a period from the late 4th to the first half of the 5th century AD, although concedes that the two ateliers may belong to slightly different eras.11 It is possible that a chronological change in repertoire may account for the dramatic stylistic variance. Tomb-mosaics from various sites in North Africa, including Tabarka, Sfax and the more than 50 highly homogenous examples from one church alone at Kélibia are regionalised in style,12 and it is hazardous to place too much reliance upon cross-comparisons in light of their regional context. Unfortunately, the unique regional character of the Tabarka group and lack of comparative examples harbouring secure dates limits the probability of establishing a more comprehensive stylistic chronology. An assemblage of pavements united in composition and decorative elements most commonly linked to workshop activity in the eastern Mediterranean are the inhabited vinetrellis pavements of Byzantine Palestine. They are typified by fields of round medallions generally shaped by a vine-trellis, though variants with acanthus rinceaux are also found.13 8

 Alexander 1987. In a similar earlier study of tomb-mosaics from the church of the Priest Felix at Kélibia in North Africa by Cintas and Duval 1958, two separate and roughly contemporaneous workshops from the late 4th to the 5th century are also identified. 9  Alexander 1987, 3–10. 10  Compare the marked difference in the method used to produce the figures of the tomb-mosaic of Caledionis and Fortunatas (Alexander 1987, fig. 2), which are shown as black silhouettes and arranged broadly in two registers without any coherency of perspective, and the orant figure from the tomb of Eupraxius (fig. 3), the facial features and clothing of which are partly delineated, and set with a landscape background and accompanying sheep (the Good Shepherd?), implying some degree of planned perspective. Indeed, of the mosaics presented as products on Atelier I, a number of stylistic variables are evident, and even Alexander acknowledges that she believes they are not all by the same hands: Alexander 1987, 9. 11  Alexander (1987, 10) notes that only Atelier I uses the Constantinian monogram, and she dates these from the late 4th to the early 5th century AD. Atelier II mosaics also have cases of the Constantinian monogram, but use the monogrammatic cross as well, with or without α and ω; these she attributes to the 5th century AD. 12  See examples in Dunbabin 1978, 189–91. 13  See Figs. 6–7 of this current study. A list of inhabited scroll mosaics from the eastern Mediterranean is given by Dauphin (1987, 199–203); it does not, however, include a bibliography for each pavement. For

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The majority decorated church naves of the 5th and 6th centuries AD, but they were also seen in synagogues, and in funerary and secular edifices. The design scheme has proven both fruitful and contentious for investigation for several reasons. Numerically, the extant corpus is rich, the pattern type is stylistically very distinct, and the gamut of figures and ornamental motifs is diverse but also replicated – factors that facilitate close comparative studies. Within the inhabited medallion group exists a variety of arrangements in relation to the points of departure for the vine-trellis. Some have as many as four points, with vines emerging usually from amphorae in the corners of the field, and others feature only one; when it involves church naves, more often than not the point is at the western end near the threshold. Claudine Dauphin views the geographical distribution of these arrangements as significant in identifying the oeuvre of workshops by way of an attribute coding and cluster analysis methodology.14 For example, she locates the type with an amphora at one end at eight sites.15 Of this group, two will be briefly considered here: a nave pavement from a basilica at Hazor-Ashdod and dated by an inscription to AD 512; and another floor from a chapel at Beth Guvrin, approximately 25 km to the south-east and ascribed to ca. AD 500.16 The two match closely in composition, though the HazorAshdod floor has lions flanking the amphora and depicts quadrupeds in the medallions and some birds dispersed in the spaces. At Beth Guvrin, on the other hand, two stags frame the vessel; the repertoire otherwise consists exclusively of birds. A divergence occurs when similar animals from the two pavements are compared according to stylistic and technical principles. At Hazor-Ashdod, a gazelle is rendered in profile with a long thin neck, its back is essentially horizontal, whilst the abdomen is shaped with a voluminous curve (Fig. 1). Shading of the body consists of a series of tonal steps, commencing with a dark band along the back, and finishing with a white strip at the abdomen.17 The eye is perfectly round. Quite different is the appearance of the Beth Guvrin stag (Fig. 2).18 The neck is of a similar length to the gazelle, but is considerably more robust. The animal’s back and loins form a marked arched, whereas the abdomen is horizontal, and the Roman provinces of Palaestina, Syria and Arabia, and which includes more recent discoveries than Dauphin’s catalogue, see Hachlili 2009, 123–24. 14  Dauphin 1976, 120–22; 1987, 189. 15  Dauphin 1987, 189. The sites are Cilicia, the Hama region (in Syria), the Jerusalem area, the southern limes (including the Shellal mosaic and the Ma‘on synagogue near Gaza), the Beth Shean area, Mt Nebo, Jerash, and Suafiya (in Jordan). This entire series of mosaics is far too extensive to examine individually here, however, a brief remark must be made regarding the example cited by Dauphin 1987, 189, n. 90 (M.69), from Mt Nebo, which is a fragment from the sanctuary of the basilica at Ras Siyahga (the basilica of Moses). The pavement displays a trellis forming inhabited medallions (when excavated three were extant) springing from an amphora. As it was placed in the eastern apse of the trefoil sanctuary, its composition was very much dictated by the floor plan, and need not be viewed as the hallmark of Dauphin’s workshop identified from the Mt Nebo region. A plan of the church mosaics can be found in Piccirillo 1993, 149. 16  Dauphin 1987, 189, n. 87. For a description of these pavements, accompanying inscriptions and bibliography, see Madden 2014, 73–74 (Hazor Ashdod), and 61–62 (Beth Guvrin). 17  The Hazor-Ashdod pavement is currently held in the Israel Antiquities Authority storerooms at Jerusalem. Unfortunately, it was stored upside-down when the author visited in August 2009, and no photographs were obtainable. All photos from the original excavation were taken in black and white. 18  The Beth Guvrin chapel mosaic is currently displayed at the Eretz-Israel Museum in Tel Aviv. I am greatly indebted to Dr Etan Ayalon, Curator of the museum, for allowing me to examine and photograph the pavement. It has recently undergone a considerable amount of restoration, due to its deterioration over many years in storage; however, the delineation and shading correlates closely with photographs taken at the time of the excavation in the early 1920s.

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Fig. 1. Nave mosaic of the church at Hazor-Ashdod, Israel, detail of a gazelle (image courtesy of the Israel Antiquity Authority).

Fig. 2. Hall mosaic of a chapel at Beth Guvrin, Israel, detail of a stag (author’s photograph).

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Fig. 3. Outer south aisle mosaic of the Synagogue at Gaza Maiumas, detail of a lioness (image courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority).

the eye is oval and more naturalistic than its counterpart. Shading is nuanced and does not repeat the staggered tonal steps of the gazelle. Despite the proposed common workshop attribution for these two pavements, they are markedly divergent in terms of the form and modelling of the gazelle and stag. Asher Ovadiah, who pursues a similar methodology to Dauphin, has also discussed the Hazor-Ashdod mosaic, though he assigns it to the same workshop that paved the marvellous synagogue mosaic from Gaza Maiumas and dated to AD 508/9,19 where he believes the workshop was based. Ovadiah highlights the close dates and geographical proximity of the two floors (Hazor-Ashdod is some 35 km north of the ancient port of Gaza), parallel compositions, and the apparent realism of the animals. We are fortunate that both floors boast lions. The Gaza lioness is executed with a high degree of naturalism, particularly with the head turned in three-quarter view (Fig. 3). Limbs, body and tail are all correctly proportioned. In technical terms, the trunk is shaded with subtle gradations, and it brings a level of volume to the animal. The execution of the lion at Hazor-Ashdod is far less ambitious and developed (Fig. 4). The legs are exceedingly elongated, whilst the head is disproportionally small. The shading is reduced to a sequence of modulated transitions that renders it devoid of realism. On the face of it, the Hazor-Ashdod, Gaza and Beth Guvrin floors present as a stylistically homogenous group circumscribed by geography and temporal span. But as we have seen, all three show noticeable discrepancies in the technique utilised to execute the animals, and are not suggestive of the same artisan or level of technical training. As such, it is highly improbable that any of them can be attributed to a common mosaicist. This 19

 Ovadiah 2004, 698. For a description of the mosaic, see Ovadiah 1981.

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Fig. 4. Nave mosaic of the church at Hazor-Ashdod, detail of a lion (image courtesy of the Israel Antiquities Authority).

does not exclude the possibility that the confined geographical distribution of homogenous designs can indeed assist in defining workshop groups – as we shall discuss below. Attribute coding and geographical cluster analysis – a product of the New Archaeology approach – has benefits in establishing the regional tastes and potential stylistic chronologies (if they are indeed present). On its own, however, the methodology cannot be relied upon to identify individual mosaicists or groups, as it ignores technical parallels and divergences between pavements.

TRANSMISSION

OF

MOSAIC MODEL-

AND

PATTERN-BOOKS

If we accept that provincial trends in mosaic homogeneity likely attest to current taste, the question inevitably asked is how familiar patterns, motifs and figures were communicated between mosaicists. It is reasonable to contend that many mosaicists learnt and developed their design repertoire from widely circulated pattern- or model-books. This arises not simply out of the local reoccurrence of designs and various decorative components, but one that also transcends broader geographical and temporal barriers, as familiar design elements are on occasion found spanning the length and breadth of the Greek and Roman spheres of influence.20 Jocelyn Toynbee accounts for the consistent reappearance of some motifs and schemes on various media in widely disparate parts of the Roman Empire by proposing that workshops possessed a “circulating library” of copybooks, possibly on parchment, papyrus or even cloth, which were passed across trades and over generations.21 When Michael 20  Hachlili (2009, 273–80) has recently discussed the potential methods by which motifs and patterns were transmitted amongst mosaicists. 21  Toynbee 1964, 10–11. See also Nordenfalk 1974, 230, who cites a 6th-century AD reference by Cassiodorus to a codex held at his monastery at Vivarium that contained various stock patterns used to decorate manuscript bindings.

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Avi-Yonah produced his serialised catalogue of Mosaic Pavements in Palestine in the 1930s, he expressed in the opening lines that the tables of pattern types he used for classification are an attempt to partially recreate the pattern-books ancient mosaicists must have used.22 Many scholars accept that model-books were certainly employed, though precisely to what extent is impossible to measure.23 Smith, for instance, agrees that pattern-books were commonplace, but tenders that the broad variety of figural poses and rendering in British mosaics may be due to the patron’s desire and/or mosaicists’ adaptation.24 Susan Tebby argues that a vast array of geometric patterns, even very complex types, could be designed on simple grids ad hoc, and then re-configured to suit the dimensions of the desired room.25 While this system may indeed eliminate the need for prefabricated diagrams, the extensive list of prototypes she identifies does in itself (and perhaps inadvertently) codify a probable pattern-book, indicating the ease with which mosaicists might have accrued an illustrated catalogue of design schemes that could be carried from site to site.26 Although the numerous representations of figures were without doubt in the first instance the original innovation of an artist, a convention certainly exists within the different media of Graeco-Roman art for copying Classical works and using stock figures.27 The tradition perhaps originated in Pharaonic Egypt, where figures were formulated on wooden panels according to a standardised grid system, thereby allowing the representation to be rendered or transferred to a larger or smaller scale without compromising the intended proportions.28 In the Graeco-Roman period hunting and warrior subjects in particular span several eras, and one noteworthy canon – a warrior poised to strike – gives an indication of the extent to which stock types were employed. The so-called Erotes mosaic unearthed in the Shatby district of Alexandria and dated to 3rd or 2nd century BC contains a central panel showing three Erotes attacking a stag (Fig. 5).29 The pose of the central male, who lunges forward with a sword in his right hand and raised above his head, finds close parallels in two well-known Hellenistic pavements from Pella in Greece. The first is the right-hand figure from the Lion Hunt mosaic, and the second is a very similar protagonist illustrated in the Stag Hunt mosaic.30

22

 Avi-Yonah 1933, 136. Many of these patterns are reproduced in Madden 2014, 6–8.  For example, Levi 1947, 432; Saller and Bagatti 1949, 116, 118 and 135; Kitzinger 1951; Avi-Yonah 1960, 32; Dauphin 1978; Wilson 1983, 53; Ovadiah and Ovadiah 1987, 181; Dunbabin 1999, 302; Ovadiah 2004, 697; Piccirillo 2005, 421, n. 32; Hachlili 2009, 273–74. 24  Smith 1977, 154. 25  Tebby 1995, especially 275–78; and also note her examples of pattern-types. 26  Dauphin (1978, 408) is also of the view that mosaicists carried a wide assortment of illustrated patterns in the form of notebooks, due to the prevalent occurrence of common patterns. 27  Boardman 1996, 226. Morey (1953, 37) cites examples of painted narrative scenes in Pompeii copied from famous originals, and instances transferred to the medium of relief carving. 28  See, for example, the gesso-coated wooden board with a drawing of Tuthmosis III (ca. 1460 BC) overlaid with a grid, illustrated in Aldred 1980, fig. 2. 29  For an image of the mosaic, see Brown 1957, pl. XLIV(1). Salzmann (1982, 116) assigns the mosaic from the end of the 3rd to the first half of the 2nd century in part on stylistic principles and also on chronological grounds in the context of the development of mixed and true tesserae technique. Daszewski 1985, 105, dates it to 290–260 BC on stratigraphic and stylistic considerations. 30  For images of these mosaics, see Salzmann 1982, pl. 29 (Stag Hunt mosaic), and pl. 30 (2) (Lion Hunt mosaic). 23

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Fig. 5. Detail of Erotes mosaic, Shatby, Egypt (after Brown 1957, pl. XLIV.1).

Both floors appear to have been paved at the very end of the 4th century BC.31 In all three cases, the artisan has modified the left arm of the figures slightly in order to adapt to the scene and compositional spacing, nevertheless, their stance is otherwise identical. The Eros to the left also finds an equivalent in the fresco of the Lion Hunt from the façade of the so-called tomb of Philip II at Vergina in Greece, possibly of the period 340–330 BC.32 His body, the right-side of which forms a sweeping diagonal save for one arm crossing the chest and head countered in contrapposto, mirrors precisely the fresco hunter swinging an axe to the left of the lion and between the two horsemen.33 In addition, the positioning of these two males’ legs, one placed frontally in a diagonal, and the other in profile and bent at right angles, has comparable examples: one is the left-hand male in the Pellan Lion Hunt mosaic; another is the central figure from the Hellenistic Warrior mosaic found in Alexandria.34 The posture of this last pair of males is also indistinguishable, and like the other figures, they are almost certainly derived from common models. Dauphin accounts for the frequency of certain figures and decorative motifs in inhabited vine-trellis pavements encountered in Byzantine-era Palestine as the consequence of the use of sketchbooks by master-mosaicists.35 These books, she suggests, would have 31  Despite originating from different houses, they come from a common stratigraphic layer, and numismatic and pottery evidence give a terminus post quem of 350–325 BC. C. Robertson (1965, 86–87) places them in the period of Kassander’s rule (316–297 BC), when an extensive building programme appears to have occurred; see also Dunbabin 1999, 10, n. 23. 32  For the Vergina tomb, see Andronicos 1989, 97–119; a drawing of the fresco is found on page 103. 33  Andronicos 1989, 103, identifies these horsemen as Alexander the Great (to the left) and his father Philip II. 34  For an image of the mosaic, see Brown 1957, pl. XLIV(2). Daszewski (1985, 102) places this pavement in the range of 320–300 BC according to stylistic affinities with the Pellan hunting mosaics and a stratigraphic link with early Hellenistic walls located nearby. 35  Dauphin 1978, 408–09.

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consisted of sets of files, arranged according to subjects: one file for bird types, another for animals, and for humans etc. If an inhabited scroll design were to be paved, the mosaicist could simply choose the figures from his set of stock-types.36 One might surmise that such files comprised parchment or papyrus scrolls with sketches of the stock figures, and which could readily be transported and viewed by prospective patrons. In some cases, Dauphin’s notion seems self-evident. Akin to the Hellenistic warrior figure, for example, stock poses employed for animals were probably also modified by mosaicists to construct different varieties, whether to satisfy the requirements of the design programme or the patrons’ wishes. Rachel Hachlili highlights a group of quadrupeds from the church pavements at Horbat Beer Shema‘, and Shellal, both in modern Israel, and at Petra in Jordan, that are all represented walking in profile with their heads lowered in a subdued stance, hinting at a common prototype.37 Literary sources also suggest that some artists were accustomed to using models. Basil of Caesarea (AD 330–379), writing an allegorical note that stresses the importance for Christians to imitate the virtuous lives of saints, describes artists who copy icons from icons.38 More relevant for floor mosaics are the contents of the mid-3rd-century BC papyrus text from the archives of Zenon in Egypt. The papyrus forms a contract for a mosaic to be paved, detailing how the contractor (ἐργολάβος) is to supply a model (παράδειγμα) of the pavement design and then to complete the work according to the model. It also describes elements of the round pattern, which included plain bands and a wave-type framing a central flower.39 Wiktor Daszewski correlates this design with two other Hellenistic Egyptian floors: one from the Ptolemaic town of Diospolis Parva in Upper Egypt, possibly of the 1st century BC; and a second from Canopus near Alexandria, dating to the end of the 2nd century BC.40 As Daszewski notes, the presence of the same mosaic floor design at sites some 300 km distant (Canopus and the Fayum) and spanning more than a century in time indicates that even in the formative period of floor mosaic development in Egypt, some form of record existed by which designs could be conveyed over long distances and periods.41

THE BEAZLEY METHOD

AND

DIAGNOSTIC MARKERS

IN

MOSAIC

Given the probable use by mosaicists of stock figures and design elements from modeland pattern-books, more stringent testing must be applied to build a persuasive attribution methodology. As we have seen, the pavements offering the most diversity in terms of stylistic and technical attributes are those with figures – both human and animal. More significantly, the key facet that will aid in distinguishing between groups of figures and identify the common features required to attribute floors to individual artisans/groups is the artisan’s particular technique for modelling. Giovanni Morelli and John Beazley each 36  Dauphin 1978, 409; see also Hachlili 2009, 275–78, who suggests some probable stock figures from various media. 37  See Hachlili 2009, 143, pl. VI.20. 38  Basil of Caesarea in Patrologiae Graeca 31, 493A; see also Cormack 1997, 74–75, fig. 22. 39  Cairo Zenon Papyrus no. 59665: Daszewski 1985, 6. 40  Daszewski 1985, 8 (no. 46, pls. 38–39, and nos. 26 and 27, pl. 26, in his accompanying catalogue). 41  Daszewski 1985, 13.

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practised an analytical method based on a taxonomic approach, using diagnostic markers in order to attribute pictures to specific artists and their followers, and it is the view here that the principles of this methodology can be applied to the media of mosaic. Morelli, working in the field of Italian Renaissance painting during the latter part of the 19th century, developed an interest in comparative anatomy following his medical training. He formed the belief that the treatment of minor anatomical features, such as ears and hands, was a personal style unique to each artist, much in the way that handwriting differs between individuals, and not something necessarily taught or modified during their apprentice training. Significantly, he also stressed the importance of direct examination of the artists’ work.42 Beazley, commencing his research a generation or so after Morelli, stands at the forefront of the study of Attic red- and black-figure vase-painting, most significantly in regard to the question of artist identification and attribution.43 His method reflects the Morellian principles, though it is not clear if he directly borrowed from Morelli or was aware of his work.44 In terms of applying this form of diagnostic approach to diverse media, however, Greek vase-painting seemingly presents as a more profitable avenue than Renaissance painting on account of the strictly linear and often rudimentary quality of the figures, and which also tend to reveal a great deal of anatomical detailing.45 Beazley possessed an awareness of style and a visual memory that allowed him to recall and amass indicative minor details of individual artists in their treatment of figures; and of vital importance, he had direct contact with the vases under discussion and supported his findings with the addition of photos of the original works. This is how his analytical approach to stylistic appraisals in figural art far exceeds many other researchers, for he examined the vases first-hand, and did not base his attributions on the general resemblance of figures and compositions, but upon clearly defined and specified features. His pioneering study of the Attic red-figure painter, who decorated some vases bearing the signature of Kleophrades, saw the scholar add hitherto unaccredited pieces to the painter’s oeuvre by way of a systematic form analysis of the idiosyncratic modelling elements.46 The Kleophrades Painter, it seems, executed powerful bodies with simple linear detailing, favoured profiles with upright facial angles, characteristic aquiline noses and rounded full nostrils, and was known to add colouring to aspects of the hair.47 Beazley refined his methodological framework and cemented its legitimacy in a subsequent article dealing with the red-figure artist of an amphora in the Berlin Museum, who came to be known 42  See in particular the examples of hands and ears highlighted by Morelli 1892 I, 77–78. Wollheim (1978, 12) calls these idiosyncratic details the artist’s ‘fingerprint’. A discussion of the formative years of Morelli’s method of connoisseurship by way of his private letters is found in Anderson 1999. 43  For example, see Beazley 1942; 1956; and Trendall 1967; 1989, who extended Beazley’s methodological principles to the study of Greek red-figure vases in southern Italy. 44  Whilst Beazley makes no direct reference to Morelli in his work, many scholars suggest that he was familiar with the Morellian method and adhered diligently to its principles. See primarily Kurtz 1985; and also briefer references in M. Robertson 1985, 26; Ashmole 1985, 65; Boardman 2001, 131–32; and Rouet 2001, 66. Alternatively, Williams (1996, 241–42) argues that Beazley derived his method from the German scholar Paul Hartwig. 45  Boardman 2001, 130. 46  Beazley 1910. Kleophrades is assumed to be the potter. 47  Beazley 1910, 39–42, and note also his application of these details in attributing the kalyx-krater in the Louvre to Kleophrades (41–42), but rejection of an amphora at Würzburg (40).

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as the Berlin Master.48 Here, he focused on a discreet series of anatomical details: linear treatment of the clavicle, the lower sternal junction, abdominal muscles, the arm and shoulder muscles, hip-line, hand and foot positioning, eye shape, facial profile, folds in the chiton, and distinctive use of colouring for some of the delineation and hair.49 Considered individually these criteria may appear ambiguous, particularly in light of the vast corpus of Attic red-figure ware, but when they are united consistently in single vases and differ from other contemporary examples, they forge a strong case for a specific artist or close follower. Beazley, like Morelli before him, held the view that artists may reproduce with regularity certain fine points, such that they form the hallmarks of the artist. Defending Beazley’s method, Robertson and Boardman maintain that these elements of detail are legitimate diagnostic criteria and consistent indicators for recognising different artists.50 One hundred years after Beazley’s initial articles, his methodological principles remain the basis of painter identification in the discipline. The examination of Beazley’s method leads to the nature of the relationship between painted pottery and mosaic. We are limited in the variety of surviving illustrated media from the ancient Mediterranean. Little in the way of painting survives. Like painted pottery, mosaics offer a myriad of figures, and representations in both media are governed by linear qualities. In this regard, they differ chiefly in the ability of vase painters to reproduce an accurate and realistic portrayal of the human body in illusionistic threedimension by way of frequently placing the figures in three-quarter pose and using a very fine brush. Subtle flowing lines demarcate anatomical details and drapery, allowing – in many cases – a great deal of naturalism. The situation is slightly different with mosaic, as the physical properties of tesserae cubes predispose the ensuing lines to a certain unnatural tracking appearance. And with the abandonment of opus vermiculatum in the Byzantine era, the comparatively broad tesserae lines often lend a schematic look – unless that is, the illustrated figures are particularly large. To alleviate this, polychromy is applied, whereas in vase-painting colour plays very little part. Modulated colour transitions suggest shading, imparting volume to the figures. On the whole, however, and it must be stressed again, linear portrayals are the overriding artistic conception in both media. In keeping with Beazley’s observations of vase-painting, it is the technique used in the detailing of figures, coupled with narrow dating parameters and close geographical proximity, which offer the best road for dissecting sizeable groups of mosaics, and possibly identifying the works of individual artisans. This method has proven its legitimacy elsewhere in painting and other media. Boardman for instance, emphasises the characteristic ears used by eight different artists of Japanese woodblock prints as a succinct example.51 Michael Roaf argues that three groups of sculptors executed 24 Persian archers on the west side of the Apadana at Persepolis, basing his method on Morellian principles, and confirmed by the presence of distinct sculptors’ marks.52 Admittedly, some of the diagnostic elements in linear painting cannot be applied practically to mosaic – we will gain 48

 Beazley 1911.  Beazley 1911, 286–91, and note in particular Beazley’s line drawings of anatomical features. 50  M. Robertson 1985, 27, 28; Boardman 2001, 133–34. 51  Boardman 2001, 134–35, figs. 171–72. 52  Roaf 1978. 49

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little familiarity with the mosaicists’ handwriting from an examination of figures’ hands or ears, as ultimately the handling of these details in tesserae is haphazard. However, akin to the approaches of Morelli and Beazley, with figures rendered in mosaic we are examining explicitly the details of form where characteristic diagnostic markers remain, and which can be separated from the overall style. This lends to the method a greater degree of taxonomic analysis, and not the weakness of subjectivity that can linger with a purely stylistic approach. Colour and shading additionally afford a further platform that are not offered in vases, as an assortment of techniques appear to have been used, from welldefined tonal shifts, the distinctive use of dentils or subtle and carefully blended gradations, of the types used in the floors at Gaza, Beth Guvrin and Hazor-Ashdod discussed earlier. Despite the application of Beazley’s framework to stylistic analyses in art historical scholarship since the concept was put forward in the early 20th century, it has rarely been used to evaluate mosaics, and certainly not with direct reference to his methodology. Naturally in instances where assemblages are aniconic and contain only patterns such a method is redundant, as ascribing individual artisans or groups based on generic modelbook patterns alone is problematic. However, when geographically localised groupings of figural mosaics with narrow dating parameters are unearthed the approach seems indispensable. The Franciscan Fathers Sylvester Saller and Bellarmino Bagatti were possibly the first scholars to bring to the fore the potential implications of a comprehensive technical examination of mosaics for attribution studies. In their analysis of a series of pavements bearing a Christian context from the Madaba and Mt Nebo, they systematically examined every facet of the floors including bedding, tesserae arrangement, decorative schemes, overall iconographic programme and sound comparative examples.53 Of most importance here is the attention given to the technical aspects of figural modelling. They note that much smaller tesserae were used for the figures’ faces than other body parts. Positioning of the eyes, face and body were considered, as well as proportions, particularly in relation to the head and body ratio; also, the rather rudimentary rendering of hands and feet, which were often found to be inverted; furthermore, the level of animation applied to drapery and analysis of its associated decorative ornaments. They fell short of proposing outright that any two mosaics are the product of the same artisans, though pointed to strong stylistic and technical links between those of Madaba and Khirbet al-Mukhayyat, postulating that the same hands or followers of the same artistic tradition worked at both locations. In their concluding remarks it is noteworthy that they stressed their present state of knowledge on the subject matter was deficient due to a lack of good photographs.54 Working in the same region of Jordan and closely following Saller and Bagatti’s analytical framework, the Franciscan Father Michele Piccirillo has more recently offered a compelling case for ascribing several floors to a select group of workshops.55 The district of Madaba is unique in the Near East in terms of the significant volume of pavements discovered including several with securely dated inscriptions, and the relatively sound state of preservation. With the addition of several further floors excavated to the south 53

 Saller and Bagatti 1949, 112–37.  Saller and Bagatti 1949, 135. 55  In particular Piccirillo 1999; 2005. 54

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of Madaba at Umm ar-Rasas,56 Piccirillo has appraised the assemblage according to overall compositional programme, detailed technical aspects of the figures, and some secure dates. Although the material is diverse and the artisans likely derived many of their figures from model-books, Piccirillo reinforces his stylistic analyses by including in his publications high-resolution images.57 Ernst Kitzinger has perhaps come closest to applying Beazley’s principles to mosaic, distinguishing two contemporaneous workshops that decorated chapels approximately 1 km apart at Palermo in Sicily.58 The mosaics occupy the walls and vaults of the chapel attached to the palace of Roger II (Palatine Chapel), and the Church of the Martorana. They were likely decorated with mosaics during the fifth decade of the 12th century AD.59 Their iconographic programmes are congruent in many areas, and stylistically the figures are depicted in a very similar manner, leaving Kitzinger to conclude there must have been close contact between the two groups.60 There are, however, subtle but definite variances in the linear qualities of the facial detailing, and Kitzinger supports his observations with detailed images of four heads.61 This methodological approach is also taken by Ann Terry and Henry Maguire, who identify strong resemblances between the faces of two deacons from the wall mosaic at San Vitale in Ravenna and those of Eufrasius and Claudius from the wall mosaics at the Cathedral of Eufrasius at Poreč, both appearing to date to the mid-6th century.62 They note, above all, marked symmetry in the cheeks and dark lines extending from the base of the nose to the moustache, and the construction and colouring of the lips. They put forward a compelling case that a direct connexion of some degree existed between the mosaicists of the four figures from the two churches, and in light of the contemporaneous dates and relative proximity of the sites, the artisans may well have absorbed common artistic elements. In the absence of assemblages of pavements bearing common names, a definitive answer to mosaic artist attribution is perhaps unobtainable. However, Beazley’s attribution methodology has been tested comprehensively in the media of Classical Greek painted pottery, and appears the most reliable approach to be applied to figural mosaics because of shared anatomical modelling elements. This methodology is not an exact science; nevertheless, the key point to be stressed is that Beazley’s system is not simply an analysis of style, but more significantly, an analysis of line and form. It is the discreet elements of form that allow us to penetrate the veil of stylistic homogeneity so often encountered with mosaic designs, and which offers a rigorous taxonomic solution to the scholarly accusations of subjective stylistic analysis. 56

 These include the Church of Bishop Sergius, Church of the Rivers, Church of the Priest Wa’il, St Paul’s Church and the Church of the Lions: Piccirillo 1999, 128–36. 57  Most importantly are the vividly detailed photographs found in Piccirillo 1993. 58  Kitzinger 1986. 59  The narrow dating range is provided for the Palatine Chapel by a dedicatory inscription in the mosaic of 1143, and the death of Roger II in 1154. The Martorama was funded by Roger’s admiral George of Antioch; the decoration must have occurred between its charter of endowment in 1143, and George’s death in 1151. The history of both buildings, their mosaics and dating, are comprehensively covered by Demus 1950. 60  Kitzinger 1986, 278. 61  The Martorana heads highlighted by Kitzinger (Christ and the prophet Jeremiah) display strong shadowing above and below the eyes, along the side of the nose, and at one corner of the forehead. The Palatine heads exhibit an interplay of streaking lines of tesserae that compose the forehead and cheeks. 62  Terry and Maguire 2007, 59–69.

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THE MOSAICISTS OF THE CHURCH OF SS LOT AND PROCOPIUS, MAP CHURCH AND THE CHAPEL OF THE PRIEST JOHN

THE

MADABA

Father Michele Piccirillo was the first to propose that the same team of artisans made the mosaic pavements of two buildings at Khirbet al-Mukhayyat, situated in the environs of Madaba.63 The mosaics are from the Church of SS Lot and Procopius, dated by an accompanying inscription to AD 557,64 and the upper pavement of the Chapel of the Priest John, placed in the vicinity of the mid-6th century AD according to its inscription.65 Piccirillo chiefly draws broad stylistic parallels and he did not analyse the specific technical features inherent in these floors, though judging by the common technique used to construct the human faces and shading, and close stylistic congruence with certain facets of the floors, they are certainly the product of one team. I have argued elsewhere that common mosaicists paved the SS Lot and Procopius floor and the nearby historically significant Madaba Map mosaic, primarily on the strength of congruent idiosyncratic techniques used to illustrate minor pictorial details, and the uniform technical ability of the artisans.66 We can, therefore, assign all three mosaics to a single group, which in terms of both aesthetic and technical proficiency were the foremost mosaicists operating in the Madaba region during the mid-6th century AD.

Church of SS Lot and Procopius and the Chapel of the Priest John We are fortunate that several humans and quadrupeds are preserved in the Khirbet alMukhayyat pavements. The nave of the basilical Church of SS Lot and Procopius is divided into east and west carpets. In the western field are four trees placed in the corners converging at the centre, and originally there were four pairs of animals along the sides arranged facing each other (stags, bulls and hares – the western pair are destroyed). The eastern field is composed of 20 vine-trellis medallions, each framing humans or animals (Fig. 6). The points of departure are acanthus buds set in the four corners of the field. 63

 Piccirillo (1993, 174; 1999, 127) highlights above all the accentuation of the human bodies and faces.  The dedicatory inscription at the eastern end of the nave of SS Lot and Procopius commences with: Ἐπὶ τοῦ ἁγιω(τάτου) κ(αὶ) ὡσιω(τάτου) Ἰωάννου ἐπισκό(που) ἐκτήσθη κ(αὶ) ἐτελιώθη ὡ ἅγιος τώπως σ[π]ουδῖ Βαρίχα πρεσβυτήρου κ(αὶ) παραμοναρὶου αὐτοῦ ἐν μηνὶ Νοεμβρίῳ χρόνον ἕκτιν ἰνδ(ικτιῶνος…) – ‘In the time of the most holy and pious Bishop John this holy place was built and finished at the haste of Barichas the priest and sacristan, in the month of November in the time of the 6th indiction’. As Di Segni 1998, 443, points out, during the era of Bishop John of Madaba the 6th indiction fell on 542/3, 557/8 and even possibly 572/3, as his successor Bishop Sergius is first attested in 575; however, she prefers November 557, chiefly due to the palaeographic character of the inscription. This date is also followed by Piccirillo 1993, 164. For the later date of 572/3 to be correct, it would indicate that John chaired the See for at least 37 years which, although feasible, is less convincing than 557. The pavements of SS Lot and Procopius are preserved in situ and protected by a modern shelter at Khirbet al-Mukhayyat, situated between Madaba and Mt Nebo. 65  A dedicatory inscription in the eastern area indicates the chapel and mosaics were renewed in August during the era of the Bishop John of Madaba, however, the precise indiction is destroyed. For the complete inscription, see Saller and Bagatti 1949, 172–73, pl. 33.1–2. Piccirillo (1989, 190–92; 1998b, 224–25) places it after the mid-6th century, due to archaeological evidence, the known chronology of Bishop John, and the close stylistic affinities with SS Lot and Procopius. The upper hall mosaic from the Chapel of the Priest John has been removed, and is displayed in the Visitor’s Centre at Mt Nebo. 66  Madden 2012a. 64

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Fig. 6. Nave mosaic east panel of the Church of SS Lot and Procopius, Khirbet al-Mukhayyat (after Piccirillo 1993, fig. 202).

Further figures are depicted in the intercolumnar panels, whilst two sheep stand either side of a centrally placed tree in the bema.67 The Chapel of the Priest John is located adjacent to the north wall of the Church of Amos and Kloseus.68 Only the eastern half of the pavement is extant. Acanthus leaves shaping scrolls inhabited by humans and quadrupeds decorate the main carpet (Fig. 7). The border comprises a swastika meander composed of guilloche and rainbow cables, 67

 For images of the entire design programme, see Piccirillo 1993, 165.  The church is so-named by inscriptions mentioning two benefactors carved on chancel-posts: Saller and Bagatti 1949, 180–82. 68

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Fig. 7. Hall mosaic of the Upper Chapel of the Priest John, Khirbet al-Mukhayyat (after Piccirillo 1993, fig. 230).

and square pictorial panels housing birds and two unidentified humans (each with a nimbus).69 The SS Lot and Procopius church offers several human figures to scrutinise: ten are situated in the nave’s eastern carpet and two in the north-eastern intercolumnar panel. Faces are composed of tesserae smaller than the rest of the field, and this seems to be a conventional device with mosaics of the Madaba region.70 Heads are all slightly turned in three-quarter view, even when some of the bodies are placed frontally (Figs. 8a–d). The feature immediately noticeable is the anatomically broad jaw. Eyes are semi-circular with straightened upper lids. Noses are fashioned with one line of mostly dark grey tesserae, and nearly all are squared at the base, excluding the grape-treaders and the fisherman from the intercolumnar panel. The technique used to create the lips is also characteristic: triangular tesserae form the deep upper cleft, whilst one or two dark grey tesserae shape the base of the lower lip. The mosaicist has consistently chosen brick-red 69

 Piccirillo 1998a, 351, suggests they represent two of the benefactors.  Numerous examples are found in Piccirillo 1993.

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a

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b

c d

Fig. 8a–d. Nave mosaic east panel of the Church of SS Lot and Procopius, Khirbet al-Mukhayyat, detail of human heads (a–b: after Piccirillo 1993, 203–04; c–d: author’s photographs).

for the upper lip and pink for the lower. Hair is predominantly brown; to indicate form elongated black tesserae are arranged in irregular striations. Volume is suggested by the inclusion of courses of very light-pink tesserae along the length of the limbs, and others of various colour tones are used liberally on garments to represent folds. The marked standardisation of these features point towards one mosaicist producing all of the human figures. Other minor details support this notion. Where thighs are depicted they are distinctively more rounded than the lower legs, and knees are indicated by the course of dark grey tesserae intruding slightly beyond the outline of the leg.71 Regrettably, some of the figures from the upper pavement of the Chapel of the Priest John have been lost since they were published by Saller and Bagatti.72 Our best preserved comparable examples are the shepherd with the sling, and male and female basket bearers in the main field (Figs. 9a–c). Many of the features of the SS Lot and Procopius heads 71

 See examples in Piccirillo 1993, 152–58.  The faces of the hunter holding a sword and Ge, both from the central column are destroyed. For images, see Saller and Bagatti 1949, pl. 10 (1–2). 72

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a

b

c d

Fig. 9a–d. Hall mosaic of the Upper Chapel of the Priest John, Khirbet al-Mukhayyat, (a–c) detail of heads (author’s photographs); (d) detail of a hunter (after Saller and Bagatti 1949, pl. 10.1).

are apparent: the idiosyncratic broad jaw, semi-circular eyes and nose outlined on one side with dark tesserae. The base of the nose in all cases, however, is slightly pointed, with the exception of the (now lost) hunter with a sword (Fig. 9d). The mosaicist has again chosen brick-red tesserae for the upper lip, pink for the lower, and a line of dark grey tesserae at its base; and the three intact heads from the nave retain the obvious cleft in its centre. Treatment of the hair in many cases is identical to the other mosaic: the irregular contours of dark grey triangular tesserae are interspersed with brown cubes. The blond hair of the (now lost) hunter has a useful parallel in the hunter with the bow from the previous pavement (Fig. 8d), as both have clustered and unbroken vertical lines of dark tesserae. The limbs of the two males of the chapel main field are complemented with loose lines of light shading to imply volume like their SS Lot and Procopius counterparts. Additionally, all of the figures’ faces from both sites have patches of pink and red colouring marking the cheeks. In assessing the complete design quality of the two inhabited medallion pavements, one is immediately struck by the solid and mature impression. The organisation of the fields is well-balanced, and neither the animals, nor humans appear in any way subordinate to

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one another in terms of their numbers or arrangement. This type of composition, which is in effect derived from a grid pattern and thus has an inclination to appear rigid and symmetrical, is instead fluid and dynamic. It is the result of two factors – the marvellous animation and array of the figures’ poses, and the very naturalistic execution of the vegetal medallions. Despite the employment of obviously different medallions, a common artistic style definitely underscores both floors, one that stresses a balanced composition and naturalistic sense of pose with the figures. Subtle differences might be explained by a development of technique over the period separating the mosaics. The mouths of some of the males in the SS Lot and Procopius pavement are placed too high on the face, accentuating the appearance of a broad jaw, whereas this is corrected in the Chapel mosaic. If indeed the artisan has refined his technique, and these are not merely coincidences resulting from the randomly surviving figures, then it would suggest that the Chapel pavement is the later of the two floors. Matching tesserae dimensions is the final element linking the floors. Three random measurements recorded of the tesserae count per dm² in the main field (including the white background, decorative elements and figures bodies) at SS Lot and Procopius by the author show 70–72 cubes per dm². Three similar tesserae counts of the Priest John pavement reveal 69–75 per dm². Cubes utilised for the human faces from both pavements consistently range from 2–5 mm in width. No cube size discrepancies are noted whatsoever, and this indicates the mosaicists and/or tesserae cutters were at the same technical proficiency. Summarising these observations, the human figures from the two sites strongly bear the hallmarks of one common mosaicist, as the linear detailing, construction of the facial elements and method of polychromy is identical. The overall organisation of the compositions is also synonymous with one designer. Several of the animals, namely, those displaying dentil-type shading, are also suggestive of one artisan, or at the very least of a common method. Owing to the dissimilar shading techniques applied to the quadrupeds and humans, however, there is no clear evidence to assert that one artisan created all of the figures. Merged with the analogous findings of the tesserae size, these factors confirm Piccirillo’s assertion that the same mosaic team was responsible for both pavements.

THE MOSAIC TEAM OF THE THEOTOKOS AND BAPTISTERY CHAPELS AT MT NEBO, THE CHURCH OF THE LIONS AT UMM AR-RASAS AND THE CRYPT OF ST ELIANUS AT MADABA Piccirillo assigned two chapels at Mt Nebo and a basilica at Umm ar-Rasas, some 40 km apart, to a common team of mosaicists according to the similar rendering of the animals and close chronology.73 The various diagnostic features evident in these floors – the animals’ form, colouring and modular conception, and the depiction of fruit trees, betrays a remarkably individual and analogous style, supporting Piccirillo’s proposal. The pavement from the Crypt of St Elianus in Madaba can also be attributed to this group.

73

 Piccirillo 1998a, 304–06.

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Theotokos and Baptistery Chapels and the Church of the Lions On Mt Nebo, the New Baptistery and Theotokos Chapels adjoin the southern side of the Basilica of Moses. Together they comprise the final stage of the reconstruction of the Sanctuary of Moses. According to an accompanying inscription, the baptistery and its pavements were completed in AD 597 during the era of Bishop Sergius.74 The main carpet is decorated with a panel of squares and hexagons. In the apse, a partially preserved semi-circular panel surrounds the font, which in turn is flanked by two inscriptions enclosed in circles, and pairs of birds pecking at foliage. The principal rectangular panel between the baptismal apse and main carpet displays gazelles and birds set amongst five fruit trees. Regrettably, the quadrupeds have been defaced, and only the rear-half of one gazelle survives.75 Adjacent and to the west of the baptistery, the Theotokos Chapel was built in the time of Bishop Leontius of Madaba (ca. AD 603–608).76 The main carpet is divided into three panels.77 One has a field of florets forming an oblique grid. The middle rectangular panel is almost totally obliterated, though fragments indicate it showed a hunt. Interlaced round and semi-circular medallions with vegetal motifs occupy the western panel. The apse is filled with florets. In the margin is a line of tesserae with evenly spaced star motifs. A narrow rectangular panel fronting the apse depicts a centrally placed representation of an edifice,78 flanked by two bulls, flowers and gazelles. Of the animals, only one gazelle is preserved. South at Umm ar-Rasas, a mosaic inscription located in the eastern area of the nave of the tri-apsidal church of the Lions records that it was constructed in AD 574 or 589, in the period of Bishop Sergius.79 Of the nave, only the eastern part of the pavement is essentially intact. Its field is composed of acanthus medallions framing figures, all of which have been defaced by iconoclasts. The elaborate border contained further destroyed figures interspersed amongst fruit trees. Small sections at the western end of the nave indicate it housed a separate panel with fruit trees.80 Akin to the two Mt Nebo chapels, the panels of most interest here are in the apse and bema. A field of florets occupy the apse, and in the margin is a thin line with spaced star motifs. Two defaced bulls are set either side of the altar.81 The bema panel has three pomegranate trees and pairs of opposing lions and gazelles. In the border are circles framing birds or vegetal motifs. 74  The inscription partly reads: … ἐπὶ τοῦ ὁσιωτ(άτου) Cεργίου ἐπισκ(όπου) καὶ Μαρτυρίου θεοφιλ(εστάτο) πρεσβ(υτέρου) καὶ ἡγουμέ(νου), ἐπὶ τῆς ιεˊ ἰνδικτιῶνος, ἔτους υϙβ ˊ – ‘In the time of the pious Bishop Sergius and the God-loving priest and hegumen Martyrius, in the 15th indiction, year 492’ (= AD 597). The complete inscription is found in Piccirillo 1989, 163. 75  For a summary of the basilica, and images of the floorplan and mosaic programme, see Piccirillo 1993, 149–50. 76  The complete inscription is found in Piccirillo 1989, 165. 77  For images, see Piccirillo 1993, 149 and 151. 78  Piccirillo 1993, 151, suggests it represents the Temple of Jerusalem and may evoke Psalm 51.21: “then shall they offer bullocks upon thine alter.” 79  The inscription reads: Ἐπὶ Cεργίου τοῦ ὁσιω(τάτου) ἐπισκ(όπου) ἐτελιώθη ὁ ναός οὖτος ἐν μηνὶ Δεσίου ἰνδ(ικτιόνος) ζ ˊ – ‘In the time of the pious Bishop Sergius this temple (church) was completed in the month of Desius, indiction 7’ (= AD 574 or 589). The inscription is found in Piccirillo 1992, 219. 80  A description of the church and its mosaic programme is found in Piccirillo 1993, 236–37. 81  Although destroyed, they can be identified by the general outline and presence of hooves, noses, and a horn on the left-sided bull.

APPLYING THE BEAZLEY METHOD TO MOSAIC ARTIST ATTRIBUTION

Fig. 10. Bema mosaic of the Church of the Lions, Umm ar-Rasas, detail of a gazelle (after Piccirillo 1993, fig. 340).

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Fig. 11. Bema mosaic of the Theotokos Chapel, Basilica of Moses, Mt Nebo, detail of a gazelle (after Piccirillo 1993, fig. 173).

Remarkably, iconoclasts removed several of these figures and refitted the tesserae in pixelated form, whilst other figures were left untouched. One of the two gazelles is undamaged, as are the heads of the lions, even though the bodies were destroyed. In linking the three edifices to one workshop, Piccirillo draws attention to several commonalities, notably, the close chronology, arrangement of the compositions, recurrent use of particular animals and decorative motifs, and the execution of the gazelles.82 The two adjoining chapels were built at the least six – and at the most eleven years apart, and have arrangements of narrow pictorial panels in front of the apse housing gazelles. Apses from the Theotokos Chapel and Church of the Lions exhibit the same field of florets and thin black line with spaced star motifs in the margin. They also have pairs of bulls and gazelles. The birds pecking at foliage either side of the baptismal font boast a comparative example in one of the medallions of the bema border panel in the Lions basilica.83 As substantial as these details appear, by themselves they merely point to a shared stylistic and iconographic tradition. Most pertinent for a positive attribution is an examination of the gazelles. The two complete examples are from the Church of the Lions and the Theotokos Chapel (Figs. 10–11). Black tesserae outline the bodies, and with the Lions church gazelle they also lengthen along the backs of the legs. Ears and antlers are long and thin. Eyes are perfectly round and are composed of an outline in black tesserae, an inner circle of white cubes and one larger central tessera. Shading is limited to a row of alternating black and red/ochre cubes forming regular dentils. The unbroken rear-half of the baptistery gazelle does not include this element (Fig. 12); nonetheless, abundantly 82

 Piccirillo 1998a, 304–06; 1999, 135–37.  Piccirillo 1998a, 304–06; 1999, 135–37. For images of the birds, see Piccirillo 1993, figs. 196 and 341.

83

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Fig. 12. Bema mosaic of the New Baptistery Chapel, Basilica of Moses, Mt Nebo, detail of a gazelle (after Piccirillo 1998b, fig. 72).

Fig. 13. Presbytery mosaic of the New Baptistery Chapel, Basilica of Moses, Mt Nebo, detail of a tree (after Piccirillo 1998b, fig. 72).

Fig. 14. Bema mosaic of the Church of the Lions, Umm ar-Rasas, detail of a tree (after Piccirillo 1993, 339).

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clear in all three animals is the mosaicist’s characteristic technique of using tesserae courses to delineate the limbs and construct the patterning, thereby treating the figures as modular units. The base of the tail terminates with four pointed tesserae. Hindquarters consist of an arc-shaped patch of white cubes, followed by a black crescent; and the baptistery and Lions church examples include a further line of grey stones. This prevailing contour proceeds to form the animal’s hip and back leg. The chest and abdomen enclose two patterned segments. An arc of tesserae shaded differently to the main body colour outlines the upper section,84 which again is a crescent, but here rendered in black. The lower part is white; in the Mt Nebo gazelles the areas are completely shaded, whereas in the Lions church rows of white cubes are used. This latter scheme is also employed for the animal’s shoulder and neck rather than the plain white for the Theotokos Chapel gazelle. Tessellated semi-circles serve to sketch the shoulders on the two intact specimens, and in the centre is a separate tear-shaped section. The remaining tessellated area of the body is also distinctive. A scale with two inverted sides is formed above the chest and hindquarters; this extends forward in a thin branch to shape a trapezium with an inverted base above the shoulder. The identical method employed to construct the three gazelles, which is notably schematic in appearance, is strongly suggestive of one common mosaicist. Pomegranate trees from the Baptistery Chapel and Church of the Lions further reveal a common and idiosyncratic technique (Figs. 13–14). The trunk essentially is organised into a sequence of intersecting concentric arcs, with each segment consisting of brick-red cubes on one side and black and grey on the other, while ochre is reserved for the middle area. The outline of the foliage is identical, with branches terminating in short trifoliate stems. Pomegranates are variegated with tones of ochre and red, and the centres of most have white circles constructed of five cubes arranged as a cross with four triangular outer quadrants. Comparing the distinguishing technical elements, there seems little doubt that common hands created the gazelles and trees. The implications this finding holds for our understanding of mosaic technique and mosaicists’ mobility are considerable. Given the secure dates for the two chapels, the first task is to establish the more likely of the two possible dates for the Church of the Lions – AD 574 or 589. For the earlier date to be feasible, the time lag until the paving of the Theotokos chapel (AD 603–608) would be 29–34 years, whereas the later date would leave a period of 14–19 years. Certainly either is possible, though reason would prefer the shorter time-span, and therefore place the paving of the church in AD 589.85 The consistent modelling exercised over several years reinforces the notion that – like shadowing and other linear elements – it represents an aspect of the mosaicist’s ‘signature’ on the floors. It also indicates that mosaicists would travel considerable distances (in this case 40 km) to undertake commissions.86

84

 The two Mt Nebo gazelles have shades of brown, and brick-red is employed at Umm ar-Rasas.  Piccirillo 1995, 393, prefers AD 588/9, though he arrives at this, it seems, due to its correlation with the other securely dated floors at Umm ar-Rasas. 86  See Madden 2012b, 185, for a proposal that mosaicists from Antioch executed the mosaic pavements of the Constantinian Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem. 85

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Fig. 15. Apse mosaic of the Crypt of St Elianus, Madaba, detail of the tree (author’s photograph).

Crypt of St Elianus This last point ushers an opportune time to introduce the Crypt of St Elianus at Madaba, as it is clear this team of mosaicists received commissions at three locations. Found beneath the Church of the Prophet Elias, a mosaic inscription in its hall tells us the crypt was paved in AD 595/6.87 Its apse was originally decorated with a pomegranate tree flanked by two sheep.88 Examining the intact section of the tree (Fig. 15), it is identical to the Baptistery Chapel example, and extremely close to that at the Lions church. Indeed, juxtaposed with the former, all of the elements appear in duplicate. The foliage in all three cases has a palmette-style form (Figs. 13–15). Like the Baptistery Chapel, the branches terminate with trifoliate stems; each trifoliate segment is composed of six tesserae forming an oval shape, and the colours alternate between ochre and cream. Pomegranates are also indistinguishable. Three rows of ochre and brick-red tesserae are arranged around a circular centre composing nine cream coloured stones. Their adjoining stems are cream and feature small black tesserae where they join the fruit. An early photograph of the intact pomegranate trunk shows that it possessed the segmented outline in the manner of the baptistery type (Fig. 16). The left-hand sheep present in this same image can also be compared to the gazelles. Whilst no direct correlations are drawn between the general forms of the animals, the curious concentric triangular design marking the sheep’s body offers a link. The mosaicist exhibits an interest in divisions of abstract 87

 The inscription gives the date 490 (= AD 595/6). The full inscription is given in Séjourné 1897, 652.  At some unrecorded time, the pavement was vandalised, such that only the upper part of the tree and part of the left (northern) sheep remain. The crypt pavement remains in situ and is displayed at the Madaba Archaeological Park. 88

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Fig. 16. Apse mosaic of the Crypt of St Elianus, Madaba (after Saller and Bagatti 1949, pl. 40.5).

patterning, much in the same manner of the coloured segments decorating the hindquarters and abdomen of the gazelles – all of these quadrupeds appear to be devised as modular units. The technique is not common in the Madaba region, as artisans show more of a predilection for shading with dentils or conventional colour gradation. The date of the St Elianus crypt (AD 595/6) further ties in neatly with this group, and strengthens the argument for the paving of the Church of the Lions in 589. Therefore, we can posit that this mosaic group was active from at least AD 589 to ca. 608, varying little in technique according to the elements examined. The location of the mosaic sites further supports the view that provincial artisans chose to travel in pursuit of commissions, though it is not known if this extended beyond the boundaries of the Madaba diocese.

HORBAT BERAKHOT

AND THE

MONASTERY

OF

MARTYRIUS

Thus far, we have used the diagnostic features to assign mosaics to specific artisans. We will now turn our attention to church pavements from two sites located in Israel, as their very close stylistic resemblances have led to the suggestion that they were paved by the same craftsmen. In this case, however, two minor but essential technical details differ, and signify that different mosaicists created the floors. Approximately 13 km east of Jerusalem and on the fringes of the Judean Desert are the extensive remains of a site widely viewed as the Monastery of Martyrius.89 Mosaics from two building phases are clearly discerned. The second phase involved considerable rebuilding of the site, including remodelling of the main church and refectory, and the addition of a large chapel. It is from this period that most of the extant pavements derive. A small number of figures enclosed in octagonal medallions are preserved in the church 89

 The site was excavated by Yitzhak Magen in 1982–85, see Magen and Talgam 1990. The monk Martyrius and the establishment of the monastery are relayed by Cyril of Scythopolis in his Life of Euthymius (32): see Schwartz 1939, 51.

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nave. Other mosaics are mostly aniconic, and the decoration of the second phase shows a strong partiality for complex guilloche and interlacing work. Two mosaic inscriptions unearthed at the site, one mentioning an indiction cycle that fell on AD 553, 568 or 583, provide the floors with a coherent historical framework and aid in dating the largescale additions to the monastery.90 The monastery excavators suggest the third quarter of the 6th century AD for the second phase mosaics according to the inscriptions and stylistic considerations.91 Horbat Berakhot is situated near the Roman road connecting Hebron and Jerusalem, and some 17 km south-west of the latter.92 Though little of the mosaics survived, the nave is decorated with octagonal medallions housing animals akin to the monastery church. Assigning a date for the paving of the church floors is difficult as the site was devoid of explicit chronological data. The excavators had initially suggested a period from the second half of the 5th century to the beginning of the 6th century AD.93 Following the excavation of the Monastery of Martyrius, however, they revised this to the mid-6th century AD on the basis of the stylistic parallels noted with the mosaics.94 The pavements from the two sites exhibit remarkable similarity in the compositions and technique, hence, it is not surprising that the excavators suggest they were paved by the same craftsmen, highlighting notably the resemblance with the figures in terms of the use of three-quarter pose, naturalistic quality of movement and extensive range of colouring.95 The compositions and repertoire certainly show several parallels. The naves follow the same configuration of octagonal medallions shaped by bands decorated with guilloche and rainbow cables, and elaborate interlaced designs fill the rhombuses between medallions (Fig. 17).96 Numerous decorative motifs coincide. A rhombus is displayed in the only intercolumnar panel to survive from the Berakhot nave, and they feature prominently in the intercolumnar panels of the monastery refectory.97 Zigzag fills many of these latter panels, as well as the spaces in the Berakhot nave. A taste for guilloche borders is evident – they frame the Berakhot aisles, and can be seen in the nave, refectory and hospice chapel of the monastery. Finally, small florets and indented squares are liberally employed as filling elements in the plain white pavements, margins and in the smaller panels.98  The refectory inscription reads: Ἐπὶ τοῦ ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Γενεσίου πρεσβυτέρου κ(αὶ) ἀρχιμανδρίτου ἐγένετο κ(αὶ) τοῦτο τὸ ἔργον ὑπὲρ τῆς σωτηρίας αὑτοῦ κ(αὶ) τῆς ἐν Χριστῷ συνοδίας αὐτοῦ. Ἐτελιώθι δ ˊ ἐν μηνὶ Μαρτίῳ ἰνδικτιῶνος α ˊ. ‘In the time of our pious father Genesius, priest and archimandrite, this work was done for the salvation of himself and his community in Christ. It was completed on the fourth day in the month of March, indiction 1.’ On palaeographical comparisons, Di Segni prefers 583, and less so 568. See Di Segni 1990, 153–54, 158–61. 91  Magen and Talgam 1990, 148–50. They highlight the figures of the church nave pavement at Shellal (AD 561/2), near Gaza, as the closest dated comparison. For a comprehensive description of the Shellal mosaic, see Trendall 1973; Madden 2014, 122–23. 92  A salvage excavation of the basilical church was undertaken by Yoram Tsafrir and Yizhar Hirschfeld in 1976. See Tsafrir et al. 1979. 93  Tsafrir et al. 1979, 323. Their initial dating was established on ceramic evidence and a comparative analysis of the architecture and mosaics. 94  Tsafrir and Hirschfeld 1993, 218. 95  Magen and Talgam 1990, 148; Tsafrir and Hirschfeld 1993, 218. 96  See Madden 2014, 7 (H5). 97  For images, see Magen and Talgam 1990, figs. 54–59. 98  See Madden 2014, 7 (D and F variants). 90

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Fig. 17. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot (after Tsafrir et al. 1979, fig. 17).

The naturalistic modelling of the animals is a result of the pose and adroit use of polychrome. In form, they are rounded, most noticeably with the hindquarters, neck and limbs (Figs. 18–20). The two animals from Berakhot, a lion and an ox, are rendered with one forelimb stretching foreword and slightly foreshortened. An interesting exercise in perspective is at play, because the mosaicist has placed the lion in three-quarter stance and a little below the viewer. This is achieved by including as much of the face and hindquarters as possible. A similar approach is taken with the donkey from the monastery. Here, all four limbs are shown, but the two hooves closest to the viewer are set lower than the rear pair, implying the beast is seen from above. Colouring is involved, and perhaps demonstrates the expertise of the mosaicists more than any other single facet. Prominent regions are treated with lighter shades: the shoulder and hindquarters of the donkey, protuberance above the shoulder of the ox, and hind leg and cheek of the lion. However, more attention is given to the organisation of colour, as multiple hues are used for the bodies rather than single, uniform colours. It lends to the body surface a disruptive albeit naturalistic quality. Apart from these modelling elements, two other technical characteristics are important markers. The first, the use of shading, correlates in both floors. The second, however, involves construction of the eye, and shows a variance in technique. Three shading techniques are employed: the highlighting of prominent regions already noted, several rows of dark stones lining the animals’ backs, and the inclusion of dentils. The dentils are particularly noteworthy. In some cases they are exceptionally long, stretching across the hind leg and chest of the lion, the hind leg of the ox (the method of shading the animal’s chest is unknown), and the chest of the donkey. Dentils are frequently seen in the zoological figures of the Madaba region, but are much shorter, generally involving only one or two tesserae; however, in Byzantine Palestine the method is far less common. In all three animals, single, carefully rounded stones indicate the centre of the eyes. The eyes of the Berakhot types are consistently shaped with long and narrow black tesserae creating an irregular form. In contrast, the outline of the donkey’s eye is composed of a round

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Fig. 18. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of a lion (author’s photograph).

Fig. 19. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of an ox (author’s photograph).

Fig. 20. Nave mosaic of the church at the Monastery of Martyrius, detail of the donkey (author’s photograph).

APPLYING THE BEAZLEY METHOD TO MOSAIC ARTIST ATTRIBUTION

Fig. 21. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a medallion (author’s photograph).

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Fig. 22. Nave mosaic of the church at the Monastery of Martyrius, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a medallion (author’s photograph).

frame of small tesserae in brick red and white. This technique is repeated for the eyes of the partially preserved rabbit and fish that are also in the nave.99 Tesserae counts are very similar for the figures and white background from both naves. At Horbat Berakhot there are 122–144 tesserae per dm², and for the monastery the count is slightly lower at 112–120 per dm².100 By and large, the cubes employed for the figures and backgrounds from the two mosaics are identical in size, none having sides longer than 10 mm. The primary variance in the count relates to the tesserae shape and the effect this has on their spacing. At Berakhot they are in general regular and true cube-like, and consequently fit tightly together in a closely ordered fashion (Fig. 21). The monastery tesserae are more irregular in form, leaving the mortar visible in the ensuing gaps (Fig. 22). This is consistently evident in all regions of the pavement. 99

 For images of the rabbit and fish, see Magen and Talgam 1990, figs. 44–45.  Measurements were taken by the author and involved three random samples from each pavement. The nave pavement of the Monastery of Martyrius is exposed in situ, and the site is currently administered by the Israel Nature and Parks Authority. The pavement from Horbat Berakhot is displayed at the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. I am indebted to David Mevorach, Chief Curator of Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Exhibits at the Israel Museum, Jerusalem, for allowing me to examine the pavement. Both measurements differ from those published by the excavators. Tsafrir and Hirschfeld 1993, 210, give 160 tesserae per dm² for the nave, whilst Magen and Talgam 1990, 125, count 100–144 per dm² for the white background and 130–196 per dm² for the animals. 100

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Of all the pavements examined in this study, those from the naves of Horbat Berakhot and the Monastery of Martyrius are the most problematic to reconcile. Regardless of the marked compositional, stylistic and technical similarities that they undeniably share, the view reached here is that they were not paved by the same mosaicists. This is ascertained by reason of the tesserae spacing and the technique for producing the eye. The nearperfect fitting of the cubes at Berakhot sets an ambitious and definitive standard, and differentiates the technique from the visible gaps on the monastery church floor. One could make allowances if the spaces only occurred in certain areas, such as the white background, and speculate that specific mosaicists were assigned to that area of the floor and not, for example, the figures, by reason of inferior skill level. However, as the gaps are constant in all parts of the floor, this prospect is discounted (Figs. 23–24). Another possible scenario could envisage the variation in tesserae shape at the two sites as the consequence of different cutters, but here is where the structure of the eyes comes into bearing – the dissimilarity with the eye is both considerable and consistent, and appears to betray a different technique. In light of this conclusion, the stylistic affinities are equally difficult to rationalise. These pavements exemplify both the popularity of figural representation and the high artistic

Fig. 23. Nave mosaic of the church at Horbat Berakhot, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a section of rainbow cable (author’s photograph).

Fig. 24. Nave mosaic of the church at the Monastery of Martyrius, detail of the tesserae arrangement in a section of rainbow cable (author’s photograph).

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execution that is evident in Byzantine Palestine and Arabia during the 6th century AD. The similar appearance of the figures is unlikely to be due merely to common modelbooks. Modelling elements are so analogous that there definitely appears to be a connexion between the mosaicists’ technique, but to detail here precisely what the nature of the connexion was would be pure speculation. Given the figures do not possess tonal qualities of light and shade they are unlikely to have been inspired by monumental painting. Moreover, as they comprise just two floors, it is not sufficient to propose they represent a particular regional style. Perhaps the mosaicists of Horbat Berakhot and the Martyrius monastery were trained in the same tradition, or one carefully copied the work of the other. Both sites are easily reached from Jerusalem, and in light of the size and prominence of that city, it also stands as the probable provenance of the mosaicists.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aldred, C. 1980: Egyptian Art in the Days of the Pharaohs 3100–320 BC (London). Alexander, M. 1987: ‘Mosaic Ateliers from Tabarka’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 41, 1–11. Anderson, J. 1999: Collecting, Connoisseurship and the Art Market in Risorgimento Italy: Giovanni Morelli’s letters to Giovanni Melli and Pietro Zavaritt (1866–1872) (Istituto veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti. Classe di scienze morali, lettere ed arti Memorie 82) (Venice). Andronicos, M. 1989: Vergina: The Royal Tombs and the Ancient City (Athens). Ashmole, B. 1985: ‘Sir John Beazley (1885–1970)’. In Kurtz, D. (ed.), Beazley and Oxford (Oxford), 57–71. Avi-Yonah, M. 1933: ‘Mosaic Pavements in Palestine’. Quarterly of the Department of Antiquities in Palestine 2, 136–81. —. 1960: ‘The Ancient Synagogue of Ma’on (Nirim): E. The Mosaic Pavement’. Rabinowitz Bulletin 3, 25–35. Beazley, J.D. 1910: ‘Kleophrades’. JHS 30, 38–68. —. 1911: ‘The Master of the Berlin Amphora’. JHS 31, 276–95. —. 1942: Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 4th ed. (Oxford). —. 1956: Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters, 2nd ed. (Oxford). Boardman, J. 1996: Greek Art (London). —. 2001: The History of Greek Vases: Potter, Painters and Pictures (London). Brown, B. 1957: Ptolemaic Paintings and Mosaics and the Alexandrian Style (Cambridge). Cintas, J. and Duval, N. 1958: ‘L’église du prêtre Félix (région de Kélibia)’. Karthago 9, 157–265. Cookson, N. 1984: Romano-British Mosaics: A Reassessment and Critique of Some Notable Stylistic Affinities (Oxford). Cormack, R. 1997: Painting the Soul: Icons, Death Masks, and Shrouds (London). Daszewski, W. 1985: Corpus of Mosaics from Egypt 1: Hellenistic and Early Roman Period (Aegyptiaca Treverensia 3) (Mainz). Dauphin, C. 1976: ‘A New Method of Studying Early Byzantine Mosaic Pavements (coding and computed cluster analysis) with Special Reference to the Levant’. Levant 8, 113–49. —. 1978: ‘Byzantine Pattern Books: A Re-examination of the Problem in Light of the ‘Inhabited Scroll’’. Art History 1, 400–23. —. 1987: ‘The Development of the “Inhabited Scroll” in Architectural Sculpture and Mosaic Art from Late Imperial Times to the Seventh Century A.D.’. Levant 19, 183–212. Demus, O. 1950: The Mosaics of Norman Sicily (London). Di Segni, L. 1990: ‘The Monastery of Martyrius at Ma’ale Adummim (Khirbet el-Murassas): The Inscriptions’. In Bottini, G.C., Di Segni, L. and Alliata, E. (eds.), Christian Archaeology in the Holy Land: New Discoveries. Essays in honour of Virgilio C. Corbo (Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Collectio minor 36) (Jerusalem), 153–63. —. 1998: ‘The Greek Inscriptions’. In Piccirillo and Alliata 1998, 425–67.

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Donderer, M. 1989: Die Mosaizisten der Antike und ihre wirtschaftliche und soziale Stellung (Erlanger Forschungen. Reihe A, Geisteswissenschaften 48) (Erlangen). Dunbabin, K.M.D. 1978: The Mosaics of Roman North Africa: Studies in Iconography and Patronage (Oxford). —. 1999: Mosaics of the Greek and Roman World (Cambridge). Hachlili, R. 2009: Ancient Mosaic Pavements: Themes, Issues, and Trends (Leiden/Boston). Kitzinger, E. 1951: ‘Mosaic pavements in the Greek East and the Question of a “Renaissance” under Justinian’. In Actes du VIe Congrès international d’études Byzantines, Paris, 27 juillet– 2 août 1948, vol. 2 (Paris), 209–23. —. 1986: ‘Two Mosaic Ateliers in Palermo in the 1140s’. In Barral, X. (ed.), Artistes, artisans et production artistique au Moyen Âge 1: Les hommes (Colloque international, Centre national de la recherche scientifique, Université de Rennes II, Haute-Bretagne, 2–6 mai 1983) (Paris), 277–82. Kurtz, D. 1985: ‘Beazley and the Connoisseurship of Greek Vases’. In Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum, vol. 2 (Occasional Papers on Antiquities 2) (Malibu), 237–50. Levi, D. 1947: Antioch Mosaic Pavements (Publications of the Committee for the Excavation of Antioch and its Vicinity 4) (Princeton). Madden, A.M. 2012a: ‘A New Form of Evidence to Date the Madaba Map Mosaic’. Liber Annuus 62, 495–513. —. 2012b: ‘A Revised Date for the Mosaic Pavements of the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem’. Ancient West and East 11, 147–90. —. 2014: Corpus of Byzantine Church Mosaic Pavements from Israel and the Palestinian Territories (Colloquia Antiqua 13) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA). Magen, Y. and Talgam, R. 1990: ‘The Monastery of Martyrius at Ma’ale Adummim (Khirbet el-Murassas) and its Mosaics’. In Bottini, G.C., Di Segni, L. and Alliata, E. (eds.), Christian Archaeology in the Holy Land: New Discoveries. Essays in honour of Virgilio C. Corbo (Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Collectio minor 36) (Jerusalem), 91–152. Morelli, G. 1892: Italian Painters: Critical Studies of their Works (London). Morey, C.R. 1953: Early Christian Art: An Outline of the Evolution of Style and Iconography in Sculpture and Painting from Antiquity to the Eighth Century, 2nd ed. (Princeton). Nordenfalk, C. 1974: ‘Corbie and Cassiodorus. A Pattern Page Bearing on the Early History of Bookbinding’. Pantheon 32, 225–31. Ovadiah, A. 1981: ‘The Synagogue at Gaza’. In Levine, L. (ed.), Ancient Synagogues Revealed (Jerusalem), 129–32. —. 2004: ‘Artisans and Workshops in Ancient Mosaic Pavements in Israel’. In Santi, M. (ed.), Studi di archeologia in onore de Gustavo Traversari, vol. 2 (Archaeologica 141) (Rome), 693–715. Ovadiah, A. and Ovadiah, R. 1987: Hellenistic, Roman and Early Byzantine Mosaic Pavements in Israel (Bibliotheca Archaeologica 6) (Rome). Piccirillo, M. 1983: ‘Il mosaico bizantino di Giordania come fonte storica di un’epoca alla luce delle recenti scoperte’. In Farioli Campanati, R. (ed.), Terzo colloquio internazionale sul mosaico antico, Ravenna, 6–10 settembre 1980 (Ravenna), 199–217. —. 1986: I Mosaici di Giordania (Exhibition Catalogue) (Rome). —. 1989: Madaba: Le chiese e i mosaici (Milan). —. 1992: ‘La chiesa dei Leoni a Umm al-Rasas – Kastron Mefaa’. Liber Annuus 42, 199–225. —. 1993: The Mosaics of Jordan (American Center of Oriental Research Publication 1) (Amman). —. 1995: ‘The Activity of the Mosaicists of the Diocese of Madaba at the Time of Bishop Sergius in the Second Half of the Sixth Century AD’. In Zayadine, F., Khairieh, E. and Zaghloul, M. (eds.), Studies in the History and Archaeology of Jordan, vol. 5 (Amman), 391–98. —. 1998a: ‘The Mosaics’. In Piccirillo and Alliata 1998, 265–371. —. 1998b: ‘The Churches on Mount Nebo. New Discoveries’. In Piccirillo and Alliata 1998, 221–63. —. 1999: ‘Ateliers de mosaïstes entre le Mont Nebo et Kastron Mefaa dans le territoire de Madaba (Jordanie)’. In Ennaïfer, M. and Rebourg, A. (eds.), VIIème colloque international pour l’étude de la mosaïque antique, Tunis, 3–7 octobre 1994, vol. 1 (Tunis), 127–40.

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—. 2005: ‘Local Workshops or Imported Artists in the Development of Mosaic Art in Jordan?’. Assaph: Studies in Art History 10–11, 409–30. Piccirillo, M. and Alliata, E. (eds.) 1998: Mount Nebo: New Archaeological Excavations 1967–1997 (Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Collectio maior 27) (Jerusalem). Roaf, M. 1978: ‘A Mathematical Analysis of the Styles of the Persepolis Reliefs’. In Greenhalgh, M. and Megaw, J.V.S. (eds.), Art and Society: Studies in Style, Culture and Aesthetics (London), 133–45. Robertson, C. 1965: ‘Greek Mosaics’. JHS 85, 72–89. Robertson, M. 1985: ‘Beazley and Attic Vase Painting’. In Kurtz, D. (ed.), Beazley and Oxford (Oxford), 19–30. Rouet, P. 2001: Approaches to the Study of Attic Vases: Beazley and Pottier (Oxford). Saller, S. and Bagatti, B. 1949: The Town of Nebo (Khirbet El-Mekhayyat) with a Brief Survey of Other Ancient Christian Monuments in Transjordan (Publications of the Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 7) (Jerusalem). Salzmann, D. 1982: Untersuchungen zu den Antiken Kieselmosaiken: von den Anfängen bis zum Beginn der Tesseratechnik (Archäologische Forschungen 10) (Berlin). Schwartz, E. (ed. and trans.) 1939: Kyrillos von Skythopolis (Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 49.2) (Leipzig). Séjourné, P.-M. 1897: ‘L’Élianée de Madaba’. Revue Biblique 6, 648–56. Smith, D.J. 1965: ‘Three Fourth-Century Schools of Mosaic in Roman Britain’. In Picard, M.G. and Stern, H. (eds.), La mosaïque gréco-romaine, Paris, 29 août–3 septembre 1963 (Paris), 95– 116. —. 1977: ‘Mythological Figures and Scenes in Roman-British Mosaics’. In Munby, J. and Henig, M. (eds.), Roman Life and Art in Britain (Oxford), 105–93. Tebby, S. 1995: ‘Geometric Mosaics of Roman Britain’. In Ling, R. (ed.), Fifth International Colloquium on Ancient Mosaics held at Bath, England, on September 5–12, 1987 (Journal of Roman Archaeology Suppl. 9) (Ann Arbor), 273–94. Terry, A. and Maguire, H. 2007: Dynamic Splendor: The Wall Mosaics in the Cathedral of Eufrasius at Poreč (University Park, PA). Toynbee, J.C.M. 1964: Art in Britain Under the Romans (Oxford). Trendall, A.D. 1967: The Red-Figured Vases of Lucania, Campania and Sicily (Oxford). —. 1973: The Shellal Mosaic and Other Classical Antiquities in the Australian War Memorial Canberra (Canberra). —. 1989: Red Figure Vases of South Italy and Sicily: A Handbook (London/New York). Tsafrir, Y. and Hirschfeld, Y. 1993: ‘The Byzantine Church at Horvat Berachot’. In Tsafrir, Y. (ed.), Ancient Churches Revealed (Jerusalem), 207–18. Tsafrir, Y., Hirschfeld, Y., Drory, R. and Drory, J. 1979: ‘The Church and Mosaics at Horvat Berachot, Israel’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 33, 291–326. Williams, D. 1996: ‘Refiguring Attic Red-Figure: a review article’. RA 6, 227–52. Wilson, R.J.A. 1983: Piazza Armerina (London). Wollheim, R. 1978: ‘Aesthetics, Anthropology and Style: Some Programmatic Remarks’. In Greenhalgh, M. and Megaw, J.V.S. (eds.), Art and Society: Studies in Style, Culture and Aesthetics (London), 3–14.

SELEUCIDS AS ‘GREAT KINGS’? Andreas MEHL

ABSTRACT This paper seeks to understand what ‘great king’ and some other compound royal titles used in cuneiform documents may have meant, and differentiates between title and attribute in general in Seleucid as well as in some pre-Seleucid cuneiform evidence. Then, it examines Seleucid and, for comparison, pre-Seleucid use of those titles and attributes. The conclusion is that though the Seleucids fostered Babylonian cults and participated in them as far as their Babylonian kingship was affected, they were not interested in bearing titles like ‘great king’, ‘king of the lands’ etc. This may have been caused by the intention not to underpin their rule over countries and peoples outside Babylonia with an ideology that was bound to a mere region of the empire and which, furthermore, had become obsolescent through historical developments.

My objective is to re-evaluate the use of ‘great king’ and related royal titles and to examine a detail of Babylonian-Seleucid interaction by means of a fresh methodological approach.1 In this way, I contribute to a long-lasting discussion in ancient history as well as in studies of the ancient Near East about the importance Babylonia had for Seleucid rule.2

METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS: BABYLONIAN

CUNEIFORM ROYAL TITLES

AND ATTRIBUTES

In the beginning, I follow a tacit convention of research in using the notion of ‘title’ for expressions like ‘great king’. However, in the last paragraphs of the first part, I will differentiate between title and attribute. Furthermore, I restrict my paper to the cuneiform title of ‘great king’ and include now and again other cuneiform royal titles, and I understand all of these titles in my paper as a Babylonian regional custom. Regarding the Seleucids, this custom must have ended in 141 BC when the Parthian Arsacids conquered Babylonia and brought Seleucid rule there to an end.3 Texts written in cuneiform script and the Akkadian language are regional because in Hellenistic times both were 1  I thank Irene Madreiter (Innsbruck), Thomas Brüggemann (Halle), and Gunnar Dumke (Halle) for useful bibliographical hints. 2  The discussion began as a reaction to the new ‘oriental’ view on the Seleucid empire established in Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1983. This book was followed by many articles written by the same authors or one of them and by their book Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993 as well as by publications written by other authors. Some opposition to their position has been voiced in recent years by Strootman 2013. See below. 3  In the literature relevant for my paper, the word ‘local’ is used in general. With regard especially to Babylonia, which consisted of a lot of cities with their hinterlands, I prefer ‘regional’ and retain ‘local’ only in quotations.

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limited to Babylonia itself. At the Seleucid administration at court, few if any men would have been familiar to some degree with this Babylonian peculiarity. Besides, even before the Hellenistic period, the Babylonians no longer spoke and wrote Akkadian in daily life, but Aramaic.4 Furthermore, the Akkadian language and cuneiform script were restricted to the higher strata of society: in Babylonian society, especially priests and the scribes.5 In consequence, because of the peculiar Babylonian conditions, I do not include the Greek basileus megas in my argument, I mention it only for the sake of comparison. I do this to avoid any confusion between Babylonian and Greek use and understanding of royal titles: both might have been different. Confusion is the nearly unavoidably result of dealing with the Babylonian and the Greek title at the same time and on the same level.6 Before I deal with the formal side of Hellenistic and – for comparison – Pre-Hellenistic cuneiform royal titles, I will say something about the meaning of ‘great king’ and a few other compound titles. Those titles consist of the word for ‘king’ and one or more words which qualify ‘king’ in some way. So, unlike the simple title of ‘king’, the compounds, understood word for word, have special meanings and in consequence, may indicate special qualities of the king who was adorned with such a title or bore it himself. Which personal qualities may the compound titles, in particular that of ‘great king’, have attributed to a king? This question must be linked to another one: did a special achievement or situation lead to the bestowal or adoption of such a title? Against an older opinion David Engels has argued that special achievements in the ‘Orient’ or in some way linked to it were not the reasons why a Seleucid king got a compound royal title.7 This may be true. However, one matter raises doubt about both positions, the older included: we do not know if such titles both before Hellenism and in the Seleucid empire were conferred on a king, and if they were, by whom, or if the king himself adopted the title in an appropriate situation. The older position claims that achievements in or regarding the ‘Orient’ can be applied, if at all, just to the Seleucids, and only to some of them because of their military activities in the East, but not to Babylonian or Assyrian kings: They had fought against enemies and rebellious subjects, dependent kings included, in all directions from Babylonia or North Mesopotamia. This historical situation would, of course, match the title ‘king of the four world regions’, for which however, there is no evidence at all under Seleucid rule. Engels, who mingles Greek and Babylonian evidence of the titles of ‘great king’ and ‘king of kings’, is not aware of this difference. The title of ‘great king’ seems to have had a more general meaning than the other compound titles, thus it is more difficult to understand word for word than them. However, it is decisive that in the Babylonian tradition ‘great king’ cannot be linked to achievements made, especially or even necessarily, east of Babylonia. Besides, the title seems 4  However, as Aramaic was written not only in a different script but also on a different material which was less durable than the clay tablets of cuneiform documents, there is decisively less evidence of its use. 5  What I expound here is so well known that citing specialist literature is unnecessary. 6  Therefore, for the topic of the present paper, an article such as Boiy 2002 is more useful than one like Engels 2014 or a chapter in Engels 2017a, especially 34–35. In consequence of what is said above, it is not necessary to resume here the discussion about ‘Antiochus III great king’ or ‘Antiochus the Great, king’, because it refers only to the Greek ‘great (king)’. Cf. Engels 2014, 338–39. Engels 2017b, Hellenistic Babylonia 2019 and Strootman 2019 give surveys about the Hellenistic East/Seleucid empire. Boiy 2004 gives a lot of information about ‘Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon’, but this book does not help with cuneiform royal titles. 7  Engels 2014, 340.

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to have praised the king as victorious. One may assume that ‘great king’ exalted a ruler over other kings who were minor in power, land and people. This, however, does not make the former equal to ‘king of kings’, who is understood as ruling over other kings. While the two titles may be near to each other in meaning they do not signify the same thing, thus there was no problem of logic if a king, as happened, bore both. At a first glance, many titles of rulers and administrative personnel seem to be clear in their meaning as well as in their use. However, a closer view often shows that titles, especially when used over a long time and spread across countries, societies and cultures, shift both in meaning and usage. All this affects a correct understanding of the title of ‘great king’ which enjoyed prolonged use in several kingdoms of the Near East. The same must be said of other Near Eastern royal titles discussed here for comparison with that of ‘great king’. A further problem may arise when people are familiar with a title common in another country or empire and then learn that a title which is the same ad litteram, is used in a third country or empire, because those people will or at least may identify both titles with each other though their meaning and use may be different. So, Greeks and Macedonians had experienced several Persian Great Kings. Though in Greek literature of the 5th and 4th centuries BC the Persian ruler is mostly entitled only as ‘king’, there is also evidence enough for ‘great king’.8 Alexander the Great and his companions, among them Seleucus, must have been in a situation like that described, when they learnt of the Babylonian title of ‘great king’, LUGAL GAL-û = šarru rabû, and they must have been astonished when, in addition, they learnt that the Persian Great Kings had borrowed this and other titles from Babylonian practice.9 So, in contrast to another opinion and in congruence with what I say below, I do not argue that Alexander, his immediate successors and the Seleucids understood the Babylonian royal titles as being Persian, but that with the growing knowledge gained by immersion into the Babylonian ideology and ritual of kingship, eventually and inevitably the Seleucids learnt the Babylonian origin and character of those titles.10 Besides ‘great king’, Babylonian practice included several compound titles like ‘king of kings’, ‘king of the lands’, ‘king of the world’ or ‘king of the four world regions’, and much more modestly, regional ones like that of ‘king of Babylon’, a position that could be expressed also by simple ‘king’ (LUGAL = šarru). In the Near East, these titles were less or more common in different times and under different dynasties both of Babylonian and other origin down to the Neo-Babylonian and Chaldaean times and continued being used during the Achaemenid period.11 In addition to the simple title of ‘king’, more than

8  ‘Great king’ is used already in Aeschylus Persae 24 (referring to Xerxes) and Herodotus 1. 188 (for the Persian ruler in general, however referring also to Cyrus). Cf. Aristophanes Plutos 170. More evidence is given in Engels 2014, 336, n. 21. 9  According to Engels 2014, 336: ‘great king’ was a ‘direct synonym of the Persian king’ for the Greeks. 10  Though on p. 48 he hints at the not only Achaemenid but Near Eastern tradition of the royal titles given in the text of the cylinder of Borsippa (cf. below) and on p. 340 with n. 182 speaks about the ‘Babylonian context’ of the title of ‘great king’ in the same document, Engels (2017a, 34–35) does not consider here the interconnectivity between Seleucids and Babylonia and so he does not doubt that the Seleucids ‘took over Achaemenid royal titles’. For Engels’s ‘Iranism’, see below. 11  For the whole paragraph, cf. Boiy 2002; Engels 2014, 334–35 (who makes a difference between ‘king of kings’ and ‘great king’ in Babylonian usage); and older literature like Oelsner 1964 and Kuhrt 1995, passim (according to the index s.v. kingship, from Assyrian to Persian time). Cf. also Heller 2010, passim (index on p. 556 s.v. šar and its compounds).

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one of the more ambitious titles could be used for or by a single ruler. The Achaemenid kings in particular cumulated far-reaching as well as regional titles and step by step even dropped the simple title of ‘king’.12 Evidence is given by some famous inscriptions, that on Cyrus’ clay cylinder, Darius’ inscription at Bisutun and his tomb inscription at Naksh-i-Rustam in particular. Of course, ‘great king’ is among the titles mentioned in these documents.13 In Alexander’s reign, after his conquest of Babylonia, some of these titles, among them that of ‘great king’, were used, whereas during the reigns of Alexander’s half-brother Philipp Arrhidaeus and the latter’s son Alexander IV there was at first a partial and then a total return to the simple ‘king’.14 As I announced in the beginning, I pose the general question: what is the difference between a ruler’s attribute and a ruler’s title? Or: what makes an attribute a title? Attributes may be bestowed on rulers by other persons in writings and oral addresses made to a ruler. While the writings or addresses may be of a private or official character, the attributes are not, or at least not necessarily, official. On the other hand, titles are official elements in the communication between a ruler and other persons. Under religious and social conditions like those in Babylonia, they are given to a ruler in religious or quasi-religious ceremonies. An attribute bestowed on a ruler in an official ceremony or taken and in both cases borne by himself becomes a title. So, titles are borne by the ruler either from the beginning of his rule or from a certain date in his rule. A ruler’s behaviour is the decisive element in what might be either his titles or his attributes. So, whereas Cyrus and Darius speak about themselves in the Babylonian and Iranian documents quoted by me, most of the Babylonian evidence for royal titles – especially, but not only that presented by Tom Boiy in his article on ‘Royal Titulature in Hellenistic Babylonia’ – was written by other persons. In consequence, in those texts the king does not present himself but is represented and hence appears in the grammatical third person. So, one does not learn from these whether the titles were mere attributes or if they were real titles borne by the king himself. Evidence which does not allow differentiation between attribute and title is given especially ‘in the date formulas of cuneiform legal and administrative documents and colophons of literary tablets’.15 The more it is regrettable that our cuneiform evidence, as given and characterised by Boiy, makes it difficult or even impossible to decide if, for example, ‘great king’ was borne by a ruler or not. Furthermore, ‘great king’ does not occur at all in the Neo-Assyrian documents presented by Amélie Kuhrt in her important book The Ancient Near East:16 we will find only ‘king’ and ‘king of Assur’. However, Kuhrt quotes two non-documentary texts, a Biblical one and a letter written by an Assyrian princess, in which royal compound attributes are used: in his address to the Judaean king’s Hezekiah courtiers, the Assyrian commander of the troops besieging Jerusalem in 701 BC uses ‘great king’ in addition to ‘king of Assur’ for his master Sennacherib; and a daughter of Esarhaddon

12

 Cf. Boiy 2002, 244–45 with the evidence.  Weissbach 1911, 2–4, 9–11, 87–89: the second and the third text are not quoted by Boiy 2002 because he deals only with Babylonian sources; but nor does he quote the first, which is Babylonian. 14  Boiy 2002, 246–47 with the evidence, slightly different about Alexander: Engels 2014, 336–37. 15  Boiy 2002, 242; cf. 248 for the Seleucid period of Babylonia. 16  Kuhrt 1995. 13

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qualifies her father as ‘great king’.17 Unfortunately, though these two texts differ in type and origin, neither helps with the question of whether Sennacherib or Esarhaddon himself bore the title ‘great king’ or other compounds also mentioned in the princess’s letter, as royal titles. On the other hand, as regards Boiy’s dictum quoted above and with respect to the examples presented or mentioned here, official as well as private texts would not have differed in bestowing titles or attributes on kings. In any case, they will not have done so in their dating formulas. Because of the traditional erudition of Babylonian scribes and priests, this situation would have continued in Seleucid Babylonia.18 Unfortunately, the congruence between official and private texts in the use of royal titles or attributes does not help in understanding private usage, because we do not know if the authors of official texts used only real royal titles or also non-official attributes. We know of a different situation only: in Aramaic administrative texts the Achaemenid kings were addressed as mere ‘king(s)’, although they bore many titles – but in the end, no longer the simple title of ‘king’ (mlk).19 We may deduce from this evidence that nobody was obliged to use the titles borne by the Achaemenids beyond the simple title of ‘king’.

CUNEIFORM

ROYAL TITLES AND ATTRIBUTES OF

SELEUCID

KINGS

With these considerations in mind, we turn now to the Seleucids who, after a series of internal wars between the Diadochi, became the heirs of Alexander the Great in the Near and Middle East and in Babylonia in particular. Though there are several cuneiform documents for Babylonian titles or attributes of Seleucid kings, I refer only to a small selection which are decisive for my argument.20 Two documents are of special interest. The first refers to Seleucid rule over Babylonia. When in 205/4 BC Antiochus III took the traditional royal role in which some customs strange to Greeks were included, in the Babylonian New Year’s ceremony (Akītu festival), he did so not as ‘great king’ or ‘king of kings’ or ‘king of the lands’ but as ‘king of Babylon’, actually ‘king of Akkad’.21 However, the 17  Kuhrt 1995, 505–40, especially 512 and 529. The two texts referred to above and quoted by Kuhrt are 2 Kings 18:19 and Harper 1892–1914, 308. However, in reading in Kuhrt 1995, one will become aware that she is not interested in royal titles. So, for a definite conclusion about Neo-Assyrian use of titles and attributes, evidence must be looked for in collections of cuneiform sources (both printed and published electronically). 18  Traditional Babylonian erudition: Boiy 2002, 288–89, 293–94. 19  Engels 2014, 341, also for Alexander. The equivalent Babylonian evidence (simple title of šarru) is given by Heller 2010, 422, however in a less specific way (‘bezeichnet als’). For the Achaemenids bearing royal compound titles, see above. 20  Boiy (2002, 248–51) gives all available evidence and interprets it. 21  The document is given in Sachs and Hunger 1989, no. 204 rev. 14–18. For literature about this type of cuneiform sources and its historical significance, cf. Mehl 2000, 15, n. 13; and for the event described in the quoted source, the Babylonian Akītu festival and Antiochus III’s participation, see Szelényi-Graziotto 1996, especially 182–86 in detail, Mehl 2000, 33–34, and Plischke 2014, 285–86 (for her judgment about this ceremony, see below). The participation of Seleucids in Babylonian cults has been dealt with in detail by Strootman 2013, 78–83. Engels’s hypothesis (2017, 240–42) that Seleucids may have celebrated the Akītu festival also at Antiocheia on the Orontes (and at Damascus too), and that they took over not only a Babylonian but eventually also an Iranian ritual, cannot be dealt with here. In any case, in his book, Engels has the tendency of pushing – eventual – Iranian traditions in the Seleucid empire to the forefront to the disadvantage of other, especially Babylonian traditions. Engels’s ‘Iranism’ can be demonstrated especially by the fact that he uses Antiochus I’s Iranian mother to an extreme extent as an argument for the Seleucids’ – alleged – Achaemenid affinity (see Engels 2017a, General Index p. 585 s.v. Apame). The historical background

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two sides must have perceived the event and its significance quite differently: for the Babylonian elite, or Babylonians overall, the Babylonian kingship was the central position of power, but for Antiochus, who ruled over many countries and nations either as sovereign or suzerain and who formally was basileus without any restriction of country and nation, Babylonian kingship can have had only a regional aspect. Especially after Antiochus’ military and diplomatic achievements, whereby he secured his position as sovereign or suzerain in the East far beyond Babylonia between 212 and 205, it must have been obvious to Greeks and Macedonians in Antiochus’ entourage that the ritual renewal of his Babylonian kingship which resulted from his participation in the Akītu festival of 205/4, was nothing more than a Babylonian event. However, in the political situation immediately after the end of Antiochus’ anabasis, Babylonia was of higher strategic value for Antiochus than it would have been without his achievements East of Babylonia, and so it was in fact important for his empire in total, though indeed, formally his kingship of Akkad was no more than regional. As Babylonia was not the sole region of the Seleucid empire, we may ask if the Seleucids devoted themselves to the religious-political customs and rituals of other regions too, and moreover, one would like to know what this meant for the Seleucids kingship altogether. According to John Ma ‘the (Near Eastern and Egyptian Greco-Macedonian) kings accepted locally assigned and locally meaningful roles’ and the ‘diversity of local roles and … a diversity of local images’ gave the Hellenistic kings in ‘non-Greek regions a chameleon quality’ so that ‘Ptolemies and Seleucids were recast in local idioms of kingship, especially religious’.22 Ma seems to mean that this behaviour of Graeco-Macedonian kings was not active but reactive. In consequence, regional indigenous elites must have been active in inducing the kings to ‘accept’ roles which for them were only regional and at the same time were religious and mundane. At a first glance, Ma might be congruent with Rolf Strootman, who argues with regard to Babylonia, and especially the cylinder of Antiochus I dealt with below, that ‘local, Babylonian agents must have been actively involved in the translation of supranational imperial ideology into the local rhetoric of religion and monarchy’ and not vice versa.23 It is obvious that Strootman’s dictum does not mean that the Seleucids would have immersed themselves totally in regional customs. On the contrary, the ‘imperial culture was in essence “Hellenistic” – or rather: Seleucid – because it preferred Greek cultural forms’. In result, the interaction between Seleucids and, for instance, the Babylonians was not unidirectional, from the indigenous to aliens and immigrants, but the Seleucids ‘actively created tradition by manipulating (indigenous) cult practices to suit their own objective’ of ruling the different regions of their empire and ‘local elites adopted and adapted elements of the culture of the (Seleucid) court to express their allegiance to the empire of the Babylonian kingdom from Chaldaean times to that of Seleucus I is described in full by Scharrer 2000, 100–27, with the remark (p. 127) that Seleucus was ‘king of Babylon’ only on the cylinder of his son and successor Antiochus I and so posthumously. The same conclusion is given in Mehl 1986, 153. For the cylinder of Borsippa and the problem of its historicity, see below. 22  Ma 2003, 182, 172, 180 (quotations). Ma mentions (besides Babylonia) Syria and Phoenicia for the adoption of ‘religious forms of Near Eastern kingship’ (Ma 2013, 334). Nonetheless, the Greek conquerors were felt as such and the Seleucids remained foreigners in Babylonia and elsewhere: Ma 2003, 186–91, especially 188–89. 23  Strootman 2013, 90.

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and to better communicate with the empire’.24 As a result, according to Strootman, it was the Seleucids’ intention that the form and ideology of their rule had different regional manifestations as well as regional customs and rituals regarding kingship, changed to some measure by the interaction between them and regional elites.25 Strootman made the observations quoted above in an article in which he dealt with the other document of special interest here, Antiochus’ cylinder from Borsippa: Antiochus I the son and successor of the founder of the empire and dynasty of the Seleucids, took much care of Babylonia and especially of some of its most important temples. This is reflected in a document which, despite some problems, is still valued as a ‘key historical source for classicists and Assyriologists alike’: the clay cylinder from Borsippa dated to 268 BC, is the only Seleucid cuneiform royal inscription we have.26 It was made for the ceremony in which Antiochus I laid the foundation stone of Nabû’s temple Ezida at Borsippa and became itself a part of the foundation layer. In the text of the cylinder, Antiochus himself speaks about his pious activities in rebuilding the sanctuaries of Babylonian gods like those of Nabû of Borsippa and Marduk of Babylon. While the main part of the text is Antiochus’ prayer to Nabû, in the first lines of the document and in a shorter way at its end, Antiochus introduces himself with a couple of titles, among them that of ‘great king’. However, one would be wrong in presupposing that the changes in Babylonian customs mentioned above, as far as they may be seen or at least assumed in the text of the cylinder of Borsippa, were substantial innovations. But what would they have been? In a fundamental article about the document, Kathryn Stevens summarises the latest research on the topic, that of Strootman included, with the following words: the text of the cylinder ‘selects from and reformulates Babylonian tradition in line with Seleucid imperial image-making’.27 However, according to Stevens, not only archaisms but also ‘disjunctions and redundancies in the Antiochus cylinder suggest a process of composition closer to copy-and-paste than sophisticated intertextuality’.28 So, formulas about the gods mentioned in the document and their worship as well as Antiochus’ titles may have been inserted in the text of the cylinder by imitating or even copying Neo-Babylonian

24  Strootman 2013, 88–89 and 91; cf. 76 about ‘social discourses and practices’ being ‘bi-directional’ and 77 with n. 34 contra Sherwin-White about the reciprocity of cultural interaction. 25  With Strootman 2013, 76 (who speaks only about Babylonia here). The latter argument must be understood as opposing both the one-sided ‘Eastern’ interpretation of the Seleucid empire (especially) by Kuhrt and Sherwin-White (cf. above) and the hypothesis of an unbroken continuity in the Near East, especially in Babylonia. 26  Most important Stevens 2014, passim, quotation p. 66, transliteration and translation pp. 68–69, based on Stevens 2012. Cf. Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1991; Boiy 2002, 248; and Van der Spek and Stol 2019. Two copies of the Borsippa cylinder exist: Stevens 2012; 2014, 69, n. 10. Kosmin 2014a (113–15 about the cylinder) is of no interest for the argument given here. One should be aware that in consequence of the witty but very special composition of this book (cf. Mehl 2016) Babylonia is dealt with on many pages (cf. Index p. 412), but mostly in passing and nowhere in full. In any case, one cannot reproach Kosmin for being Babylonocentric. The argument given in Kosmin 2014b is quite near to that of the literature used here. Kosmin 2018 was not available. 27  With the words quoted above, Stevens (2014, 66) summarises Haubold 2013, 135–42 especially 141, Strootman 2013, and Kosmin 2014. 28  Archaisms, especially regarding the cuneiform script: Boiy 2002, 248–49; copy-and-paste, etc.: Stevens 2014, 69–72 (quotation p. 72). Although she quotes his article of 2002 for other details, Stevens does not take notice of Boiy’s argument. However, it seems obvious that the combination of her own and Boiy’s critiques of mainstream opinion are much stronger than either taken alone.

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or early Achaemenid documents (such as Cyrus’ cylinder, which had been produced about 270 years earlier). Therefore, there are restrictions on the extent to which the cylinder of Antiochus displays or reflects early Seleucid royal ideology, and in consequence, one may doubt also about the historicity of Antiochus I’s royal titles.29 On a different level, a very simple fact may diminish further the historical value of the whole document and so of the royal titles given there too: as I have mentioned, the cylinder was made for being hidden in the foundation layer of the new building of Ezida. In consequence, it was not made to be read by anyone, thus, nobody would have been able to control its text.30 Only Antiochus’ prayer mentioned above would have been spoken – by the king himself? – during the foundation ceremony. Altogether, though Antiochus is made to speak about himself in the cylinder of Borsippa, it is not a trustworthy source for his bearing the title of ‘great king’. Moreover, though ‘great king’ is attested for Antiochus I and Antiochus II in a Babylonian literary text, this evidence does not help us to decide whether these two kings bore the title or not, because ‘great king’ is attributed to rulers only by other persons.31 Likewise, ‘king of the lands’ is attributed to early Seleucids, beginning with Seleucus I, by other persons, but not attested as having been borne by any of these kings.32 Babylonian evidence for Antiochus III is given only by one text. However, in its relevant line, the decisive word GAL-û (‘great’) does not exist but is a modern restoration which is not to be trusted at all.33 So, no cuneiform document says that Antiochus III was ‘great king’.34 Altogether, there is no reliable evidence at all for any Seleucid king bearing the Babylonian title of ‘great king’.35 29

 Boiy 2002, 249.  Nobody seems to take notice of this simple fact. Together with further argument given here, it renders the meaning of statements like that of Strootman (2013, 87) referring to the cylinder of Borsippa (‘The Seleukids had no choice but to present themselves as the rulers of totality’ in the Babylonian tradition) doubtful. Of course, ruling over Babylonia was made easier for the Seleucids by adopting the Babylonian tradition of kingship but they were not obliged to accept each detail of this concept – Babylonian traditions about worldwide rule, for instance. See below. Furthermore, Antiochus I as ‘king of the world’ etc. in the hidden cylinder of Borsippa had a consequence for him neither within nor beyond Babylonia. Likewise, the dictum of Plischke (2014, 285) about the Akītu festival dealt with above (‘this festival served for making plain the supremacy of the Babylonian gods over the destiny of the ruling dynasty’) describes only the Babylonian theory or ideal but not what the Seleucids would have thought about it. That participation in this festival seemed to them useful but not obligatory may be deduced even from Plischke 2014, 285 (bottom of the page). 31  So-called Babylonian king list l. 10 and 13: Sachs and Wiseman 1954. 32  With the evidence, Boiy 2002, 249–50. Boiy hints at the fact that all available texts about Antiochus II as ‘king of the lands’ ‘were owned by one and the same man’ (p. 249 with n. 31). For one of the later Seleucids, Antiochus VII, there is only Greek posthumous evidence. Cf. Engels 2014, 339 with n. 38. 33  Cuneiform texts from Babylonian tablets in the British Museum 49,134, 17 with Boiy 2002, 250 against Stolper 1993, 35. On the other hand, the fact mentioned by Boiy that the Babylonian tablet was written already on 19.7.100 Seleucid Era = 29.10.212 BC, therefore some years before Antiochus, after accomplishing his anabasis to the East in 205 BC, was mentioned as megas basileus in Greek sources, is not an argument against Stolper’s restoration GAL-û, because the Babylonian use of ‘great king’ would not have depended on any achievement of the king. Furthermore, as is said above, the mingling of Greek and Babylonian evidence is problematic. 34  Comparison with the Greek evidence is of interest: Antiochus III is known as megas basileus from Greek literature, however not from his royal letters written in Greek or from legends of his coins also written in Greek. We may conclude that Antiochus III did not bear the title of ‘great king’ among Greeks. Cf. Boiy 2002, 250 (following Schmitt 1964, 92–95). 35  So, the dictum, ‘that at least the title of “great king” was used also by the Seleucids’ (Engels 2014, 333), is exaggerated in any case, and, with an extremely high degree of probability, wrong. 30

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As a result, for the time of Seleucid rule over Babylonia, I present four conclusions: (1) As far as it was connected to rule over Babylonia, the simple title of LUGAL meant the same as the compound title of ‘king of Babylon’ (actually ‘king of Akkad’). (2) While in the time of Alexander, and even more before him, royal compound titles like ‘great king’’ or ‘king of the lands’ had been used frequently, they were as rare during Seleucid rule over Babylonia as they had become in the time of Philip Arrhidaeus and Alexander IV. In contrast to the common opinion, there is no Babylonian document for a Seleucid king bearing royal compound titles, and only one if the cylinder from Borsippa were beyond any historical doubt. This contrasts with the evidence for non-Seleucid Hellenistic Near Eastern kings bearing such titles.36 However, those kings were of Iranian origin and stood in the Iranian tradition. (3) On the other hand, the simple title of LUGAL prevails by far in Babylonian texts mentioning Seleucid kings. This evidence corresponds formally with the use of Greek basileus, not followed by any indication of people or country, for and by Macedonian Hellenistic kings in the Near East. However, this congruence does not hint at any Greek influence on the Hellenistic Babylonian practice, because the latter continued completely a pre-Hellenistic cuneiform custom.37 Moreover, LUGAL and basileus have different meanings. (4) Because of the extremely restricted or even nonexistent use of cuneiform compound titles by Hellenistic kings ruling over Babylonia after Alexander, especially the Seleucids, only LUGAL without any addition can be regarded as a Babylonian royal title in the strict sense of the word. In consequence, regarding the Seleucids, one should use the term of ‘title’ only for LUGAL but not for compounds like LUGAL GAL-û’ (‘great king’) because the latter are mere attributes.38

FINAL REFLEXION In the very last part of my paper, I will summarise my conclusions in a single result: in the vast and supranational Seleucid empire, the cuneiform title of ‘king of Babylon’ or simply ‘king’ denoted only a regional position of power and dignity. Indeed, for the Seleucids Babylonia was one region among others in their empire. Nonetheless, it was central within the empire and more vital for its existence than some of the other regions. Therefore, we should not wonder at Seleucids immersing themselves deeply in the Babylonian religious ruler tradition and, with Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides, we should appreciate ‘their intense understanding of local traditions’.39 Indeed, the Seleucids were much interested in the cults of Babylonian gods and in the religious and cultic aspects of Babylonian ruler ideology. Regarding the latter, by his own participation in the Babylonian New Year’s

36  For non-Seleucid Hellenistic kings, cf. Engels 2014, 342–51. But we will have to examine the evidence quoted by Engels for the question if those kings themselves bore the titles. 37  Boiy 2002, 250–55. Cf. above. 38  Of course, my conclusion is valid with the reservation only that the missing evidence for Seleucids bearing titles like ‘great king’ is not by chance but reflects a historical situation. 39  Anagnostou-Laoutides 2017, 148–97 in detail and 174–75 conclusion (quotation p. 174). The subtle argument of her book is described and acknowledged in the review by Brüggemann 2017.

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festival, at least one Seleucid ruler was king of Babylon according to the Babylonian ritual of kingship. Admittedly, this contrasts with my argument that the Seleucids accepted the use of cuneiform royal attributes like ‘great king’ by the Babylonians but did not actively bear them as titles. I see the reason for this split Seleucid behaviour in an awareness of the risk that those titles could be understood in such a way that the rule over countries and peoples outside Babylonia and even worldwide rule was thus claimed by support of an ancient Babylonian ideology. Indeed, basing the rule over a multinational and multicultural empire on the ruler ideology of a mere region could not be in the Seleucids’ interest with consideration for the other regions of their empire. Moreover, Babylonia’s continuous ‘provincial’ status through the Achaemenid empire to that of the Seleucids must have rendered those far-reaching claims obsolete and even ridiculous in the eyes of non-Babylonians, ruled and rulers over this ancient region, the elite of which was still proud of its distant past and sought to transfer as much as possible of it to the present.40

BIBLIOGRAPHY Anagnostou-Laoutides, E. 2017: In the Garden of the Gods. Models of Kingship from the Sumerians to the Seleukids (London). Boiy, T. 2002: ‘Royal Titulature in Hellenistic Babylonia’. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 92, 241–57. —. 2004: Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 136) (Leuven). Brüggemann, T. 2017: Review of Anagnostou-Laoutides 2017. H-Soz-Kult, 11.09.2017 (www. hsozkult.de/publicationreview/id/rezbuecher-27415) (consulted 18.03.2019). Engels, D. 2014: ‘Überlegungen zur Funktion der Titel „Großkönig“ und „König der Könige“ vom 3. zum 1. Jh. v. Chr.’. In Cojocaru, V., Coskun, A. and Dana, M. (eds.), Interconnectivity in the Mediterranean and Pontic World during the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Pontica et Mediterranea 3) (Cluj-Napoca), 333–62. —. 2017a: Benefactors, Kings, Rulers. Studies on the Seleukid Empire between East and West (Studia Hellenistica 57) (Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT). —. 2017b: ‘Neue Studien zum hellenistischen Osten – ein Forschungsüberblick’. Latomus 76, 481–96. Harper, R. 1892–1914: Assyrian and Babylonian Letters Belonging to the Kouyounjik Collection of the British Museum (London/Chicago). Haubold, J. 2013: Greece and Mesopotamia: Dialogues in Literature (Cambridge). Heller, A. 2010: Das Babylonien der Spätzeit (7.–4. Jh.) in den klassischen und keilschriftlichen Quellen (Oikumene 7) (Frankfurt). Hellenistic Babylonia 2019: Hellenistic Babylonia. Texts, Images, and Names (http://oracc.museum.upenn. edu/hbtin/) (consulted 18.03.2019). Kosmin, P.J. 2014a: The Land of the Elephant Kings. Space, Territory, and Ideology in the Seleukid Empire (Cambridge, MA/London). —. 2014b: ‘Seeing Double in Seleukid Babylonia: Rereading the Borsippa Cylinder of Antiochos I’. In Moreno, K. and Thomas, R. (eds.), Patterns of the Past: “epitēdeumata” in the Greek Tradition (Oxford), 173–98. —. 2018: Time and Its Adversaries in the Seleukid Empire (Cambridge MA/London). Kuhrt, A. 1995: The Ancient Near East c. 3000–330 BC (London/New York). Kuhrt, A. and Sherwin-White, S. 1991: ‘Aspects of Royal Ideology: The Cylinder of Antiochos I from Borsippa’. JHS 111, 71–86. 40

 The last part of my concluding sentence should not be understood as being in contradiction to the Hellenistic (and already pre-Hellenistic) Babylonians’ ability to adapt to the customs of foreign rulers as has been said above.

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Ma, J. 2003: ‘Kings’. In Erskine, A. (ed.), A Companion to the Hellenistic World (Oxford), 177–95. —. 2013: ‘Hellenistic Empires’. In Bang, P. and Scheidel, W. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the State in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean (Oxford), 324–57. Mehl, A. 1986: Seleukos Nikator und sein Reich (Studia Hellenistica 28) (Leuven). —. 2000: ‘Zwischen West und Ost / Jenseits von West und Ost: Das Reich der Seleukiden’. In Brodersen, K. (ed.), Zwischen Ost und West: Studien zur Geschichte des Seleukidenreichs (Studien zur Geschichtsforschung des Altertums 5) (Hamburg), 9–43. —. 2016: Review of Kosmin 2014a. Orbis Terrarum 14, 288–92. Oelsner, J. 1964: ‘Ein Beitrag zu keilschriftlichen Königstitulaturen in hellenistischer Zeit’. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 56, 262–74. Plischke, S. 2014: Die Seleukiden und Iran. Die seleukidische Herrschaftspolitik in den östlichen Satrapien (Classica et Orientalia 9) (Wiesbaden). Sachs, A.J. and Hunger, H. 1989: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia, vol. 2 (Sitzungsberichte, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 210) (Vienna). Sachs, A.J. and Wiseman, D.J. 1954: ‘A Babylonian Kinglist of the Hellenistic Period’. Iraq 16, 202–12. Scharrer, U. 2000: ‘Seleukos I. und das babylonische Königtum’. In Brodersen, K. (ed.), Zwischen Ost und West: Studien zur Geschichte des Seleukidenreichs (Studien zur Geschichtsforschung des Altertums 5) (Hamburg), 95–128. Schmitt, H.H. 1964: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Antiochos’ des Grossen und seiner Zeit (Historia Einzelschriften 6) (Wiesbaden). Sherwin-White, S. and Kuhrt, A. 1993: From Samarkhand to Sardis: A New Approach to the Seleukid Empire (London). Stevens, K. 2012: ‘Collations to the Antiochos Cylinder (BM 36277)’. Nouvelles assyriologiques brèves et utilitaires 35.2, 46–47. —. 2014: ‘The Antiochos Cylinder. Babylonian Scholarship and Seleukid Imperial Ideology’. JHS 134, 66–88. Stolper, M.W. 1993: Late Achaemenid, Early Macedonian and Early Seleukid Records of Deposits and Related Texts (Annali Suppl. 77) (Naples). Strootman, R. 2013: ‘Babylonian, Macedonian, King of the World: the Antiochos Cylinder from Borsippa and Seleukid Imperial Integration’. In Stavrianopoulou, E. (ed.), Shifting Social Imaginaries in the Hellenistic Period: Narrations, Practices, and Images (Mnemosyne Suppl. 363) (Leiden/Boston), 67–97. —. 2019: Seleukid Research Bibliography (www.academia.edu/7730429/Seleucid_Research_Bibliography) (consulted 18.03.2019). Szelényi-Graziotto, K. 1996: ‘Der Kult in Babylon in seleukidischer Zeit – Tradition oder Wandel?’. In Funck, B. (ed.), Hellenismus. Beiträge zur Erforschung von Akkulturation und politischer Ordnung in den Staaten des hellenistischen Zeitalters (Akten des Internationalen HellenismusKolloquiums, 9.–14. März 1994 in Berlin) (Tübingen), 171–94. Van der Spek, B. and Stol, M. 2019: The Antiochos Cylinder (www.livius.org/cg-cm/chronicles/ Antiochos_cylinder/Antiochos_cylinder1.html) (consulted 18.03.2019). Weissbach, F. 1911: Die Keilinschriften der Achämeniden (Leipzig).

TWO MONOPHYSITE BISHOPS BETWEEN ROMAN WEST AND SASANIAN EAST Fergus MILLAR (†)

ABSTRACT This paper seeks to illustrate one aspect of how relations between West and East functioned in Late Antiquity by exploring the Syriac evidence for the lives and careers of two bishops who played a central role in the early stages of the process by which eventually a separate monophysite Church emerged from within both the ‘Chalcedonian’ Church in the Roman/Byzantine empire and the ‘Church of the East’ in the Sasanian empire. The two bishops were Simeon ‘the Persian debater’, who was a subject of the Sasanians, who argued against the majority ‘Nestorians’, appealed to the emperor Anastasius for support, and wrote a letter describing the persecution of ‘orthodox’ Christians in Himyar (Yemen), and pressing for assistance for them from the Ethiopians. Both he and John of Tella were the subject of brief biographies in John of Ephesus’ Lives of the Eastern Saints, one of the key works in the emergence of a separate ‘monophysite’ narrative tradition. John was a subject of the Roman empire, born in Callinicum on the Euphrates, and later bishop of Tella, from which he was deposed in AD 521. He played a major role in the earliest ordinations of specifically monophysite clergy, crossed into Sasanian territory to continue his work and was arrested and handed over to the Chalcedonian Patriarch of Antioch, where he died when still in detention. His biography, by a follower of his, Elias, is also a major example of monophysite narrative. Both men pursued their objectives, and developed contacts, across the borders of the two empires.

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND In the first half of the 6th century AD the Christian Church was riven by doctrinal disputes which led to the emergence of separate Churches which persist to this day. In the simplest terms, the fundamental issue was how to conceive of the nature of Christ: as existing in two distinct natures, divine and human; or in a single nature, indissolubly both divine and human. The Council of Chalcedon, held in AD 451, influenced by the Pope in Rome, Leo the Great, had laid down that the correct formulation was ‘in two natures’. In the Latin-speaking West this formula was accepted, and remained the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church. In the Greek-speaking East it was supported, with one notable, but short-lived, exception, by the emperors in Constantinople, was widely accepted, and remains the doctrine of the Greek Orthodox Church. However, in much of the Greek-speaking East, including Syria and Mesopotamia, where Syriac was steadily emerging as an alternative language of Christian culture, and in Egypt, where the same was true of Coptic, there was widespread resistance in the name of a ‘one-nature’ Christology. A similar division also emerged among the Syriac-speaking

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Christians who lived as subjects of the pagan, or Zoroastrian, empire of the Sasanian Persians. For here too there was an ‘established’ Church which we first encounter fully in the very detailed Syriac Acts of a Council held in AD 410. It held to a ‘two-nature’ doctrine, and did so independently of the decisions made at Chalcedon. But here also, in the early decades of the 6th century, proponents of a ‘one-nature’ Christology began to challenge the predominant doctrine, and to enter into bitter dispute with their fellow Christians. This ‘established’ Church within the Sasanian empire was another which would survive until the present day, as the Church of the East.1 In the 6th century, however, its monophysite opponents were liable to describe it as ‘Nestorian’ (for examples, see below). Why ‘Nestorian’? This was because an extreme version of ‘two-nature’ Christology had been proclaimed by Nestorius, who had been Patriarch of Constantinople from AD 428 until his deposition in 431. His memory would be anathematised at Chalcedon 20 years later. But, as proponents of a ‘one-nature’ doctrine were always ready to claim, the formula laid down then was in fact, in essence, ‘Nestorian’, as was that of the future Church of the East. But, while the ‘Chalcedonians’ within the Roman empire rejected the memory of Nestorius, the future Church of the East moved from proclaiming a ‘two-nature’ theology at synods held in the later 5th century to celebrating Nestorius by name along with that of his teacher, and the true author of ‘two-nature’ doctrine, the great theologian Theodore, bishop of Mopsuestia, who had died in AD 428. As will appear very clearly below, the ‘one-nature’ dissidents who fought against the ‘two-nature’ doctrine which was broadly dominant in both empires in the second half of the 5th century and the first half of the 6th were at first a faction within a single Church, and the initial steps by which they came to form a separate Church provide one of the central themes in the two biographies which are explored below. Even before that, however, their opponents had developed a range of hostile designations by which to identify them; one of these was ‘Severans’ or ‘those around Severus’, after the major figure of Severus, a powerful proponent of ‘one-nature’ doctrine who occupied the Patriarchate of Antioch in AD 512–518, a brief period when his side enjoyed the support of the emperor, Anastasius, who ruled from AD 491 to 518. Later, they might be referred to as ‘Jacobites’ after Jacob Baradaeus, one of their leaders in the mid-6th century. But they defined themselves as ‘the orthodox’, which is not helpful for the modern scholar seeking a label for them. There is in fact no satisfactory label; but ‘monophysites’ was at least the term used consistently by a major theological writer of the 7th century, Anastasius of Sinai, and so has some validity. The separate Church which was to evolve from this movement, and which still exists, is the Syrian Orthodox Church.2 What is particularly relevant for present purposes is that within this movement a very distinctive tradition in the composition of both narrative histories and biographies was to emerge in the course of the 6th century, centring on their conflicts with the ‘twonature’ ‘Chalcedonians’ or ‘synodites’, and in particular on the repression which followed when Anastasius was followed by a firmly ‘Chalcedonian’ emperor, Justin I (AD 518–527). The writing of biographical studies of leading monophysite figures had begun already in 1

 Baum and Winkler 2003; Wilmshurst 2011.  Frend 1972; Menze 2008.

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the 5th century in Greek; but in the 6th century these were translated into Syriac, like the Life of Severus by Zachariah, covering the period up to his assumption of the Patriarchate in AD 512. It is worth noting that this contemporary author specifically refers at this point to urgent communications from monophysite Christians in the Persian empire.3 Like them [‘two-nature’ believers in the Roman empire] were the people in Persia who once again were stirring up controversies of this kind. As a result of their actions those who held to an orthodox opinion in that region sent frequent embassies to our emperor, [at the same time] urging the bishops on our side to disclose their intentions with regard to these matters. We will see various cases below of the effect of the strengthening of ‘two-nature’ doctrine in the Syriac-speaking Church under Sasanian rule, leading those of the opposite tendency to send appeals across the frontier, taking advantage of the (brief) opportunity of an emperor whose views were sympathetic. But for the moment it is worth stressing that, in parallel with the gradual emergence in the course of the 6th century, and on both sides of the frontier, of a separate ‘orthodox’ (monophysite) Church, there also evolved a distinctive tradition of ‘orthodox’ narrative writing, involving both translation from Greek to Syriac and, increasingly, composition in Syriac.4 The Greek Life of Severus by Zachariah was soon translated; and if another anonymous Life, written soon after his death in AD 538, was originally in Greek, as is claimed, it too was translated, and both survive only in Syriac. At about the same time came the composition of Elias’s Life of John of Tella, whose subject also died in AD 538; it will be one of the main subjects of this paper. But the key figure in the creation of a monophysite historical tradition was a Syriacspeaker born in the first decade of the 6th century near Amida (Diyarbakir in eastern Turkey), John ‘of Ephesus’ (so-called because he was bishop there), who in the late 530s wrote a history of the persecution, now lost, which recounted the sufferings of the monophysites at the hands of the ‘Chalcedonians’ under Justin I and Justinian (AD 527–565). But his major contribution to this theme is the brilliantly evocative series of 58 biographical studies of monophysite holy men, The Lives of the Eastern Saints, written in about AD 568 (why this seminal and highly readable work is not available in paperback is incomprehensible).5 A large proportion, but not all, of his heroes were natives of John’s own North Mesopotamian homeland. This paper will look at the only one whose subject had come from within the Persian empire, ‘Simeon the Persian debater’, and at John, bishop of Tella in Osrhoene, who had come originally from Callinicum on the Euphrates. What was in the long run John’s most important contribution to the creation of a monophysite historical tradition was his Ecclesiastical History, of which all that survives (more or less) intact is the third part, covering the period from AD 571 to that of his 3

 Ch. 155, translation Brock and Fitzgerald 2013.  Millar 2013, repr. Millar 2015, 631–78. 5  Ed. and translation Brooks 1923 (Simeon); 1926 (John of Tella). 4

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own death in 588. But his narrative of the earlier part of the 6th century was to be used by a long series of monophysite historians and chroniclers leading up to the major figure of Michael the Syrian in the 12th century. Perhaps the most striking of these was the monk who put together what is generally described as The Chronicle of Zuqnin from the name of his monastery. Our knowledge of it depends on a single codex which may even be the author’s own manuscript. What is relevant in this context is that for the earlier 6th century, the period of the emergence of a separate ‘orthodox’ Church, he incorporates wholesale large sections of John of Ephesus’s History. So we gain what is close to being a first-hand account of those years from a monophysite perspective.6 Finally, as regards the evolution of a distinctively monophysite tradition of historywriting, we need to note the major Syriac narrative which was completed at almost the same time as John of Ephesus’s Lives, and is conventionally ascribed to ‘PseudoZachariah’.7 This is misleading, for the anonymous author makes quite clear that what he had done was to take the Greek Ecclesiastical History of Zachariah (the same Zachariah as the one mentioned earlier), which covered the years AD 451–491 from a monophysite perspective, incorporate a version of it in his own Syriac text, and then continue up to the late 560s. His work is particularly important because he included a number of major contemporary documents, whether originally in Greek or in Syriac. One of these is a long and very significant letter written by bishop Simeon, ‘the Persian debater’, to which we will turn later. This brief sketch of the background aims only to underscore how the texts discussed below belong to a very specific turning-point in the history of the Church in western Asia, and one which provided the stories of suffering and martyrdom which marked the initial phase in a long tradition of monophysite history-writing.

SIMEON, ‘THE PERSIAN DEBATER’ Simeon is the subject of the tenth of John of Ephesus’s Lives, and the theme of constant conflict against the followers of Nestorian doctrine, dominant in the Persian empire, is emphasised from the beginning: This holy Simeon … was also ardent in practising debate, beyond (in my opinion) any other man, even the ancient fathers; because besides the gift of God this other fact too summoned him to it, because he was also a Persian, and he lived in Persia, and it is in that country especially that the teaching of the school of Theodore and Nestorius is very wide-spread, so that believing bishops and their dioceses are few there… John goes on to explain that Nestorian doctrines had earlier been preached in Edessa (in the Roman province of Osrhoene) until bishop Cyrus expelled the ‘school of the Persians’ (in AD 489), and they migrated to Nisibis (which was now in Persian territory, having been ceded by Rome in AD 363). Simeon travelled around confronting these ‘heretics’, on one occasion visiting ‘the camp of the Saracens (Tayyoye) of the tribe of 6

 Translation Harrak 1999.  Translation and commentary Greatrex, Phenix and Horn 2011.

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Numan’, where he converted many of them and induced them to build a church. Whether we call these semi-settled people, found on the borders of both empires, ‘Tayyoye’, as Syriac-speakers did, or ‘Saracens’, as nearly all Greek observers did, or simply assume, as modern writers generally do, that they can be labelled as ‘Arabs’, they were a major presence, socially and militarily, on both sides of the border. So the fact that we find monophysite Christians making deliberate efforts to convert them is quite a significant element in the complex ethnic and cultural exchanges which marked society under Persian rule. Simeon was not alone in this effort. A similar account of a campaign of conversion is given in the Life of Ahoudemeh, a metropolitan bishop between AD 559 and 575 (and who also conducted debates with the Nestorians).8 The ‘camp of the Saracens of the tribe of Numan’ can be identified as Hira, a loose and extensive settlement on the west side of the Euphrates, and the main base of the ‘Arab’ dynasty which is described in modern studies as the ‘Lakhmids’ or ‘Nasrids’.9 When we turn to the letter of Simeon’s quoted by the continuator of Zachariah’s History, we will find him there again. Simeon’s preaching was addressed also to the dominant ethnic group in the Sasanian empire, the Persians themselves, and three prominent ‘Magians’ were converted, refused to recant, and were martyred. What John reports next is that the Nestorian bishops met, and accused the ‘orthodox’ to the Persian king of being traitors because their beliefs and practices agreed with those of the Romans. Normally, this would have been a strange allegation, because, as we have seen, the ‘orthodox’ in the Roman empire were generally a dissenting minority as against the ‘Chalcedonians’. But the ‘believing’ Anastasius was now emperor (AD 491–518), so Simeon crossed the frontier, travelled to Constantinople, and had an audience with the emperor himself, who sent letter to the Persian king demanding, successfully, that the Christians should have freedom of worship. In this episode either John has confused the sequence of events or the description of Anastasius as ‘believing’ means something less than his support of the monophysite cause in the last six years of his reign. For the next phase of the inter-Christian strife within the Persian empire, as related by John, involved the catholicos (equivalent to patriarch) of the Nestorians, Babai, who was in office from AD 499 to 504. In a remarkable moment in religious history Simeon, arguing with representatives of the Nestorians, challenged them to a public debate, with an audience, and someone acting as judge. They accepted, and proposed that the role of judge should be filled by a Persian royal official, the marzban, who was a pagan ‘Magian’. When the debate began, Babai opened with the familiar theme that the monophysites were the king’s enemies, owing their loyalty to Rome. The marzban, however, cut him off, saying that the debate should be over matters of belief. In John’s narrative several pages are then filled with debate on the nature of Christ, at the end of which the marzban declares that the ‘orthodox’ position is correct, and the ‘Nestorians’ are put to shame. As so often in narratives of such cross-cultural and inter-religious exchanges, nothing is said of the language used, or of any use of interpreters (we will see one exception below, however, in the Life of John of Tella).

8 9

 Ed. and French translation Nau 1909.  See Fisher and Wood 2016.

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This was the point at which Simeon was ordained as the bishop of a place called Beth Arsham, which a later source says was near the capital, Seleucia/Ctesiphon. It is not necessary here to follow the narrative of his missionary and polemical activity, involving an appeal to the Ethiopian king to intercede against a phase of oppression by the Persians, the death of the Persian king Cawad (in AD 531), and the subsequent outbreak of war between Persia and Rome; and a journey across the frontier to petition Theodora, the ‘orthodox’ wife of the emperor Justinian, AD 527–565), to ask her to write to ‘the chief of the queens of the Persians’ about the affairs of the ‘believers’. Simeon remained in Constantinople, and died there at an advanced age, in about AD 540, in the presence of John of Ephesus himself. Though John had thus met Simeon in person, he happens not to record one striking example of international contacts and exchanges in which Simeon had been involved some six or seven years before his death. This is recorded by the Syriac continuator of Zachariah’s History, who, as mentioned earlier, is noteworthy for his verbatim quotations of important contemporary documents. The introduction to the third chapter of Book VIII reads as follows: The third chapter of the same book gives information concerning the martyrs who were killed in Najran, the royal city of the Himyarites, in the year 835 of the Greeks, being the sixth year of Justin’s reign [AD 523/4], as Simeon the bishop and apocrisiarius [spokesman] of the faithful from the land of the Persians wrote to Simeon the abbot of Gabbula. It is crucial to the context of the letter that it was written in the reign of the strongly ‘Chalcedonian’ emperor, Justin, under whom there had been expulsions of ‘orthodox’ bishops and abbots, one of whom was Simeon of Gabbula in Syria. So what we will see here is the operation of a (multiply) cross-border network of ‘believers’, functioning across four different states and a semi-independent chieftancy. Simeon opens his letter to Simeon of Gabbula as follows: We inform your Charity that on the twentieth of January of this year, 835 of the Greeks, we went out from Hirta de-Numan with the priest Abraham the son of Euphrasius, who was sent by emperor Justin to Mundhir to conclude peace. The place mentioned is Hira, which we saw earlier being described as ‘the camp of the Saracens of the tribe of Numan’, the main ‘capital’ of the present ruler, Mundhir (Alamoundaros in Greek), who is recorded as being in power between AD 505 and 554. This dynasty was in general closely allied to the Persian monarchy – but here the Roman emperor is sending an ambassador to treat with them independently. Simeon too must have been on a mission to Mundhir, rather than just visiting the ‘orthodox’ Christian community which he had already established there. For in order to find Mundhir both he and Abraham have to make a ten-day journey to the south-east, and encounter him ‘at the foot of the mountains which are called “The Sand Mountains”, and in the language of the Tayyoye “Ramallah”’. This passing allusion is of some interest, because there is remarkably little evidence to show that the language of the Tayyoye allied to either Rome or Persia was in fact early Arabic.

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The rest of what Simeon reports involves even wider international exchanges, and can only be barely summarised here. While Simeon had been there a messenger from the king of Himyar (Yemen) had arrived with a letter informing Mundhir that he had killed the Christian king installed by the Ethiopians, and was violently oppressing the Christians there. In order to force them to become Jews like himself. A long narrative follows, which seems curiously to celebrate the heroism of the Christian resistance. Having completed his quotation, or edited version, of the Himyarite king’s letter, Simeon writes to Simeon of Gabbula as follows: We exhort Your Charity that as soon as these things are known to the abbots and bishops [apparently the ‘orthodox’ ones who, like Simeon of Gabbula, were in exile] and especially to the archbishop of Alexandria [Timothy, a firm monophysite] he should write to the king of Ethiopia [also a monophysite] immediately to prepare to help the [Christian] Himyarites, and the chief priests of the Jews in Tiberias should be arrested, and they should be forced to send to this Jewish king who has appeared to stop the trial and persecution in the land of the Himyarites. As can readily be imagined, there is very extensive, and often controversial, evidence on these dramatic events, and a large body of modern scholarly literature. My intention here is only to bring out the assumptions which these texts make about the ease and prevalence of inter-ethnic and inter-religious exchanges, whether in local contexts, or across the Roman-Persian frontier, or involving distant kingdoms far to the south.

JOHN

OF

TELLA

In the complex process by which, on both sides of the Roman-Persian frontier, the monophysites or ‘orthodox’ emerged from being a dissident minority fighting its cause within an ‘established’ Church, which followed ‘two-nature’ or ‘dyophysite’ doctrines, to establishing an independent Church, John, briefly bishop of Tella (Constantina) in the province of Osrhoene, played a central role. He was ordained as bishop in AD 519, just at the moment when Justin I was vigorously reasserting adherence to the doctrines laid down at the Council of Chalcedon of AD 451, and John, along with many other bishops and abbots, was deposed after only two years, and returned to life as a monk. It was however a crucial feature of this phase that a deposed Patriarch, like the great Severus of Antioch (who had fled in AD 518) or deposed bishops, still claimed the right to perform their priestly functions and (as we have seen above) to correspond with other deposed bishops or abbots. It was John’s historic role to grasp the logic of the situation and to set out on a widespread programme of ordinations of specifically orthodox clergy (deacons or presbyters) for congregations which felt the lack of them. One of these was to be John of Ephesus himself, whom John of Tella ordained as deacon in AD 529. In spite of this close personal contact the entry on John of Tella which John included as the twenty-fourth of his Lives of the Eastern Saints, though profoundly laudatory, is cast in relatively general terms, and lacks some of the detail and local colour which makes most of them such evocative reading. He reports John’s deposition by the

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Chalcedonians, and his return to monastic life, eventually at the monastery of Mar Zakkai, and then his expulsion from there also. At this point in the narrative we reach the crucial turning-point. There is a shortage of ‘believing’ clergy, but the other exiled bishops are reluctant to take the provocative step of performing ordinations. So John writes to the deposed Patriarch Severus of Antioch (now in Egypt, though this is not mentioned) and obtains his authority. A vast programme of ordinations follows, extending even to Armenia and to the district of Arzanene, just across the border in Persian territory. Reports on all this reach the emperor (Justinian, AD 527–565), and John is eventually arrested and brought to Antioch, where the ‘Chalcedonian’ Patriarch, Ephraim (AD 527–545) severely mistreats him, and he dies a martyr. As we will see below, the date was AD 538. John of Ephesus thus provides something closer to an evocation of John’s spiritual qualities and his historic role, rather than a biographical account. For that, we are fortunate in being able to turn to the powerful and detailed biography of him written by a follower of his, Elias, and completed after AD 542, and probably in the 540s. It is known only from Syriac manuscripts, and it is almost certain that its original language was Syriac, rather than Greek. Though it tells a dramatic story of struggle against both ecclesiastical and secular authorities, it is noteworthy for its sober and realistic tone, in contrast with many religious biographies from Late Antiquity.10 It will not be necessary to follow every detail of John’s life as recounted here, but to pick out some aspects which most clearly illustrate the complex social, religious and linguistic patterns which we find on either side of the frontier. John came from a prominent family in the small city of Callinicum (now Raqqa) on the Euphrates, and after his father’s death he was brought up by his grandparents, who instructed him in ‘the writings and the wisdom of the Greeks’. Then, when he was 20 they found for him a position in the ‘praetorium of the dux of the city’, that is to say in the headquarters of the commander of the Roman forces stationed there (the two terms appear in Syriac as prtwryn and dwks). Even in this remote corner of the empire, some 100 km from the last Roman fortress, Circesium, at the confluence of the Euphrates and the Chabur, both Greek culture and the Roman government make themselves felt. But Christian piety caused John to abandon his position and seek out a holy man who lived as a hermit near ‘Sura of the Romans’ – in fact the camp of a Roman legion, and a short distance upstream. The holy man, who later was one of Elias’s informants, taught him the Psalms in Syriac, and they recited (or chanted?) them together. It is typical of our difficulty in grasping the social and cultural history of the Near East under Roman rule that we can only guess whether John’s first language will have been Greek or Syriac – or was it normal for people living in small towns along the Euphrates to be bilingual? John now entered on a life as a hermit or ascetic, withdrawing from society and practising various forms of mortification of the flesh, until the bishop of Tella died, just at the moment when the ’blessed’ emperor Anastasius also died, and the new emperor, Justin I (who is not named) brought severe pressure on the churches to subscribe to the doctrines laid down at the Council of Chalcedon. The bishops of Osrhoene ordained 10  Ed. and Latin translation Brooks 1907: XXVA, 31–95 (text); XXVB, 23–60 (Latin translation). On-line translation: Ghanem 1970.

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John as bishop, against his deep reluctance, described at length by Elias, only for him, like many others, to be deposed by order of the emperor after a mere two years in office (AD 519–521). It was this persecution which led to the first steps toward the formation of what would later be the Syrian Orthodox Church. For John, acting on the authority of Severus of Antioch and other exiled metropolitans and bishops, responded to the demands of those who flocked to see him in his remote dwelling-place, and ordained priests for churches and monasteries. But then a more decisive step followed, for the ‘faithful’ in Persian territory, finding themselves much reduced under pressure ‘on account of the error of the wretched Nestorius’, petitioned John and bishop Thomas of Dara, along with Sergius of Cyrrhus, Marion of Sura and Nuna of Circesium (all in fact currently deposed from their sees), to ordain bishops for them. This of course was the key step – whether any specifically ‘orthodox’ bishops were ordained within Roman territory at this time is not made clear. John meanwhile, as Elias rather casually indicates, had himself crossed into Persian territory, and had established himself as a hermit on Mt Singara. The dissident ‘orthodox’ or ’one-nature’ Christians were now becoming a threat to the established ‘two-nature’ Churches in both empires. On the Roman side there was now (in the mid-530s) an alliance between a ‘Chalcedonian’ emperor, Justinian, and the equally ‘Chalcedonian’ Church. None the less, it was a striking step when, as Elias records, Ephraim, the Patriarch of Antioch, obtained from the emperor permission to make an expedition into the eastern provinces of his Patriarchate, and to do so with military backing. Moreover, he communicated with the Persian marzban (governor) at Nisibis, and asked for his help in arresting John. Elias does not say what the ‘many lies’ were which Ephraim’s agents told to the pagan governor (except that John had acquired a large stock of money), and in this context use can hardly have been made of the repeated claim that the ‘orthodox’ were agents of Rome. Nonetheless, the upshot was that a combined Roman-Persian force set off for Mt Singara and arrested John. After he had been brought back to Nisibis, so Elias relates, he was examined by the marzban accompanied by a group of dignitaries and officers. On seeing the humble figure before him, the marzban indicated by a gesture of the hand that he judged him to be a man of good character: For it is the custom of the Persians, and especially the Magi, that if one wishes to communicate his thoughts to another silently and without words he can easily express them by a movement of the fingers. Elias continues by relating an exchange between the marzban which, as is quite rare in our sources, involves the use of an interpreter. A Christian member of the entourage tells the marzban that John is a bishop, and that if he came into the presence of the emperor the latter would rise out of respect: When the marzban heard this he immediately gave instructions and sat before him on the ground, and talked with him through an interpreter, and he said to him in Greek, ‘How have you dared, as a man of your sort, to cross into our territory without our permission? Do you not know that this is a different state? The blessed man spoke

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and said to him in Greek through the interpreter, ‘It is not the first time that I have crossed into this territory. This is the third time that I have done so, in order to pray with those holy men who for many years have lived on this mountain from which you have seized me as if I were a wrongdoer.’ This seems to mean that the marzban spoke in Persian to the interpreter, who then translated his words into Greek, heard Simeon’s reply in Greek, and translated it into Persian. There then follows a quite extensive dialogue, in the course of which Simeon declares that, since there was peace between the two empires (as, in AD 438, there briefly was), it was not necessary to consider them as separate. In this instance, however, cross-border collaboration takes the form of Simeon being escorted to the Persian frontier-town of Nisibis, where he is handed over to Roman agents, who take him to the fortified Roman frontier-town of Dara, and then to Rheshaina, where the Patriarch Ephraim arrives with a military escort and a large baggage-train. There Simeon is interrogated in front of a hostile crowd, and is then sent off on the 30-day journey to Antioch, where he dies in captivity.

CONCLUSION This sketch of the lives of two Near Eastern bishops of the first half of the 6th century does not seek to add to the scholarly literature on the complex social and cultural history of the region in Late Antiquity, or on the processes by which an ‘orthodox’ Church of believers in a single nature of Christ eventually detached itself from the two separate ‘dyophysite’ or ‘two-nature’ (or, in the Roman-Byzantine sphere, ‘Chalcedonian’) Churches which were the dominant majority on both sides of the Roman-Persian frontier. It is directed rather at a readership whose interests lie in a variety of fields related to the common theme of ‘Ancient West and East’, and to provide a preliminary impression of three related themes. First of all, there is the emergence of this new Church. Secondly, there is the development of its own tradition of narrative writing, whether in the form of biographies of prominent individuals, or of continuous histories or chronicles, characteristically written in Syriac; this tradition was to flourish until the Middle Ages. Finally, there are the stories of two bishops, from either side of the Roman-Persian frontier whose missionary activities in support of ‘orthodoxy’ involved contacts by letter, and also in the form of journeys, which might cross both that and other frontiers, and were conducted independently of the policies of Roman emperors or of Persian kings.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Baum, W. and Winkler, D.W. 2003: The Church of the East: a Concise History (London). Brock, S. and Fitzgerald, B. 2013: Two Early Lives of Severos, Patriarch of Antioch (Liverpool). Brooks, E.W. 1907: Vitae Virorum apud Monophysitas Celeberrimorum (Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Scriptores Syri XXVA–B) (Paris). —. 1923 ‘John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints’. Patrologia Orientalis XVII.1, 137–58. —. 1926: ‘John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints’. Patrologia Orientalis XVIII.4, 513–26. Fisher, G. and Wood, P. 2016: ‘Writing the history of the “Persian Arabs”: the pre-Islamic perspective on the “Nasrids” of al-Hira’. Iranian Studies 49, 247–90.

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Frend, W.H.C. 1972: The Rise of the Monophysite Movement (Cambridge) Ghanem, J.R. 1970: The Biography of John of Tella (d. AD 537) (Madison, on-line translation). Greatrex, G., Phenix, R.R. and Horn, C.B. 2011: The Chronicle of Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor: Church and War in Late Antiquity (Liverpool). Harrak, A. 1999: The Chronicle of Zuqnin, Parts III and IV: AD 488–775 (Toronto). Menze, V.L. 2008: Justinian and the Making of the Syrian Orthodox Church (Oxford). Millar, F. 2013: ‘The Evolution of the Syrian Orthodox Church in the pre-Islamic Period: from Greek to Syriac?’. Journal of Early Christian Studies 21, 45–92. —. 2015: Empire, Church and Society in the Late Roman Near East: Greeks, Jews, Syrians and Saracens (Collected Studies, 2004–2014) (Late Antique History and Religion 10) (Leuven/ Paris/Bristol, CT). Nau, F. 1909: ‘Histoire d’Ahoudemeh et de Marouta’. Patrologia Orientalis III.i, 15–51. Wilmshurst, D. 2011: The Martyred Church: A History of the Church of the East (London).

L’HOSPITALITÉ DE ZEUS, D’UN CÔTÉ À L’AUTRE DE LA MÉDITERRANÉE* Marta OLLER GUZMÁN Pour Gocha RÉSUMÉ L’importance de Zeus Xénios dans l’accueil et la protection des étrangers est bien connue d’après les sources grecques. D’Homère jusqu’aux auteurs grecs de l’époque romaine, une vaste collection de textes littéraires souligne la fonction de Zeus comme garant des normes de l’hospitalité et en charge de punir ceux qui osent les briser. Plusieurs mythes rappellent les conséquences terribles pour ceux qui sont coupables de xénoctonie ou meurtre d’un étranger, en particulier dans les tragédies classiques, où Zeus est très souvent invoqué pour restaurer l’ordre et la concorde entre les hommes. Cependant, cette longue et riche tradition ne trouve pas de correspondance dans les données épigraphiques disponibles sur le culte de Zeus Xénios. En effet, le corpus des inscriptions qui attestent la vénération réelle de Zeus sous cette épiclèse est réduit. Néanmoins, il prouve la diffusion de ce culte de la mer Noire jusqu’en Grande Grèce et sur une très longue période de l’époque archaïque à l’époque impériale. Le but de cet article est d’étudier ces sources épigraphiques et, si possible, de les mettre en rapport avec l’image de Zeus Hospitalier qui nous est parvenue à travers la littérature. ABSTRACT The importance of Zeus Xenios in the reception and protection of foreigners is well known from Greek sources. From Homer to Greek authors of Roman times, a large collection of literary texts emphasises Zeus’ function as guarantor of the rules of hospitality and as responsible for punishing those who dare to break them. Several myths recall the terrible consequences for those who are guilty of xenoktonia or murder of a foreigner, especially in classical tragedies, where Zeus is very often invoked to restore order and harmony between humans. However, this long and rich tradition does not find a match in the available epigraphic data regarding the worship of Zeus Xenios. Indeed, only a small corpus of inscriptions on the actual veneration of Zeus under this epithet is known. However, it shows the spread of the cult from the Black Sea to Magna Graecia, and its chronological extent, from the Classical period to Roman times. The purpose of this article is to study this epigraphic evidence and, if possible, to relate it to the image of hospitable Zeus that has come down to us through literature.

* Cet article a été rédigé dans le cadre de deux projets de recherche: Prosopographia Eurasiae Centralis Antiquae et Medii Aevi FFI2014-58878-P, et Estudio diacrónico de las instituciones socio-políticas de la Grecia antigua y de sus manifestaciones míticas FFI2016-79906-P (AEI/FEDER, UE). Je tiens à remercier Anna Ginestí et Esther Rodrigo pour leur aide dans l’obtention de quelque bibliographie, ainsi que Thibaut Castelli pour la révision de la langue française.

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1. INTRODUCTION Dans la tradition antique de l’hospitalité grecque (xénía),1 Zeus jouait un rôle central comme protecteur de l’hôte et de l’étranger, et ce, dès l’époque des premières sources littéraires grecques, les poèmes homériques.2 L’épiclèse Xénios, qui met l’accent sur cette fonction du dieu, est bien attestée dans le mythe et également dans des inscriptions, qui prouvent déjà l’existence d’un culte associé à cette invocation à une date ancienne. Cependant, tandis que les sources littéraires ont été largement étudiées,3 il manque une étude parallèle s’appuyant sur les sources épigraphiques. Une telle étude devrait permettre de mieux saisir la diffusion et la portée de ce culte dans le monde grec antique. Dans cet article, on envisage, donc, de combler ce vide à travers le recueil et l’analyse de toutes les inscriptions documentant le culte de Zeus Xénios dans l’Antiquité.4 Nous allons présenter ces sources en suivant un parcours géographique, d’ouest en est, et en étudiant en dernier lieu la mer Noire, espace privilégié dans les recherches de Gocha Tsetskhladze, à qui on rend hommage avec ces pages.

2. GRANDE GRÈCE (POSEIDONIA) L’attestation épigraphique la plus ancienne concernant le culte de Zeus Xénios se trouve en Grande Grèce, à Poseidonia, colonie fondée par des Achéens de Sybaris au début du VIe siècle av. J.-C. (Ps.-Scymnus 249; Strabo 5. 4. 13).5 Or, la documentation disponible est très maigre: il s’agit d’une seule inscription sur une petite plaquette en argent, qui fut trouvée pendant les premières fouilles du site, en 1921–1922, et qui est depuis perdue. Le texte s’adresse, sans aucun doute, « au Zeus Protecteur des étrangers ».6 Il s’agit, pourtant, d’une inscription isolée dont on a du mal à saisir la signification cultuelle. Plusieurs études l’ont mise en rapport avec le culte d’Héra, pour laquelle un temple fut érigé dans la zone sacrée méridionale de la ville vers le milieu du VIe siècle av. J.-C.7 On estime que c’est là que Zeus aurait été vénéré en tant que parèdre cultuel de la déesse. Comme preuve, plusieurs chercheurs apportent la trouvaille d’une grande statue en terre cuite, 1  Pour l’hospitalité rituelle dans les rapports entre individus et cités en Grèce ancienne, Herman 1987 offre une présentation riche d’exemples tirés des sources anciennes, qui inclut aussi l’analyse d’autres termes liés comme philia, syngéneia et euergésia. Une approche de l’hospitalité en tant que motif poétique d’Homère aux tragiques, peut être lu dans Lacore 1991. 2  Lacore 1991; Santiago Álvarez 2004, 30–31, 33 et 37; Santiago Álvarez 2007, 739–40; Santiago Álvarez 2013a. Pour une introduction sur l’étranger en Grèce, l’étude de Baslez 2008 reste toujours valable. 3  Hors les Poèmes homériques (voir note précédente), de nombreuses études ont été faites à propos de Zeus Xénios dans la tragédie grecque, où la condition de l’étranger est importante dans plusieurs intrigues tragiques, preuve de l’intérêt que soulevait cette problématique dans l’Athènes classique. À titre d’exemple, voir Yziquel 2002 pour les tragédies d’Eschyle, et Santiago Álvarez 2005 et 2013b pour Les suppliantes; Wilson 2004, 29–61, à propos de l’Œdipe à Colone de Sophocle; et Oller Guzmán 2007 et 2008, pour l’Hécube et l’Iphigénie en Tauride d’Euripide. 4  Nous laissons de côté la mention de Zeus Xénios dans un oracle à dés de Kremna, en Pisidie, car il nous semble un cas différent. À propos du texte, voir l’édition dans Horsley et Mitchell 2000, 22–38 (en particulier, 26–27) et le commentaire pour Zeus dans Graf 2005, 63–65. 5  À propos de la fondation de Poseidonia, voir Dunbabin 1948, 25–26; IGDGG II, 51–52. 6  Ardovino 1980, 65–66 et IGDGG II 22 [= SEG XXXII 1026–1027] lisent: τô Διὸς Ξείνō. L’éditeur, suivi par Dubois, pense que l’épiclèse Xeînos est ici une erreur pour Xénios, la forme habituelle dans les autres inscriptions du corpus. 7  Pedley 2006, 170–75.

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datant de 530–520 av. J.-C., qui représente probablement le dieu assis sur un trône.8 On a suggéré qu’à travers l’union sacrée de Zeus et Héra, les Poseidoniates auraient voulu souligner l’importance du mariage comme source de descendance légitime.9 Dans un tel contexte cultuel, où la légitimité de l’appartenance au corps civique semble être mise en valeur, l’épiclèse Xénios, qui en principe fait appel à l’accueil et à la protection de l’étranger, est apparemment surprenante. Pourtant, ce n’est pas un cas unique: dans la cité d’Athènes, comme on verra plus bas, cette épiclèse se rattache aux institutions qui faisaient partie des systèmes de garanties pour limiter l’accès à la citoyenneté. Or, dans le cas de Poseidonia, on se demande si, le sanctuaire étant fréquenté par des gens venus d’ailleurs – notamment des non-Grecs –,10 l’invocation à l’hospitalité de Zeus ne visait pas aussi à donner une garantie aux visiteurs étrangers, dont la présence aurait pu faire partie du quotidien de la ville; qui plus est, l’emplacement du temple d’Héra à côté de la porte sud de la ville – un endroit, donc, de passage – rend raisonnable l’idée d’un dieu qui offre protection à tous ceux qui arrivent, quelle que soit leur origine. En soutien de cette hypothèse, nous pouvons rappeler le cas du Zeus Meilichios à Halaesa Archonidea, en Sicile, dont un sanctuaire extra-urbain était placé à côté de l’hodos Xénis, qui, d’après quelques études,11 aurait uni la terre ferme avec la mer et le port, un chemin fréquenté par tous ceux qui entraient ou sortaient de la ville.12

3. ITALIE (ROME) Une inscription d’époque impériale (Ier siècle ap. J.-C.) est la seule attestation du culte de Zeus Xénios à Rome. Il s’agit d’un texte inscrit en bas d’un relief, dont la partie supérieure est perdue, où l’on voit les pieds de Zeus assis sur un trône, tenant une canne dans la main gauche; sur le même trône, à gauche du dieu, on distingue un aigle avec les ailes ouvertes, symbole de Zeus. L’éditeur souligne la rareté d’un tel culte, qui est d’ailleurs inconnu à Rome, et suggère d’y voir une inscription d’origine probablement étrangère, un alienum.13 Quant au texte, d’ailleurs complètement illisible dans sa partie gauche, il contient la formule habituelle de consécration,14 mais avec une particularité: la dédicace a été faite καθ’ ὕπνον; c’est-à-dire, suite à un rêve. Il s’agit d’une expression attestée dans les inscriptions liées aux cultes de dieux guérisseurs – notamment, Asklépios –, où le malade devait accomplir le rite de l’incubation,15 ainsi que dans des récits d’épiphanies divines 8

 Rolley 1996, 385; Vonderstein 2006, 61–63.  Plaident en faveur de cette idée plusieurs figurines votives en terre-cuite, des Ve et IVe sìecles av. J.-C., qui montrent Zeus et Héra assis sur un trône, Giacco et Marchetti 2017, 347–48 et 356; à propos de ces offrandes, voir Pedley 2006, 174. 10  Cerchiai et al. 2004, 68–70. 11  Prestianni Giallombardo 2003, 1063–70; 2012, 382. 12  Pour la relation entre Zeus Meilichios et Zeus Xénios, qui auraient partagé certaines fonctions avec Zeus Philios, voir Farnell 1896, 72–75 et Petit 2007, 290–91 et 294, qui renvoie aux recherches de Picard (1942–43, 111 et 126). 13  IGUR I, 167, 154–155; Nutton 1970, 236. À propos de la sculpture, voir aussi Cook 1965, 1101, fig. 939. 14  La forme du nom de Zeus, au datif, Διεί (at. Διί), fait penser à un datif en *-ei, cf. mic. di-we, Chantraine 1984, 99; or, la datation tardive de l’inscription nous fait pencher plutôt pour une forme analogique. 15  En sont de bons exemples les récits de guérisons trouvés dans le sanctuaire d’Asklépios à Lébèna (Crète), étudiés par Sineux 2004. Pour d’autres expressions proches, voir aussi Rouse 1902, 330–31. 9

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pendant le sommeil.16 On pense plutôt à cette dernière possibilité pour le cas qui nous concerne.

4. ATTIQUE (ATHÈNES) Dans la cité d’Athènes, le culte de Zeus Xénios est attesté grâce à deux inscriptions. La plus ancienne, datant de la fin du Ve ou du début du IVe siècle av. J.-C., se trouve sur une borne découverte dans un mur d’époque tardive de la Leschè, près de la Pnyx.17 Il s’agit d’un horos qui délimite l’espace sacré de Zeus Xénios appartenant à la phratrie18 de Thymaitis,19 que l’on a voulu rapprocher du dème des Thymaitadai à travers le héros éponyme Thymaites.20 Ce dème était placé sur la côte21 et il était consideré un des plus anciens de l’Attique, membre des Tétrakomoi à côté des dèmes de Peiraieus, Phaléron et Xypétè.22 La borne, pourtant, se trouve dans l’enceinte de la ville, situation qu’on a essayé d’expliquer différemment: d’après les uns, le sanctuaire en ville est le résultat d’une « centralisation » de l’Attique, suite à laquelle les phratries rurales ont vu la nécessité d’avoir un lieu de rassemblement au cœur d’Athènes;23 d’après les autres, un probable déplacement des séances de la phratrie à l’intérieur des murailles se produit à cause du déroulement de la guerre du Péloponnèse, qui aurait rendu difficile l’accès aux zones rurales de l’Attique, notamment pour la fête des Apatouria où les phratries se rassemblaient. Alors, les phratries rurales auraient pu se procurer un espace sacré en ville pour y réunir leurs membres ou bien se servir d’autels d’autrui.24 Quoi qu’il en soit, il est clair que cette phratrie se met sous le patronage de Zeus Xénios. Sans doute, Zeus avait un rôle central dans les phratries athéniennes, surtout avec l’épiclèse Phratrios, à côté d’Athéna Phratria. Il est, donc, digne de mention que dans ce cas-là l’invocation de Zeus soit faite en tant que Xénios ou Protecteur des étrangers.25 À l’origine de cette épiclèse, quelques chercheurs ont voulu voir l’écho du mythe concernant la fondation des Apatouria,26 où un certain Mélanthos, un fugitif de Pylos, serait venu s’installer 16  Ainsi, par exemple, dans la « Chronique de Lindos », on mentionne l’épiphanie d’Athéna dans le rêve d’un archonte lors du siège de la cité par un navarque de Darius (D 1.14), Massar 2006, 236–37. 17  IG I3 1057 = Lambert 1998, T13: ℎιερὸν| Διὸς Ξενί|ο Θυμαιτί|δος φρα|τρίας; Hedrick 1988. 18  Les phratries athéniennes pouvaient avoir des biens fonciers, notamment des sanctuaires, comme il ressort de quelques inscriptions commentées par Papazarkadas 2011, 163–66. 19  On connait une deuxième inscription qui atteste cette phratrie, mais le texte est fortement endommagé ce qui rend la lecture beaucoup plus difficile, voir la discussion dans Hedrick 1988, 81–82 et Lambert 1998, 330–31. 20  Le nom du héros connait aussi une forme Thymoites dans quelques versions du mythe; pour une explication de ce doublet, voir Hedrick 1988, 83, n. 9. 21  Plu. Thes. 19. 5. Marchiandi 2011, 639. 22  Hedrick 1988, 83–84. À propos des Tétrakomoi, les quatre dèmes formaient une sorte d’association religieuse qui avait comme siège un sanctuaire d’Héraclès où l’on menait des compétitions annuelles de danse, voir Parker 1996, 328–29. 23  Hedrick 1988, 85. 24  Humphreys 2018, 600–01; mais Parker (1996, 108) montre des doutes. Pourtant, Wicherley (1970, 286) assume qu’il n’était pas rare pour les dèmes d’avoir des sanctuaires en ville semblables à ceux qui étaient placés sur le sol du dème. 25  D’autres divinités sont attestées pour d’autres phratries. Cela ne veut pas dire que la vénération de Zeus Phratrios et Athéna Phratria était négligée, mais on envisage plutôt la possibilité d’une vénération conjointe, voir Parker 1996, 106–07. 26  Hedrick 1988, 84.

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en Attique, suite à un oracle d’Apollon, selon lequel il devrait s’arrêter à l’endroit où on lui offrirait pour dons d’hospitalité (xénia) la tête et les pieds d’une victime; or, en arrivant à Éléusis, on lui remit ces dons et il comprit que l’oracle s’était accompli (FGrHist no 327 [Demon], F. 1). Le récit tient donc à souligner le caractère accueillant d’Athènes, selon un modèle très bien connu et exploité dans la tragédie classique.27 Cependant, si on tient compte de l’importance des phratries dans la fixation des limites territoriales ainsi que dans la préservation de la légitimité du corps civique de l’Attique, l’épiclèse prend un sens tout à fait plus profond et elle rejoint l’idée, mentionnée auparavant, d’un dieu qui se porte comme garant de la descendance légitime et conserve un certain contrôle sur l’accès à la citoyenneté athénienne.28 Cette tâche va de pair avec le contrôle sur l’accueil et l’éventuelle intégration des étrangers, comme le mythe d’Oreste vient nous rappeler dans les Euménides d’Eschyle: lors du procès contre Oreste tenu à Athènes, le chœur demande à Apollon quelle phratrie lui offrira une purification après avoir commis l’assassinat de sa propre mère, de façon à faire ressortir l’exigence, pour un xénos, d’être accueilli par une association de phratères avant son intégration dans le nouveau corps civique.29 Dans le même ordre d’idées on peut aussi situer la deuxième inscription athénienne où Zeus Xénios est mentionné (IG II2 1012 = GRA I, nº 42). Il s’agit d’un décret de 112/1 av. J.-C. dans lequel il est question d’une association ou synode de nauclères et emporoi sous le patronage de Zeus Xénios (IG II2 1012, l. 13–16),30 dont le trésorier, Diognétos d’Oeon,31 a sollicité du Conseil la permission pour faire un portrait de Diodôros, fils de Théophilos d’Halae.32 Ce Diodôros est identifié comme administrateur ou épimélète du port,33 fonction d’une importance cruciale pour des individus dédiés à l’activité commerciale maritime; mais il est en plus revendiqué comme leur proxène (l. 18 τοῦ ἑαυτῶν προξένου), mot qui partage la même racine grecque que l’épiclèse Xénios. La présence du terme proxénos dans cette inscription est, à mon avis, la clé pour comprendre l’appel à Zeus Hospitalier: il semble bien que Diodôros d’Halae était le protecteur et représentant d’un groupe de marchands et de nauclères étrangers à Athènes;34 ils étaient rassemblés dans cette association, à l’intérieur de laquelle il devait y avoir aussi quelques Athéniens influents tels que le trésorier Diognétos d’Oeon, même si cette inscription suggère que les étrangers l’emportaient sur les citoyens.35 Dans cette situation, recourir au patronage de Zeus Xénios semble tout à fait raisonnable et pertinent, dans l’idée de recevoir de la part du dieu l’aide nécessaire pour mener à bon terme leurs affaires sur le sol athénien.36

27

 Mills 1997, 76–78.  Parker 1996, 104–08. 29  Aesch. Eum. 656. Voir Parker 1996, 108, n. 25. 30  Διόγνητος ἐξ Οἴου ταμί|ας ναυκλήρων καὶ ἐμπόρων τῶν φε|ρόντων τὴν σύνοδον τοῦ Διὸς τοῦ | Ξενίου. 31  À propos du personnage, voir PA 3866. 32  À propos du personnage, voir PA 3935. 33  Il s’agit du Pirée, où un nombre important de métèques est censé habiter, Whitehead 1986, 83–84. 34  À propos du proxène à Athènes, voir Ginestí Rosell 2013, 288–93. 35  Vélissaropoulos 1980, 104; Jones 1999, 43–44; GRA I, 206. 36  Mikalson 1998, 278. 28

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5. ARGOLIDE (ÉPIDAURE) En Argolide, dans l’enceinte sacrée d’Asklépios, à Épidaure, deux inscriptions font preuve du culte de Zeus Xénios. La plus ancienne date du IVe siècle av. J.-C. et fut trouvée dans le sanctuaire d’Apollon Maléatas. Elle contient une dédicace à Zeus, au génitif, dont l’épiclèse, en très mauvais état, reste hypothétique (IG IV²/1 291).37 Par contre, l’autre inscription, parfaitement lisible sur un autel d’époque romaine, contient une dédicace pour Zeus Xénios de la part d’un certain Philônidas, fils d’Hiéronymos à la sortie de charge de « porteur du feu sacré » (IG IV²/1 523).38 Comme le souligne Louis Robert,39 le titre de pyrphoros ou pyrophoros est très bien attesté à Épidaure, où il désigne la personne qui « doit s’occuper de renouveler le feu de tous les autels du sanctuaire en l’apportant de l’autel principal, du foyer où il ne doit jamais s’éteindre ». En bas de l’inscription, on y trouve aussi un cercle avec la représentation d’un épi, symbole de Zeus à Épidaure.40 En effet, Zeus est mentionné dans plusieurs inscriptions d’Épidaure avec différentes épiclèses, parmi lesquelles Xénios ne semble pas être particulièrement importante.

6. ÎLES

DE L’ÉGÉE

(THÉRA)

Dans l’île de Théra, une inscription du Ve siècle av. J.-C. semble contenir une dédicace pour Zeus Xénios (IG XII/3 428).41 Le texte étant très mutilé, il est impossible de tirer des conclusions à propos de ce culte.

7. CARIE (CAUNOS) Fondée sur la rive droite de la rivière Calbis, la ville de Caunos fut jadis un port florissant de l’Asie Mineure, ouvert aux échanges commerciaux et culturels grâce à son emplacement privilégié, à la frontière entre le monde grec et celui indigène de la Carie et de la Lycie. Dans cette ville, deux inscriptions attestent le culte de Zeus Xénios aux époques hellénistique et impériale. La première fut gravée sur un rocher, à flanc de colline, et contient une indication sur l’emplacement d’un sanctuaire du dieu.42 Dans les lignes qui suivent, très endommagées, il est question des membres d’un thiase (l. 5) qui apparemment auraient fait la dédicace [κ]αθ᾽ὅραμα (l. 6), c’est-à-dire ‘en vertu d’une vision’.43 Cette expression rappelle celle que l’on a vue dans l’inscription de Rome, où la dédicace était le résultat d’un rêve; comme dans l’exemple précédent, il semblerait bien qu’une 37

 Διὸς [Ξε]νίο?.  Φιλωνίδας | Ἱερωνύμου | πυροφορήσας. | Διὸς Ξενίου. | ϙη. 39  Robert 1966, 746–48. 40  À propos des cercles, attestés sur plusieurs inscriptions d’Épidaure, on pense qu’ils servaient à l’identification de la divinité à l’honneur de laquelle l’inscription était érigée. Souvent, ils sont suivis des numéros qui semblent indiquer une sorte de parcours ou itinéraire rituel, semblable à celui dont Pausanias se sert pour décrire les auteils du sanctuaire d’Olympie, en suivant la coutume dels Éléens (Paus. 5. 14. 4–10). 41  [Διὸς Ξ]ενίο(υ). 42  Marek 2006, 259 n. 75: (l. 1–3) ἱερὸν | Διὸς Ξενίου | ἵδρυται. 43  D’après l’interprétation de J. et L. Robert (Bulletin épigraphique 1969, 545), qui est suivie par l’éditeur. A. Chaniotis (EBGR 2008, 247) traduit le mot ὄραμα par « dream », mais à vrai dire il n’est pas clair qu’il s’agisse d’une épiphanie en dormant. 38

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épiphanie du dieu ait été à l’origine de cette inscription rupestre, et peut-être également de la construction du sanctuaire. La mention d’une association est aussi remarquable, même si sa nature nous est complètement inconnue, du fait du mauvais état de préservation du texte.44 Étant donné l’importance du commerce à Caunos, ville de frontière avec une intense activité portuaire,45 il est quand même tentant de penser à une association semblable à celle des nauclères et emporoi d’Athènes, dont on a parlé plus haut. Une seconde inscription pour Zeus Xénios se trouve sur un bloc en marbre et contient la formule habituelle des dédicaces avec le nom du dieu au datif suivi du nom du dédicant, partiellement perdu, au nominatif. Il manque des détails additionnels pour mieux comprendre le rôle de ce culte à Caunos, mais d’après les inscriptions, il est clair que Zeus était un dieu important dans le panthéon local, où on lui rattache d’autres épiclèses (Olympios, Polieus, Sôter et Hédraios) et il est souvent en partenariat avec des divinités féminines (Nikè, Léto, Métèr et Gè).

8. NORD

DE LA MER

NOIRE (PANTICAPÉE)

Dans la mer Noire, la seule attestation d’un possible culte pour Zeus Xénios se trouve sur une inscription funéraire provenant de Panticapée, capitale du Royaume du Bosphore, et datée du Ier siècle ap. J.-C. Il s’agit d’un monument pour Théodôros, fils de Métrodôros et Ma, qui contient une formule de salutation initiale (χαίρετε) suivie d’un distique élégiaque où l’homme mort s’adresse, à la première personne, au dieu pour faire un vœu: il prie pour que ceux qui ont causé sa propre mort trouvent une mort semblable, tandis que ses parents, qui l’ont enseveli, obtiennent en compensation une vie joyeuse (CIRB 135, l. 4–7).46 Ce distique est pratiquement identique à celui qui dans l’Anthologie Palatine 7. 516 est attribué à Simonide de Céos et que l’on rattache à une anecdote très connue de la vie du poète (Cicero Div. 1. 27; 2. 66. Valerius Maximus 1. 7. 4): un jour, Simonide, en se promenant le long de la mer, avait trouvé le cadavre d’un homme; ayant eu pitié de lui, il l’ensevelit et lui composa une épigramme – celle que l’on trouve sur le monument de Panticapée –, où Zeus Xénios est invoqué pour châtier les coupables – ses hôtes? Plus tard, le mort apparut à Simonide en rêve et lui conseilla de ne pas s’embarquer le lendemain, car il risquait sa vie. Malgré les efforts de Simonide pour empêcher ses compagnons de partir, ils prirent la mer et trouvèrent la mort; seul Simonide fut sauvé grâce à l’épiphanie du mort. Une deuxième épigramme, qui nous est parvenue aussi dans l’Anthologie Palatine 7. 77, est censée contenir l’expression du remerciement de la part du poète. Si on revient sur le distique bosporan, les différences avec l’épigramme de Simonide sont minimes, ce qui nous amène à nous interroger à propos des circonstances dans lesquelles le texte a été repris. En fait, nous ignorons tout sur la mort de Théodôros, or il est clair qu’il s’agit d’une mort violente – il a été tué – et qu’il y a des personnes qui 44  Voir le commentaire dans http://www.philipharland.com/greco-roman-associations/?p=23152 (consulté le 24.07.2019). 45  Voir, par exemple, le long règlement douanier concernant l’importation et l’exportation de marchandises par terre et par mer dans une inscription de Caunos du Ier siècle ap. J.-C., Vélissaropoulos 1980, 223–29; Heller 2006, 99–100. 46  οἱ μὲν ἐμὲ κτε|ναντες ὁμοίως ἀντιτύχοι|σαν, | Ζεῦ ξένιε, οἱ δὲ γονεῖς | θέντες ὄναιντο βίου.

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en sont responsables. S’agit-il de ses hôtes? Impossible de le savoir. En tout cas, l’appel à Zeus Xénios se fait, dans ce cas-là, dans un contexte de vengeance, motif qui est très bien connu dans la littérature grecque, depuis les poèmes homériques: déjà dans l’Iliade (3. 351–354), Ménélas fait appel à Zeus pour se venger de l’enlèvement de sa femme par Pâris, qui avait ainsi rompu les normes de l’hospitalité qu’on lui avait offerte. Le motif est repris et répandu dans la lyrique – Simonide en est un bon exemple – et surtout dans la tragédie, où plusieurs arguments tournent autour du meurtre d’un hôte – la xénoktonia – et la vengeance, voire le châtiment, qui en découlent.47 Dans tous ces textes, Zeus Xénios a la responsabilité dernière de rétablir l’ordre brisé par la mort de l’hôte ou de l’étranger en punissant les coupables. Il semble, donc, que dans cette inscription, plutôt qu’une vraie vénération de Zeus Hospitalier, on trouve l’écho de cette longue tradition littéraire.

9. EN

GUISE DE CONCLUSION

L’examen du recueil d’inscriptions sur le culte de Zeus Xénios parvient à éclairer les fonctions et la nature du dieu sous cette épiclèse. Tout d’abord, il s’avère essentiellement une puissance qui veille au maintien des limites et de l’ordre dans les structures sociopolitiques,48 une fonction qui se développe sur un double axe: d’un côté, Zeus Xénios a probablement eu un rôle dans la sauvegarde de la légitimité du corps civique à travers le contrôle de l’accès à la citoyenneté, exercé à Athènes par les phratries; de l’autre, dans la même cité, il a pris en charge l’accueil et la protection de l’hôte ou de l’étranger, au point de devenir le patron d’une association d’emporoi et nauclères qu’on imagine majoritairement venus d’ailleurs. Or, même si eux n’étaient pas des étrangers, ils avaient par leur métier l’occasion de devenier des étrangers en fréquentant des ailleurs. Pour Zeus, donc, il semble bien que le binôme politès/xénos était un jeu de complémentarité plutôt que d’opposition. À deux occasions, les inscriptions font mention des épiphanies du dieu, qui sont à l’origine d’une dédicace à Rome et probablement du temple à Caunos. Il s’agit d’un phénomène qui mérite d’être souligné, car il montre une forme particulière de communication entre la divinité et l’individu ou le groupe humain dont nous ne saurons pas déterminer la nature extraordinaire ou régulière dans le cadre du culte de Zeus Xénios. Finalement, dans l’inscription de Panticapée nous voyons la reprise de traditions littéraires anciennes dans lesquelles Zeus agissait comme un dieu garant du respect des normes de l’hospitalité et responsable du châtiment lorsque quelqu’un osait les transgresser. Ce distique de Simonide, qui voyagea de la Méditerranée jusqu’au littoral septentrional de la mer Noire, nous rappelle la place prépondérante de l’hospitalité dans l’ensemble des valeurs partagées par les Grecs. Rien donc d´étonnant dans le fait qu’elle soit mise sous la protection de Zeus, dieu suprême des Grecs, père des dieux et des hommes.

47

 Voir plus haut, n. 3.  Dowden 2006, 66–67, 78–79.

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BIBLIOGRAPHIE Ardovino, A.M. 1980: ‘Nuovi oggetti sacri con iscrizioni in alfabeto acheo’. Archeologia Classica 32, 50–66. Baslez, M.-F. 2008: L’étranger dans la Grèce antique (Paris). Cerchiai, L., Jannelli, L. et Longo, F. 2004: The Greek Cities of Magna Graecia and Sicily (Los Angeles). Chantraine, P. 1984: Morphologie historique du grec (Nouvelle collection à l’usage des classes 34) (Paris). Cook, A.B. 1965: Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion. II.1–2: Zeus God of the Dark Sky (Thunder and Lightning) (New York). Dowden, K. 2006: Zeus (Londres/NewYork). Dunbabin, T.J. 1948: The Western Greeks: The History of Sicily and South Italy from the Foundation of the Greek Colonies to 480 B.C. (Oxford). Farnell, L.R. 1896: The Cults of the Greek States, t. 1 (Oxford). Giacco, M. et Marchetti, C.M. 2017: ‘Hera as Protectress of Marriage, Childbirth, and Motherhood in Magna Graecia’. Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 57, 337–60. Ginestí Rosell, A. 2013: ‘Próxenos, métoikos, isotelés. La integración de extranjeros en Atenas’. Dans Santiago Álvarez et Oller Guzmán 2013, 287–302. Graf, F. 2005: ‘Rolling the Dice for an Answer’. Dans Johnston, S.I. et Struck, P.T. (éd.), Mantikê: Studies in Ancient Divination (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 155) (Leyde/Boston), 51–97. Hedrick, C.W. 1988: ‘The Thymaitian Phratry’. Hesperia 57, 81–85. Heller, A. 2006: ‘Les bêtises des Grecs’. Conflits et rivalités entre cités d’Asie et Bithynie à l’époque romaine (128 a.C.–235 p.C.) (Scripta Antiqua 17) (Bordeaux). Herman, G. 1987: Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City (Cambridge). Horsley, G.H.R et Mitchell, S. 2000: The Inscriptions of Central Pisidia (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 57) (Bonn). Humphreys, S.C. 2018: Kinship in Ancient Athens: An Anthropological Analysis (Oxford). Jones, N.F. 1999: The Associations of Classical Athens: The Response to Democracy (Oxford). Lacore, M. 1991: Le rôle de l’hospitalité dans la poésie grecque d’Homère aux tragiques (du symbole au prétexte) (Villeneuve-d’Ascq). Lambert, S.D. 1998: The Phratries of Attica, 2e éd. (Ann Arbor). Marchiandi, D. 2011: I periboli funerari nell’Attica classica: lo specchio di una ‘borghesia’ (Studi di Archeologia e di Topografia di Atene e dell’Attica 3) (Athènes/Paestum). Marek, C. 2006: Die Inschriften von Kaunos (Vestigia 55) (Munich). Massar, N. 2006: ‘La « Chronique de Lindos »: un catalogue à la gloire du sanctuaire d’Athéna Lindia’. Kernos 19, 229–43. Mikalson, J.D. 1998: Religion in Hellenistic Athens (Hellenistic Culture and Society 29) (Berkeley/ Los Angeles/Londres). Mills, S. 1997: Theseus, Tragedy, and the Athenian Empire (Oxford). Nutton, V. 1970: Compte rendu d’IGUR I. JHS 90, 236. Oller Guzmán, M. 2007: ‘Matar al huésped en la Hécuba de Eurípides’. Faventia 29.1, 59–75. —. 2008: ‘Ifigenia xenoktonos’. Faventia 30.1–2, 223–40. Papazarkadas, N. 2011: Sacred and Public Land in Ancient Athens (Oxford). Parker, R. 1996: Athenian Religion: A History (Oxford). Pedley, J. 2006: Sanctuaries and the Sacred in the Ancient Greek World (Cambridge). Petit, T. 2007: ‘Malika, Zeus Meilichios et Zeus Xénios à Amathonte de Chypre’. Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 37 (= Hommage à Annie Caubet), 283–98. Picard, C. 1942–43: ‘Sanctuaires, représentations et symboles de Zeus Meilichios’. Revue de l’histoire des religions 126, 97–127. Prestianni Giallombardo, A.M. 2003: ‘Divinità e culti in Halaesa Archonidea. Tra identità etnica ed interazione culturale’. Dans Atti: Quarte Giornate internazionali di Studi sull’area Elima, Erice, 1–4 dicembre 2000, t. 3 (Pise), 1059–103.

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—. 2012: ‘L’acqua come elemento fondamentale nell’organizzazione e nel controllo del territorio e dello spazio urbano. Il caso di Alesa’. Dans Calderone, A. (éd.), Cultura e religione delle acque (Atti del Convegno interdisciplinare «Qui fresca l’acqua mormora …» [S. Quasimodo, Sapph. fr. 2,5], Messina, 29–30 marzo 2011) (Archaeologica 167) (Rome), 375–98. Robert, L. 1966: ‘Inscriptions de l’antiquité et du Bas-Empire à Corinthe’. REG 79 (376–378), 733–70. Rolley, C. 1996: ‘La scultura della Magna Grecia’. Dans Pugliese Carratelli, G. (éd.), I Greci in Occidente (Catalogue de l’exposition) (Milan/Venise), 369–98. Rouse, W.H.D. 1902: Greek Votive Offerings: An Essay in the History of Greek Religion (Cambridge). Santiago Álvarez, R.-A. 2004: ‘La familia léxica de xénos en Homero: usos y significados, II (Odisea)’. Faventia 26.2, 25–42. —. 2005: ‘Acogida y protección de mujeres extranjeras: el testimonio de Suplicantes de Esquilo’. Dans Nieto Ibáñez, J.M. (coord.), Estudios sobre la mujer en la cultura griega y latina (León), 143–76. —. 2007: ‘La familia léxica de xénos en Homero: usos y significados, I (Ilíada)’. Dans Alonso Aldama, J., García Román, C. et Mamolar Sánchez, I. (éd.), ΣΤΙΣ ΑΜΜΟΥΔΙΕΣ ΤΟΥ ΟΜΗΡΟΥ. Homenaje a la Profesora Olga Omatos (Vitoria), 733–42. —. 2013a: ‘La polaridad «huésped»/«extranjero» en los Poemas Homéricos’. Dans Santiago Álvarez et Oller Guzmán 2013, 29–45. —. 2013b: ‘Esquilo, Las suplicantes: una «hospitalidad» plasmada en leyes’. Dans Santiago Álvarez et Oller Guzmán 2013, 57–74. Santiago Álvarez, R.-A. (coord.) et Oller Guzmán, M. (éd.) 2013: Contacto de poblaciones y extranjería en el mundo griego antiguo. Estudio de fuentes (Bellaterra). Sineux, P. 2004: ‘Le dieu ordonne. Remarques sur les ordres d’Asklépios dans les inscriptions de Lébèna (Crète)’. Kentron 20.1–2, 137–46. Vélissaropoulos, J. 1980: Les nauclères grecs: Recherches sur les institutions maritimes en Grèce et dans l’Orient hellénisé (Hautes études du monde gréco-romain 9) (Genève/Paris). Vonderstein, M. 2006: Der Zeuskult bei den Westgriechen (Palilia 17) (Wiesbaden). Whitehead, D. 1986: The Demes of Attica 508/7–ca. 250 B.C.: A Political and Social Study (Princeton). Wilson, J.P. 2004: The Hero and the City: An Interpretation of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus (Ann Arbor). Wycherley, R.E. 1970: ‘Minor Shrines in Ancient Athens’. Phoenix 24.4, 283–95. Yziquel, P. 2002: ‘L’étranger en Grèce ancienne: l’exemple du théâtre d’Eschyle’. Pallas 60, 331– 44.

CRISIS, DIVINATION AND ‘KILLING’ POTTERY: ASTRAGALS AND PUNCTURED VESSELS FROM A CLASSICAL-PERIOD WELL AT SICILIAN NAXOS Jari PAKKANEN and Maria Costanza LENTINI*

ABSTRACT The apoikia at Naxos in north-eastern Sicily is the earliest Greek settlement on the island. This paper presents a preliminary publication of a Classical well excavated at Naxos in 2015–2016 and some of the discovered finds. Previously, only a single well had been excavated inside the city walls. Also, systematic sampling for organic remains was carried out as part of the project for the first time at Naxos. A deposit from the bottom of the well is discussed here more in detail, especially concentrating on a set of astragals and intentionally punctured pottery. A hypothesis for the deposition occasion is also presented.

NAXOS

IN THE

SOURCES

Naxos was established in 734 BC by foundation parties from Chalcis on Euboea and Naxos in the Cyclades (Thucydides 6. 3. 1; Hellanicus FGrHist 4 F82). Excavations of the early settlement levels have revealed several rectangular and curvilinear houses, and the range of discovered archaeological material is consistent with early cohabitation of the indigenous Sicels and the Greek newcomers.1 The town developed during the Archaic period and extensive remains of the defensive structures, residential districts and sacred precincts have been discovered since systematic excavations were started in 19532 (the Archaic remains of Naxos are marked with red in Fig. 1). The turbulent 5th-century * For this paper, Pakkanen has been the lead author, specifically responsible for the preliminary study of the astragals and relating the excavated material to comparative data. Lentini, director of the Archaeological Park of Naxos during the excavations of the well, has studied the pottery and her observations have been vital for building the chronology of the well. The excavation, conservation and post-processing at Naxos was carried out by Jenna Kärkkäinen, Tuuli Kasso, Daphne Lentjes, Giuseppe Miceli, Mikko Suha and Esko Tikkala. Maria Grazia Vanaria provided information of the excavations where the pithos was discovered and Daphne Lentjes was also vital for setting up the environmental archaeological project at Naxos. The organic material from the well is currently being studied by Erica Rowan and Veronica Aniceti. Funding for ‘Urban Landscape of Naxos in Sicily’ and its field work in 2012–17 has been from the Jenny and Antti Wihuri Foundation, the Foundation of the Finnish Institute at Athens, the Archaeological Park of Naxos and the Finnish Institute in Rome. For the project, the support of Caterina Valentino and her staff at Hotel Palladio have been an inspiration all through the years. The bronze coin from Piakos was identified by Francesco Muscolini and Arto Penttinen pointed out the punctured krater from Kalaureia. We thank them both. 1  Lentini 2012. On the recent suggestion connecting two 7th-century structures, Building H and Tempietto C, with heroisation of the first oikistes, see Pakkanen et al. 2019, 419–23. 2  Pelagatti 1993, 274. For a recent review of the archaeological material, see Lentini et al. 2013.

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history of Naxos is reflected both in the written and archaeological sources. Hippocrates, the tyrant of Gela, conquered Naxos in late 490s BC (Herodotus 7. 154).3 When the town fell under the control of Syracuse is not mentioned in the sources, but in 476 BC, Hieron, tyrant of Syracuse, removed its citizens to Leontinoi and brought in new inhabitants (Diodorus Siculus 11. 76. 3). After his death and fall of Syracusan tyranny in 467 BC, the old citizens were able to return to Naxos (Diodorus Siculus 11. 49. 1–2, 11. 76. 3). The archaeological evidence for the systematic destruction of the Archaic buildings and street network and subsequent establishment of the regular Classical grid matches the timeline of the written sources4 (the excavated and reconstructed 5th-century remains are marked with green in Fig. 1). During the second half of the 5th century BC, the three Chalcidian cities of eastern Sicily, Naxos, Katane and Leontinoi, were largely united in their opposition to the Doric cities (Thucydides 3. 86, 4. 25, 6. 20. 3; Diodorus Siculus 14. 14). During the Peloponnesian War, Naxos aided Leontinoi against Syracuse in 427 BC (Thucydides 3. 86), expelled the attack from Messene in 425 BC (Thucydides 4. 25) and joined the disastrous Athenian Sicilian expedition against Syracuse in 415–413 BC (Thucydides 6. 50. 2–3, 7. 57. 11; Diodorus Siculus 13. 4). After the surrender of Athens to Sparta, Dionysos of Syracuse was free to punish the Naxians: according to Diodorus (14. 15. 2–3), the inhabitants of Naxos were sold into slavery, their properties plundered by the troops and the city walls and houses razed to the ground; the territory was then given to the Sicels.

EXCAVATIONS

AND

FINDS

FROM THE

WELL

During construction work for a roof covering the early settlement layers discovered in the recent excavations at the site,5 the top part of a pithos was discovered with a ring of stones set carefully around it (Fig. 2; location of the pithos is marked with ‘W’ in Fig. 1). The pithos was located in the courtyard of a Classical house built over earlier Archaic remains; a Byzantine structure was constructed in the near vicinity of which a corner is still extant (Fig. 3). The initial principal aim for starting the pithos excavations was to collect the organic material using water flotation to further understanding of the environmental conditions at 5th-century Naxos. The excavations were started in March 2015 and it was soon apparent that the top half of the pithos was there to cover the opening of a deeper well. During the first season, the top 3.0 m were excavated, and the bottom of the well was reached during the second season in March 2016, at a depth of more than 6 m. The well was excavated using artificial layers with a varying thickness (mostly 10–20 cm): for some highly uniform layers the thickness was increased to 25 cm and when rapid change in the material was detected, the layer height was reduced down to 5 cm (Fig. 4). A soil sample was taken from each layer and water flotation was used to collect the organic material. The bottom of each layer was documented using total station measurements and photogrammetry. The total height of the excavated layers is 6.13 m and the number of documented layers is 45. 3

 Dunbabin (1948, 380–82) argues for a date later in the 490s BC.  Pelagatti 1976–77, 537–42; Lentini 2009, 15–17; Pakkanen 2013; Lentini et al. 2015; Pakkanen et al. 2019. 5  Lentini 2012. 4

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The lowest Layer 45 reflects the period when the well was in use as a water source and Layer 44 the abandonment of this function: the soil was very wet clay and contained fragments of coarse ware and black-glazed pottery, pieces of a small alabaster vase, bones, shells, some obsidian and fragments of iron objects. The datable pottery fragments in Layer 45 are largely from the Late Archaic period, but based on the architectural and archaeological contexts the construction of the well was contemporary with the Classical houses. An astragal with lead filling (F005 in the catalogue), astragals B001–B004 and a large abraded astragal (F009) were discovered in Layer 44 (Fig. 5). Layer 43 contained more pottery than soil and it contains at least 40 complete vessels: oinochoai, cups, fragments of transport and fine ware amphorae, an aryballos (Fig. 6). A very large part of the complete vessels in this layer and the one below are of local Naxian production from the Late Archaic period. A partially preserved kourotrophos figurine was also discovered (ca. 460 BC), and other finds include shells and obsidian. The rare small bronze coin from Piakos with the head of a river deity on the obverse and a hound attacking a stag on the reverse is stylistically dated to the last quarter of the 5th century (Fig. 7).6 Initial study of the pottery indicates that most of it is earlier than the coin, though several 5th-century vessels were also identified. A large number of the vessels had been intentionally pierced before deposition (Fig. 8). Three further astragals (B005–B007) were discovered in this layer (Fig. 5). The next two layers (41–42) consist largely of roof tiles: it is a Sicilian type of roof with Corinthian pantiles and Laconian cover tiles and Layer 41 contained also a complete Silenus antefix (type B3, ca. 460 BC; Fig. 9). The careful placement of the antefix on top of a pantile demonstrates that the objects were not just dumped into the well. The layers also contained plenty of white painted plaster deriving from the house walls and a terracotta periantherion support and, in Layer 41, one very large and several smaller pieces of limestone most likely originating from building foundations. The three layers above (38–40) contain mostly building debris, including tile fragments, plaster and further pieces of limestone. The deposits in Layers 38–42 made certain that the well could not have been anymore used as a fresh water supply. Based on the lower ends of the shipsheds7 and the depth of the well, the water table in the city was below the ancient sea level (Fig. 4), so it was necessary to excavate of deep wells in the right places to obtain fresh water inside the city walls. The pottery from the Layers 1–37 is mixed and initial analysis could not detect any specific chronological patterns. This is consistent with later refilling of the well. Placing the top half of a pithos at the top of the well most likely belongs to later phase of reuse of the well-shaft, most probably linked with the later Byzantine phase at the site (Fig. 3). The large stones discovered in Layers 38–41 could not have been easily thrown into the well if the pithos had been in place. Therefore, the partially filled well-shaft covered by the half-pithos must have served a different purpose. One quite likely function could have been storage of ice from the nearby slopes of Etna for cooling and storing of various produce. 6  The value of the coin is one hemilitron; Hoover 2012, 1100. On the bronze issues of Piakos, see Jenkins 1975, 91–92; Pope 2009, 136. This is the first coin of Piakos – a city on the slopes of Etna, though its exact location has not been identified – with a known excavation context dating to the late 5th century BC: the few known specimens are all from the antiquities market and without context. From a numismatic point of view, the discovery is highly significant. 7  For the 5th-century sea level at Naxos, see Lentini et al. 2013.

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OF

POTTERY

Before going into the function of the set of astragals discovered in Layers 43–44, a closer look at the practice of ceremonial puncturing of vessels is in place (cf. Fig. 8). A large range of parallels are known from widely differing chronological, geographical and ethnographical contexts. Grinsell’s work concentrated on the role of the practice in funerary rites,8 and this is one of the most common contexts where pierced pieces of pottery have been discovered.9 The pattern might at least partially be a result of preservation: when the pottery has suffered further fragmentation, it can be difficult to detect puncture holes, though there are several archaeologically attested cases. At the sanctuary of Poseidon at Calauria the base of a large Archaic krater with a square perforation was recently excavated.10 Stern and Noam discuss in detail the 419 punctured vessels discovered at Hellenistic Maresha and their relationship with the local ethnic groups, the Idumeans and Judaeans. They suggest that the puncturing was part of a ritual possibly connected with feasting and less likely a result of following the Jewish law for purifying the ceramic vessel by perforation.11 Groslier argues that the early historic ritual vessels discovered at Sambor Prei Kuk in Cambodia were ceremonially sacrificed when they could no longer be used after a dedication or an exceptional event. After puncturing or sawing off their neck they were buried since they still contained their magical power.12 Soles draws a useful distinction between ritual ‘killing’ and ritual ‘breakage’ of pottery. When a vase is killed, most of the vessel is intentionally left intact, only parts critical to its functioning are damaged: a spout or a handle can be broken off or the body punctured. He also includes burning of the vessel on the funeral pyre as a possible way of killing it, even though it is not broken in this instance. Soles cites the typical anthropological explanation as a reason for this action: the vessel can no longer be used in everyday contexts and it is the property of the deceased. In ritual breakage the whole vessel is broken at the end of the ritual where it was used.13 Comparing the Naxos deposit to a funeral ritual is perhaps not that inappropriate. Burkert observes that destructive sacrifices by the grave are an expression of the helpless anger which is part of grief: ‘if the loved one is dead, then all else must be destroyed as well.’14 Turning back to the vessels at Naxos, examination of the traces of the punctured holes shows that the intentional perforation was carried out with a sharp blow to the object (Fig. 8).15 The number and good preservation of the punctured pieces of pottery in Layers 43–44 suggests that the act was done on complete vessels just before their deposition into the well. The bronze coin from Piakos (Fig. 7) dates Layer 43 to the last quarter of 8

 Grinsell 1961, 478–81, 488; 1973, 112.  At Geometric Athens, monumental vases were also used as funerary markers: their pierced bases have been interpreted as both as functional and ritual, such as being intended for securing the marker into ground, draining rain water or pouring libations to the dead; Kurtz and Boardman 1971, 57–58. 10  Alexandridou 2013, 96, 125, fig. 54. 11  Stern and Noam 2015. 12  Groslier 1981, 37, n. 4. For further references to killing terracotta vessels by punching a hole in the base at Early Ceramic period sites in central and southern Chile, see Planella et al. 2016, 248. Also, for Maya vessels in caves punctured with holes, see Chládek 2011, 65. 13  Soles 1999, 789. 14  Burkert 1985, 192–93. 15  Cf. Muhlestein et al. 2019, 285. 9

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the 5th century, the period of greatest unrest during the Peloponnesian War. The two layers above the punctured vessels contains roof tiles from the houses (Layers 41–42) and they give a possible indication of the chronology of events: the tiles were quite likely placed into the well to seal off the deposit, and they would have most easily been available after the destruction of Naxos by Syracuse in 403 BC. The placement of the pottery at the bottom of the well could be interpreted as offer to chthonic deities and/or to the souls of the deceased Naxians who had died in the sack, but the careful positioning of the Silenus antefix (Fig. 9) on top of the tiles could mean that also another deity was invoked as part of the ritual. Silenus was the companion and instructor of Dionysos, and the Early Classical tetradrachm of Naxos were struck with the head of Dionysos on the obverse and naked Silenus on the reverse.16 An interesting parallel to the well deposit was discovered in the 1995 rescue excavations at Naxos. In its centre was a type A Silenus antefix surrounded by some cups and small to medium-size plain pitchers, similar to the ones discovered in the well. The find is best interpreted as remains of a ritual involving libation.17

DIVINATION

WITH

ASTRAGALS

The most widely recognised function of astragals in Antiquity was as gaming pieces and protective amulets, but divining using a set of astragals, astragalomanteia, was also practised.18 The best known ‘dice oracles’ are 2nd-century AD texts from south-western Anatolia,19 but collections of oracular texts are already known in the Classical period.20 A knucklebone can fall in four ways when thrown: when the dorsal (broad convex) side faces up, the result is a four, pranes (Fig. 5); the plantar (broad concave) side counts as a three, hyptios (Fig. 10); the medial (narrow flat) side is the most valuable throw at six, koos (Fig. 11); the lateral (narrow concave) side results in a one, chios (Fig. 11).21 In astragalomanteia, the person asking for the oracle was given an interpretation of the particular throw based on the combination of these numbers. The archaeological evidence shows that ancient astragals were often modified by abrading and occasionally also by adding lead weights.22 The possible practice of astragalomancy at Archaic Didyma has been recently studied in detail by Greaves. He did empirical tests on throwing astragals from different species of animals and compared the results between modified and unmodified sets of bones and discovered that the ancient modifications resulted in more evenly distributed sets of 16  Rizzo 1938, 60–65; Jenkins 1972, 87; de Callataÿ and Gitler 2004, 35–38. Also, the predominant types of Naxian antefixes all depicted the head of Silenus from the late 6th century well into the 5th century BC: see Lentini 2011. 17  The rescue excavations took place north of the Santa Venera sanctuary close to Strada Statale 114. The Silenus antefix is currently on display at the Naxos museum. Publication of the excavations and the deposit is under preparation by M.C. Lentini. 18  De Grossi Mazzorin and Minniti 2013. 19  Graf 2005; Nollé 2007; Iversen 2015, 2–8. 20  In Aristophanes’ Birds (959–991), a soothsayer tries to sell a collection of Bacis’ oracles to the leader of the new city-in-the-sky; cf. Graf 2005, 52–53. 21  Cf. Greaves 2012, 183–84, fig. 2. 22  Amandry 1984; De Grossi Mazzorin and Minniti 2013.

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results.23 Therefore, it is not necessary to regard the modified astragals as evidence for cheating in throwing the astragals.24 It is equally likely that the abraded and lead-weighted astragals produced a higher chance of a more varied oracle. The context of the vessels punctured with a sharp object strongly suggests that the astragals in Layers L43–44 were used in divination and that the seven astragals constituted a single set (F005, B001–B006). Based on the later ‘dice oracles’, five or seven astragals were thrown to produce the oracle.25 It is less likely that the heavily abraded astragals (B007 and large astragal F009) would have been used for throwing.26 The astragal with the lead fill still in place, F005, would have most certainly produced a four (pranes) as a result rather than a three (Fig. 5). If the drilled hole in B001 was filled with a small lead weight, it would have more probably resulted in the more difficult throw with the medial side facing up (six, koios). The lead weight F024 from Layer 34 fits perfectly into the lateral concave depression in the large astragal B008 from Layer 39 (Fig. 12). The lead filling shows that also large astragals were used for throwing at Naxos in Sicily.

THE NARRATIVE? Considering the archaeological material and the historical sources, a hypothesis for the occasion of the deposit can be suggested as follows. After the Syracusan sack in 403 BC, a group of people gather in the courtyard of a destroyed house. It is quite likely that they are Naxian survivors or citizens who were not at Naxos at the time of the sack. They bring along a set of astragals and a large collection of pottery, most of them already a hundred years old. They ask for an oracle, the astragals are cast and the result is interpreted. The astragals are then discarded into the well. An offering is made to the chthonic deities and possibly also Dionysos using the vessels. The bodies of the liquid containers and the bottoms of the cups are pierced with a quick blow from a sharp object and they are also carefully lowered into the well. The sacrificial objects are then sealed off using roof tiles, an antefix with Silenus mask and other debris from the destroyed house. The large roof tiles are first placed on top of the pottery and followed by mud bricks, plaster and stones from the house foundation. The group then leaves and never returns back to Naxos, following the advice of the oracle.

CATALOGUE

OF ASTRAGALS AND RELATED FINDS

F005 Astragal with lead L44, excavated 8/3/2016 Central section of the astragal with lead filling, bottom and top of the bone abraded (or cut). L: 29 mm. W: 20 mm. H: 11 mm. Mass: 15.18 g.

23

 Greaves 2012.  Cf. Amandry 1984, 369–70. 25  Iversen 2015, 5. 26  Broneer (1947, 241) suggests that the flat astragals were used as markers. 24

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Volume and mass of the filling. Area of the fill on the superior side ca. 9 × 14 mm and on the inferior 13 × 17 mm, height 11 mm. If the lead filling was simply a tapering plug, it would have a mass of ca. 22 g, more than measured mass of the object (if pure lead, ca. 1.91 cm3 × 11.34 g/cm3  . 21.6 g). Therefore, the fill was made by pouring molten lead through an opening in the bone and the liquid lead spread to cover wider surface on both the bottom and top surfaces of the cut astragal. Based on the mass of the object, the volume of lead is probably ca. 1 cm3. The tapering and position of the fill makes more likely that the piece falls with the inferior surface facing down. F009 Large astragal L44, excavated 8/3/2016 L: 51 mm. W: 32 mm. H: 14 mm. Mass: 18.48 g Superior half of a large astragal, sliced and abraded. F024 Lead fill for a large astragal L34, excavated 3/3/2016 L: 37 mm. W: 19 mm. H: 5 mm. Mass: 14.61 g. Surface oxidised with grey/brown patina. The shape and size of the object is consistent with lead being used to weight and manipulate the throwing of also large astragals such B008 from L39: the fill fits the concave depression of the lateral side in B008. The layers are mixed so the match is possible. B001 Astragal with a hole drilled through L44, excavated 8/3/2016 Complete with a drilled hole on the convex narrow lateral side of the bone (for lead fill or, less likely, use as pendant). L: 36 mm. W: 23 mm. H: 21 mm. Mass: 12.15 g. Drill hole diameter 4 mm, max. height 15 mm. Volume and mass of the probable lost filling. Volume ca. 0.19 cm3, estimated mass of the lead filling 2.1 g. The position of the probable fill would have made it more likely that the bone would have produced six (koos) as a result. B002 Astragal L44, excavated 8/3/2016 Complete. L: 32 mm. W: 23 mm. H: 18 mm. Mass: 9.31 g. B003 Astragal L44, excavated 8/3/2016 Complete. L: 30 mm. W: 20 mm. H: 18 mm. Mass: 6.96 g. B004 Astragal L44, excavated 8/3/2016 Complete. L: 29 mm. W: 20 mm. H: 17.5 mm. Mass: 6.99 g.

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B005 Astragal L43, excavated 8/3/2016 Complete. L: 29.5 mm. W: 20 mm. H: 17 mm. Mass: 6.31 g. B006 Astragal L43, excavated 8/3/2016 Complete. L: 33 mm. W: 21 mm. H: 19.5 mm. Mass: 11.19 g. B007 Astragal L43, excavated 8/3/2016 Only lateral side, cut. Dorsal surface slightly abraded. L: 30 mm. W: 9 mm. H: 15 mm. Mass: 3.16 g. B008 Large astragal L39, excavated 3/3/2016 Complete. L: 59.5 mm. W: 37 mm. H: 33 mm. Mass: 36.96 g. Lead fill F024 fits into convex depression on the lateral side. B009 Astragal L26, excavated 1/3/2016 Complete. L: 29.5 mm. W: 21 mm. H: 15 mm. Mass: 8.05 g. B010 Astragal L19, excavated 28/3/2015 Planar and dorsal surfaces abraded. Dorsal surface and one short side with cuts. Similar in dimensions to F005. L: 30 mm. W: 18 mm. H: 12 mm. Mass: 5.25 g.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alexandridou, A. 2013: ‘Archaic Pottery and Terracottas from the Sanctuary of Poseidon at Kalaureia’. Opuscula 6, 81–150. Amandry, P. 1984: ‘Os et coquilles’. In L’antre corycien, vol. 2 (BCH Suppl. 9) (Athens), 347– 80. Broneer, O. 1947: ‘Investigations at Corinth, 1946–1947’. Hesperia 16, 233–47. Burkert, W. 1985: Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical (Oxford). Chládek, S. 2011: Exploring Maya Ritual Caves: Dark Secrets from the Maya Underworld (Lanham, MD). de Callataÿ, F. and Gitler, H. 2004: The Coin of Coins: A World Premier (Jerusalem). De Grossi Mazzorin, J. and Minniti, C. 2013: ‘Ancient Use of the Knuckle-Bone for Rituals and Gaming Piece’. Anthropozoologica 48, 371–80. Dunbabin, T.J. 1948: The Western Greeks. The History of Sicily and South Italy from the Foundation of the Greek Colonies to 480 B.C. (Oxford).

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Graf, F. 2005: ‘Rolling the Dice for an Answer’. In Johnston, S.I. and Struck, P.T. (eds.), Mantikê: Studies in Ancient Divination (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 155) (Leiden/ Boston), 51–97. Greaves, A.M. 2012. ‘Divination at Archaic Branchidai-Didyma: A Critical Review’. Hesperia 81, 177–206. Grinsell, L.V. 1961: ‘The Breaking of Objects as a Funerary Rite’. Folklore 72, 475–91. —. 1973: ‘The Breaking of Objects as a Funerary Rite: Supplementary Notes’. Folklore 84, 111–14. Groslier, B.-P. 1981: ‘Introduction to the Ceramic Wares of Angkor’. In Stock, D. (ed.), Khmer Ceramics 9th–14th Century (Singapore), 9–40. Hoover, O.D. 2012: Handbook of Coins of Sicily (including Lipara): Civic, Royal Siculo-Punic, and Romano-Sicilian Issues, Sixth to First Centuries BC (Handbook of Greek Coinage 2) (Lancaster, PA). Iversen, P.A. 2015: ‘Inscriptions from Northwest Pisidia’. Epigraphica Anatolica 48, 1–85. Jenkins, G.K. 1972: Ancient Greek Coins (London). —. 1975: ‘The Coinages of Enna, Galaria, Piakos, Imachara, Kephalsidion, and Longane’. In Le emissione dei centri Siculi fino all’epoca di Timoleonte e i loro rapporti con la monetazione delle colonie greche di Sicilia (Atti del IV convegno del Centrointernazionale di Studi Numismatici, Napoli, 9–14 Aprile 1973) (Supplement to Annali dell’Istituto Italiano di Numismatica 20) (Rome), 77–103. Kurtz, D.C. and Boardman, J. 1971: Greek Burial Customs (London). Lentini, M.C. 2009: ‘Ultime indagini nell’area urbana dell’antica Naxos. Scavi 2003–2006. Rapporto preliminare’. In Lentini, M.C. (ed.), Naxos di Sicilia: L’abitato coloniale e l’arsenale navale. Scavi 2003–2006 (Messina), 9–37. —. 2011: ‘Un’antefissa con sileno danzante e il mondo dionisiaco a Naxos di Sicilia’. Bollettino d’arte 96, 1–8. —. 2012: ‘Recent Investigation of the Early Settlement Levels at Sicilian Naxos’. In Descœudres, J.-P. and Paspalas, S.A. (eds.), Zagora in Context: Settlements and Intercommunal Links in the Geometric Period (900–700 BC) (Proceedings of the Conference held by the Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens and the Archaeological Society at Athens, Athens, 20–22 May 2012) (= Mediterranean Archaeology 25) (Sydney), 309–15. Lentini, M.C., Blackman, D.J. and Pakkanen, J. 2013: ‘Naxos in Sicily’. In Blackman, D.J. and Rankov, B., with Baika, K., Gerding, H. and Pakkanen, J., Shipsheds of the Ancient Mediterranean (Cambridge), 393–409. Lentini, M.C., Pakkanen, J. and Sarris, A. 2015: ‘Naxos of Sicily in the 5th Century BC: New Research’. In Adam-Veleni, P. and Tsangari, D. (eds.), Greek Colonization: New Data, Current Approaches (Proceedings of the Scientific Meeting Held in Thessaloniki, 6 February 2015) (Athens), 23–35. Muhlestein, K., Christensen, B.D. and Fairbairn, F. 2019: ‘Fag el-Gamous Pottery with “Kill Holes”’. In Muhlestein, K., Jensen, B. and Pierce, K.V.L. (eds.), Excavations at the Seila Pyramid and Fag el-Gamous Cemetery (Harvard Egyptological Studies 7) (Leiden/Boston), 285–305. Nollé, J. 2007. Kleinasiatische Losorakel: Astragal- und Alphabetchresmologien der hochkaiserzeitlichen Orakelrenaissance (Vestigia 57) (Munich). Pakkanen, J. 2013: Classical Greek Architectural Design: a Quantitative Approach (Papers and Monographs of the Finnish Institute at Athens 18) (Helsinki). Pakkanen, J., Lentini, M.C., Sarris, A., Tikkala, E. and Manataki, M. 2019: ‘Recording and Reconstructing the Sacred Landscapes of Sicilian Naxos’. Open Archaeology 5, 416–33. Pelagatti, P. 1976–77: ‘L’attività della Soprintendenza alle Antichità della Sicilia Orientale, I’. Kokalos 22–23, 519–50. —. 1993: ‘Nasso. Storia della ricerca archeologica’. In Nenci, G. and Valet, G. (eds.), Bibliografia Topografica della Colonizzazione Greca in Italia e nelle Isole Tirreniche, vol. 12 (Rome/Pisa), 268–312. Planella, M.T., Belmar, C.A., Quiroz, L.D., Falabella, F., Alfaro, S.K., Echeverría, J. and Niemeyer, H.M. 2016: ‘Towards the Reconstruction of the Ritual Expressions of Societies of

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the Early Ceramic Period in Central Chile: Social and Cultural Contexts Associated with the Use of Smoking Pipes’. In Bollwerk, E.A. and Tushingham, S. (eds.), Perspectives on the Archaeology of Pipes, Tobacco and other Smoke Plants in the Ancient Americas (Cham/New York), 231–54. Pope, S. 2009: ‘New Coin Types in Late Fifth-Century Sicily’. In Counts, D.B. and Tuck, A.S. (eds.), Koine: Mediterranean Studies in Honor of R. Ross Holloway (Joukowsky Institute Publications 1) (Oxford), 131–37. Rizzo, G.E. 1938: Saggi preliminari su l’arte della moneta nella Sicilia greca (Rome). Soles, J.S. 1999: ‘The Ritual Killing of Pottery and the Discovery of a Mycenaean Telestas at Mochlos’. In Betancourt, P.P., Karageorghis, V., Laffineur, R. and Niemeier, W.-D. (eds.), Meletemata: Studies in Aegean Archaeology Presented to Malcolm H. Wiener as He Enters his 65th Year (Aegaeum 20) (Liège), 787–92. Stern, I. and Noam, V. 2015: ‘Holey Vessels of Maresha’. Aram 27.1–2, 343–64.

Fig. 1. Archaeological Park of Naxos in Sicily. Survey data and reconstruction of the ancient city superimposed on an aerial orthomosaic of the site. ‘W’ marks the location of the Classical well. Red = Archaic; green = Classical; cyan = Byzantine; blue = ancient shoreline; light grey = modern features (J. Pakkanen).

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Fig. 2. Start of excavations of the pithos covering the Classical well in 2015 (J. Pakkanen).

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Fig. 3. Excavations at crossroads of Plateia A and Stenopos 11. 3D total station survey superimposed over photogrammetry orthomosaic. ‘W’ marks the location of the Classical well. Black = Geometric, Red = Archaic; green = Classical; cyan = Byzantine (J. Pakkanen).

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Fig. 4. Section of the well with superimposed total station data. Discussed excavation layers are numbered on the right (J. Pakkanen).

CRISIS, DIVINATION AND ‘KILLING’ POTTERY

Fig. 5. Astragals discovered in the well, most with dorsal side facing up (J. Pakkanen).

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Fig. 6. Pottery from Layer 43 (J. Pakkanen).

Fig. 7. Late 5th-century bronze hemilitron from Piakos excavated in Layer 43 (J. Pakkanen).

CRISIS, DIVINATION AND ‘KILLING’ POTTERY

Fig. 8. Cup (425–400 BC) from Layer 43, punctured with a sharp blow (J. Kärkkäinen and J. Pakkanen).

Fig. 9. Type B3 Silenus antefix from Layer 41 (J. Kärkkäinen and J. Pakkanen).

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Fig. 10. Astragals discovered in the well, most with plantar side facing up (J. Pakkanen).

CRISIS, DIVINATION AND ‘KILLING’ POTTERY

Fig. 11. Astragals discovered in the well, with lateral and medial sides facing up (J. Pakkanen).

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Fig. 12. Lead weight F024 fitting the lateral depression of large astragal B008 (J. Pakkanen).

HERACLES CELTICUS AND HERACLES SCYTHICUS: THE SAME NARRATIVE IN THE WEST AND THE EAST OF EUROPE? Alexander V. PODOSSINOV

ABSTRACT This paper compares two genealogical legends associated with Heracles. One of them makes Heracles the progenitor of the Celts, the other of the Scythians. Both legends have many similarities – the passage of the hero with the cows of Geryon from Spain to Greece, a meeting with a local woman (princess or demon), abduction of his cows (horses), having an affair, the subsequent birth of a son, the future founder of the nation (Celtos or Scythes), who becomes the ruler, pulling the bow of his father. Domestic Scythologists, it seems, are unaware of the existence of a ‘Celtic’ version of the legend. Nevertheless, there is a question of the primacy of legends. The article presents arguments pro and contra the primacy of the ‘Scythian’ legend.

Several versions exist of the origin of the Scythians, two of which were proposed by Herodotus, supposedly descended from the Scythians themselves. In the first he tells of the first person to have appeared in these places – Targitaos, whose parents were Zeus and the daughter of the Borysthenes river. Targitaos’ three sons, Lipoxais, Arpoxais and Colaxais, became forefathers of various Scythian clans; the kingdom passed to the youngest, Colaxais, who was able to pick up golden objects falling from the sky: a plough with a yoke, an axe and a bowl (4. 5–7).1 Having recounted the Scythians’ legend of their origin, Herodotus adds another, which he supposedly heard from the Pontic Greeks and in which the progenitor of the Scythians was Heracles (4. 8–10). According to this version, Heracles after the fulfilment of his tenth labour – the abduction of the cows (or bulls) of Geryon – arrived in an uninhabited country, which the Scythians later began to occupy, and there he lost horses from his chariot. After a long search for horses, Heracles found a certain creature in the cave – half-serpent, half-woman – who had kidnapped the horses and was ready to return them to him only if he entered into an affair with her. From this connexion, the goddess gave birth to three sons – Agathyrsus, Gelonus and Scythes. When they grew up, they had, as Heracles ordered, to pull the bow left by their father and put on his girdle with a golden cup. This task was accomplished only by the youngest brother, Scythes, who became the progenitor of all the Scythian kings.2 1  The interpretation of this ethnogenetic legend, which is perceived as autochthonous in contrast to the one described by Herodotus below, has generated a great literature (see Dovatur et al. 1982, 206–13). For a detailed analysis of this legend, see Raevskii 1977; Ivantchik 1999; 2001a; 2001b. 2  This legend (with the literature on the question) has been analysed in Ivantchik 2001a; Bukharin 2013.

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Diodorus Siculus and Valerius Flaccus report information close to this legend. Diodorus (2. 43) differs from Herodotus only in the fact that, instead of Heracles, the progenitor of Scythes and all the Scythians is Zeus, having copulated with the serpent-foot goddess. Valerius Flaccus calls the Scythian king Colaxes the son of Zeus and the serpent’s nymph (Argon. 6. 48–52). It is important to note that already in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (fr. 150, 16 Merkelbach-West), probably compiled in the 6th century BC,3 Scythes, according to the most widespread reading, is called ‘the son of the most powerful Cronides’ (Σκύθης μὲν γ]ένεθ’ ὑιὸς ὑπερ[μ]ενέος Κρονίωνος), that is, of Zeus.4 Strabo cites another legend in which Heracles also appears as an assistant of a goddess located in the northern Black Sea region, this time in the vicinity of Phanagoria, but identified with Aphrodite Apatoura (11. 2. 10).5 This legend, where Heracles meets a certain local goddess, is clearly connected somehow with Herodotus’,6 but in Strabo’s version there is no ethnogenetic continuation. Scythians are thus a people not so alien to Hellenic civilisation. Similar legends were created by the Greeks to include the barbarian world in the orbit of ancient civilisation. In general, in the history of Greek colonisation, there are frequent cases when the Greek colonists, settling the remote periphery, tried to tie to this area some of their myths, their gods and their heroes, forcing the latter to be forefathers of the local peoples.7 The reason is clear: it was necessary to justify the acquisition of a new territory and to bring it closer to the Greek world, populating it with characters from Greek mythology and history. It should be noted that, according to ancient mythological and geographical tradition, Heracles, accomplishing his labours, took trips that are not inferior in length and direction to the journeys of Odysseus and the Argonauts. We know of the existence of several epic ‘Heraclides’, one of which, written by Panyassis of Halicarnassus in the 470s BC, enjoyed great popularity.8 That is why Heracles acts as the founder of nations, dynasties or cities in many parts of the oikumene – from India to Spain. There is evidence of 29 cities named Heraclea after him, and more than 120 sons born to Heracles by women in different regions of the world.9 Returning to Herodotus’ legend of Heracles, who allegedly drove the cows of Geryon to Scythia, I recall the most ancient version of Heracles’ journey with this herd, told by

3

 About dating, see West 1985, 130–37.  A.I. Ivantchik, on the basis of the metric features of the text, prefers another reading of this fragment, suggesting that the son of Zeus was not Scythes, but ‘father of the Scythians’ by whom Hercules of Herodotean legend could be seen (Ivantchik 2001a, 341–42). 5  For more about this legend and the search for the sanctuary of Aphrodite Apatoura on the Taman Peninsula, see Rozanova 1951; Tokhtasev 1986, 138–45; Koshelenko 1999; Kuznetsov 2013. 6  See Raevskii 2006, 77: ‘It is also quite likely that the variant of the same Scythian myth is the story of Strabo (11. 2. 10), related to the Bosporan cult of Aphrodite, the ruler of Apaturus.’ Cf., however, the opinion of V.D. Kuznetsov: ‘The question of the links [of the cult of Aphrodite in the Bosporus] with the local Black Sea cults should be closed’ (Kuznetsov 2013, 315). 7  For this practice of the Greeks, see the classic work Bickermann 1952. See also Elnitskii 1961, 5; Surikov 2012, 50–51. 8  See Musbakhova 2013, 131, who noted that Panyassis ‘was attributed by the ancient criticism to the canon of the five greatest epic poets, along with Homer, Hesiod, Pisander and Antimachus’. 9  Gruppe 1918, 1090–95. See the list of sons and daughters of Heracles in Apollodorus 2. 7. 8. Absent from this list are Heracles’ sons Scythes and Celtos, who will be discussed further. 4

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Apollodorus (2. 5. 10) in the narration of the tenth labour of Heracles; the journey of Heracles, preserved by Diodorus (4. 17–25), is close to this. After killing Geryon and seizing his cows, Heracles sailed from the island of Erythia, located in the Atlantic, back to Spanish Tartessus, then passed by the city of Abdera in south-eastern Spain, from where he came into Liguria (part of Gaul to the north-west of Italy) and then to Tyrrhenia (Etruria). From there, passing to the south of Italy, he shipped to Sicily. And everywhere Heracles founded cities and settlements, which supposedly the Greeks later regained. In connexion with Herodotus’ ‘local’ legend about the arrival of Heracles in Scythia, allegedly told by the Pontic Greeks and strongly diverging from the main geographical version of his journey, I want to recall the existence of another similar legend connected with Heracles and Geryon’s cows, but tied to another region and another people, namely to the Celts, who lived in that very Liguria through which, according to the common version, Heracles passed. This legend in several different versions is preserved by Diodorus, Parthenius of Nicaea and the anonymous Etymologicum Magnum. Here is how Diodorus (5. 24. 1–3) represents it: 1. Now Celtica was ruled in ancient times, so we are told, by a renowned man who had a daughter who was of unusual stature and far excelled in beauty all the other maidens. But she, because of her strength of body and marvellous comeliness, was so haughty that she kept refusing every man who wooed her in marriage, since she believed that no one of her wooers was worthy of her. 2. Now in the course of his campaign against the Geryon, Heracles visited Celtica and founded there the city of Alesia, and the maiden, on seeing Heracles, wondered at his prowess and his bodily superiority and accepted his embraces with all eagerness, her parents having given their consent. 3. From this union she bore to Heracles a son named Galates, who far surpassed all the youths of the tribe in quality of spirit and strength of body. And when he had attained to man’s estate and had succeeded to the throne of his fathers, he subdued a large part of the neighbouring territory and accomplished great feats in war. Becoming renowned for his bravery, he called his subjects Galatae or Gauls after himself, and these in turn gave their name to all of Galatia or Gaul (translation C.H. Oldfather).10 Thus, the Celts, like the Scythians, descend from the son of Heracles, born of a local woman. It is interesting to note that Diodorus, citing this ‘Celtic’ legend of Heracles, in 10  Τῆς Κελτικῆς τοίνυν τὸ παλαιόν, ὥς φασιν, ἐδυνάστευσεν ἐπιφανὴς ἀνήρ, ᾧ θυγάτηρ ἐγένετο τῷ μεγέθει τοῦ σώματος ὑπερφυής, τῇ δ’ εὐπρεπείᾳ πολὺ διέχουσα τῶν ἄλλων. αὕτη δὲ διά τε τὴν τοῦ σώματος ῥώμην καὶ τὴν θαυμαζομένην εὐπρέπειαν πεφρονηματισμένη παντὸς τοῦ μνηστεύοντος τὸν γάμον ἀπηρνεῖτο, νομίζουσα μηδένα τούτων ἄξιον ἑαυτῆς εἶναι. κατὰ δὲ τὴν Ἡρακλέους ἐπὶ Γηρυόνην στρατείαν, καταντήσαντος εἰς τὴν Κελτικὴν αὐτοῦ καὶ πόλιν Ἀλησίαν ἐν ταύτῃ κτίσαντος, θεασαμένη τὸν Ἡρακλέα καὶ θαυμάσασα τήν τε ἀρετὴν αὐτοῦ καὶ τὴν τοῦ σώματος ὑπεροχήν, προσεδέξατο τὴν ἐπιπλοκὴν μετὰ πάσης προθυμίας, συγκατανευσάντων καὶ τῶν γονέων. μιγεῖσα δὲ τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ ἐγέννησεν υἱὸν ὀνόματι Γαλάτην, πολὺ προέχοντα τῶν ὁμοεθνῶν ἀρετῇ τε ψυχῆς καὶ ῥώμῃ σώματος. ἀνδρωθεὶς δὲ τὴν ἡλικίαν καὶ διαδεξάμενος τὴν πατρῴαν βασιλείαν, πολλὴν μὲν τῆς προσοριζούσης χώρας κατεκτήσατο, μεγάλας δὲ πράξεις πολεμικὰς συνετέλεσε. περιβόητος δὲ γενόμενος ἐπ’ ἀνδρείᾳ τοὺς ὑφ’ αὑτὸν τεταγμένους ὠνόμασεν ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ Γαλάτας· ἀφ’ ὧν ἡ σύμπασα Γαλατία προσηγορεύθη.

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the genealogical ‘Scythian’ legend, which was discussed above, derives the Scythians not from Heracles, but from Zeus, as Herodotus did in the first version of the Scythian origin. And here is what Parthenius of Nicaea, author of Of the Sorrows of Love, tells: 30. Celtine It is also said of Heracles that when he was bringing the cattle of Geryon from Erythea, his wanderings through the land of the Celts brought him to the court of Bretannus. This king had a daughter called Celtine. She fell in love with Heracles and hid his cattle, refusing to surrender them unless he first had intercourse with her. (2) Heracles was in a hurry to get his cattle back, but he did have intercourse with her. When the time came round, a child was born to them, Celtus, from whom the Celts take their name (translation J.L. Lightfoot).11 As we can see, Parthenius’ story basically coincides with the legend of Diodorus: after the struggle with Geryon, Heracles returns home through the land of the Celts (Gauls, Galatians), copulates with the daughter of the local ruler, and the son born of this connexion becomes the progenitor of an entire nation (or gives it his own name). New in this story are the names (undoubtedly Celtic) of the local ruler and his daughter, and the blackmail of the local princess who stole the Geryon’s cows and demanded a love affair with the hero for their return. Finally, in the Etymologicum Magnum we read about the Celtic Heracles (502. 45): Celto, the daughter of Bretanus, having fallen in love with Heracles, asks him to connect with her, and having done that, Heracles left her bow, saying that if a boy is born, he will become king if he can pull the bow; and the son Celtus was born, from whom the people of the Celts came.12 In this short passage, the author retains all the information of Parthenius, adding here only a story about a bow, which Heracles leaves to his future son, who must pull it in order to become king. Thus, if we combine all the elements of this legend, narrated by different authors with varying degrees of detail, and suppose that they all belong to the same narrative, we get the following picture. In the Celtic country (Gallia), the beautiful Celtine (or Celto), the daughter of the local ruler, Bretannus (or Bretanus), fell in love with Heracles, who had driven Geryon’s cows from Spain to Tiryns and stole them to force him to intercourse. Later she gave birth to a son Celtus (or Galates) from Heracles, to whom she gave the bow left by  Λέγεται δὲ καὶ Ἡρακλέα, ὅτε ἀπ’ Ἐρυθείας τὰς Γηρυόνου βοῦς ἤγαγεν, ἀλώμενον διὰ τῆς Κελτῶν χώρας ἀφικέσθαι παρὰ Βρεταννόν· τῷ δὲ ἄρα ὑπάρχειν θυγατέρα Κελτίνην ὄνομα. ταύτην δὲ ἐρασθεῖσαν τοῦ Ἡρακλέους κατακρύψαι τὰς βοῦς μὴ θέλειν τε ἀποδοῦναι, εἰ μὴ πρότερον αὐτῇ μιχθῆναι. τὸν δὲ Ἡρακλέα τὸ μέν τι καὶ τὰς βοῦς ἐπειγόμενον ἀνασώσασθαι, πολὺ μᾶλλον μέντοι τὸ κάλλος ἐκπλαγέντα τῆς κόρης συγγενέσθαι αὐτῇ· καὶ αὐτοῖς χρόνου περιήκοντος γενέσθαι παῖδα Κελτόν, ἀφ’ οὗ δὴ Κελτοὶ προσηγορεύθησαν. 12  Κελτοί: Κελτώ, Βρετανοῦ θυγάτηρ, ἐρασθεῖσα Ἡρακλέους, παρεκάλει αὐτὸν αὐτῇ μιγῆναι· καὶ τοῦτο πράξας Ἡρακλῆς, ἀπέλιπε τὸ τόξον αὐτῇ, εἰπών, ἐὰν ἄρρην γεννηθῇ, βασιλέα αὐτὸν γενέσθαι, εἰ δύναται τεῖναι τὸ τόξον· καὶ ἐγεννήθη παῖς Κελτός· ἀφ’ οὗ Κελτοὶ ἔθνος. 11

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Heracles and who, having managed to pull on his father’s bow, became the king and progenitor of the Celts. From this legend we can conclude that the Celts (or rather, the Greeks from Celtica), in the same way as the Scythians (or rather, the Greeks from Pontus), made Heracles the founder of their history and genealogy.13 It was believed that the veneration of Heracles by the Celts was so deeply rooted that they considered their capital, the city of Alesia, to be founded by Heracles on his way from the island of Geryon (Diodorus 5. 24. 2).14 At first glance, in this legend we can easily recognise the main features of the legend about the coming of Heracles to Scythia. It is strange, but in international Scythology I have found no mention of the Celtic version of the legend, so close to the Scythian. However, the question arises of what kind of relationship exists between two legends; in particular, which legend should be considered original, and which one is borrowed? Why is this important? In Celtology, I know of only one work, that by the German scholar E. Maass from 1906, in which the two versions of this legend are compared in detail.15 And if Maass is right in thinking that the Scythian legend is secondary, that the Celtic legend originated in the 6th century BC and became a model for it, then the efforts of domestic and foreign Scythologists, seeking in the Herodotean legend a local Scythian flavour, or even considering it originally Scythian and very ancient, would be otiose. For example, the most prominent representative of Russian Scythology, D.S. Raevskii, believes that: this version played a significant role in the ideology of Scythian society ... the aetiological content of the last horizon of the legend ... consists in asserting the idea of the primacy of the military aristocracy in the caste structure of Scythian society and in justifying the fact that the kings belonging to this social category unite in their face military and priestly functions.16 I would like to note immediately the scepticism regarding the Scythian origin of this legend, expressed by M.V. Skrzhinskaya: To the researcher of ancient mythology, the arguments of the Scythologists seem in most cases unconvincing. After all, they are based on the text of Herodotus, who specially 13

 In detail, see Maass 1906, 159–64; Gruppe 1918, 997–98; Aloni 1993, 13–28.  As in the ‘Scythian’ case, there existed other genealogical versions of the Celts (Galatians): the Greeks led them from Polyphemus and Galatee (Tim. fr. 69 Jacoby; Appian Illyr. 2), from Galatus, the son of Apollo (Eustatius Comm. ad Dion. Perieg. 69), from the giant Celtos, who reigned in Gaul, or from Celtos, the son of Heracles and Asteropa, daughter of Atlas (Dionysius of Halicarnassus 14. 1; Etymologicum Magnum 50. 50). See Lightfoot 1999, 531–32. F. Jacobi considered the legend of Timeus about the origin of Galatians from Galatea ‘the product of his exaggerated Sicilian local patriotism’ (Produkt seines übersteigerten sizilischen Lokalpatriotismus – Jacoby 566, fr. 69 Komm.) 15  Maass 1906, 159–64. Two versions are also briefly compared by the publisher of Parthenius: Lightfoot 1999, 532–34. 16  Raevskii 2006, 97 and 99; see also Ivantchik 2001a, 339: ‘The second legend ... reflects the ancient Indo-Iranian idea of the king as the representative of all social functions and the head of all three estates ...’. In fact, the bow and the bowl described by Herodotus could carry information only about two of them – military and priestly. 14

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emphasised that this is a Hellenic myth, and it ... not only fits perfectly into the context of ancient Greek mythology, but even is built on the structure of myths told in Ionia, the homeland of the ancestors of the colonists.17 Indicative in this regard is the history of the search for the cave where the serpent-foot goddess should have lived. Using geological data on rocks in the northern Black Sea coast where the cave might be located, it was placed in different regions: in the valleys of the Molochnaya or Berda rivers, or near Berislav on the right bank of the Dnieper, or in the Olesh sands.18 Note that this search is completely analogous to that for the Gallic city of Alesia, supposedly founded by Heracles, in Celtological literature.19 So, what could be the arguments for or against the primacy of the Scythian version, which is silently assumed by Scythologists?20 Against, above all, is the geographical factor: the adventure of Heracles is more logically tied to Gaul, through which he drove his bulls (in fact, the famous path of Heracles – ὁδὸς Ἡράκλεια – from Spain to Tiryns on the Peloponnese through Scythia looks, to say the least, impractical21). We know that Heracles left many ‘footprints’ in Ligurian Gaul:22 five towns and ports bear his name.23 Ancient authors were well aware of another legend about the exploits of Heracles in Celtic lands. It was here, on the rocky plateau in the delta of the Rhône, that his famous battle with the Ligurians (or Ligyes) took place,24 about which Aeschylus already knew. In his Prometheus Unbound (fr. 199) Prometheus prophesies to Heracles, who goes to the Hesperides: Thou shalt come to the dauntless host of the Ligurians, where, full well I know, thou shalt not be eager for battle, impetuous though thou art; for it is fated that even thy 17  Skrzhinskaya 1998, 49. See also Asheri, Lloyd and Corcella 2007, 577: ‘The legend is perhaps epic in origin, rather than local.’ 18  See the different versions in the comments ad loc. in Dovatur et al. 1982, 214. The authors of the commentary themselves consider that ‘the cave is mentioned by Herodotus when retelling a fantastic plot, and therefore attempts to localize it are hardly justified’. 19  See, for example, Harmand 1967, passim. 20  In connexion with our problem, Maass (1906, 163) rightly believes that ‘Das Endziel philologischen Könnens und richtiger Methode ist die Fähigkeit, unter zwei voneinander anhängigen Überlieferungen sowohl nach Form wie nach Inhalt mit Sicherheit zu ermitteln, welche als die zeitlich spätere zu gelten hat.’ He himself comes to the conclusion that the ‘Scythian’ legend originated from the ‘Celtic’ one (Maass 1906, 163). 21  Maass (1906, 162) calls Heracles’ northern Black Sea route as given by Herodotus ‘geographische Unmöglichkeit’. J. Lightfoot, disagreeing with Maass generally in the question of the primacy of the ‘Celtic’ legend, nevertheless here acknowledges ‘the geographical unplausibility of the Echidna story’ (Lightfoot 1999, 533, n. 366). 22  Cf. Harmand 1967, 961–62: ‘C’est l’une des régions du monde méditerranéen où le mythe d’Héraklès a eu l’écho le plus fort, inspirant nombre de légendes de fondation et marquant la toponymie de façon durable.’ 23  Harmand 1967, 962 (with literature); Ramin 1979, 106. 24  Cf. Mela 2. 78: ‘This coast [Liguria] is little known, it is called Rocky, because, as they say, Heracles, fighting here with Neptune’s children Alebion and Derkinus, when the arrows ran out, called on Jupiter for help, and he shed rain of the stones. And indeed, one can believe in this rain — there are so many stones scattered widely here and there.’ Pliny mentions briefly the legend of the battle of Heracles in Liguria (NH 3. 34: Campi Lapidei, Herculis proeliorum memoria – ‘Stone fields, the memory of the battles of Heracles’). Strabo was sceptical of the mythological version of the stone-fall on the rocky coast (4. 1. 7). Apollodorus (2. 5. 10) directly links this battle with the journey of Heracles with the cows of Geryon: ‘Then he [Heracles] crossed Abderia [in the south of Spain] and arrived in Liguria, where the sons of Poseidon, Ialebion and Durkinus, tried to take away his cows.’

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arrows shall fail thee there; and thou shalt not be able to take from the ground any stone, because the whole place is smooth. But the Father, beholding thy helplessness, shall pity thee, and, holding above thee a cloud, shall overshadow the land with a shower of round stones. Hurling these, thou shalt easily drive back the Ligurian host (translation H.W. Smyth). Apollodorus undoubtedly writes about the same battle with the Ligurians, who, according to him, wanted to capture the cows of Geryon. The Ligurians (Ligyes) adjacent to the Greek colony of Massalia (present-day Marseilles) were well recognised as a Celtic population by Strabo, who wrote about the inhabitants of this region (4. 1. 14): … In my opinion, the celebrity of the Celts induced the Greeks to confer that name on the whole of the Galatae; the vicinity of the Massalians may also have had something to do with it (translation H.C. Hamilton). In this testimony of Strabo, we see both the connexion of the name of the Celts and Galatians, which we met in the Celtic legend, and a particularly close acquaintance with the Celts of Massalia, from which the interpretatio Graeca of local legend could originate. It is important to note that in classical times three languages were spoken in the city – Greek, Latin and Celtic (see Isidorus Orig. 15. 1. 63 with reference to Varro).25 An argument in favour of the primacy of the Scythian legend is that in both Heracles leaves a bow to test his son, the future king, and, as we know, the Scythians were considered archers par excellence. Moreover, Heracles himself was known as an outstanding archer, a disciple of a Scythian: Herodorus from Heraclea, a senior contemporary of Herodotus, wrote that Heracles carried a Scythian bow with him and learned the art of archery from the Scythian Teutaros, the shepherd of his father Amphytrion (FHG Müller II, 29).26 K. Neumann, based on this report, believes that the meeting of Heracles with the Scythians was in Greece, known already quite early and in different ways.27 For the Celts, however, such weaponry was not typical – spears or bows-and-arrows, although present, were used mostly among peasants and hunters.28 The Celts preferred to fight hand to hand with swords; no wonder the Celtic sword, like the Scythian bow, became almost common in ancient literature. It is important to note that Gallic coins never carry the image of a bow, although military equipment is often depicted on them.29 On the other hand, it is logical to admit that Heracles, who carried two bows with him, could not leave his son any other weapon, even if he were in Celtic lands where the 25  Rankin thinks that ‘Massalia … was strongly influenced … by local Celtic culture (Livy 38.17)’ (Rankin 1987, 35). 26  More about this story: Braund 2010b. Callimachus (2. 566), Theocritus (13. 55 and schol.), Lycophron (Alex. 56 and schol.) also mention the Scythian Teutaros. So, in Schol. ad Lycophr. it is said that ‘Teurtaros, a Scythian, the shepherd of the bulls of Amphitryon, learned Heracles to shoot from a bow, passing him his bows’ – Τεύταρος Σκύθης βουκόλος Ἀμφιτρύωνος ἐδίδαξε τὸν Ἡρακλέα τοξεύειν παρασχὼν αὐτῷ καὶ τὰ τόξα αὐτοῦ. In the Schol. to Theocritus we read: ‘Heracles used Scythian bows, as Herodorus and Callimachus say’ – Σκυθικοῖς δὲ ὅπλοις ἐχρήσατο Ἡρακλῆς, ὥς φασιν Ἡρόδωρος καὶ Καλλίμαχος. 27  Neumann 1855, 110, Anm. 1. 28  Jullian 1993, 286–87. 29  Jullian 1993, 980, n. 60.

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bow was not used. The sword (ἀκινάκης) also played a large role in the military affairs of the Scythians: remember that on the famous gold crest from the Solokha kurgan (end of the 5th–beginning of the 4th century BC) the Scythians fight with swords! In favour of the primacy of the Scythian story is the relatively late (in comparison with Herodotus) dates fixed for the Celtic legend: Diodorus and Parthenius from Nicaea are authors of the 1st century BC, and the Etymologicum Magnum is a monument of Byzantine literature of the 12th century AD.30 Therefore, there is a temptation to consider their information secondary to the Scythian legend. Celtologists often speak in connexion with the Heracles legend of Diodorus about ‘the new, typically Hellenistic way of defeating the Celts with the help of mythological genealogies and etymologies’, i.e. they suggest that the Celtic legend originated in the Hellenistic period.31 But the question arises: what about Herodotus, who before Hellenism told the exact same (also ‘typically Hellenistic’?) legend of Heracles in Scythia?32 It has long been recognised that much that is known to us from later (even Byzantine) writings goes back to very ancient sources. For example, V.N. Yarkho, in the preface to his translation of Parthenius, rightly notes: The sources of these stories, where they are indicated, are from quite diverse genres: sometimes these are the tragedies of the 5th century BC (Chapter III), but more often – the poets of the Hellenistic period, the predecessors of Parthenius, – among them we find such significant names as Apollonius of Rhodes, Nikander, Hermesianactos, Euphorion. Along with these, Parthenius finds the plots in prose writers, starting from logographers of the 5th century BC, who looked for an explanation of the historical events in the personal lives of famous people, and ending with the contemporaries of the poet – grammarians and rhetoricians.33 At the beginning of many of the 36 love stories of Parthenius, there is a reference to the origins of the piece; in particular, one of the stories is based on the materials of Xanthos, the predecessor or contemporary of Herodotus, another on Hellanicus of Mytilene from the 5th century BC. The story about Celtine, unfortunately, lacks such a reference; nevertheless, the probability that the Celtic legend dates back to very ancient times exists.34 Diodorus also used numerous sources in his work, among which he named Hecataeus of Abdera, Ctesias of Cnidus, Ephorus, Theopompos, Ieronymus of Cardias, Duris, Philistes, Timaeus, Polybius and Poseidonius. Almost all authors who have written about 30

 See Reitzenstein 1897; Alpers 1990.  See Birkhan 1997, 40: ‘eine neue typisch hellenistische literarische Keltenbewältigung … durch mythologischen Genealogien und Etymologien’. See also Rankin 1987, 81: ‘This is a typical Hellenistic aition or explanatory mythical story. Its origin can hardly be earlier than the Celtic invasion of Greece in 279 BC.’ Lightfoot (1999, 531) also believes that numerous legends explaining the eponym of the Celts were created after the studies of the Celts by Pytheas from Massalia (ca. 300 BC) and as a response to the onset of the invasion of the Celts into Greece and Asia Minor at the beginning of the 3rd century BC. 32  I shall not touch here on the question of the fictitious nature of many ethnogenetic legends in Herodotus’ Histories, including the Scythian ones. There is a long historiographic tradition of scepticism (see, for example, Fehling 1971; Baragwanath and De Bakker 2012; Bichler 1990). 33  Yarkho 1992, 254–55. 34  It is assumed that the story of Celtine was used by Parthenius in his poem Heracles, which does not survive (see Rankin 1987, 82). 31

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Celtic Heracles refer to their unnamed predecessors (see ὥς φασιν in Diodorus; λέγεται in Parthenius). An example of such borrowings from much earlier sources is the story of Ammianus Marcellinus about the arrival of Heracles in Gaul, where he sired many children; the preface to this story contains the following remarks on sources and historiography remarks (15. 9. 2): Ancient writers (scriptores veteres), pursuing their investigations into the earliest origin of the Gauls, left our knowledge of the truth very imperfect (notitiam … semiplenam); but at a later period, Timagenes, a thorough Greek both in diligence and language, collected from various writings facts which had been long unknown, and guided by his faithful statements, we, dispelling all obscurity, will now give a plain and intelligible relation of them (translation C.D. Jonge). The ‘reliable’ source of Ammianus Timagenes, who came to Rome from Alexandria in 55 BC as a captive and wrote the History of the Celts, lived there during the time of Augustus,35 i.e. four centuries before Ammianus; therefore, to judge about the authenticity or the time of origin of some legends from the chronology of its source does not seem to be correct. Thus, the late appearance in our sources of the legend of the Celtic Heracles cannot indicate the secondary nature of this legend in comparison with Herodotus’ account. I note, by the way, that many who wrote about the Celtic legend as presented by Diodorus considered it as a Greek retelling of local legends (C. Jullian, O.G. Gruppe, M. Gelzer).36 The fact that such legends could have existed among the Massaliots from the very beginning is confirmed by the existence of the following legend about the founding of a colony told by Aristotle in Massaliot Politeia (fr. 549) and Justin in the retelling of Pompeius Trogus (43. 3. 4–43. 4. 12). When the Phocaeans came to Massalia in ca. 600 BC, the local Ligurians, ruled by king Nanus (or Nannus), underwent a procedure for the choice of a groom by the royal daughter Petta (or Gyptis). During the feast, she gave Euxenes, one of the Phocaean leaders invited to the feast, a ceremonial cup of wine (or water), which meant that she had chosen him. The king betrothed his daughter to Euxenes, allowing the Phocaeans to found a city, and from this marriage a son was born named Protos (or Protes), to whom the ancient genus Protiades in Massalia descended.37 Y.B. Tsirkin, who investigated this legend, believes that ‘the first core of the legend might have arisen already in the 6th century BC, i.e. soon after the founding of Massalia’.38 Of course, this legend has nothing to do with the Herodotean legend about 35

 About Timagenes, see Laqueur 1936.  For more information and literature, see Harmand 1967, 958. Harmand himself considered the legend of Celto not of local origin, since the Gauls never worshipped Heracles (Harmand 1967, 970). However, he notes the ‘archaic nature of the ethnographic concepts of Diodorus relative to this country [of the Celts]’. 37  See Maass 1906, 161; Rankin 1987, 36–38; Jullian 1993, 91–92. About Aristotle’s Massaliot Politeia, see Tsirkin 1990. Tsirkin thinks that ‘Aristotle has drawn his knowledge not directly from a Massaliot source, but through some intermediary or chain of intermediaries, from which the uncharacteristic for the primary source features were borrowed. However, on the whole, his data correspond to local tradition.’ About the ‘Massaliot passage’ of Pompeius Trogus, see Tsirkin 1968, 148–50. 38  Tsirkin 1990, 19. 36

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the origin of the Scythians, but it shows that the same kind of legend – with regard to Heracles and the Celtic princess – could have appeared among Greek pioneers.39 It is significant that the first legend of Herodotus about the origin of the Scythians, involving sacral objects (plough, yoke, axe and bowl) inherited by the youngest of the three sons Colaxais, has a Celtic(!) analogy: in Celtic customary law, which existed until recently, it was prescribed that when dividing the heritage between brothers, the youngest received the estate, all buildings and 8 acres of land, as well as an axe, a cauldron and a coulter.40 Here we have an amazing example of the typological similarity of certain customs, traditions, practices in different regions, casting doubt on the exclusively ‘Scythian’ specificity of the legends told by Herodotus. Maass suggested that the Celtic legend might first have been recorded in the 6th century BC in the poem of Stesichorus Geryoneis (Γηρυονηίς), in which he talked about the campaign of Heracles against the Geryon.41 This hypothesis does not seem incredible, since it is known that Stesichorus, who lived in Sicily or in southern Italy, willingly included in his poems various local legends, as well as love stories; for example, in a poem attributed to him, Calica (Κάλυκη), he tells a legend in which ‘a girl named Calica fell in love with the young man Euathlos and prayed to Aphrodite that he will marry her. When the young man despised her, she threw herself off the cliff.’ Athenaeus, who retold it, adds that ‘in ancient times women sang some song Calica’ (14. 619 D), which may indicate the folk origin of the legend. An argument for the primacy of the Scythian version could be the mysterious phrase from Orphic Argonautica, where we read (1057–1058): We (the Argonauts) came to the (Cimmerian) Bosporus between the (Maeotian) swamp and the Black Sea, where once a titan – cattle thief, sitting on a powerful bull, cut a passage from a marshy lake (… βοοκλόπος οὗποτε Τιτάν // ταύρῳ ἐφεζόμενος βριαρῷ πόρον ἔσχισε λίμνης). Apparently, it is about Heracles, who stole the cows from Geryon and came with them to Scythia to the Cimmerian Bosporus, which confirms the existence of the Scythian legend of Heracles here. Moreover, the author of Argonautica, as it seems, believes that Bosporus (the name was etymologised in Antiquity as ‘cow crossing’) was named not because of the crossing of Io in the image of a cow, as most ancient authors believed, but in memory of the stay in Scythia of Heracles with his cows.42 It is possible, of course, that the author of the very late Orphic Argonautica (5th century AD) depends here on Herodotus’ legend about ‘Scythian’ Heracles.43

39  It is interesting to note that one of the narrators of this legend, Pompeius Trogus, was himself a Celt from the tribe of Vokontii, whose grandfather, maternal uncle and father served in the armies of Pompey and Caesar. Rankin therefore attributes to Pompeius Trogus ‘an understanding of the Celtic way of thought’ (Rankin 1987, 40). 40  Citation after Raevskii 2006, 221. 41  Maass 1906, 164. 42  Cf. Bacon 1931, 179: ‘In 1057 the βοοκλόπος Τιτάν may well be Heracles, who is called Τιτάν in the Orphic Hymn to him (XII, 1).’ 43  Bacon also compares this passage with the reference to Heracles in Scythia by Herodotus (Bacon 1931, 179).

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There exist several mythological narratives about Heracles in Scythia, told by ancient authors,44 including Strabo’s version mentioned above about the connexion in the northern Black Sea region of Heracles with Aphrodite Apatoura. Heracles’ visit to Scythia is mentioned in the Greek inscription from Rome (IG XIV 1293A 94–97), which describes the hero’s travels: he came to Scythia, won the fight with Araxes, married his daughter Echidne, and fathered two sons, Agathyrsus and Scythes.45 The place that a visit to Scythia occupies in this inscription is interesting: first his trip to Troy is mentioned, then he passes the Greek cities, Thrace, Scythia, Thermodon (Amazons), Sinope, India, Ethiopia, and everywhere it is reported how many sons he sired. Thus, the text shows that there was a version in Greece about the adventures of Heracles in Scythia, who left descendants, and only later was his visit linked with Geryon’s labour. This version had probably been told already by Herodorus from Heraclea Pontica, who wrote ca. 500 BC the story of Heracles in 17 books (FHG II, p. 31; FGrHist 8, 980– 981).46 The god of the Araxes river, with whom Heracles fought and from whose daughter Scythian kings were born, is probably mentioned here not accidentally: Diodorus’ story about the origins of the Scythians also begins from this river as a geographical reference point of the Scythian territory (2. 43): ‘At first, they (Scythians) dwelt on the Araxes river…’. At the same time, in this passage of Diodorus, one should undoubtedly see a reference to Herodotus, who in the third legend about the origin of the Scythians writes (4. 11): ‘… The nomad Scythians dwelling in Asia, being hard pressed in war by the Massagetai, left their abode and crossing the river Araxes came towards the Cimmerian land...’ (translation G.C. Macaulay). In this case, the Volga should be, apparently, understood under the Araxes,47 although in Antiquity, as we know, several rivers might be called Araxes (Don, Volga, Syrdarya, Amudarya and Armenian Arax). The fact is that Herodotus, who spoke in detail about the ‘Scythian’ Heracles, knew (or reported) very little about the Celts, namely, only that they lived in the far west of Europe behind the Pillars of Heracles and that there the origins of Istros were to be found (2. 33 and 4. 49). In general, references to the Celts by Herodotus and Hecataeus of Miletus (frr. 54–56 Jacoby) are considered the first in Greek literature.48 Therefore, for Herodotus to adopt the already existing ‘Celtic’ version and to transform it into a ‘Scythian’ version, as it seems at first glance, would be unlikely. On the other hand, after the foundation of Massalia we can expect an influx into Greece of information about the Gauls (Galatians, Celts), as well as the emergence of Greek legends linking Heracles with local tribes, as happened with the Scythians during the Greek colonisation of the northern Black Sea coast. The Greeks and the Celts came to southern Gaul – Massalia – almost simultaneously,49 just like the Greeks and Scythians 44  About Heracles in the northern Black Sea region, see Tolstoi 1966, 232–48; Vandiver 1991, 169–81; Skrzhinskaya 1998, 45–52; Shaub 2007, 61–68; 2008; Braund 2010a. 45  Ἀ[ρ]ά[ξ]η[ν] μάχαι ἐνίκασε. τᾶι δὲ θυγατρὶ αὐτοῦ συγγενόμενος Ἐχίδναι ὑιοὺς Ἀγάθυρσον ἔθετο καὶ Σκύθαν. See analyses of this text by Elnitskii 1960, 49; Tolstoi 1966, 234–35; Raevskii 2006, 42. 46  In the opinion of Aly 1969, 120. 47  See in detail Podossinov 2007. 48  Birkhan 1997, 46. 49  Jullian 1993, 11: ‘L’arrivée, presque simultanée, des Celtes et des Grecs … voilà le point de départ naturel de cette histoire.’

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to the northern Black Sea region. At the same time, in both, Greek myths about the descent of the local barbarians from the Greek heroes, in this case from Heracles, would have arisen. It is important to note that Hecataeus, in his description of Europe (fr. 55 Jacoby), already mentions such Celtic realities as Massalia as a city in Celtica, founded by the Phocaeans, as well as Ligyes, Narbona and three ‘Ligurian’ cities. According to Maass, Hecataeus was well acquainted with Iberia and southern Gaul, and he was especially interested in the stories of local population who informed him about the eponyms of various localities.50 And since it is known that Hecataeus was one of the most important sources for Book 4 of Herodotus with its ‘Scythian Logos’,51 he could, therefore, have been the transmitter of the Celtic legend known to him, then transformed by Herodotus or by his local informants into the Scythian one. It is assumed that Hecataeus was the source of Herodotus in matters of Phocaean colonisation.52 Thus, the apparently slight acquaintance of Herodotus with Celtic stories is not an argument against the Celtic origin of the legend. It is remarkable that Diodorus brought both ethnogenetic legends, ‘Celtic’ and ‘Scythian’, and Scythologists consider the Scythian one as a variant of the Herodotean legend about the origin of the Scythes. If we compare these two legends, we get the following picture (similar elements of the narrative are highlighted): Origin of Scythians (Diodorus 2. 43)

Origin of Celts (Diodorus 5. 24)

At first (τὸ μὲν οὖν πρῶτον), then, they (Scythians) dwelt on the Araxes river… At a later time, as the Scythians recount the myth (μυθολογοῦσι Σκύθαι), there was born among them a maiden (παρ’ αὑτοῖς γενέσθαι γηγενῆ παρθένον) sprung from the earth; the upper parts of her body as far as her waist were those of a woman, but the lower parts were those of a snake. With her Zeus (after the second legend of Herodotus it was Heracles after his compaign against the Geryon. – A.P.) lay begat a son whose name (ταύτῃ δὲ Δία μιγέντα γεννῆσαι παῖδα Σκύθην ὄνομα) was Scythes. This son became more famous than any (γενόμενον ἐπιφανέστατον) who had preceded him and called the folk Scythians after his own name (τοὺς λαοὺς ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ Σκύθας προσαγορεῦσαι). (translation C.H. Oldfather).

Now Celtica was ruled in ancient times (τοίνυν τὸ παλαιόν), so we are told (ὥς φασιν), by a renowned man who had a daughter who was of unusual stature and far excelled in beauty all the other maidens (ᾧ θυγάτηρ ἐγένετο τῷ μεγέθει τοῦ σώματος ὑπερφυής)… Now in the course of his campaign against the Geryon, Heracles visited Celtica (κατὰ δὲ τὴν Ἡρακλέους ἐπὶ Γηρυόνην στρατείαν καταντήσαντος εἰς τὴν Κελτικὴν αὐτοῦ) … the maiden … accepted his embraces with all eagerness… From this union she bore to Heracles a son named (μιγεῖσα δὲ τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ ἐγέννησεν υἱὸν ὀνόματι Γαλάτην) Galates, who far surpassed all the youths of the tribe in quality of spirit and strength of body (πολὺ προέχοντα τῶν ὁμοεθνῶν ἀρετῇ τε ψυχῆς καὶ ῥώμῃ σώματος)... Becoming renowned for his bravery, he called his subjects Galatae or Gauls after himself (τοὺς ὑφ’ αὑτὸν τεταγμένους ὠνόμασεν ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ Γαλάτας)… (translation C.H. Oldfather).

50

 Maass 1906, 139.  Maass 1906, 164: ‘Auch im IV. Buch gehört Hekataios’ Buch nebst Karte zu den ausgiebig benutzen Quelle des Herodots’. This point of view is widespread in modern studies on Herodotus (see, for example, Dovatur et al. 1982, 9: ‘The geographical and ethnographic descriptions of Herodotus leave no doubt that he was well acquainted with the work of Hecataeus of Miletus Description of the Earth ...’ 52  Radet 1903, 327. 51

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The difference lies in the fact that there are three or four more earlier variants of Scythian legend of Diodorus, including Herodotus’ (only Zeus instead of Heracles), but the Celtic legend appears here for the first time and possibly is composed by Diodorus himself by analogy with the already known Scythian one. At the beginning of this piece, by combining three versions of the ‘Celtic’ legend, I forged a coherent story, very similar to the ‘Scythian’ one. And here I see two possible options for evaluating the development of the story. On the one hand, why can we not assume that the full version existed initially, but different sources contain different versions, complementary rather than contradictory.53 Then my reconstruction of the full version makes sense. But it is also possible that the first version of the ‘Celtic’ legend, recorded by Diodorus, was some vague modification of Herodotus’ ‘Scythian’ legend (Heracles, on the way from Geryon, copulated with local princess who bore him the future ruler of the Celts), which received from Parthenius more clarification in the direction of Herodotus’ story (the abduction of Heracles’ bulls for forcing him to intercourse), and in the Etymologicum Magnum the resemblance to him was finally confirmed (the pulling the Heracles’ bow as a condition for the accession of Celtus). The second explanation seems to be preferable. At the same time, the first version does not necessarily have to be a conscious modification of Herodotus’ legend. The theme of copulation of a local princess with a wandering hero (in our case with Heracles) and of the birth of her son, who must undergo an initiation ritual (in the Scythian case – pulling a bow) to become king and progenitor of an entire people, was known in the folklore of many peoples or attributed to them in the light of interpretatio Graeca.54 Timagenes, a contemporary of Diodorus and Parthenius, even wrote that the eponyms of various localities in Gaul stemmed from the love connexions of Heracles with the local ‘princesses’ (FGrHist 88 F 2). Our legend can be regarded as the main one, since it is about the main persons of the Celtic land. In this regard, it should be noted that the mention of the Celtic name Brittanus by Parthenius seems to be the earliest evidence of its existence, although this name in various variants is found in many localities of the Celtic area in the inscriptions and in the writings of ancient authors (Brittus, Britta, Brittae matres, Βριτόμαρτος, Britomaris, Brittomarus, Βρίτορις, Mars Britorius, etc.).55 The very name of the island of Great Britain, apparently, was first used by Pythaeus, the traveller and author from Massalia in the 4th century BC, in the form νῆσοι Πρεταννικαί (T 9, T 13, F 6 Roseman).56 And this late appearance of the name of Brittanus may indicate a rather late inclusion of this character in the legend.

53  Cf. the thesis of Raevskii about various versions of the ‘Scythian’ legend: ‘... The myth, functioning in terms of oral tradition, is realised in numerous narrative variants, the differences between which within the stable invariant semantics can be quite significant’ (Raevskii 2006, 283, italics in original). 54  See Rankin 1987, 82: ‘The story of the barbarian princess who compels the wandering hero to sleep with her is a familiar topos. Calypso in the Odyssey is an obvious example’. Another example: Hesiod, speaking of the love affair of Circe and Odysseus, mentions their sons Agrius and Latinus, who rule the Tyrrhenians (that is, the Etruscans in Italy) (Theog. 1011–1016). 55  For a detailed study of the name ‘Bretani’, see Hübner 1897. 56  Hübner 1897, 859–60.

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It is also evident that the Scythian legend is more detailed and has some elements that are absent from the Celtic one. In the former, instead of the bulls of Geryon, horses from Heracles’ chariot were stolen;57 Celtic beauty turned into a serpent goddess;58 not one son was born of Heracles, but three (this number of sons was indicated also in the first legend about the origin of the Scythians, told by Herodotus). Again, the question arises: which was created earlier – a short Celtic version, expanded and coloured later by Herodotus, or Herodotus’ detailed Scythian story, shortened subsequently by the authors of the Celtic legend? Maass believed that the ‘Celtic’ legend was in its ‘Scythian’ version enriched with some local details known to us (and the Greeks) from another version of the Scythian genealogy told by Herodotus, where Zeus is the progenitor of the Scythians, the youngest of which, having managed to seize sacred objects, inherits the kingdom of the father. A conscious combination of two legends – local, Scythian and Celtic – gave, according to Maass, the legend of the ‘Scythian’ Heracles.59 These are the arguments for and against the primacy of the Scythian legend. I am inclined to believe that the Celtic version of the legend is secondary, appeared later, and was based on the story of Herodotus.60 Nevertheless, the Celtic legend deserves, as we have seen, a more careful analysis. The purpose of this contribution will have been achieved if it draws the attention of Scythologists to the existence of a parallel Celtic legend of Heracles and the local goddess (princess), from whose connexion a son descended, pulling the bow of Heracles and becoming the progenitor of a people.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aloni, A. 1993: Ercole in Occidente (Atti del colloquio internazionale, Trento, 7 marzo 1990) (Labirinti 2) (Trento). Alpers, K. 1990: ‘Griechische Lexicographie in Antike und Mittelalter. Dargestellt an ausgewählten Beispielen’. In Koch, H.-A. and Krup-Eber, A. (eds.), Welt der Information: Wissen und Wissensvermittlung in Geschichte und Gegenwart (Stuttgart), 14–38. Aly, W. 1969: Volksmärchen, Sage und Novelle bei Herodot und seinen Zeitgenossen. Eine Untersuchung über die volkstümlichen Elemente der altgriechischen Prosaerzählung, 2nd ed. (Göttingen). Asheri, D., Lloyd, A.B. and Corcella, A. (eds.) 2007: A Commentary on Herodotus Books I–IV, ed. O. Murray and A. Moreno (Oxford). Bacon, J.R. 1931: ‘The geography of the Orphic Argonautica’. Classical Quarterly 25.3–4, 172– 83. Baragwanath, E. and de Bakker, M. (eds.) 2012: Myth, Truth, and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford).

57

 Ivantchik notes this fact as evidence in favour of the Scythian origin of Herodotus’ legend, taking into consideration the nomadic life of the Scythians (Ivantchik 2001a, 338; see also Asheri, Lloyd and Corcella 2007, 578: ‘the mares and the chariots give a more “Scythian” touch’). Raevskii, on the contrary, believes that ‘the mention of Gerion’s bulls by Herodotus was not an accidental borrowing from the Greek myth, but constituted an essential detail of the Scythian legend’ (Raevskii 2006, 77). 58  Maass believed that Celto/Celtine was not initially supposed to be a beautiful woman, but also a sort of Echidna, like a woman in Scythia, since she had to incline Heracles to a love affair in such a strange way (Maass 1906, 160–61). 59  Maass 1906, 163–64. 60  See Lightfoot 1999, 533: ‘It is surely clear that the Celto story is modelled on that of Echidna [in Scythia] and not the other way round’. Cf. also about the influence of Herodotus on Poseidonius Rankin 1987, 49: ‘Poseidonius (1st century BC) took Herodotus’ account of the Scythians (Skythikos Logos) as his model for his description of the Celts of Gaul.’

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Bichler, R. 1990: Review of D. Fehling, Herodotus and his ‘Sources’. Citations, Invention and Narrative Art (Leeds 1989) [= English translation of Fehling 1971]. Anzeiger für die Altertumswissenschaft 43, 49–55. Bickermann, E. 1952: ‘Origines gentium’. Classical Philology 47, 65–81. Birkhan, H. 1997: Kelten: Versuch einer Gesamtdarstellung ihrer Kultur (Vienna). Braund, D. 2010a: ‘Kimmerians, Kerberians and Kerberion: Reflections on Herakles at Asiatic Kimmerikon’. In Jackson, T.N., Konovalova, I.G. and Tsetskhladze G.R. (eds.), Gaudeamus igitur. Sbornik statey k 60-letiyu A.V. Podosinova (Moscow), 89–101. —. 2010b: ‘Teutaros the Scythian Teacher of Heracles’. In Catling, R.W.V. and Marchand, F. (eds.), Onomatologos: Studies in Greek Personal Names presented to Elaine Matthews (Oxford), 381–89. Bukharin, M.D. 2013: ‘Kolaxai i ego bratya (antichnaya traditsiya o proiskhozhdenii tsarskoi vlasti u skifov)’. Aristeas 8, 20–80. Dovatur, A.I., Kallistov, D.P. and Shishova, I.A. 1982: Narody nashei strany v ‘Istorii’ Gerodota: Teksty, perevod, kommentarii (Moscow). Elnitskii, L.A. 1960: ‘Iz istorii drevneskifskikh kul’tov’. Sovetskaya arkheologiya 4, 46–55. —. 1961: Znaniya drevnikh o severnykh stranakh (Moscow). Fehling, D. 1971: Quellenangaben bei Herodot. Studien zur Erzählkunst Herodots (Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 9) (Berlin/New York). Gruppe, O. 1918: ‘Herakles’. RE Suppl. 3, 910–1121. Harmand, J. 1967: ‘Diodore IV, 19; V, 21: Héraklès, Alesia, César le Dieu’. Latomus 26, 956–86. Hübner, E. 1897: ‘Britanni’. RE III.1, 858–79. Ivantchik, A.I. 1999: ‘Une légende sur l’origine des Scythes (Hdt. IV, 5-7) et le problème des sources du Scythicos logos d’Hérodote’. Revue des études grecques 112, 141–92. —. 2001: ‘Yeshche raz o «grecheskoi» legende o proiskhozhdenii skifov (Herod. IV, 8–10)’. In Mif. 7. Ἀποθέωσις. Na akad. Dmitri Sergeevich Raevski (Sofia), 324–50. —. 2001: ‘La légende “grecque” sur l’origine des Scythes (Hérodote 4.8–10)’. In Fromentin, V. and Gotteland, S. (eds.). Origines gentium (Études 7) (Bordeaux), 207–20. Jullian, C. 1993: Histoire de la Gaule (Paris). Koshelenko, G.A. 1999: ‘Bosporskii variant mifa o gibeli gigantov’. Drevnosti Bospora 2, 147–60. Kuznetsov, V.D. 2013: ‘Apatur’. In Kuznetsov, V.D. (ed.), Fanagoria 1: Rezul’taty arkheologicheskikh issledovanii (Moscow), 314–29. Laqueur, R. 1936: ‘Timagenes’. RE VI A,1, 1063–71. Lightfoot, J.L. 1999: Parthenius of Nicaea, The Poetical Fragments and the Ἐρωτικὰ Παθήματα (Oxford). Maass, E. 1906: ‘Die Griechen in Südgallien’. Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien 9, 139–82. Musbachova, V.T. 2013: Prometei Prikovannyi: Problema avtorstva i datirovki tragedii (St Petersburg). Neumann, K. 1855: Die Hellenen im Skythenlande: Ein Beitrag zur Alten Geographie, Ethnographie und Handelsgeschichte (Berlin). Pinney, G.F. and Ridgway, B.S. 1981: ‘Herakles at the Ends of the Earth’. JHS 10, 141–44. Podossinov, A.V. 2007: ‘Volga v geokartografii antichnosti i srednevekov’ya’. In Jackson, T.N., Kalinina, T.M., Konovalova, I.G. and Podossinov, A.V., ‘Russkaya reka’: Rechnye puti Vostochnoi Evropy v antichnoi i srednevekovoi geografii (Moscow), 70–97. Radet, G. 1903: ‘Argantonios et le mur de Phocée’. Revue des études anciennes 5, 327–28. Raevskii, D.S. 1970: ‘Skifskii mifologicheskii syuzhet v iskusstve i ideologii tsarstva Ateya’. Sovetskaya arkheologiya 3, 90–101. —. 1977: Ocherki ideologii skifo-sakskikh plemen (Moscow). —. 2006: Mir skifskoi kul’tury (Moscow). Ramin, J. 1979: Mythologie et géographie (Paris). Rankin, H.D. 1987: Celts and the Classical World (London). Reitzenstein, R. 1897: Geschichte der griechischen Etymologika: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Philologie in Alexandria und Byzanz (Leipzig). Rozanova, N.P. 1951: ‘K voprosu o mestonakhozhdenii Apatura’. VDI 2, 210–13.

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Shaub, I.Y. 2007: Mif, kul’t, ritual v Severnom Prichernomor’ye (VII–IV vv. do n.e.) (St Petersburg). —. 2008: ‘Gerakl v Italii i Skifii’. In Shaub, I.Y., Italiya – Skifiya: kul’turno-istoricheskie paralleli (Moscow/St Petersburg), 66–83. Skrzhinskaya, M.V. 1998: Skifiya glazami ellinov (St Petersburg). Surikov, I.E. 2012: ‘Rol’ kategorii polisa v formirovanii dikhotomii ‘tsivilizatsiya – varvarstvo’ v antichnoi Gretsii’. In Budanova, V.P. (ed.), Tsivilizatsiya i varvarstvo: transformatsiya ponyatii i regional’nyi opyt (Moscow), 47–66. Tokhtasev, S.R. 1986: ‘Apatur. Istoriya bosporskogo svyatilishcha Afrodity Uranii’. VDI 2, 138– 45. Tolstoi, I.I. 1966: ‘Chernomorskaya legenda o Gerakle i zmeyenogoi deve’. In Tolstoi, I.I., Stat’i o fol’klore (Moscow/Leningrad). Tsirkin, Y.B. 1968: ‘K voprosu ob istochnike “massaliotskogo passazha” Pompeya Troga’. Vestnik Leningradskogo universtiteta 2, 148–50. —. 1990: ‘Aristotel’ i osnovanie Massalii’. Antichny mir i archeologiya 8, 11–21. Vandiver, E. 1991: Heroes in Herodotus: The Interaction of Myth and History (Frankfurt/Bern/New York/Paris). West, M.L. 1985: The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women: Its Nature, Structure, and Origin (Oxford). Yarkho, V.N. 1992: ‘Parfenii. O lyubovnykh strastyakh’. VDI 1, 252–65; 2, 236–48. Zakharova, E.A. 2006: ‘Ob osobennostyakh kul’ta Gerakla v Severnom Prichernomor’ye’. Mnemon 5, 389–96.

HOW THE MEDITERRANEAN BECAME THE MEDITERRANEAN: SOME NEGLECTED PIECES OF EVIDENCE FOR THE HISTORY OF THE MENTAL MAPPING OF AN INLAND SEA* Robert ROLLINGER

ABSTRACT Until the late 8th century BC ancient Near Eastern sources conceptualised the Mediterranean primarily as the ‘upper sea’ that marked an unlimited border zone of the world towards the west. This mental map changed considerably since the 9th century BC, if not earlier, when Levantine mariners started to explore the entire Mediterranean. With the subjugation of the Levantine cities by the Neo-Assyrian empire, the Assyrians made this new geographical worldview their own. Thereby, for the very first time in history, the Mediterranean was perceived as an inland sea and as a unity of its own.

THE MEDITERRANEAN, MENTAL MAPPING A NEGLECTED HISTORY

AND

HISTORICAL CONTEXTS:

Studies on the history of the sea have come into vogue in recent decades. Publications on seafaring, shipbuilding, nautical matters, explorations, connectivity, trade and entrepreneurship have sprung up like mushrooms.1 In Ancient Studies, the Indian Ocean has become a central focus of research,2 and the Persian Gulf attracts more and more attention.3 The Black Sea has become a key area for the study of Greek colonisation.4 * This piece was written during my stay at the Getty Villa as a Getty Guest Scholar for which I would like to express my gratitude. For critical comments and remarks I am grateful to Reinhold Bichler (Innsbruck), Julian Degen (Innsbruck), Wido Sieberer (Kitzbühel) and Josef Wiesehöfer (Kiel). I would also like to thank Roselyn Campbell for improving my English. 1  Cf., for example, Andersen et al. 2010; Armitage et al. 2017; Chew 2015; de Souza and Arnaud 2017; Schulz 2016. For the series Cambridge Oceanic Histories, see https://www.cambridge.org/core/series/cambridgeoceanic-histories/DE614F8F96C4F266443D5416DEF46658. 2  See, for example, Andrade 2017; Carter 2010; Cherian and Menon 2014; Cobb 2015; 2018; 2019; de Romanis and Maiuro 2015; Edens 1993; Evers 2017; Gurukkal 2016; Howard-Johnston 2017; Kenoyer 2017; Kolb and Speidel 2015; 2016; McLaughlin 2014; 2016; Ptak 2007; Ray 2003; Reade 1996; Ruffing 2014; Seland 2007; 2010; 2013; 2016; Sidebotham 2011; Speidel 2016a; 2016b; 2016c; Speidel and Kolb 2016; Tomber 2008. On the Red Sea, see Andrade 2018, 67–136; Speidel 2015; 2016. 3  Andrade 2018, 164–206; Bagg 2017; Benjamin 2018, 204–37; Edens 1993; Laursen and Steinkeller 2017; Potts 2016; Salles 1996; 2012. 4  Dan 2007–09; 2011; 2013a; 2015a; Manoledakis 2013; Tsetskhladze 1998a; 1998b; 1999; 2002; 2003a; 2003b; 2005; 2006; 2007a; 2007b; 2008a; 2008b; 2009a; 2009b; 2010; 2012a; 2012b; 2018; Tsetskhladze and De Angelis 1994; Tsetskhladze and Hargrave 2011; Tsetskhladze and Snodgrass 2002; Tsetskhladze et al. 2015.

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The same is true for the Mediterranean where ‘Phoenician’5 exploration of the west adds an additional dimension to the issue.6 Although studies in the prehistory of seafaring gain more and more importance and there is an ever increasing awareness of the relevance of shipping links in the Late Bronze Age,7 recent scholarship agrees that seafaring and exploration of the Mediterranean attained a new dimension in the 1st millennium BC.8 This trend started already very early in the millennium when Euboean, Cypriot and Levantine mariners not only established new forms of connectivity in the eastern Mediterranean9 but simultaneously began to gradually advance into the western Mediterranean as well.10 After years of intensive research, we are able to reconstruct these developments at least in broad lines. We know that trade with raw materials as well as with luxuries played a major role, that foreign trading hubs were hotspots of trans- and interregional contacts, that we have to take into consideration international and multilingual crews, and that the spread of cultural techniques loomed large in this context.11 One ‘attendant’ of this east–west movement was the spread of the idea of the alphabet in multiple variants and local transformations that captivated the entire Mediterranean. The Greek alphabets, the Phrygian alphabet, the Etruscan alphabet, the Latin alphabet and the ‘Tartessan’ alphabet are intriguing testimonies for this cultural drift and its ongoing reinvention and reconstructions.12 Also the chronological setting for these processes has become reasonably clear. With a Phoenician presence at Huelva around the turn of the 10th/9th century BC the entire Mediterranean started more and more to become an entity in its own right.13 This had tremendous repercussions on the mental maps of the agents involved in these processes, directly and indirectly.14 It is interesting to note that recent research has not really devoted much energy to examining this interesting field in a process of dynamic change.15 Whereas investigations in the histories of networks has 5  The term is not without problems. For details, see van Dongen 2010; Quinn 2018. Cf. also Kistler 2014a. I take it as a conventional reference to Levantine cities like Tyre and Sidon and their maritime networks. Note that, at least according to the latest data on the ‘genomic history of the Iberian Peninsula’, there is no Levantine link/ancestry recognisable for the Iron Age: Olalde 2019, 1231. 6  See, for example, Aruz et al. 2014; Aruz and Seymour 2016; Babbi et al. 2015; Broodbank 2010; Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016; Eshel et al. 2019; Harris 2005a; Horden and Purcell 2000; Karageorghis and Stampolidis 1998; King and Underhill 2018; Kistler 2014b; Leidwander and Knappett 2019; Malkin 2011; Manning 2018; Molloy 2016; Stampolidis and Karageorghis 2003; Tartaron 2013; Young 2011. For the series Mittelmeerstudien, see https://www.fink.de/katalog/reihe/mittelmeerstudien.html. 7  Crielaard 1998; Sauvage 2017; Tartaron 2013. 8  Aruz et al. 2014; Aruz and Seymour 2016; Broodbank 2013; Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016; Kistler 2014b; Manning 2018, 89; Morris 2003, 44; Popham 1994; Sherratt and Sherratt 1993. 9  Boardman 1996; 2002. Boardman and Popham 1997; Fletcher 2004; Niemeyer 1999; 2000; 2001; 2003. 10  Aruz et al. 2014; Broodbank 2013; Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016; Eshel et al. 2019; Haider 2006. 11  Aruz et al. 2014; Aruz and Seymour 2016; Broodbank 2013; Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016; Eshel et al. 2019; Niemeyer 2004; Papadopoulos 1996. 12  Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016, 289–300. 13  Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016; Eshel et al. 2019; González de Canales et al. 2006; 2009. Nijboer and van der Plicht 2006. 14  On mental mapping in general, see Redepenning 2016; Konstantopoulos 2017; cf. also Mitchell 2002; Livingstone 2003, 1–16. An appropriate definition of mental maps can be found with Romney 2017, 864: ‘the mental structures or processes by which individuals acquire, store, and use information about their geographical environment’. 15  Cf. Konstantopoulos 2017, 1, on mental maps as dynamic concepts based upon a combination of ‘knowledge’ and tradition.

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become a common trend,16 the genesis of the mental mapping of the Mediterranean is not.17 This becomes immediately obvious when one looks in relevant handbooks and encyclopaedias.18 There is much about geography and history but little about the development of the mental shaping of what we today call the Mediterranean.19 There are plenty of studies indeed on the naming of the sea, most of them based on Greek and Roman sources.20 Moreover, there has always been a sort of awareness that the Odyssey is an important witness for this new mental reconfiguration of a somehow united Mediterranean,21 but this has not been put into a larger framework. This is astonishing, since it is obvious that the concept of the Mediterranean as a sui generis entity is a mental construct that can only be explained in a historical setting that made this specific space tangible and accessible

 Kistler et al. 2015; Leidwander and Knappett 2019; Malkin 2011.  Horden and Purcell (2000, 10) are content with a short remark: ‘By the beginning of the first millennium BC, in the Semitic languages of the Levant the term “Great Sea” is quite widely diffused, and it is probably from this tradition that it reached the Greeks.’ In the accompanying ‘Bibliographical essay’ there is also only one sentence: ‘Even at the learned level, the evidence of the normal parlance of geographers, historians and literary authors in general seems to confirm that there was indeed a consciousness of the unity of the area over a very long period, while the increasingly well-understood subject of cognitive geography enables us to perceive the likely character of more widely diffused perceptions’ (Horden and Purcell 2000, 530). This is rightly criticised by Harris 2005b, 15: ‘To say that in the Semitic languages the Mediterranean was “quite widely” called “the Great Sea” by 1000 BC, and to imply that this was later the standard Greek term is scarcely to say enough.’ However, Harris also does not offer much more information on this issue, neither do Olshausen 2006 and Purcell 2012. Burr 1932, the locus classicus on the topic, argues for an Egyptian origin of the term ‘Great Sea’, transferred via the Phoenicians to the Greeks (Burr 1932, 80–95). 18  Olshausen 2006; Purcell 2012. 19  See, for example, Aruz et al. 2014; Aruz and Seymour 2016; Broodbank 2013; de Souza and Arnaud 2017; Harris 2005a; Horden and Purcell 2000. There are, however, excellent studies on this issue for the Black Sea: Dan 2013a; 2015a; cf. also Dan 2015b; 2015c; 2016; 2018a. For the mental modelling of space in general, see Dan 2014; 2018b. 20  Burr 1932 is an exception and still important since he tried to include also non-classical sources to a substantial extent into his study. On the naming, apart from Burr 1932 who collected all the classical evidence at its best, see Harris 2005b, 15; Horden and Purcell 2000, 10–12. The earliest classical testimony for the label ‘Great Sea’ (ἡ μεγάλη θάλασσα) is Hecataeus (FGrHist 1 F26). The same designation can be found in Akkadian (tâmtu rabītu) as early as in the first half of the 2nd millennium BC (AHw 1354a, CAD T 154b). In many variants the same expression also appears in ancient Egyptian texts of the New Kingdom (Helck 1980). The same is true of Hittite texts of about the same time (Wilhelm 1993, 5). According to all of these terminologies, however, the Mediterranean is not yet conceptualised as an inland sea but just as a gigantic ocean. Herodotus is one of the first testimonies where, by his geographical digressions, the idea of a sea surrounded by land becomes apparent for the Mediterranean, although he does not develop a specific terminology for this ocean as an entity per se. When he talks about ‘our sea’ or the ‘Greek Sea’ he refers to the eastern Mediterranean between the Levant and the Aegean (for details, see Sieberer 2017, 24–25, with map ‘Die Erde nach den geographischen Angaben Herodots’). This appears, at least in some cases, also to include the Black Sea which is still true for some important testimonies of the 4th century BC. Although Plato Phaedo 109 a–b, and a fragment of Ephippus’ play called Geryon, a comic poet of the 4th century BC, preserved by Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 8. 346–347, are taken to represent the Mediterranean (Harris 2005b, 15; Horden and Purcell 2000, 7, 11), this is not the case since both refer to an ocean combining the Mediterranean and the Black Sea: Plato Phaedo 109 a–b: ‘it [the world] is a thing of enormous size and we inhabit a small portion of it, from the Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles, living around the sea like ants or frogs around a pool’ (translation after Emlyn-Jones and Preddy). Ephippus/Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 8. 346–347: ‘When the natives of the land / Catch a fish which is not common / But fine, as large as the whole isle / Of Crete, he (scil. Geryon) furnishes a dish / Able to hold a hundred such; / And orders all who live around, / Sindi, and Lycians, and Paphians, / Cranai, and Mygdoniotæ, / To cut down wood, because the king / Is boiling this enormous fish’ (translation after Burton). See in general Burr 1932, 95–117. 21  Broodbank 2010, 260; Kistler 2014b, 194. Cf. Odyssey 10. 195, where the Mediterranean is characterised as a πόντος ἄπειρος, ‘infinite ocean’. 16 17

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in an entirely new way where connectivity and entanglement loomed large. Apparently the first half of the 1st millennium is a splendid candidate for this setting. But, what about the extant sources for these mental reconfigurations? There are indeed some important testimonies to approach this issue that shed considerable light on this development, all of them, however, of ancient Near Eastern origin. All of them have so far not attracted the interest they deserve for the early history of the mental mapping of the Mediterranean. One of them played a certain role at least in the discussion about the reconstruction of Mediterranean toponyms, others have been neglected totally. Before we start discussing these important testimonies a short introduction on the earliest sources on the Mediterranean seems to be appropriate.

THE MEDITERRANEAN BEFORE THE MEDITERRANEAN: A SHORT OVERVIEW OF THE MENTAL MAPPING OF THE ‘UPPER SEA’ (AND THE ‘LOWER SEA’) IN THE 3RD AND 2ND MILLENNIA BC Starting with the 3rd millennium BC, ancient Near Eastern empires conceptualised their claim to rule the entire world by a mental map that determined the boundaries of this world at the ‘upper sea’ and at the ‘lower sea’.22 The space between these two oceans was taken to represent the world, substantiated as a mental construct that was under the sway of legitimate Mesopotamian kings from early on.23 Obviously, the centre of this worldview was thought to be somewhere in Mesopotamia. From a modern perspective, both oceans are easy to identify. The ‘upper sea’ represents what we nowadays call the Mediterranean, the ‘lower sea’ is the Persian Gulf.24 On the one hand, it is reasonable to take the available cuneiform evidence as the earliest testimonies for the designation of both the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. On the other hand, such an equation is not without problems. This becomes immediately apparent if we do not simply adjust these toponyms to our modern geographical conceptions but place them within their respective worldviews. By doing so, we immediately realise that we are dealing with geographical perceptions as social constructions, ours as well as the ancient ones that are part of mental configurations of the world. In such a context the differences between these worldviews gain momentum. According to the Mesopotamian perspective the ‘upper sea’ was neither an entity nor a centre of a world of its own. It was not surrounded by land but it was a liminal zone of the ancient Near Eastern world, a zone representing an ultimate border. It was part of an infinite ocean that surrounded and framed the known world. This worldview is very well documented by the ‘Babylonian map of the world’ of the 1st millennium BC.25 However, this perception was not a stable one, and with the ongoing enlargement of geographical horizons it had to be adapted and reconfigured again and again. Two substantial

22

 Rollinger 2012; 2013. See also Edzard 1993; Wilhelm 1993; K. Yamada 2005; CAD T 150–158.  The earliest surviving record of this concept is an inscription of Lugalzagesi of Uruk (around 2350): Steible and Behrens 1982, 317 (Luzag. 1, 2.3–11 = RIME 1.14.20.1, ii 3–11). Cf. also Edzard 1993; Wiggermann 1996. 24  Cf. in general Haubold 2013, 102–07. 25  Delnero 2017. 23

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changes already occurred in the 3rd millennium.26 They are both related to the ‘lower sea’ and they are of extraordinary relevance concerning the changing worldviews of this time. It was in the 3rd millennium BC that the idea of the ‘sea’ started to become structured and more organised for the first time. This happened by locating lands and territories ‘in the midst of the sea’. These regions may have mainly been thought of as islands, since they were reached by ships. However, it is evident that the phrase ‘in the midst of the sea’ was also applied as a long-distance marker that determined space and travel time.27 The earliest indication of this terminology originates in an inscription of Narāmsîn, king of Agade (2260–2274 BC)28 which is only preserved in an Old Babylonian transcription. There, the king recounts, among other issues, how he conquered the land of Magan, located somewhere in the region of what is now Oman:29 Further, he cros[sed] … the (Lower) S[ea] and conquered M[agan], in the midst of the sea (˹qáb˺-li ti-[a-]am-tim) and washed his weapons in the Lower Sea (RIME 2.1.4.3, iv 19–32).30 The abstract extension of the geographical concept ‘lower sea’ deserves our special attention. It aligned along the king’s claim that he and his troops crossed the sea and that he conquered areas beyond this very sea. In this new concept imperial claim and a growing mental map go hand in hand. The sea is not anymore a definite border but an area to be crossed, conquered and explored. This extension becomes even more apparent with Narāmsîn’s direct successor Maništūsu (2275–2261 BC). In one of his inscriptions he informs us how he had GIŠ.LA-e ships31 traverse the ‘lower sea’, as ‘the cities across the sea (a-ba[r]-ti ti-a-am-tim), thirty-two (in number), assembled for battle (against him), but he was victorious (over them). Further, he conquered their cities and [st]ru[c]k down their rulers’ (RIME 2.1.3.1, 9–24).32 As the king reveals in the following passage, there was also an economic aspect in this venture: ‘He quarried black stone of the mountains across the lower sea (a-bar-ti ti-aam-tim ša-pil-tim), loaded (it) on ships, and moored (the ships) at the quay of Agade’ (RIME 2.1.3.1, 31–41). Obviously, the ‘black stone’ refers to diorite, which indicates that the region ‘beyond the lower sea’ was in fact the region of Magan, nowadays Oman.33 It is not by accident that the mental structuring of a world beyond the ocean started with the ‘lower sea’. Already in the 3rd millennium sea trade between Mesopotamia and India loomed large, stimulated economic growth, and boosted social reconfigurations.34 26

 Rollinger 2013.  Cf. Rollinger 2013. 28  The dates of the reigns of the kings of Agade are based on Oelsner 2004, 12. For historical background, see Foster 2016. 29  For Magan, cf. Heimpel 1987–90; Glassner 1996. 30  Cf. also Kienast and Sommerfeld 1994, 379–80 (*Narāmsîn C 30, 23-32). For the ritual involved, i.e. washing the weapons at the borders of the known world, see Rollinger 2012. 31  A special but not more precisely definable type of ship. 32  Cf. also Gelb and Kienast 1990, 76 (Maništūsu 1), 221 (Maništūsu C 1). 33  Foster 2016, 178–79. 34  Bagg 2017; Edens 1993; Laursen and Steinkeller 2017; Potts 2016. 27

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It is no surprise that Narāmsîn also mentioned the regions beyond the ‘lower sea’ when he described the ‘great revolt’ that challenged his rule:35 When the four quarters (of the world) together revolted against him, from beyond the lower sea (a-bar-ti ti-a-am-tim ša-píl-tim) as far as the upper sea he smote the people and all the mountain lands for the god Enlil, and brought their kings in fetters before the god Enlil (RIME 2.1.4.28, 9–33; RIME 2.1.4.29, 5–15).36 So far, the early mental structuring of the ocean only concerned the ‘lower sea’. There was nothing comparable beyond the ‘upper sea’. But times changed in the course of the 2nd millennium. On the one hand, the Mediterranean started to become the ‘Great Sea’ in Akkadian terminology. On the other hand, Cyprus appeared as Alašiya on the scene in textual sources from the 19th century BC onwards at the latest.37 Comparatively rich documentation stems from Old Babylonian Mari where Alašiya is characterised as a place of origin of copper and bronze.38 The documentation for the island increases considerably in the second half of the 2nd millennium BC with references from Hatti, Egypt, Ugarit and Alalaḫ.39 Sources from Ugarit and Egypt developed a perspective that reached as far as the Aegean,40 whereas Hittite sources began to take into account the westernmost parts of Asia Minor, and, by referring to Aḫḫiyawa, the Greek mainland beyond.41 Although the eastern Mediterranean lost more and more its character as a terra incognita, the conception of the sea as a liminal and indefinite zone did not really change. Thus, according to imperial mental maps, the ‘upper sea’ still represented a cosmological borderline. This is evident with the testimonies of the Middle Assyrian empire which mainly extended along an east–west axis that reached from the Iranian mountains as far as the Mediterranean.42 The ‘upper sea’ was integrated within this imperial perspective, and still continued to yield the notion of a liminal zone. However, this zone was no longer totally repellent but became open for penetration and intrusion. Therefore it is no surprise that with Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 BC) we encounter the first ancient Near Eastern king who travelled out into the Mediterranean on a boat to hunt down a nāḫiru which is supposed to be a whale.43 Neo-Assyrian times saw a further extension of such sorts of adventurous performance, and the frontier zone was more and more presented as an area accessed by Neo-Assyrian kings. It was also in this 35

 Further to this see Wilcke 1997.  Cf. also Gelb and Kienast 1990, 87 (Narāmsîn 2). Of importance for the text construction is a transcription of a text from the Neo-Babylonian period, which, however, features Šarkališarrī (2223–2199 BC) as the royal hero: RIME 2.1.5.4. See also Gelb and Sommerfeld 1994, 353–58. 37  van Soldt 2017, 366–67. 38  On Iaḫdun-Līm of Mari (ca. 1750–1734 BC), see Rollinger 2012. 39  de Martino 2008; Van de Mieroop 2005; van den Hout 2017; van Soldt 2017, 367–69. Cf. now also Berger et al. 2019 for Late Bronze Age travel routes from the eastern Mediterranean as far as Cornwall in the far south-west of England, and Betrò (2016; 2018, 60) for a possible reference to Gibraltar in a cryptographic text from the tomb of Ramesses VI (12th century BC) that has ‘the Two Rocks amidst the Western Sea’ as cardinal points of the far west. 40  Breyer 2011; Dietrich 2000; Dietrich and Loretz 1978; 1998; 2010; Gander 2015a; Haider 2008a; 2008b; 2008c. See also Helck 1980; 1986. 41  Fischer 2010. Cf. also Gander 2015b. On the new dimensions of contact, see also Bryce 2016; Gander 2012; Yakubovich 2015a; 2015b. 42  K. Yamada 2005. 43  RIMA 2 A.0.87.3, 21–25. See Rollinger 2013. 36

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time of an ever-growing worldview that the Mediterranean became the ‘Great Sea of the west’, whereas the Persian Gulf was designated as ‘Sea of Chaldea’.44 With Tiglath-pileser III (744–727 BC) considerable change took place. He incorporated the Levantine coast into his ever-growing empire, thus also expanding his imperial claims towards new dimensions.45 In one of his summary inscriptions he presented himself as the king ‘who rules (all) lands from the heavens’ foundations (= horizon) to their canopy (= zenith) and who has exercised the authority of a king upon them’.46 The two vertices, ‘horizon’ (AN.ÚR = išid šamê) and ‘zenith’ (AN.PA = elât šamê), appropriately represent the claim to hold sway over the universe.47 At least in an indirect way, the ocean once again makes an appearance as an indefinite border, with the intention to extend Assyrian rule into an unknown but simultaneously visible distance. With Sargon II (721–705 BC) a new area of structuring the sea started. The borders of the world were marked by the two islands Iadnana, i.e. Cyprus, and Dilmun, i.e. Bahrain, in a kind of parallel composition. Both islands, remote as they were, lay far away in ‘the midst of the sea’.48 With this conception the structuring of the ‘upper sea’ gained momentum. Obviously, it was not the Assyrian kings who were the spearheads of this dramatic change of perspective but Levantine cities like Tyre and Sidon that started to explore the west.49 But these cities gradually came under Assyrian control during the second half of the 8th century BC. The Assyrian kings imposed taxes and tolls and installed Assyrian officials in a series of Levantine cities to supervise the local vassals and their revenues.50 It was this combination of direct and indirect rule of Levantine coastal cities that introduced to the Assyrian elites an entirely new and expanded worldview, and it is through Assyrian sources that we hear of this worldview for the very first time.

CONCEPTUALISING THE MEDITERRANEAN IN THE 7TH CENTURY BC: HOW THE UNLIMITED ‘UPPER SEA’ BECAME A LIMITED INLAND SEA With Sargon II, a process of structuring the ‘upper sea’ was initiated that, at the end, transformed this ocean from an unlimited entity at the edge of the world to a limited and roughly well-defined inland sea with well-defined borders and certain geographical coordinates. All this took place within an ongoing extension of the worldview that, again, became embedded into the Assyrian claim to rule the entire world. This extending perspective is rather clearly developed in some literary texts and royal inscriptions, all of 44  For all the evidence, see CAD T 154–155. ‘Great Sea of the west’: tâmtu rabītu ša erēb šamši (var.: tâmtu rabītu ša šalām šamši). ‘Sea of Chaldea’: tâmtu ša māt Kaldi. ‘Great Sea of the east’ (the Caspian Sea?): tâmtu rabītu ša napāḫ šamši (var.: tâmtu rabītu ša nipiḫ šamši; tâmtu rabītu ša ṣīt šamši). ‘Upper sea of the Nairi land’ (Lake Van): tâmtu elītu ša māt Na’iri. ‘Lower sea of the Nairi land’ (Lake Urmia): tâmtu šaplītu ša māt Na’iri. 45  Tadmor 1999. Cf. also Na’aman 1995. 46  Summary Inscription 7 (= RINAP 1, 47), Obv., 4: [ul-tu] AN.ÚR a-di AN.PA KUR.KUR.MEŠ i-pelu-ma e-pu-šu šar-ru-us-si-in (Tadmor 1994, 158). Generally for Tiglath-pileser’s advance to the west, see Bagg 2011, 213–26. 47  For this, see Villard 2000, 74. 48  Cannavò 2018; Rollinger 2014; Rollinger and Lang 2010. See in general for Sargon’s politics Lanfranchi 1997. 49  Liverani 1991; Rollinger 2008a; Rollinger and Lang 2010; van der Brugge and Kleber 2016. Cf. also Tavares 1992. 50  Rollinger 2011; S. Yamada 2005.

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them originating at the beginning of the 7th century BC. They are of major importance for the development of a mental conception that finally resulted in what we call the Mediterranean. Let us discuss each of these texts individually.

The Sargon Geography The Sargon Geography is a literary text that dates either from the time of Esarhaddon (680–669 BC) or Ashurbanipal (668–627 BC).51 It claims to outline the sphere of authority of Sargon of Agade, but it in fact reflects the geographical worldview of the 7th century BC. In a ‘retrospective review’, the lands are named from that supposedly distant past, ‘when he (Sargon of Agade) conquered the land, the entire expanse under the heavens (si-ḫi-ip AN-e), marked out the borders and measured out its extent’ (Sargon Geography 32–33).52 Here, a universal claim to authority is once again made, which is also integrated into a real and concrete concept of the world. This mappa mundi is spread out in symmetric opposition along the two oceans marking the two ends of the world:53 Anaku and Kaptara, the lands (KUR.KUR) across (BAL.RI) the Upper Sea, Dilmun and Magan, the lands (KUR.KUR) across (BAL.RI) the Lower Sea And the lands from sunri[se] to sunset, the sum total of all lands, Which Sargon, King of the Univer[se], conquered three times (Sargon Geography 41–44).54 For the first time in Assyrian contexts, lands (mātātu = KUR.KUR) are mentioned which are situated across (eberti = BAL.RI) the sea marking the outer limits of the world, over which an Assyrian claim to authority is made, at least indirectly. Apparently, Anaku and Kaptara, as well as Magan and Dilmun, represented regions in the remote distance that could be reached by crossing the sea with ships.55 This expansion of the Assyrian worldview must have been related to actual first-hand experiences based on existing travel and trade routes.56 The identification of at least three of these four regions is rather clear. Kaptara has to be identified with Crete, Magan with Oman, and Dilmun with Bahrain.57 Anaku is a hapax and its identification is not clear at all. However, it is tempting to connect it with Akkadian annaku, ‘tin’,58 and to interpret it as ‘Tin Land’. Tin mines can be 51  Thus with Liverani (1999–2001); Horowitz (1998, 93) and Van de Mieroop (1999) date the text in the reign of Sargon II. See also Liverani 1993. 52  Further to the text: Horowitz 1998, 70–71. See also Konstantopoulos 2017, 10. 53  Horowitz 1998, 72–73: 41.) a-na-kùki kap-ta-raki mātātu(kur.kur) eberti(bal.ri) [tâm]ti elīti(an.ta) 42.) tilmunki má-gan-naki mātātu eberti tâmti šaplīti(ki.ta) 43.) ù mātātu ultu ṣīt dša[mši] (dutu. ˹è!˺.[a]) adi ereb dšamši (dutu.šú.a) mātāti kalīšina 44.) ša šarru-kēn šàr kišša[ti](ki[š]) adi 3-šú qat-su ik-šu!-du. 54  Cf. Liverani 1999–2001, 65–67. 55  Cf. the maps drawn up by Liverani 1999–2001, 66–67, figs. 7–8, which reproduce the late Neo-Assyrian mappa mundi. 56  With this expansion and a constantly growing world at the ‘peripheries’, there was, however, also the increasing problem to maintain Assyria and Babylonia in the centre of the world. Liverani (1999–2001, 83–84) exemplifies this problem based on the difficulties which the apparently never-ending Nile Valley caused for Assyrian cartographers. 57  Liverani 1999–2001, 66–67, 70–72. 58  CAD A2 127.

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found in Anatolia and this broad identification is definitely plausible.59 Nevertheless, with the new archaeological findings from southern Spain other identifications become possible as well. Thus it has not only become apparent that Levantine traders reached south-western Spain already at the end of the 10th century BC,60 but also that local polities existed which flourished due to the new forms of connectivity. These local communities were also specialised in trading with tin via the Atlantic and inland routes towards north-western Spain thus establishing a sort of commercial hub.61 Having these contemporary new long-distance connexions in mind, we cannot exclude the possibility that Anaku represented the regions of southern Spain and thus the western end of the Mediterranean.62 The text itself appears to reinforce this suggestion. If we take the sequence Anaku – Kaptara and Dilmun – Magan of the two lines as a chiasm, then Kaptara and Dilmun constitute islands, whereas Anaku and Magan represent the outer ends of the upper and lower seas. Since this fits perfectly for Magan and the Persian Gulf, it might also be appropriate for the Mediterranean. If this is accepted, The Sargon Geography already exhibits an awareness of the entire extent of the Mediterranean. Be that as it may, The Sargon Geography is an important witness that concepts of the ocean and of lands beyond the ocean, but also regions ‘in the midst of the sea’, grew in importance. This also becomes apparent in the chapter Multābiltu of the Babylonian extispicy series from Ashurbanipal’s library in Nineveh. Tablet 14–15, Text 11, ll. A 22–26 doubling a passage of the Chronicle of Early Kings (A.1–6) has the following entry:63 [If the Liver is like] a lion’s [head]: Omen of Sargon, who by this omen rose [in the reign of Ishtar] and had neither rival nor equal, [who poured out] his splendour on [all lands], who crossed the sea in the west and in his third year conquered the west [to its farthest reaches], who established his authority and put up his statues in the west, who made their booty cross the sea on rafts.64 The text appears to play with the double identity of ‘Sargon’, i.e. Sargon of Agade but also Sargon II mirroring his famous ‘ancestor’. Therefore, it hints to the paradigm of the world ruler par excellence.65 Interestingly for us, the focus of the text is on the west.66 It is in this 59

 Liverani 1999–2001, 66–67.  See Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016, and in more detail below. 61  Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016, 171, 182. 62  Actually this was already proposed by Burr 1932, 85. 63  Koch 2005, 228, Tablet 14–15, Text 11, ll. A 22–26: (A 22) [be bà gim sag.du] ur.maḫ it-tab-ši bà-ut lugal-gi.na šá ina uzu an-ni-[i] (A 23) [ina bal d15] i-laam-ma šá-ni-na gaba.ri nu tuk-ši šá-lum-mat-su ugu (A 24) [kur.meš it-bu-ku] a.ab.ba šá dutu-šú.a i-bi-ru-ma mu-3-kám ina dutu-šú.a (A 25) [a-di qí-ti-šú š]u-su kur-du ka-šu a-šar 1-en ú-ki-nu alan.meš-šú ina dutu-šú.a (A 26) [úš-zi-i]z-zu šal-la-su-nu ina -ma-a-ti a.ab.ba ú-še-bi-ra. 64  For the Chronicle of Early Kings A.1–6, see Glassner 2004, 268–69: (A 1) ILugal.gin šàr A-kà-dèki ina bala dIš-tar i-lam-ma (A 2) šá-ni-na u ma-ḫi-ri ul i-ši šá-lum-mat-su ugu kurmeš (A 3) it-bu-uk a.ab.ba ina dUtu.è i-bi-ir-ma (A 4) mu 11.kám kur dUtu.šú.a a-di qí-ti-šú šu-su kurud (A 5) pi-i-šú a-na iš-ten ú-kin numeš-šú ina dUtu.šú.a uš-zi-iz (A 6) šal-lat-su-nu ina a-ma-a-ti ú-še-bi-ra. 65  Van de Mieroop 1999. Cf. also omen texts of this period, like Šumma izbu where the king is said ‘to have ruled the “world”’ (kiš-šú-ta [EN-lu]; Tablet V, l. 43, Leichty 1970, 77). 66  The chronicle, however of much later date (Waerzeggers 2012, 292–93, 295–96), also focuses on the east: ‘Sargon, king of Agade, rose in the reign of Ishtar and had neither rival nor equal, who poured out his splendour on all lands, who crossed the sea in the east and in his eleventh year conquered the west to its farthest reaches, who established his authority and put up his statues in the west, who made their booty cross the sea on rafts’ (Chronicle of Early Kings, A.1–6; Glassner 2004, 268–69). Grayson (1975, 153) misunderstood 60

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part of the world where the king crossed the sea (A.AB.BA šá dUTU-ŠÚ.A i-bi-ru-ma) and conquered regions to its ‘farthest reaches’ (a-di qí-ti-šú). There he erected his statues/stelae (ALAN.MEŠ-šú). From there he received ‘tribute’ (šal-la-su-nu). The notion that this has been accomplished via ‘rafts’ (ina -ma-a-ti A.AB.BA ú-še-bi-ra) deserves special attention since the idea that the sea becomes shallow at the end of the world is very well attested.67 Therefore this is a further reference to the extreme remoteness of these regions. As we have seen, the ocean gradually lost its character as an infinite border zone, but became a region that could be travelled along and with limits of its own. However, so far these limits were described only in a very vague manner. This brings us to a further step in the development of the idea of the Mediterranean as a structured unit of its own, which we encounter in an inscription of the Neo-Assyrian king Esarhaddon.

Esarhaddon, a New View of the Mediterranean: RINAP 4, 60, 9’–12’ and the Birth of an Ocean In an inscription of the Assyrian king Esarhaddon the conception of the Mediterranean appears for the first time in world history:68 I wrote to all of the kings who are in the midst of the sea (MAN.MEŠ šá MURUB4 tamtim), from Iadnana (and) Yawan to Tarsisi, (and) they bowed down at my feet. I received [their] heavy tribute. I achieved victory over the rulers of the four quarters.69 This text passage contains several peculiarities that further develop traditional concepts towards a new understanding of space.70 The directly preceding section had documented the subjugation not only of the entire Levantine coast including Egypt, but also of the desert regions situated in the south-east of the Arabian Peninsula, the Persian Gulf and the mountainous border regions of Urartu in the north-east.71 By referring to the four quarters of the world it becomes obvious that world domination is the issue at stake. However, the way in which this fact is expressed is of critical importance and hints at innovative concepts towards structuring space. For the first time, the expression ‘the midst of the sea’ is linked neither to a toponym nor an ethnonym. It stands on its own as a sui generis geographical designation. Moreover, the term ‘upper sea’ is not applied anymore in this context. For what Esarhaddon is talking about is, at first hand, not a liminal border zone anymore, but a newly defined geographical space. This becomes the ideological and iconic (and thus fictitious) dimension of the passage and interpreted ‘i-na a-ma-a-ti ’ (l. A.6) as a toponym “into Amati” which, however, makes no sense. For correct translations, see Glassner 2004, 268–69, and https://www.livius.org/sources/content/mesopotamian-chronicles-content/abc-20-chronicle-of-earlykings/. Both translate i-na a-ma-a-ti as ‘on barges’. 67  For details, see Rollinger 2020. 68  RINAP 4, 60, 9’–12’: 9’) … áš-pur 10’) MAN.MEŠ šá MURUB4 tam-tim DÙ-šú-nu TA KUR.ia-dana-na KUR.ia.man adi KUR.tar-si-si 11’) a-na GÌR.II-ia ik-nu-šu GUN-[su-nu] ˹DUGUD˺-tú am-ḫur UGU mal-ki šá kib-rat LÍMMU-tim li-i-˹tú˺ 12’) áš-tak-kán-ma … 69  With Leichty 2011, 135, I take ašpur of l. 9’ as opening the next sentence; differently Borger 1956, 86–87 (AsBbE 10–12). My interpretation of the toponyms differs from Leichty (see below). The text originates from the latter period of the reign of Esarhaddon: Borger 1956, 78. 70  A detailed analysis of the text passage can be found in Rollinger 2008a. 71  RINAP 4, 60, 1’–9’. The following opponents are mentioned: Teušpa, the Cimmerians, Abdi-Milkutti of Sidon, Asuḫili of Arzâ in the region bordering Egypt, the desert land of Bazu, Qanâ of Dilmun, Ik-Tešub of Shubria in the north-east, Baal of Tyre, Taharka of (Lower) Egypt, Paturisu (Upper Egypt) and Kuš.

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evident from two structural elements of the passage. First, as always in Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions, an expanded worldview is combined with the claim to hold sway over this very world. Therefore, the ‘midst of the sea’ is related to an anonymous mass of kings (MAN.MEŠ = šarrāni). These kings are by no means to be understood as a summarising reference to the list presented previously (RINAP 4, 60, 1’–9’), for the issue here is exclusively the expanded world perspective and thus the space which lies beyond the directly controlled Levantine coast. Second, this space is described by geographical boundaries using three terms, of which one was well known (Iadnana), one used sparingly (Yawan), and one unknown in Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions until that point (Tarsisi). Iadnana (Cyprus) had been connected with the location ‘in the midst of the sea’ since the days of Sargon II, in which context it represented a marker of the outer limits.72 For Yawan, however, this only applied to a limited extent. In earlier testimonies, it was not the toponym, but rather the ethnonym (Yamnāya) that was localised as being ‘in the midst of the sea’, which constituted a paraphrasing of an indefinite remoteness suggesting the edge of the world.73 With the appearance in the Assyrian Annals of the toponym Yawan, which until then had only surfaced in Assyrian bureaucratic documents,74 the region from which the Yamnāya originated is defined more precisely for the first time. However, this is only made possible by the fact that this area no longer functioned as a synonym for the edge of the world. This outer limit is instead expressed by a new toponym, which is written as kurtar-si-si, and is linguistically to be realised as /Taršiši/.75 This location has nothing at all to do with Tarsus (in Cilicia),76 but is to be connected instead with the Biblical Taršîš and is obviously related to Tartessos, which appears in the Greek sources from the 6th/5th century BC onwards.77 This refers to a region which was located in the vicinity of Huelva–Cádiz78 and which was in contact with the Phoenician cities of the Levantine coast from the end of the 10th century BC onwards at the latest.79 It was in this very region where Greeks localised the ‘Pillars of Heracles’, probably referring to a place related to the Tyrean god Melqart.80 Shrines of Heracles/Melqart also marked the conceptualised outer ends of other oceans, perceived as inland seas, as, for example, has just recently become obvious for the southern end of the Red Sea.81 From this it becomes apparent that Taršiši refers to the outer limits of what we nowadays dub the ‘Mediterranean’. The three toponyms Iadnana, Yawan and Taršiši thus denote a

72

 Rollinger 2013.  Rollinger 2013. 74  Rollinger 2008b. 75  See Rollinger 2008a. 76  This erroneous view is unfortunately found in Leichty 2011, 135; Lemaire 2000; Bagg 2011, 261, n. 419; also in Bagg 2007, 251, although there, all confirmed evidence for Tarsus is listed sub ‘Tarzu’. For details, see Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016, 115–21; Rollinger 2008a. 77  Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016, 1–124; Lipiński 2004; Rollinger 2008a. 78  Celestino and López-Ruiz 2016, 152: ‘the triangular area of Huelva, the Guadalquivir valley, and Cádiz’. Barceló (2019, 45–47) does not take into account most recent research and is unfortunately outdated. 79  See González de Canales et al. 2006; 2009; Nijboer 2008. 80  For Melqart and the ‘west’, see Quinn 2018, 113–31. 81  This has just become evident from one of the two Farasan inscriptions (AE 2004, 1643 = AE 2005, 1639 = AE 2007, 1659) where the southernmost part of the Red Sea is called ‘Herculian Sea’ (pontus Herculis). See Speidel 2016, 90–91. And also here, this labelling is connected with the claim to rule the entire area. As Speidel (2016, 91) puts it: ‘In other words, there can be no doubt that the Farasan islands and the Herculian Sea were considered, by the Romans, to have belonged to the Imperium Romanum.’ 73

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coordinate system which, for the first time, spanned the entire Mediterranean region, the construction of which reveals the viewpoint as being oriented from east to west. Of the three vertices of this coordinate system, the easternmost two (Iadnana and Yawan) had already been connected with ‘the midst of the sea’ and thus with far distance by the earlier tradition. The image captured with this metaphor was now stretched further to the west, reaching its most extensive dimensions at this point (Taršiši). The phrase now referred not simply to the position of Iadnana, Yawan or even Taršiši, but rather to the space marked out by these points, and which is to be equated with our Mediterranean Sea today. This space was still vast but not infinite anymore. With this extension, the Assyrian western orientation reached its maximum point of expansion. It was for the first time in history that the mental concept of the Mediterranean evolved, however, without giving it yet a specific name. This new idea of an ocean with its eastern and western limits was even more substantiated by a third source that completes the picture which we have so far reconstructed.

What the Etana Epic Reveals about the Emerging Concept of the Mediterranean The famous epic about the hero Etana and his adventurous journeys came down to us in different versions. Apart from an Old Babylonian and Middle Assyrian representative we also possess a Neo-Assyrian version of the text that originates from Ashurbanipal’s library in Nineveh.82 It is only in this late version where a passage is preserved that is of utmost interest for our concerns. Etana, king of Kiš and the first king after the deluge, is riding on the back of an eagle up into lofty heights. The higher he soars the more he gains a completely new perspective of the world. Seen through the lens of mental mapping, this perspective represents an innovative and very recent view of the world as it has been conceptualised just at the very time when the text was written down. It is a worldview that for the first time adequately includes the very recent exploration of the west and, again, avant la lettere, yields a perfect characterisation of the Mediterranean as an inland sea. When moving up into the sky higher and higher the eagle invites Etana three times to look down on the shrinking world and describe what he sees: Etana Epic, Late Version, Obv. iii 30–4183 30) He [bore him aloft] one league ‘Look my friend, how the land [is now!]’ 82

 Haul 2000, 163–230.  Composite text after Haul 2000, 196–98: 30) iš-te[n)] bēra (I-kaskal-gíd) [ul-li-šu-ma] 31) ib-ri nap-lis-ma ma-˹a-tú˺ k[i-i mì-ni i-ba-áš-ši] 32) šá ma-a-ti-ḫa-am-b[u?-ba? ki zum-bi (?) ni-šu-šá (?)] 33) ù tam-tu4 rapaštu (dagal-tu4) ma-la tar-ba-ṣi: 34) šá-na-a bēra (I-kaskal-g[íd]) [ul-li-šu-ma] 35) ib-ri nap-li-is ma-a-tu4 ki-i [mì-ni i-ba-áš-ši] 36) ˹it˺-tur ma-a-tu a-na mu-sa-re-e ˹X˺ […] 37) ù tam-tu4 rapaštu (dagal-tu) ma-la bu-gi-in-ni: 38) šal-šá bēra (kaskal-gíd) [u]l*-˹li*˺-šu-ma 39) ib-ri nap-li-is ma-a-tu ki-i mì-n[i*] ˹i*˺-ba-áš-ši 40) ap-pal-sa-am-ma ma-a-tu u[l] a-na-ṭal 41) ù tam-tu4 rapaštu (dagal-tu4) ul i-šeb-ba-a ˹i˺-na-a-a 83

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‘[The people] of the land mur[mur like flies]’ ‘and the wide sea is like a cattle pen/courtyard’ [He bore him aloft] a second league 35) ‘Look my friend, how the land [is now!]’ ‘The land became a patch [ …]’ ‘and the wide sea is like a trough/bucket’ He bore him aloft a third league ‘Look my friend, how the land [is now!]’ 40) ‘I am looking down, but I cannot see the land (anymore)’ ‘and my eyes cannot recognise anymore the wide sea.’84 The pictures and conceptions of Etana’s worldview are enlightening. After one league he cannot understand anymore what the people are talking about due to the large distance.85 What he gets is just an unidentifiable sound of noise. In general, one could discuss whether what Etana sees is the Mediterranean or the Persian Gulf. However, embedded into the contemporary contexts of the explorations as well as the new and innovative perceptions of the west, it is much more plausible that the passage refers to the Mediterranean. According to the text, this sea is not a circular ocean surrounding the world,86 but structured ‘like a cattle pen/courtyard’87 (tâmtu rapaštu mala tarbaṣu; iii obv. 33).88 It is still vast (rapaštu) but it has become an inland sea, clearly delimited and obviously surrounded by land. This conception becomes even more apparent after Etana and the eagle reached the second league. The land is transferred into a patch (musarû),89 and the sea has by now become a trough/bucket90 (buginnu; iii obv. 37). The conception of the Mediterranean as an inland sea could not have been expressed 84  Haul 2000, 197–99 has the following German translation: ‘Eine Doppelstunde [trug er ihn empor]. “Mein Freund, Blick’ (hinab) auf das Land: [als was erscheint es?]” “Des Landes [Menschen (?)] mur[meln (?) wie Fliegen (?),]”. “und das weite Meer entspricht einer Viehhürde!” Eine zweite Doppelstunde [trug er ihn empor]. “Mein Freund, Blick’ (hinab) auf das Land: als [was erscheint es?]”. “Das Land wurde zu einem Beet [ …]” “und das weite Meer entspricht einem Eimer!” Eine dritte Doppelstunde trug er ihn empor. “Mein Freund, Blick’ (hinab) auf das Land: als was erscheint es?” “Ich blicke (hinab), doch ich kann das Land nicht sehen!, und meine Augen können nicht das weite Meer ausmachen!”.’ 85  Only with Esarhaddon’s inscriptions large distances were calculated in leagues (bērū). According to Liverani (1999–2001, 73) ‘obviously as a boast to have reached far-away countries’. 86  However, Murray (2016, 48) takes tarbaṣu as a reference to the circular ocean. The crucial question is whether, in this special case, the term refers to the fence or to the space enclosed by the fence. The majority of the testimonies collected by CAD T 218–221 clearly refer to the second meaning. This is especially obvious when tarbaṣu characterises a courtyard. Therefore, CAD T 222b offers the following definition of the term: ‘A tarbaṣu was normally a fenced or walled enclosure, and thus it also designates a courtyard.’ Cf. also the following footnote. The case appears to be clear by the comparison made after the second league (not discussed by Murray 2016, 48). When the sea is compared with a trough/bucket (buginnu: see below) this can only refer to the content of the vessel and not to its rim. 87  CAD T 218–221, tarbaṣu 1. ‘pen (for cattle, rarely for sheep and goats, horses), enclosure, courtyard’, with our passage on p. 220: ‘the wide sea is as (small as) a fold’. AHw 1327, tarba/āṣu ‘Viehhürde, -hof; Hof (v Gebäuden)’. 88  Haul 2000, 196. 89  CAD M2 233f, musarû B ‘garden’, with our passage on p. 234: ‘the sea has become (as small) as a garden’. AHw 681, mūšaru, ‘Beet’. 90  CAD B 306, buginnu (bukinnu, buninnu) ‘trough, bucket (a watertight container made of reeds or wood for holding liquids)’, with a translation of ll. 36–37: ‘the land is turned into a garden and the wide sea is like a trough’. AHw 136, buginnu, buninnu, ‘Kasten, Molle’.

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metaphorically in a better way. The passage is an outstanding witness of the expanding worldview of the 7th century BC and the very recent awareness that the Mediterranean Sea has become a basin surrounded by land. Such a view is, of course, only possible when Levantine mariners had already reached as far west as the Straits of Gibraltar. As we have just seen, this was the case indeed. With this, the concept of the Mediterranean was born, although the newly conceptualised ocean had not yet received a distinctive name of its own. This can be explained in two ways. On the one hand, this might only be due to a silence of our sources. A new term might have been introduced but we do not hear about it in our available sources. This is not very likely since, as we have already seen, ancient Near Eastern sources continue to talk in an unspecific way about the ‘sea’ or the ‘midst of the sea’. On the other hand, the term ‘sea’ or its assumed ‘Phoenician’ equivalent ‘Great Sea’ just remained in use although the conceptions and ideas about this ‘sea’ were now much more precise and developed than they used to be in earlier times. It is also very likely that this specific and new ‘Mediterranean’ perspective was especially Levantine and thus ‘Near Eastern’. Not coincidentally this perspective appears to have been conceptualised along the ‘Phoenician’ exploration of the west where the east–west oriented idea of an inland sea perfectly fits in.

Terminologies from Levantine Conceptions to Classical Sources When Greeks like Hecataeus started to speak about the ‘Great Sea’ or ‘our sea’ they may have borrowed the unspecific Levantine terminology. Nevertheless, their conception of the ‘sea’ was somehow different since, with the Aegean in the centre, their idea of the ‘sea’ appears to have included the Black Sea from very early onwards.91 According to Herodotus only the Caspian Sea was an inland sea. Apart from this there were only three remaining great seas and all of them were interconnected: the sea ‘whereon the Greeks sail’, ‘the sea beyond the pillars of Heracles, which they call Atlantic’, and the Red Sea (Herodotus 1. 202. 4). It is reasonable to identify the first one, i.e. the sea ‘whereon the Greeks sail’ as the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, which were perceived as one single unit.92 This immediately leads to the already discussed Greek sources of the 4th century BC that share the very same conception.93 This appears to have changed only in the second half of the 4th century BC when Aristotle talks about ‘the interior sea’ (ἡ εἴσω θάλασσα) (Aristotle Mete. 354a 11).94 When the anonymous Survey or Circumnavigation of the Great Sea, originating in Hellenistic times, focuses on his main topic, i.e. the ‘Great Sea’ (μεγάλη θάλασσα), this has become, without any doubt, our Mediterranean. However it was the term ‘the interior sea’ that the Romans adapted as mare internum and mare intestinum (Pliny NH 2. 173 and Florus 2. 13. 293). With the growing Roman empire this sea rapidly became a mare nostrum, a term attested for the first time with Caesar (Gallic War 5. 1. 2) when it started to perfectly define a world ruled by the newly established 91  However, according to Purcell (2012, 923), the Mediterranean ‘was regarded as a unity (and distinct from the encircling Ocean) from the Archaic period’ onwards. 92  Sieberer 2017, 24–25. Cf. also Murray 2016. 93  See above n. 20. 94  For this and the following see Olshausen 2006.

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Roman empire. This inland sea was still not called ‘Mediterranean’, since it took until the very end of Antiquity when the term mare mediterraneum was introduced for the very first time (Isidorus Orig. 13. 6. 1).95 Thus, although terminology appears always to have been somehow fluid and unspecific, it was during the evolving Roman empire when the concept of the ‘Mediterranean’ as an inland sea and as a unit per se became fashionable in our Classical sources. In any case this idea perfectly defined the extension and reach of Roman rule. However, as we have already seen, the concept was considerably older and reached back until the beginning of the 1st millennium BC. It was the beginning of the Iron Age when the idea of the Mediterranean as an inland sea evolved for the first time and it was Levantine mariners who developed this concept which has become a firm component of our worldview.

CONCLUSION Until the late 8th century BC ancient Near Eastern sources conceptualised the Mediterranean primarily as the ‘upper sea’ that marked an unlimited border zone of the world towards the west. This mental map changed considerably from the time of Sargon II onwards. Although the main agents of this change originated from Levantine cities like Tyre that started to penetrate the Mediterranean in its entire extent, it is cuneiform sources from the Neo-Assyrian period that are our major first-hand witnesses for these changing mental configurations of maritime space. With Esarhaddon the mental system of coordinates was expanded for the first time as far west as the Straits of Gibraltar when the region of Taršiši represented a new border marker of the far west. This toponym has to be equated with the Biblical Taršîš and the Tartessos of the Classical sources and refers to a region around Huelva–Cádiz and the Guadalquivir in southern Spain. Already in the 9th century BC, if not earlier, Levantine mariners started to explore these outer limits of a newly conceptualised maritime space. With the subjugation of the Levantine cities by the Neo-Assyrian empire, the Assyrians made this new geographical worldview their own. Thereby, for the very first time in history, the Mediterranean was perceived as an inland sea and as a unity of its own.96

95

 Without providing the exact quotation Purcell (2012, 923) claims: ‘the name Mediterranean is not found before Iulius Solinus’. Indeed, Solinus has for the first time the adjective mediterranea maria, however with a generic meaning ‘landlocked’ (Solinus 18. 1). As a proper name he calls the Mediterranean internum aequor (Solinus 23. 14). See Burr 1932, 132–34. 96  The expanded worldview was combined with an at least theoretical claim to rule the entire Mediterranean world. In this context, the ‘motif of out-doing’ played a decisive role. Each Assyrian king was fond of surpassing his predecessors in geographical reach and in exploring new regions (see Parker 2011; Tadmor 1999). Later Nebukhadnezzar is said to have claimed to have held sway over the Mediterranean as far west as southern Spain. Traces of this concept combining geographical knowledge of regions and space in remote distance with political aspiration can also be found with the Achaemenids and Alexander the Great (see Dan 2013b; Degen 2018; Rollinger 2016). On ancient Near Eastern empires and the establishment of a navy, see Klinkott 2021; Rollinger and Degen 2021; Schaudig 2008. For the connexions between landscape, geography and a language of power, see Müller 2014.

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—. 2008b: ‘Überlegungen zur Frage der Lokalisation von Jawan in neuassyrischer Zeit’. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 16, 63–90. —. 2011: ‘Der Blick aus dem Osten: ‘Griechen’ in vorderasiatischen Quellen des 8. und 7. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. – eine Zusammenschau’. In Matthäus, H., Oettinger, N. and Schröder, S. (eds.), Der Orient und die Anfänge Europas: Kulturelle Beziehungen von der Späten Bronzezeit bis zur Frühen Eisenzeit (Philippika 42) (Wiesbaden), 267–82. —. 2012: ‘From Sargon of Agade, and the Assyrian Kings to Khusrau I and beyond: on the persistence of Ancient Near Eastern Traditions’. In Lanfranchi, G.B., Bonacossi, D.M., Pappi, C. and Ponchia, S. (eds.), LEGGO! Studies Presented to Prof. Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (Leipziger altorientalistische Studien 2) (Wiesbaden), 725– 43. —. 2014: ‘The View from East to West: World View and Perception of Space in the Neo-Assyrian Empire’. In Zenzen, N., Hölscher, T. and Trampedach, K. (eds.), Aneignung und Abgrenzung: Wechselnde Perspektiven auf die Antithese von ‘Ost’ und ‘West’ in der griechischen Antike (Oikumene 10) (Heidelberg), 93–161. —. 2016: ‘Megasthenes, mental maps and Seleucid royal ideology: the western fringes of the world or how Ancient Near Eastern empires conceptualized world dominion’. In Wiesehöfer et al. 2016, 129–64. —. 2020. ‘Some considerations on empire and mental mapping: conceptualizing the ends of the world in the first millennium BCE’. In Cammarosano, M., Devecchi, E. and Viano, M. (eds.), talugaeš witteš. Ancient Near Eastern Studies Presented to Stefano de Martino on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (Kasion 2) (Münster), 383‒98. Rollinger, R. and Degen, J. 2021: ‘The Establishment of the Achaemenid Empire: Darius I, Xerxes I, and Artaxerxes I’. In Jacobs, B. and Rollinger, R. (eds.), A Companion to the Achaemenid Persian Empire, 2 vols. (Malden, MA/Oxford), 429–56. Rollinger, R., Gufler, B., Lang, M. and Madreiter, I. (eds.) 2010: Interkulturalität in der Alten Welt: Vorderasien, Hellas, Ägypten und die vielfältigen Ebenen des Kontakts (Philippika 34) (Wiesbaden). Rollinger, R. and Lang, M. 2010: ‘Im Herzen der Meere und in der Mitte des Meeres. Das Buch Ezechiel und die in assyrischer Zeit fassbaren Vorstellungen von den Grenzen der Welt’. In Rollinger et al. 2010, 207–64. Romney, J.M. 2017: ‘Herodotean Geography (4.36–45): A Persian Oikoumenē ?’. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 57, 862–81. Ruffing, K. 2014: ‘Cultural Encounters between Rome and the East: The Role of Trade’. In Lindstedt, I., Hämeen-Anttila, J., Mattila, R. and Rollinger, R. (eds.), Case Studies in Transmission (Intellectual Heritage of the Ancient and Mediaeval Near East 1) (Münster), 143–57. Salles, J.-F. 1996: ‘Achaemenid and Hellenistic trade in the Indian Ocean’. In Reade 1996, 251– 67. —. 2012: ‘Le golfe persique dans le Périple de la Mer Érythrée: connaissances fondées et ignorances réelles’. In Boussac, M.-M., Salles, J.-F. and Yon, J.-B. (eds.), Autour du Périple de la Mer Érythrée (Topoi Suppl. 11) (Lyons), 293–328. Sauvage, C. 2017: ‘The development of maritime exchange in Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean’ In de Souza and Arnaud 2017, 151–64. Schaudig, H. 2008: ‘A Tanit-Sign from Babylon and the Conquest of Tyre by Nebuchadrezzar II.’. Ugarit-Forschungen 40, 533–45. Schulz, R. 2016: Abenteuer in der Ferne: Die großen Entdeckungsfahrten und das Weltwissen der Antike (Stuttgart). Seland, E.H. 2007: The Indian Ocean in the Ancient Period: Definite Places, Translocal Exchange (BAR International Series 1593) (Oxford). —. 2010: Ports and Political Power in the Periplus: Complex Societies and Maritime Trade on the Indian Ocean in the First Century AD (BAR International Series 2102) (Oxford). —. 2013: ‘Ancient Afghanistan and the Indian Ocean: Maritime Links of the Kushan Empire ca 50-200 CE’. Journal of Indian Ocean Archaeology 9, 66–74.

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—. 2016: Ships of the Desert and Ships of the Sea: Palmyra in the World Trade of the First Three Centuries CE (Philippika 101) (Wiesbaden). Sherratt, S. and Sherratt, A. 1993: ‘The growth of the Mediterranean economy in the early first millennium BC’. World Archaeology 24.3, 361–78. Sidebotham, S.E. 2011: Berenike and the Ancient Maritime Spice Route (California World History Library 18) (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London). Sieberer, W. 2017: ‘Herodots Blick auf die Welt. Eine karthographische Rekonstruktion der Erde nach den geographischen Angaben der Historien’. In Rollinger, R. (ed.), Die Sicht auf die Welt zwischen Ost und West (750 v. Chr. – 550 n. Chr.)/ Looking at the World from the East and the West (750 BCE – 550 CE) (Classica et Orientalia 12) (Wiesbaden), Teil B, 1–119. Speidel, M.A. 2015: ‘’Almaqah in Rom? Zu den Beziehungen zwischen dem kaiserzeitlichen Imperium Romanum und Südarabien im Spiegel der dokumentarischen Überlieferung’. ZPE 194, 241–58. —. 2016a: ‘Die Throninschrift von Adulis und das Römische Reich am Roten Meer zu Beginn des dritten Jahrhunderts n. Chr.’. ZPE 200, 287–300. —. 2016b: ‘Augustus-Tempel in Indien und im Partherreich? Zur Tabula Peutingeriana und zum römischen Kaiserkult außerhalb des Römischen Reiches’. In Kolb, A. and Vitale, M. (eds.), Kaiserkult in den Provinzen des Römischen Reiches: Organisation, Kommunikation und Repräsentation (Berlin/Boston), 101–21. —. 2016c: ‘Wars, Trade and Treaties: New, Revived, and Neglected Sources for the Political, Diplomatic, and Military Aspects of Imperial Rome’s Relations with the Red Sea Basin and India, from Augustus to Diocletian’. In Mathew, K.S. (ed.), Imperial Rome, Indian Ocean Regions and Muziris: New Perspectives on Maritime Trade (London), 83–128. —. 2016d: ‘Fernhandel und Freundschaft. Zu Roms amici an den Handelsrouten nach Südarabien und Indien’. Orbis Terrarum 14, 155–93. Speidel, M.A. and Kolb, A. 2017: ‘Imperial Rome and China: Communication and Information Transmission’. In Elizalde, M.D. and Jianlang, W. (eds.), China’s Development from a Global Perspective (Newcastle-upon-Tyne), 28–56. Stampolidis, N.C. and Karageorghis, V. (eds.) 2003: PLOES, … Sea Routes … Interconnections in the Mediterranean 16th–6th c. BC (Proceedings of the International Symposium, Rethymnon, Crete, September 29th–October 2nd, 2002) (Athens). Steible, H. and Behrens, H. 1982: Die altsumerischen Bau- und Weihinschriften 2: Kommentar zu den Inschriften aus „Lagaš“. Inschriften ausserhalb von „Lagaš“ (Freiburger altorientalische Studien 5) (Wiesbaden). Strauch, I. (ed.) 2012: Foreign Sailors on Socotra: The Inscriptions and Drawings from the Cave Hoq (Vergleichende Studien zu Antike und Orient 3) (Bremen). Tadmor, H. 1994: The Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III, King of Assyria: Critical Edition (Jerusalem). —. 1999: ‘World dominion: the expanding horizon of the Assyrian Empire’. In Milano, L., de Martino, S., Fales, F.M. and Lanfranchi, G.B. (eds.), Landscapes. Territorries, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East 1: Invited Lectures (Padua), 55–62. Tadmor, H. and Yamada, S. 2011: The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III (744–727 BC), and Shalmaneser V (726–722 BC), Kings of Assyria (Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 1) (Winona Lake). Tartaron, T.F. 2013: Maritime Networks in the Mycenean World (New York/Cambridge). Tavares, A.A. 1992: ‘Les campagnes militaires de l’Assyrie vers la Méditerranée. Reflets sur la péninsule ibérique?’. In Charpin, D. (ed.), La circulation des biens, des personnes et des idées dans le Proche-Orient ancien (Actes de la XXXVIIIe rencontre Assyriologique internationale, Paris, 8–10 juillet, 1991) (Paris), 291–96. Tomber, R. 2008: Indo-Roman Trade: From Pots to Pepper (London). Tsetskhladze, G.R. 1998a: ‘Trade on the Black Sea in the archaic and classical periods: some observations’. In Parkins, H. and Smith, C. (eds.), Trade, Traders and the Ancient City (London), 52–74. —. (ed.) 1998b: The Greek Colonisation of the Black Sea Area: Historical Interpretation of Archaeology (Historia Einzelschriften 123) (Stuttgart).

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—. (ed.) 1999: Ancient Greeks West and East (Mnemosyne Suppl. 196) (Leiden/Boston/Cologne). —. 2002: ‘Ionians Abroad’. In Tsetskhladze and Snodgrass 2002, 81–96. —. 2003a: ‘The Culture of Ancient Georgia in the First Millennium BC and Greater Anatolia: Diffusion or Migration?’. In Smith, A.T. and Rubinson, K.S. (eds.), Archaeology in the Borderlands: Investigations in Caucasia and Beyond (Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Monograph 47) (Los Angeles), 229–45. —. 2003b: ‘Greeks beyond the Bosporus’. In Karageorghis, V. (ed.), The Greeks Beyond the Aegean: From Marseilles to Bactria (Papers presented at an International Symposium held at the Onassis Cultural Center, New York, 12th October, 2002) (New York), 129–66. —. 2005: ‘Pontic notes (without notes)’. In Bouzek, J. and Domaradzka, L. (eds.), The Culture of Thracians and their Neighbours (Proceedings of the International Symposium in Memory of Prof. Mieczyslaw Domaradzki, with a Round Table ‘Archaeological Map of Bulgaria’) (BAR International Series 1350) (Oxford), 229–30. —. (ed.) 2006: Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, vol. 1 (Mnemosyne Suppl. 193) (Leiden/Boston). —. 2007a: ‘Greeks and Locals in the Southern Black Sea Littoral: A Re-Examination’. In Herman, G. and Shatzman, I. (eds.), Greeks between East and West: Essays in Greek Literature and History, in Memory of David Asheri (Jerusalem), 160–95. —. 2007b: ‘The Ionian Colonies and their Territories in the Taman Peninsula in the Archaic Period’. In Cobet, J., von Graeve, V., Niemeier, W.-D. and Zimmermann, K. (eds.), Frühes Ionien: Eine Bestandsaufnahme (Panionion-Symposion, Güzelçamlı, 26. September–1. Oktober 1999) (Milesische Forschungen 5) (Mainz), 551–65. —. (ed.) 2008a: Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, vol. 2 (Mnemosyne Suppl. 193) (Leiden/Boston). —. 2008b: ‘“Grain for Athens”, the View from the Black Sea’. In Alston, R. and van Nijf, O.M. (eds.), Feeding the Ancient Greek City (Groningen-Royal Holloway Studies on the Greek City after the Classical Age 1) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 47–62. —. 2009a: ‘Secondary Colonisers in the Black Sea: Sinope and Panticapaeum’. In Lombardo, M. and Frisone, F. (eds.), Colonie di colonie: Le fondazioni subcoloniali greche tra colonizzazione e colonialism (Atti del convegno internazionale, Lecce, 22–24 giugno 2006) (Università del Salento, Dipartimento di beni culturali 16) (Galatina), 229–52. —. 2009b: ‘The City in the Greek Colonial World’. In Lagopoulos, A.P. (ed.), A History of the Greek City (BAR International Series 2050) (Oxford), 143–66. —. 2010: ‘Black Sea Trade: Some Further General Observations’. Anadolu araştırmaları/Jahrbuch für kleinasiatische Forschung 19.1, 197–212. —. 2012a: ‘Pots versus People: Further Consideration of the Earliest Examples of East Greek Pottery in Native Settlements of the Northern Pontus’. In Hermary, A. and Tsetskhladze, G.R. (eds.), From the Pillars of Hercules to the Footsteps of the Argonauts (Colloquia Antiqua 4) (Leuven/Paris/Walpole, MA), 315–74. —. (ed.) 2012b: The Black Sea, Paphlagonia, Pontus and Phrygia in Antiquity: Aspects of Archaeology and Ancient History (BAR International Series 2432) (Oxford). —. 2018: ‘“The most marvellous of all seas”: The Great King and the Cimmerian Bosporus’. In Pavúk, P., Klontza-Jaklová, V. and Harding, A. (eds.), ΕΥΔΑΙΜΩΝ: Studies in Honour of Jan Bouzek (Opera Facultatis philosophicae Universitatis Carolinae Pragensis 18) (Prague), 467–90. Tsetskhladze, G.R., Avram, A. and Hargrave, J.F. (eds.) 2015: The Danubian Lands between the Black, Aegean and Adriatic Seas (7th Century BC–10th Century AD) (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Belgrade, 17–21 September 2013) (Oxford). Tsetskhladze, G.R. and De Angelis, F. (eds.) 1994: The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation: Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman (Oxford School of Archaeology Monograph 40) (Oxford). Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Hargrave, J.F 2011: ‘Colonisation from Antiquity to Modern Times: Comparisons and Contrasts’. Ancient West and East 10, 161–82. Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Snodgrass, A.M. (eds.) 2002: Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (BAR International Series 1062) (Oxford).

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ABOUT THE LOLLII OF BYZANTIUM Ligia RUSCU

ABSTRACT The paper examines the epigraphical evidence for the presence and activities of people bearing the nomen Lollius in the city of Byzantium. It examines their possible origin and sets them in the context of the movements of Romans and Italics in the eastern Mediterranean during the Late Hellenistic/Early Imperial period.

This paper, about people who have been travelling the Mediterranean, may, I hope, be acceptable to a man who is travelling the world. Two inscriptions of the second half of the 1st century AD, emanating from the mystai of Dionysos Kallon, mention Lollia Q. f. Katylla. She was an archiereia of the Imperial cult of the city,1 together with C. Iulius Italicus, most likely her husband, and a benefactress of the mystai. She had been fulfilling the duties of a hieropoios of the city for at least two times, at her own expense.2 A slave or freedman of Lollia Katylla, Semnos, was honoured twice by the same association of mystai, for whom he acted as priest for two consecutive years, and also, together with Soterichos son of Ariston, as euthynos (finance controller), gymnasiarch and agonothetes (of the association and not of the city).3 The association also honoured its benefactor and gymnasiarch Rufus son of Diodoros (I.Byzantion 30, between AD 85 and 96). He is likely to be the son of the Diodoros son of Quintus, gymnasiarch and agonothetes of the same association, honoured together with his wife Stallia Prima (I.Byzantion 35, ca. AD 102–116). His father’s bearing as his personal name the praenomen of Lollia Katylla’s father Quintus connects him, although not by family ties, to the Lollii. People bearing the nomen Lollius appear to have been present and active at Byzantium for quite some time. The earliest source mentioning the name, from the second half of the 2nd century BC or somewhat later, is the grave stele of Lollia Salvia (I.Byzantion 158). By the late 1st century BC, C. Lollius Cato and his slaves were dedicating a statuette of Cybele and the winter fishing net (diktyon heimerinon) in a year when Poseidon held the eponymous office.4 Other people, attested later, may have been connected with this

 A. Łajtar, ad I.Byzantion 34.  At Byzantium, the hieropoioi were acting for the eponymous hieromnamon at such times when this magistracy was held by a deity. See for this A. Łajtar, ad I.Byzantion 32; Robu 2014, 377; for the hieromnamon, see most recently Robu 2014, 375–82. 3  For the structure and functioning of the association, see Jaccottet 2003 II, 78–82 no. 38 (not also for the reconstruction of the family tree, which is fanciful; she is followed by Dana 2011, 84). 4  Epigraphic Bulletin for Greek Religion 2011, 46. 1

2

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family.5 The name was resonant enough in this area for even peregrines to take it over: Lollia Rhadinou of Selymbria (I.Byzantion S45) was buried in the 2nd–1st centuries BC together with her husband P. Mamilius Pollio. He was presumably a freedman of one of the Mamilii attested in the Eastern trade.6 Judging by the cognomina of the Lollii of Byzantium, which are Latin throughout, these are not enfranchised locals, but Roman or Italic immigrants who became in time well integrated into the Greek city, some of them, such as Lollia Katylla, belonging to her elites. There were in Byzantium other families bearing Roman names and Roman citizenship who could trace their ancestry back a very long time, such as the Memmii.7 The Lollii however do not belong to them. Where did they come from? Lollius is not a very rare nomen,8 not of the kind that would by itself point to an origin in Italy or in a certain part of Italy. Its occurrence in the East can sometimes be traced back to high Roman dignitaries:9 The earliest of these is M. Lollius Q. f. Menenia,10 who was, in either 129 or 101 BC, a member of the praetor’s council, attested in the SC de agro Pergameno.11 Not much later, a [Maa]rkos Lollios Maarkou hyios occurs in a list of ephebes at Pergamum,12 presumably owing his franchise to this man. Much larger is the footprint of M. Lollius, the consul of 21 BC. He was the first governor of Galatia, went on to fight the Bessi in Thrace, presumably as proconsul of Macedonia, and concluded his career as the comes et rector of the young Caius Caesar travelling in the East, which led for unclear reasons to his downfall.13 Accordingly, persons – especially notables – in the areas where he was active, who bear this name, are often regarded as having received the franchise through him. The Council of Athens honoured the consul of 21 BC, presumably during his travels accompanying Caius Caesar.14 There is some debate on whether the statue erected at Philippi for M. Lollius M. f. Volt(inia)15 was for the governor himself or for a local notable who received the franchise from him. A similar debate concerns Lollia Q. f. of Samos.16 However, not all the Lollii in the East can or indeed ought to be traced back to this personage, especially in the case of places where he was never recorded as dwelling in. The hub of Roman trade and business in the East in the Late Hellenistic period was Delos,17 and there were indeed Lollii on Delos. M. Lollius Q. f. is attested over a period of about ten years (ca. 145–135 BC) as dedicating a statuette of Artemis Phosphoros and 5  Lollius Titus at Selymbria, sometime during the Principate (I.Byzantion S11); Q. Lollius Charidemos of Byzantion, died at Tenedos (IG XII2, 643). 6  A. Łajtar, ad I.Byzantion S45. 7  A. Łajtar, ad I.Byzantion 308. 8  Schulze 1904, 424. 9  For them, see RE XIII.2, 1927, s.v.; DNP 7 s.v. 10  For the tribus Menenia and its spread in Campania, see Taylor 2013, especially 111–12, 311. 11  I.Smyrna 589, l. 44; identical texts at Adramyttion and Ephesus; cf. Sherk 1966. For him, see Taylor 2013, 226. 12  Hepding 1910, 432,19 col I l. 4. 13  See for him RE XIII.2 s.v. Lollius no. 11 [Münzer]; DNP 7 s.v. Lollii no. II1 [W. Eder]; Bowersock 1965, 23–24. 14  IG II² 4139, 4140; Schmalz 2009, 101. 15  Philippi II 200 = CIGLP II1, 40 = AE 1933, 85. 16  For her, see below n. 33. For the Lollii of Pessinus see Lambrechts and Duthoy 1969. 17  On the Roman and Italic community on Delos, see Wilson 1966, 99–119; Baslez 1996; 2002; Hasenohr 2002; 2007; Müller 2017; Zoumbaki 1998; 2014.

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crowns of gold, written down in the records of the temple inventories of the Sarapieion.18 M. Lollius [Q. f. or l.], magister of the Hermaistai (IDélos 1731 [140 BC]), is perhaps the same man.19 Some of the Roman and Italic businessmen on Delos can be traced back to Latium and northern Campania or to southern Italy.20 One Q. Lollius, a rich landowner in the region of Mt Etna, is recorded as being subjected to violence because he had opposed Verres (Cicero Ver. 2. 3. 61–63). An Eastern connexion is indicated even for Lollii present in north-western Italy, especially in the area of Patavium and of Industria, some of them attested as active in the East and bearers of the Isiac religion.21 There are no Lollii at Corinth, meaning that the bearers of the name made their appearance in the East later than the mid-2nd century BC.22 This makes the occurrence of M. Lollius Q. f. at Delos the earliest. The sacking of Delos in 88 and 69 BC at the hands of the forces of Mithridates Eupator of Pontus23 led to the dispersal of the local Roman businessmen across the Aegean;24 some of them or their descendants can then be found in various places in Greece proper, the islands and the shores of Asia Minor, especially such places which already harboured Roman and Italic communities.25 A direct connexion of the Lollii of Byzantium to Delos cannot be proven and following up such links is generally an enterprise fraught with difficulties.26 The bearers of the name Lollius around the Aegean include no doubt locals who received the franchise; freedmen; or later immigrants. Also, isolated dedications or even funerary inscriptions may refer to just a person in transit or making a short stay in a Greek city. In looking for people possibly coming from Delos, the relevant time bracket is the Late Republican period, after the dispersal of the Roman-Italic community at Delos, and no later than the first decades of the Principate. The use of Roman cognomina and also of specific praenomina such as – in this case – M. and Q. is also relevant. Having taken all of this into account, clusters of Lollii emerge in several of the major commercial centres around the Aegean which are akin to those of Byzantium and appear to be part of the number of Roman businessmen to be found in the Aegean region,27 with or without a connexion to Delos: people sometimes overtly connected to communities of Roman entrepreneurs, but well integrated into the society of some Greek city,28 where they often acted as benefactors or office holders. The most numerous such Lollii are to be found, unsurprisingly, at Ephesos, given the economic links between this city and Italy as well as the important place taken by Italian

18  IDélos 1442, l. B62–63 (146/5–145/4 BC); 1445, l. B10 (ca. 135 BC); 1452, l. B34 (after 145 BC); perhaps also IDélos 2666. 19  Hasenohr and Müller 2002, 15; Baslez 2007, 223, no. 53. 20  See for this Hatzfeld 1912, 130–34 for southern Italy; 1919. For a critique of Hatzfeld’s results, see Wilson 1966, 99–110; Cébeillac-Gervasoni 2002; Kirbihler 2007, 20–21. 21  Cresci Marrone 1993; Zorat 1993; Haeussler 2013, 232–33. 22  For the Roman colony of Corinth, see Spawforth 1996; Millis 2017. 23  Reinach 1895, 135–37, 368; McGing 1986, 120–21. 24  Hatzfeld 1912, 90; van Berchem 1962; Salomies 2007. 25  For such communities of Roman citizens in Greek cities, see Brélaz 2016; Ramgopal 2017. For communities of cives Romani consistentes, see van Andringa 2003; Avram 2007; Bourigault 2011. 26  For the methodological difficulties, see Rizakis 2002, 124; Zoumbaki 1998, 153–59. 27  For Roman and Italian presence in the Greek East, see Hatzfeld 1919; Donati 1965; Helly 1983; Wilson 1966; Rizakis 2002; Nocita 2012. On landownership and the agrarian activities of Romans and Italics in Greece, see Zoumbaki 1998; 2013; 2014. 28  For Ephesos, see Kirbihler 2007, 28–31; 2014, 241–45.

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merchants in the economy of the city, some of whom had come over from Delos.29 Lollius Philomousos occurs in a subscription list of the Artemision in ca. 31 BC (I.Ephesos 1687), Q. Lollius Peios in a list of Curetes under Tiberius (I.Ephesos 1001) and Lollius Arruntius in the subscription list for the fishing customs house under Nero (I.Ephesos 20 B23, AD 54–59). Later on, during the Roman Imperial period, the praenomen Quintus is mostly preserved;30 the family was so well established that, at least among the community of Roman citizens, the nomen would be used as a byname even for someone outside the family.31 Assos honoured (I.Assos 18, reign of Augustus) one of her prominent citizens, Q. Lollius Q. f. Philetairos, who was priest of Augustus (here called theos) for life, priest of Zeus Homonoios, held the traditional office of basileus and of gymnasiarch (I.Assos 58, reign of Augustus). His wife, Lollia Antiochis, dubbed ‘first of women’, had held the office of sacral ‘queen’ alongside him (I.Assos 16 [before 2 BC], 17). Both acted as benefactors to the city that honoured them: he built a porticus for Augustus and the people, she a bath and adjacent buildings for Aphrodite Iulia (presumably Augustus’ daughter). Somewhat later during the 1st century AD, the people of Assos and the Roman men of business (pragmateuomenoi) active in the city honoured after their death the local benefactor and basileus Hellanikos son of Athenodotos and his wife Lollia Arlegilla, priestess and neokoros of Athena Polias; their daughter Auge was later buried in the same tomb (I.Assos 14). On Samos, Lollia Q. f. held a slew of offices and titles remarkable for a woman: she was priestess of Hera and of Livia (thea Ioulia Sebaste), benefactress of the people and held the office of the (probably still) eponymous32 demiourgos.33 As the few women we find holding high office invariably belonged to the elites, she must have been a member of one of the most influential families in the city at the time. It was surmised that this family received the franchise from M. Lollius the consul of 21 BC, as he was accompanying Caius Caesar through the East. It is however at least as likely that this was a family of Italic origin which had settled at Samos.34 Elsewhere in Asia Minor, Lollius Bassus, early 1st-century AD author of epigrams in the Anthologia Graeca, is attested as a native of Smyrna.35 In Erythrai, Q. Lollius Mucius held the office of gymnasiarch (I.Erythrai II 414, Early Principate). There are fewer Lollii across the Aegean. They are present at Athens36 in the Late Republican period: a M. Lollius was buried here together with his daughter(?) (IG II² 10156, 1st century BC). Others, perhaps his descendants or freedmen, are still mentioned under 29

 See Kirbihler 2007, especially 28–31; 2014, especially 241.  The prytanis Lollia and her father Q. Lollius Q. f. Dioskoros, protokoures and secretary of the Council (I.Ephesos 1074, 2nd–3rd century AD); Q. Lollius Apollophanes (I.Ephesos 722); Lollius Philostorgos (I.Ephesos 1671); Q. Lollius Satorneilos (I.Ephesos 4360); C. Lollius Rufus (SEG 34 1140); Q. Lollius Q. f. ---, Lollia Nigell---, Lollia Peieris q. e. Paulina (SEG 33 954); Lol(l)ia Am(m)ia (I.Ephesos 2281b); Q. Lollius Kosmion and his daughter Lollia Q. f. Gemella (SEG 33 895). 31  Cornelia P. f. Saturnina, also called Lollia (I.Ephesos 2241). 32  Sherk 1990, 288–89, no. 47. 33  IG XII6, 330 = IGR 4, 984, first half of 1st century AD. 34  Cf. van Bremen 1996, 122 with n. 34, 309, no. 1. 35  AG V 125, VII 243, 372, 386, 391; AG IX 30, 53, 236, 279, (283), 289; AG X 102; AG XI 72. Further Lollii are dated without further precision to the Imperial period: M. Lollius Agathopous (I.Smyrna 361); L. Lollius Iustus, grammateus (I.Smyrna 296). 36  Habicht 1997. 30

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the Principate.37 In Euboea, a list of gymnasiarchs(?) of 25 BC includes L. Lollius Eumolpos and L. Lollius Hyakinthos (IG XII9, 916, l. 11, 33). At Thessalonica, M. Lollius Atticus and M. Lollius Sabinus occur in a list of mystai (IG X2.1, 259 = SEG 30 622, 1st century AD). Some at least of the Lollii attested around the Aegean may have arrived here in later times, such for instance as the later Lollii of Athens. There are also no early attestations of Lollii at Kyzikos, just documents dated to the reign of Hadrian at the earliest, or only vaguely to the Roman period.38 Generally, at Cyzicus, though an important and attractive commercial centre, the onomastic material including rare and isolated Roman and Italic nomina is heavily tilted towards later periods, which points to the possibility of continued immigration after the Early Principate.39 The Lollii of Byzantium are thus part of a movement of people who left but incomplete traces in our sources, people originating in Italy who went in search of fortune and adventure into the Greek East, some to return, some to come to a dire end, and some to settle there and become part of their new environment. They were not necessarily connected to the initiatives and policies of Roman magnates such as M. Lollius the consul of 21 BC and their movements may have remained outside the great political and military upheavals of their times. As such, their presence is but a sprinkle in the great flood of Romans and Italics that poured into the East, but a flood which was entirely made up of such sprinkles.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Avram, A. 2007: ‘Les cives Romani consistentes de Scythie Mineure: état de la question’. In Compatangelo-Soussignan, R. and Schwentzel, C.-G. (eds.), Étrangers dans la cité romaine (Actes du colloque de Valenciennes, 14–15 octobre 2005, “Habiter une autre patrie”: des incolae de la République aux peuples fédérés du Bas-Empire) (Rennes), 91–109. Baslez, M.-F. 1996: ‘La première présence Romaine à Delos (vers 250–vers 140)’. In Rizakis 1996, 215–24. —. 2002: ‘Mobilité et ouverture de la communauté “Romaine” de Délos: amitiés, mariages mixtes, adoptions’. In Müller and Hasenohr 2002, 55–65. Bourigault, M. 2011: ‘Le droit des autres: les cives Romani consistentes’. In Maffi, A. and Gagliardi, L. (eds.), I diritti degli altri in Grecia e a Roma (Sankt Augustin), 78–87. Bowersock, G.W. 1965: Augustus and the Greek World (Oxford). Brélaz, C. 2016: ‘Des communautés de citoyens romains sur le territoire des cités grecques: statut politico-administratif et régime des terres’. In Lerouxel, F. and Pont, A.-V. (eds.), Propriétaires et citoyens dans l’Orient romain (Scripta Antiqua 84) (Bordeaux), 69–85. Cébeillac-Gervasoni, M. 2002: ‘Note relative aux élites du Latium et de la Campanie et à leurs rapports avec la Méditerrannée orientale’. In Müller and Hasenohr 2002, 21–27.

37  Olos (Aulus?) Lollius Atticus Aze(?) (IG II² 1996, AD 84/5–92/3) and Lollius Asklepiades (IG II² 2111/12, AD 182/3–190/1) occur in ephebic lists. 38  P. Lollius Alkibiades in the list of Ammoneitai of AD 123–132 (SEG 33 1056 l. 42); Lollius Erykianos, prosodarchon (Lolling Habo 1888, 304, Beilage II, A III 16, reign of Hadrian); Lollius Maximus in a list of prytans (Mordtmann 1881, 43–46, no. 2 II b l. 10, reign of Hadrian); Iulius Lollius Ignatius Euelpistos and P. Lollius Aurelius Paulus in an ephebic list (CIG 3665, l. 11, 21, reign of Severus Alexander); Aelius Lollius Lollianus Eutyches (I.Kyzikos 13, Roman period); Lollius Aurelianus Chrysanthos in a list of mystai (Reinach 1890, 538–39, no. 3 l. 11, Roman period). 39  See Salomies 2007, 1280.

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Cresci Marrone, G. 1993: ‘Cenni di prosopografia industriense’. Quaderni della Soprintendenza Archeologica del Piemonte 11, 47–54. Dana, M. 2011: Culture et mobilité dans le Pont-Euxin. Approche régionale de la vie culturelle des cités grecques (Scripta Antiqua 37) (Bordeaux). Donati, A. 1965: ‘I Romani nell’Egeo. I documenti dell’età repubblicana’. Epigraphica 27, 3–59. Habicht, C. 1997: ‘Roman Citizens in Athens (228–31 BC)’. In Hoff, M.C. and Rotroff, S.I. (eds.), The Romanization of Athens (Proceedings of an International Conference held at Lincoln, Nebraska, April 1996) (Oxbow Monograph 94) (Oxford), 9–17. Haeussler, R. 2013: Becoming Roman? Diverging Identities and Experiences in Ancient Northwest Italy (Publications of the Institute of Archaeology, University College London 57) (Walnut Creek, CA). Hasenohr, C. 2002: ‘Les collèges des magistri et la communauté italienne de Délos’. In Müller and Hasenohr 2002, 67–76. —. 2007: ‘Les Italiens à Délos: entre romanité et hellénisme’. Pallas 73, 221–32. Hasenohr, C. and Müller, C. 2002: ‘Gentilices et circulation des Italiens: quelques réflexions méthodologiques’. In Müller and Hasenohr 2002, 11–20. Hatzfeld, J. 1912: ‘Les Italiens résidant à Délos mentionnés dans les inscriptions de l’île’. BCH 36, 5–218. —. 1919: Les trafiquants italiens dans l’Orient hellénique (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 115) (Paris). Helly, B. 1983: ‘Les Italiens en Thessalie au IIe et au Ier s. av. J.- C.’. In Cébeillac-Gervasoni, M. (ed.), Les “bourgeoisies” municipales italiennes aux IIe et Ier siècles av. J.-C. (Actes du colloque international du CNRS, Centre Jean Bérard, Institut français de Naples, 7–10 décembre 1981) (Bibliothèque de l’Institut français de Naples sér 2, 6; Publications du Centre Jean Bérard 3) (Paris), 355–80. Hepding, H. 1910: ‘Die Arbeiten zu Pergamon 1908–1909, 2. Die Inschriften’. Mitteilungen des Kaiserlich Deutschen Archäologschen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 35, 401–93. Jaccottet, A.-F. 2003: Choisir Dionysos. Les associations dionysiaques ou La face cachée du dionysisme (Akanthus Crescens 6) (Zurich). Kirbihler, F. 2007: ‘Die Italiker in Kleinasien, mit besonderer Berücksichtigung von Ephesos (133 v. Chr.–1. Jh. n. Chr.)’. In Meyer, M. (ed.), Neue Zeiten – neue Sitten: Zu Rezeption und Integration römischen und italischen Kulturguts in Kleinasien (Wiener Forschungen zur Archäologie 12) (Vienna), 19–35. —. 2014: ‘Des Grecs et des Italiens à Éphèse: les mutations d’une capitale de province (70 av. J.-C.– 73 apr. J.-C.)’. Pallas 96, 233–52. Lambrechts, P. and Duthoy, R. 1969: ‘La famille des Lollii à Pessinonte’. Les études classiques 37, 302–07. Lolling Habbo, G. 1888: ‘Inschrift aus Kyzikos’. Mitteilungen des Kaiserlich Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 13, 304–09. McGing, B.C. 1986: The Foreign Policy of Mithridates VI Eupator King of Pontus (Mnemosyne Suppl. 89) (Leiden). Millis, B.W. 2017: ‘The Freedmen Magistrates of Corinth and their Position in Roman Greece’. In Rizakis et al. 2017, 181–94. Mordtmann, J.H. 1881: ‘Zur Epigraphik von Kyzikos’. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 6, 40–55. Müller, C. 2017: ‘Les Athéniens, les Romains et les autres Grecs: groupes et phénomènes de recomposition sociale dans la “colonie” athénienne de Délos après 167 av. J.-C.’. In Rizakis et al. 2017, 85–117. Müller, C. and Hasenohr, C. (eds.) 2002: Les Italiens dans le monde grec (IIe siècle av. J.-C.–Ier siècle ap. J.-C.). Circulation, activités, intégration (Actes de la table ronde Paris, 14–16 mai 1998) (BCH Suppl. 41) (Paris). Nocita, M. 2012: Italiotai e Italikoi: Le testimonianze greche nel Mediterraneo orientale (Hespería 28) (Rome). Ramgopal, S. 2017: ‘One and Many: Associations of Roman Citizens in Greece’. In Rizakis et al. 2017, 407–25.

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Reinach, T. 1890: ‘Lettre à M. le commandeur J.B. de Rossi au sujet du temple d’Hadrien à Cyzique’. BCH 14, 517–45. —. 1895: Mithradates Eupator, König von Pontos (Leipzig). Rizakis, A.D. (ed.) 1996: Roman Onomastics in the Greek East: Social and Political aspects (Proceedings of the International Colloquium organized by the Finnish Institute and the Centre for Greek and Roman Antiquity, Athens, 7–9 September 1993) (Meletemata 21) (Athens). —. 2002: ‘L’émigration romaine en Macédoine et la communauté marchande de Thessalonique: perspectives économiques et sociales’. In Müller and Hasenohr 2002, 109–32. Rizakis, A.D., Camia, F. and Zoumbaki, S. (eds.) 2017: Social Dynamics under Roman Rule. Mobility and Status Change in the Provinces of Achaia and Macedonia (Proceedings of a Conference Held at the French School of Athens, 30–31 May 2014) (Meletemata 74) (Athens). Robu, A. 2014: Mégare et les établissements mégariens de Sicile, de la Propontide et du Pont-Euxin: Histoire et institutions (Berne). Salomies, O. 2007: ‘Social and Geographical Mobility: Westerners in the East. Onomastic Observations’. In Mayer y Olive, M., Baratta, G. and Guzmán Almagro, A. (eds.), XII Congressus Internationalis epigraphiae graecae et latinae. Provinciae Imperii Romani inscriptionibus descriptae, Barcelona, 3–8 Septembris 2002 (Barcelona), 1269–80. Schmalz, G.C.R. 2009: Augustan and Julio-Claudian Athens: A New Epigraphy and Prosopography (Mnemosyne Suppl. 302) (Leiden). Schulze, W. 1904: Zur Geschichte lateinischer Eigennamen (Berlin). Sherk, R.K. 1966: ‘The text of the Senatus Consultum de agro Pergameno’. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 7, 361–69. —. 1990: ‘The Eponymous Officials of Greek Cities: Mainland Greece and the Adjacent Islands’. ZPE 84, 231–95. Spawforth, A.J.S. 1966: ‘Roman Corinth: The Formation of a Colonial Elite’. In Rizakis 1996, 167–82. Taylor, L.R. 2013: The Voting Districts of the Roman Republic. The Thirty-Five Urban and Rural Tribes, 2nd ed. (Papers and Monographs of the American Academy in Rome 34) (Ann Arbor). van Andringa, W. 2003: ‘Cités et communautés d’expatriés installées dans l’Empire romain: le cas des cives Romani consistentes’. In Belayche, N. and Mimouni, S.C. (eds.), Les communautés religieuses dans le monde gréco-romain: Essais de définition (Bibliothèque de l’École des hautes études. Section des sciences religieuses 117) (Turnhout), 49–60. van Berchem, D. 1962: ‘Les Italiens d’Argos et le déclin de Délos’. BCH 86, 305–13. van Bremen, R. 1996: The Limits of Participation: Women and Civic Life in the Greek East in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 15) (Amsterdam). Wilson, A.J.N. 1966: Emigration from Italy in the Republican Age of Rome (Manchester). Zorat, M. 1993: ‘La gens Lollia e il culto di Ammone ad Industria (nota a CIL V 7486)’. Quaderni della Soprintendenza Archeologica del Piemonte 11, 55–63. Zoumbaki, S. 1998: ‘Die Niederlassung römischer Geschäftsleute in der Peloponnes’. Tekmeria 4, 112–76. —. 2013: ‘In Search of the Horn of Plenty: Roman Entrepreneurs in the Agricultural Economy of the Province of Achaïa’. In Rizakis, A.D. and Touratsoglou, I.P. (eds.), Villae rusticae. Family and Market-Oriented Farms in Greece under Roman Rule (Proceedings of an International Congress Held at Patrai, 23–24 April 2010) (Meletemata 68) (Athens), 52–76. —. 2014: ‘“At the Mercy of Waves and Storms …” Roman and Italiote Traders and Settlers in the Cyclades’. In Bonnin, G. and Le Quéré, E. (eds.), Pouvoirs, îles et mer. Formes et modalités de l’hégémonie dans les Cyclades antiques (VIIe s. a. C.–IIIe s. p. C.) (Scripta Antiqua 64) (Bordeaux), 317–60.

REPUBLICAN THEATRES OF ROME Frank SEAR

ABSTRACT This article examines the evidence for temporary theatres in Rome from the 3rd century BC up to the building of Rome’s first permanent theatre, the Theatre of Pompey whose dedication in 55 BC was accompanied by lavish games. However, as is pointed out, this did not mean the end of the wooden theatres in Rome. The evidence cited is mainly literary or epigraphic and includes the views of several prominent critics, especially concerning the question of why building the first permanent theatre in Rome had to wait until 55 BC when other Italian cities had built permanent theatres at least a century earlier.

TEMPORARY

THEATRES

According to Livy, in 364 BC during the consulship of Gaius Sulpicius Peticus and Gaius Licinius Stolo, a plague broke out in Rome and plays (ludi scaenici) were used by the Romans in an attempt to appease the gods (Livy 7. 2, cf. Valerius Maximus 2. 4. 4). They sent to Etruria for actors since they had none themselves. The Latin word for an actor, histrio, is said to come from the Etruscan ‘hister’ which means ‘dancer’. In about 240 BC Lucius Livius Andronicus abandoned loose satyrical verses and for the first time put on a play with a plot. The first man of letters to write in Latin, he acted in his own plays. These plays formed part of the religious festival and were held in temporary theatres put up within the precinct of the particular deity being honoured.1 According to Tacitus, at first there were no seats provided for the audience, although later on the games were exhibited ‘with hastily erected tiers of benches’ (Tacitus Annals 14. 20). Seating must have been introduced by the late 3rd century BC to judge by various references of Plautus to a seated audience (Plautus Amphitruo 65, Poenulus 5 and 1224, Captivi 12, Epidicus 733, Aulularia 718, Pseudolus 1–2 and Truculentus 968). Plautus was the first playwright whose works have survived. In fact 20 of the 130 or so plays that Plautus wrote from the last years of the 3rd century BC until his death in 184 BC have survived in their entirety, making him the most important Roman dramatist. The dramatist, Terence, who lived in the early 2nd century BC exhibited six plays, all of which survive. In the early theatre both seating and stage were temporary, presumably built of wood, and had to be pulled down when the festival was over. In 179 BC M. Aemilius Lepidus who was the censor that year and also Pontifex Maximus ‘contracted for a theatrum (seating) and proscaenium (stage building) at the Temple of Apollo’ (Livy 40. 51. 3). The theatre 1

 Goldberg 1998.

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was built for the ludi Apollinares for which the praetors were responsible. They were held at the temple of Apollo in Prata Flaminia, on the site where the Theatre of Marcellus was later built. The words ‘theatre and proscenium’ (theatrum et proscaenium) mean that the contract was for both seating and a stage building. In 174 BC the censors let contracts for a scene building (scaena) to be placed at the disposal of the aediles and praetors. It has been suggested that the theatre referred to is the same one which was erected in 179 BC because the praetors were responsible for the ludi Apollinares.2 The fact that no theatrum (seating) is mentioned may suggest that the seating was permanent, but the scene was temporary. A remark by Varro that ‘in the old days seating was permanent, but the wooden scene was rebuilt on each occasion’ may give some confirmation to this view (Servius ad Verg. Georg. 3. 24). Sometimes a stage was erected in the Circus Maximus. One such was erected by the propraetor, Lucius Anicius in 167 BC to celebrate his triumphal games: Having summoned the most eminent artists of Greece and having erected a very large scene building in the circus, he first brought on the flute-players … and having brought them on stage with the chorus, he ordered them all to play the flute. As they accompanied their music with dance-motions he sent word to them that they were not playing well, and ordered them to make it more of a contest. Since they were puzzled at this, one of the lictors indicated that they should turn and advance upon one another and make it into a battle. Then the flute players, taking up the suggestion and adopting motions suited to their usual licentiousness, caused great confusion. The flute-players got together and turned the middle choruses against those at the ends, all blowing on their flutes incomprehensible notes, and all out of tune, and in turn set upon each other. At the same time the members of the choruses, all making a noise at the same time as they were and shaking their garments, advanced upon their opponents and then retreated again in turn. But when one member of the chorus tucked up his garment and having turned around at the critical moment raised his fists as if to box against the flute-player who plunged against him, then the applause and shouts of the spectators knew no bounds. While these men were fighting as if in a pitched battle, two dancers entered the orchestra with their instruments, and four boxers mounted the stage with trumpeters and horn players. All these contests went on together, and the spectacle was indescribable. ‘As for the tragedians’, says Polybius, ‘if I were to try to describe what was happening with them, some people would think I was joking’ (Polybius Book 30, quoted by Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 14. 4). There were times when the affront to public morals became too much and the senate took action. In 154 BC the censors, Gaius Cassius Longinus and Marcus Valerius Messala, contracted for a theatre on the Palatine, probably beneath the Temple of Magna Mater near which the ludi Megalenses were held. It is often assumed that this theatre was a permanent stone theatre. However while building was still in progress Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum, consul of 155 BC, who had upheld traditional moral standards 2

 Coarelli 1965–67, 69–72.

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throughout his career, obtained a senatorial decree for it to be pulled down ‘on the ground that it was useless and would harm public morals’ (Livy Periocha 48. 25). Furthermore all the equipment of the project was to be auctioned off and a warning was issued that ‘nobody should set up seating in the city or within a radius of a thousand paces and that nobody should watch the games seated’ (Valerius Maximus 2. 4. 2). This ban on seating apparently lasted for some time. Velleius Paterculus (1. 15. 3) comments upon the ‘remarkable austerity of the state’ and concludes that the affair was ‘one of the clearest indications of the public attitude’. Although Velleius Paterculus talks of ‘austerity of the state’ it seems to have been the seating the senate objected to. Rumpf believed that the senate’s motivation was political. 3 Republican Rome was far from democratic. There was no free speech, and a participatory democracy such as that of Athens was scorned by the Roman ruling class. For example in 59 BC Cicero declared: ‘all the states of the Greeks are managed by irresponsible seated assemblies’ (Cicero Pro Flacco 16). It is not without significance in this context that the Athenian popular assembly abandoned the Pnyx for its meetings and moved to the Theatre of Dionysus in about 300 BC. In Greece, the theatre was a symbol of democracy, and the Roman senate, by banning a permanent home for dramatic performances, was probably in fact refusing to create an assembly place for the people, a forum for agitation. The games continued to be exhibited in ever more ambitious ways. The games of Lucius Mummius, who defeated the Achaean league in Greece and sacked Corinth in 146 BC, seem to have been celebrated in a very opulent style. Tacitus even claims that it was an economy when permanent theatres were established because previously ‘theatres had been raised and destroyed every year at immense cost’ (Tacitus Annals 14. 21). Gaius Claudius Pulcher was curule aedile in 99 BC. In his games in the Circus Maximus elephants were exhibited for the first time (Pliny NH 8. 7). The scenic decoration for the ludi scaenici was painted in a variety of colours when it had previously consisted of unpainted wooden panels (Valerius Maximus 2. 4. 6). The painting was so realistic that ‘crows flew towards the roof tiles represented on the scenery, thinking that they were real’ (Pliny NH 35. 7). The type of painting described by Pliny is known as the ‘Second Pompeian style’. It was an illusionistic style which first appeared in Rome at the beginning of the 1st century BC in the House of the Griffins on the Palatine.4 Second style painting on the back wall of the small theatre at Pompeii was still visible in the 19th century.5 The Second Style paintings on the scene of small theatre or ecclesiasterion at Tralles in the province of Asia are described, with some distain, by Vitruvius who disliked the Second Style (De Arch. 7. 5. 5–7): Apaturius of Alabanda designed with skilful hand the scaena of the little theatre which is there called the ekklesiasterion representing columns in it and statues, Centaurs supporting the architraves, rotundas with round roofs on them, pediments with overhanging returns, and cornices ornamented with lions’ heads, which are meant for  Rumpf 1950; cf. Frézouls 1981.  Ling 1991, 23–42. 5  Sear 2006, 132. 3 4

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nothing but the rainwater from the roofs, – and then on top of it all he made an episcaenium in which were painted rotundas, porticoes, half-pediments, and all the different kinds of decoration employed in a roof. The painter, Apaturius of Alabanda, is otherwise unknown. During the 1st century BC, as wealth increased, the sacred games became more and more luxurious. Valerius Maximus tells us that Quintus Catulus adorned the scene building with ivory when he celebrated the games as praetor in 81 BC (Valerius Maximus 2. 4. 6). Caius Antonius adorned the whole of the scene with silver. This would be in 66 BC when C. Antonius Hybrida, uncle of Mark Antony the triumvir, was praetor. A notorious spendthrift he was expelled from the senate in 70 BC, but succeeded in becoming consul, with Cicero, in 63 BC. Marcus Petreius adorned the scene building with gold. This was probably in 64 BC when Petreius was praetor. He went on to defeat Catiline at Pistoria during his service as propraetor (63–62 BC). Valerius Maximus goes on to say that L. Licinius Lucullus and M. Terentius Varro Lucullus created a revolving scene. The reference here may be to the periacti or revolving wings mentioned by Vitruvius (De Arch. 5. 6. 8). This was in 79 BC when the brothers were aediles. Lucius Licinius, the more famous brother, was consul in 74 BC and led a brilliantly successful campaign against Mithridates, only to be relieved of his command in 66 BC. He devoted the rest of his life to food and good living. Marcus Terentius Varro Lucullus was consul in 73 BC. P. Lentulus Spinther, consul of 57 BC, celebrated the games as aedile in 63 BC and decorated the stage with silver scenery. In 63 BC a roofed theatre was built by Valerius of Ostia. ‘At Rome long before [Agrippa] the architect Valerius of Ostia roofed a theatre for the games of Libo’ (Pliny NH 19. 102). The theatre referred to was presumably a small theatre or odeum. Odea were built for concerts and were usually roofed, presumably for acoustic reasons. A roofed odeum or theatrum tectum (roofed theatre) of this kind had already been built at Pompeii, in about 75 BC.6 It was used as a concert hall and stood next to the Large theatre. The juxtaposition of large unroofed and small roofed theatre is found elsewhere in South Italy, and Statius (Silvae 3. 591) mentions the ‘twin masses of open and closed theatres’ in his native Naples. Its 16 rows of seating were enclosed within rectangular walls measuring 27.75–28.60 × 34.80 m, and the timber roofing beams were laid across the walls. It had a much smaller capacity, 1500–1850, than the Large Theatre. The orchestra, 15.3 m in diameter, was paved in coloured marbles, and surrounded by steps for the bisellia (thrones) of the magistrates. The scaenae frons was rectilinear and had three doorways. It was built by the same magistrates, C. Quinctius Valgus and M. Porcius, who also financed the amphitheatre. The Theatre of Scaurus, built in 58 BC, must have been the most extravagant temporary theatre to date. Pliny describes it several times: In the aedileship of Marcus Scaurus there were 3000 statues in the scene building of what was only a temporary theatre’ (NH 34. 36) …

6

 Meinel 1980, 36–44, 180–83, 205–07.

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In the aedileship of Marcus Scaurus they saw 360 columns being taken to the scene building of a temporary theatre that was to be used scarcely for a month, and the laws were silent (NH 36. 5) … It was Marcus Scaurus, in my opinion, whose stage was the first structure to have marble walls, though I am not prepared to say whether these were of veneer or of solid polished blocks’ (NH 36. 50) ... Even the madness [of Caligula and Nero] was outdone by the resources of a private individual, Marcus Scaurus, whose aedileship may perhaps have done more than anything to undermine morality ... As aedile he constructed the greatest of all the works ever made by man, a work that surpassed not merely those erected for a limited period but even those intended to last forever. This was his theatre, which had a stage arranged in three storeys with 360 columns, in the same community that had not tolerated six columns of Hymettian marble without reproaching a wealthy citizen. The lowest storey of the scene was of marble, and the middle one of glass (an unheard of luxury even in later times), while the top storey was made of gilded planks. The columns of the lowest storey were, as I have said, 38 feet high. There were bronze statues between the columns numbering 3000, as I have stated. The auditorium itself accommodated 80,000; and yet that of Pompey’s theatre is fully big enough to seat 40,000 even though the city is so many times larger and the population so much greater. The rest of the apparatus, with clothes woven with gold thread, painted panels and other equipment, were such that when the surplus artistic curiosities that could be put to ordinary use were taken to Scaurus’ villa at Tusculum the villa was burnt down by the angry servants, and 30,000,000 went up in smoke (NH 36. 113–115) ... Certainly, Agrippa, in the baths he built at Rome ... would doubtless have built vaults of glass if the technique had already been invented or if it had moved from the walls of Scaurus’ scene building and extended to vaulted ceilings (NH 36. 189). The 3000 statues and 360 columns are certainly an exaggeration. No doubt its fabled extravagance grew in the telling, especially as the theatre was pulled down as usual. It may be assumed that 80,000 spectators, over three times the capacity of the Theatre of Pompey, is the result of more than 100 years of exaggeration. However the description of the scaenae frons is most interesting. The lower parts of it, where the columns stood, were decorated with marble. The glass presumably refers to mosaic wall panels, composed of glass or glass tesserae. Glass panels decorated the upper parts of the scaenae frons of the theatre at Orange.7 Gilded planks may be a reference to the roof over the stage, a feature known to have existed in the theatres at Orange, Aspendus and Bostra. The columns from the theatre did not stay in the house of Scaurus for long. They were taken away to be placed in the regia (the niche enclosing the central doorway) of the Theatre of Marcellus. I remember mentioning to you that this house [of M. Scaurus] is in the part of the Palatine which you come upon when you go down the Sacred Way and proceed along the next road to the left. It is now owned by Caecina Largus, who was consul with 7

 Lavagne 1979, no. 40.

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Claudius [AD 42]. In the atrium of this house there used to be four marble columns of considerable size which are now said to be in the regia of the theatre of Marcellus. He used them when he was aedile – as he himself points out – to decorate the extremely large temporary theatre which he built (Asconius Scaurus 45). In 53 BC Scribonius Curio built a most remarkable pair of revolving theatres. Pliny describes them with outrage: He built two very large wooden theatres next to each other, balanced on a single revolving pivot underneath each of them. During the late morning a performance was held in them, but they were turned away from each other so that each performance should be clearly heard. Then suddenly they were turned round – and, it is agreed, after the first few days with some spectators sitting in them – their corners came together and created an amphitheatre for holding fights between gladiators ... the madness of people daring to sit in such an unreliable and unstable place … Here the entire Roman people, as if on board two boats, was supported by two pivots, and saw itself fighting for its life, on the brink of perishing if the mechanism gave way … When the pivots of the theatres were worn and displaced he altered this magnificent display of his. He kept the amphitheatre shape, and on the final day gave athletic displays with the two scene buildings in the middle (Pliny NH 36. 117–120). Gaius Scribonius Curio was a loyal supporter of Julius Caesar and died fighting for him in 49 BC. He built this, the first amphitheatre in Rome, for his father’s funeral games in 53 BC. How exactly things worked is a subject of controversy because it is geometrically impossible for them to revolve in the way described. This curious structure is described by Pliny as dangerous, which it certainly was to judge by the consequences of the collapse of the wooden amphitheatre at Fidenae in AD 27.8

THEATRE

EQUIPMENT

Theatres needed constant maintenance. Consequently, running a theatre was a full-time business requiring the services of a large staff. Several inscriptions mention works superintendents.9 Among the minor staff of a theatre were the designatores or dissignatores who showed people to their seats (Plautus Poenulus 19). There were also the monitores, the prompters who reminded the actors of their lines.10 Other workers would have included those who raised and lowered the curtain or aulaeum, those who managed the vela and those who changed the scenery. Audin explains the workings of the aulaeum, or curtain.11 Unlike the curtain in the modern theatre, in the Roman theatre it rose from a slot in the front of the stage. Horace

8

 According to Suetonius 20,000 people lost their lives in the catastrophe (Tib. 40).  For example CIL 8.1439; 14.154 mentions Q. Acilius Fuscus, works superintendent of the Theatre of Pompey. 10  Lindsay 1913, 139M. 11  Audin 1960; 1962. 9

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was present at a long performance where the curtain stayed down for four hours until finally it rose (Horace Ep. 2. 1. 189). Ovid also describes the curtain rising at the end of a performance: ‘So when on festal days the curtain is raised, figures of men rise up, showing first their faces, then little by little all the rest; until at last, drawn up with steady motion, the entire forms stand revealed, and plant their feet upon the curtain’s edge.’ This passage is a fine description of the curtain rising smoothly with the figures decorating it slowly appearing. As the curtain rises from its slot the faces are revealed first and then the rest of the body. It sometimes looks as if the figures themselves are raising the curtain. ‘The curtain is raised by the purple figures of Britons embroidered in it’ (Servius ad Verg. Georg. 3. 24). According to Donatus, embroidered curtains (aulaea) on the stage were introduced to Rome from the palace of Attalus [of Pergamum] around 133 BC. He says that a later age substituted drapes (siparia) for them (Donatus de com. 12. 3). Here Donatus is saying that aulaea or drop-curtains came from Pergamum and were introduced after the kingdom had been bequeathed to Rome in 133 BC. According to Beare, who discusses this passage at length, it is the embroidered curtain which came from Pergamum.12 The dropcurtain (aulaeum) must have been a Roman invention and is first mentioned in 56 BC by Cicero (Pro Cael. 65) who compares a crime to a stage farce: ‘This is rather the end of a farce than a regular comedy; in which, when a regular end cannot be invented for it, someone escapes out of someone else’s hands, the time keepers tap their shoes, and the curtain is raised.’ Beare comments: In a regular play the spectators receive ample warning that the play is coming to an end, even before the final ‘plaudite’; but it was precisely because of the formless nature of the mime that its conclusion was marked by some external device – and the device used, according to Cicero, was the drop-curtain. The vogue of the mime and of similar performances may therefore, explain the introduction of the drop curtain itself.’ The time keepers (scabillarii) tapped their specially designed wooden shoes on the floor to give the signal for the curtain to be raised. The siparium on the other hand is never described as being raised or lowered. It seems to have been a screen or drape behind which actors could wait until it was their turn to appear. Apuleius (The Golden Ass 10. 29. 5) describes it as being folded up.13 Other devices used in the theatre were the periacti. Vitruvius (De Arch. 5. 6. 8) describes them as follows: Beyond [the hospitalia] are spaces provided for decoration – places the Greeks call periaktoi, because in these places are triangular pieces of machinery which revolve, each having three decorated faces. When the play is to be changed, or when gods enter to the accompaniment of sudden claps of thunder, these may be revolved and present a face differently decorated. Beyond these places are the projecting wings [versurae] which afford entrances to the stage, one from the forum, the other from abroad. 12

 Beare 1968, 267–74.  Reilly 2013, 30–33. See also Beacham 1991.

13

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Pollux (4. 19. 125–179) also mentions them: Beside each of the two doors flanking the middle one are two others, one each side. Near them the periacti are constructed, the right-hand one showing the region outside the city, the left hand one the things from the city, especially the things from the harbour. It also introduces sea gods and all the things which the mechane [crane] cannot lift because they are too heavy. Turning the right-hand periactus changes the topos [place]; turning both changes the chora [country]. However of the parodoi, the right-hand one leads from the countryside or the harbour or the city; those arriving on foot from elsewhere enter through the other one. Beare comments at length upon the discrepancies between the accounts of Pollux and Vitruvius: Pollux tells us that the right-hand parodos leads ‘from the country or the harbour or the city’. This cannot be right; emendation, however, is impossible without assuming the answer to the very question we are discussing. In each of the passages quoted we find the side-entrances closely connected with the periacti.14 Note a line from Servius on the periaktoi: ‘the stage disappears from view as the periacti revolve’ (Servius ad Verg. Georg. 3. 24). Servius was a grammarian and commentator living in the 4th century AD. This passage is taken from his greatest work, his commentary on the works of Virgil, designed for use in schools. The passage from Virgil’s Georgics is in brackets and his commentary follows. In his discussion of the periacti he describes two types of painted scenery. The revolving type had three different faces and could be turned round. The second type he mentions could be drawn along the stage. In the theatre at Megalopolis the area of the west parodos was occupied by the skanotheke which may have housed a mobile proskenion. It was the same length as the portico of the Thersilion which formed the backdrop to the stage. A row of stones running the length of the interior of the skanotheke was interpreted by Fiechter as a kind of railway line for wheeled stage scenery.15 In the west parodos of the theatre at Sparta there is also evidence for a skanotheke with channelled blocks which implies a moveable scene16 and there is another in the theatre at Messene. The ekkyklema is a high platform lying on a wooden framework, on which is placed a seat; it serves to show the public what was happening outside the scene, inside the houses. This is the action which is indicated by the term ‘ekkuklein’, to make visible. The mechanism on which the ekkyklema revolves is called eiskyklema. Besides one must bear in mind that such a machine is placed behind each door (Pollux 4. 19. 128). According to Valerius Maximus, Pompey was the first to lessen the summer heat with water flowing in channels (Valerius Maximus 2. 4. 6). Sometimes perfumes are mentioned in the theatre: ‘… when the stage is freshly sprinkled with Cilician saffron, and 14

 Beare 1968, 25.  Fiechter 1931. For a contrary view, see Buckler 1986, 431–36. 16  Waywell and Wilkes 1995; 1999. 15

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the altar nearby breathes Panchaean scents’ (Lucretius De rerum natura 2. 416–417). Corycus in Cilicia was famous for its saffron. Virgil (Georgics 2. 139; 4. 379) mentions Panchaea, a mythical island east of Arabia, said to be rich in incense. Other Roman writers mention perfume being sprinkled in theatres: ‘in honour of Trajan [Hadrian] ordered balsam and saffron to flow over the rows of seats of the theatre’ (SHA Hadrian 19. 6). Apuleius also speaks of them: Then from hidden pipes at the very peak of the mountain, saffron dissolved in wine came spurting up into the air and it rained down in a fragrant shower, sprinkling the goats that were grazing all round until, dyed to a greater beauty, they exchanged their natural whiteness for a yellow hue. Finally when the theatre was filled with delightful fragrances a chasm in the earth opened and swallowed up the wooden mountain (Apuleius The Golden Ass 10. 34. 1). The Golden Ass, otherwise known as the Metamorphoses, was written in about AD 170. The only Latin novel to survive whole, its hero is Lucius, who was changed into an ass and later regained his human form by the intervention of Isis. In the early 1st century BC the first awnings (vela) were provided to shade the spectators from the sun. Quintus Lutatius Catulus built a theatre on the Capitoline hill in 69 BC in honour of the dedication in 78 BC (the year of his consulship) of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, rebuilt after the fire of 83 BC (Valerius Maximus 2. 4. 6). He provided awnings to shade the seated spectators, the first recorded reference to the vela which were to be a feature of both theatres and amphitheatres.17 A few years later Lentulus Spinther is mentioned as having provided awnings at the games of Apollo in 60 BC (Pliny NH 19. 6). His awnings are said to have been of cambric, a finer material than the linen used by Quintus Catulus. Publius Cornelius Lentulus Spinther put on lavish shows in his aedileship of 63 BC and his praetorship of 60 BC. It was not long before the vela were dyed with bright colours to judge by Lucretius’ description of them (Lucretius De rerum natura 4. 75–86). He vividly evokes the yellow and red and dark-blue awnings which flutter and wave as they stretch across their poles and crossbeams, and dye the spectators with their colour. He must here be describing temporary theatres because the Theatre of Pompey was dedicated in the year of Lucretius’ death (55 BC). Propertius (ca. 50–15 BC) describes ‘the vela full of folds hanging over the auditorium’ (Propertius 4. 1. 15). He was probably referring to the Theatre of Pompey, which certainly had vela at the time of Nero. They are described as purple with an embroidered figure of Nero driving a chariot in the middle with golden stars gleaming all around him (Cassius Dio 62. 6. 1–2). This refers to the time when Tiridates of Armenia was being entertained by Nero in AD 66. These awnings fluttering overhead must have created a tremendous impression, although unsurprisingly it was sometimes too windy for them to be used (Martial 14. 29. 1–2). The provision of awnings was regularly advertised with the words: vela erunt. This is also the title of a book published by Rainer Graefe who discusses the subject in some detail.18

 They are mentioned by Vitruvius (De Arch. 10, Praef 3).  Graefe 1979.

17 18

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None of the actual vela survive, but there are many examples of the rows of corbels into which were inserted the masts which held them. Examples include those at Pompeii, Tauromenium (Taormina), Volaterrae (Volterra) and Aspendus in Turkey. Perhaps the best ones are in the theatre at Orange (Arausio) in France, one of the best-preserved of all Roman theatres.19 The postscaenium wall is preserved to its full height of 36.82 m and is divided into five levels by cornices. The lowest has 14 arches and three square-headed doorways corresponding to the three doors (the door for the valvae regiae and the two for the hospitalia) in the scaenae frons. The corbels which would have held the vela masts are in the upper two zones. The sets of corbels in the middle were not aligned above each other and seem to have been purely decorative. Only six sets of corbels towards each end were aligned and had holes for masts. Graefe believed that these twelve masts held ropes which ran over the roofs of the basilicas to support the ends of the vela. He calculated that the vela would have covered only the upper half of the cavea. This leads to the unfortunate conclusion that the vela would not have shaded the exclusive front seats of the theatre. Perhaps that is what Calpurnius meant when he described the equites (knights) and tribunes ‘sitting under the open sky’ (Calpurnius Ecl. 7. 26).

THE THEATRE

OF

POMPEY

By building a permanent theatre Pompey was breaking a long-standing senatorial prohibition. One of the methods Pompey used to disarm the criticism of his opponents was to place the theatre under the protection of Venus Victrix and build a temple to her at the top of the cavea (Tertullian De Spectaculis 10. 5). When completed the Theatre of Pompey was the largest and most famous theatre in Rome. It was sometimes simply referred to as theatrum (Cicero ad Att. 4. 1. 6; Horace Carm. 1. 20. 3; Appian Bell. civ. 5. 15), even when it was no longer the only theatre in Rome (Suetonius Nero 13; Florus 2. 13. 91; Cassius Dio 50. 8. 3). Otherwise it was called theatrum Pompei (Ammianus Marcellinus 16. 10. 14), theatrum Pompeium (Res gestae 4. 20), theatrum Pompeianum (Pliny NH 36. 115; Suetonius Tib. 47 and Claud. 21; Tacitus Annals 6. 45; Martial 6. 9. 1, 10. 51. 11, 14. 29. 1, 14. 166. 1; Florus 2. 13. 8), theatrum magnum (Pliny NH 7. 158) and theatrum marmoreum (Fast. Amit. CIL 12 p. 244). Its cavea was about 150 m wide, which suggests that it was built as a 500-foot theatre, the largest category of theatre. Its size was never exceeded in the entire history of Roman theatre building. Monterroso thinks it was even bigger.20 According to the 4th-century Regionary catalogues it had 15,580 feet of seating, which equates to about 11,600 seats.21 One would have expected its capacity to be about double that in view of its size.22 However the building was 400 years old at the time, and it is possible that by then parts of the cavea were unsafe and some of the seating unusable. In fact at the end of 19

 Formigé 1923. Monterroso Checa 2010. 21  Valentini Cod. Top. 123. See also Hülsen 1894 and Rumpf 1950, 47–48. Rumpf arrived at the figure of 10,387 places, allowing a foot and a half per person. However the theatres at Pompeii and Stobi, where the size of the seats is known, suggest that only about 0.39–0.40 m was allotted to each person. 22  According to the same catalogues the Theatre of Marcellus had a greater seating capacity, although its diameter was 20 m less than that of the Theatre of Pompey. 20

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the 4th century at the time of the joint emperors, Arcadius and Honorius, the external circuit had collapsed and much of the interior was falling down (CIL 6.1191). There are many stories told about the dedication of the theatre, which occurred in Pompey’s second consulship in 55 BC.23 The opening was accompanied by the most lavish games ever seen, although Cicero had some reservations about them (ad fam. 7. 1. 2–4). Between 17 and 20 elephants fought a number of Gaetulians who threw javelins at them. The elephants tried to escape but were unable to. Their lamentations evoked the pity of the crowd who began cursing Pompey. Cassius Dio (39. 38) also describes how some of the wounded animals refused to fight and walked about with their trunks raised toward heaven. A theatre on such an enormous scale had to be paid for ex manubiis, from the booty of Pompey’s campaigns. It should be noted that in the Republican period buildings, especially theatres and amphitheatres, were constructed either by the censors from money (pecunia censoria) allocated to them by the senate (Polybius 6. 13. 3), or by the aediles, as part of their cura urbis, their duty to look after public and private buildings and also to stage the games (Varro De Lingua Lat. 5. 81). The censors had great authority but were amateurs without any advisory staff, who could be misled by unreliable contractors.24 The censor as locator let out the contracts and performed the inspection (probatio) and if the project was lengthy a request was made for their term of office to be extended to 18 months (Livy 45. 15. 9). It is important here to note the restrictive nature of Republican magistracies, which shows that they would not have been able to cope with great Imperial projects or indeed Pompey’s project. The theatre was built in the Campus Martius, outside the pomerium. As Pompey had refused to relinquish his imperium he could not enter the city and so had to build himself a house behind the theatre (Plutarch Pompey 40. 4–5). He also built a quadriporticus adjoining the theatre so that he could attend senatorial meetings while keeping soldiers under his command. The theatre and quadriporticus together are actually larger than the Forum of Trajan. He also built the curia Pompeii in the quadriporticus. According to Ashby it was a hall, probably one of the exedras.25 It was in this curia that Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC. He wore a crown adorned with rays in the theatre not long before his assassination (Florus 2. 13. 91). On the day of his assassination there were games being held in the theatre (Appian Bell. civ. 2. 115). The conspirators debated as to whether they should kill him in the entrance to the theatre (Suetonius Julius Caesar 80. 4). Shakespeare describes the assassination in his play, Julius Caesar, and follows Plutarch’s description of him falling at the base of Pompey’s statue (Plutarch Julius Caesar 66. 1). In conclusion it should be added that the Theatre of Pompey did not sound the deathknell of the wooden theatre (theatrum ligneum). Wooden theatres were frequently built in the provinces during the Imperial period, particularly in Gaul and Germany. Vitruvius 23  Cicero in Pis. 65. Asconius, in his commentary on Cicero in Pis. I, said that the oration was delivered a few days before the games in which Pompey’s Theatre was dedicated. See also Fast. Amit. CIL 12 244 and Chron. Pasch. a.u.c. 697. The exact date of the dedication (to coincide with Pompey’s birthday on the 29th of September) is discussed by Coarelli 1971–72, 99, n. 2. 24  Platner 1929. 25  Strong 1968.

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praises wood as having great acoustic properties (Vitruvius De Arch. 5. 5. 7). Even in Rome itself a wooden theatre still stood in the Campus Martius near the Tiber at the time of Augustus, according to the commentarii of the ludi saeculares Augusti. ‘The Latin games (ludi Latini) were held in the wooden theatre which is located in the Campus Martius beside the Tiber …’ (CIL 6.32323, line 108). Other spectacles were shown in the Theatre of Pompey and the Theatre of Marcellus. It, or a replacement, must have been in existence in Severan times because it is mentioned in the commentarii of the Severan ludi saeculares.26 Thus the wooden theatre had a long history both in the provinces and in Rome where wooden theatres still stood at the beginning of the 3rd century AD.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Audin, A. 1960: ‘Le rideau de scène du Théâtre de Lyon’. Gallia 18, 57–82. —. 1962: ‘Le théâtre antique de Lyon et les rideaux de scène’. Palladio 12, 1–10. Beacham, R.C. 1991: The Roman Theatre and Its Audience (London). Beare, W. 1968: The Roman Stage: A Short History of Latin Drama in the Time of the Republic (London). Buckler, C. 1986: ‘The Myth of the Movable Skenai’. AJA 90, 431–36. Coarelli, F. 1965–67: ‘Il tempio di Bellona’. Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 80, 37–72. —. 1971–72: ‘Il complesso pompeiano del Campo Marzio e la sua decorazione’. Atti della Pontificia Accademia romana di archeologia. Rendiconti 44, 99–122. Fiechter, E. 1931: Das Theater in Megalopolis (Antike griechische Theaterbauten 4) (Stuttgart). Formigé, J. 1923: ‘Remarques diverses sur les théâtres romains: à propos de ceux d’Arles et d’Orange’. Mémoires présentés par divers savants à l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 13.1, 25–89, 697–712. Frézouls, E. 1981: ‘La construction du Theatrum Lapideum et son contexte politique’. In Théâtre et Spectacles dans l’antiquité (Actes du colloque de Strasbourg, 5–7 novembre 1981) (Amsterdam), 193–214. Goldberg, S.M. 1998: ‘Plautus on the Palatine’. JRS 88, 1–20. Graefe, R. 1979: Vela Erunt: Die Zeltdächer der römischen Theater und ähnlicher Anlagen (Mainz). Hülsen, C. 1894: ‘I posti degli Arvali nell’Anfiteatro Flavio e la capacità dei teatri di Roma antica’. Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 22, 312–24. Lavagne, H. 1979: Recueil général des mosaïques de la Gaule 3: Province de Narbonnaise, vol. 1 (Gallia Suppl. 10) (Paris). Lindsay, W.M. 1913: Sexti Pompei Festi de verborum significatu quae supersunt cum Pauli epitome (Leipzig). Ling, R. 1991: Roman Painting (Cambridge). Meinel, R. 1980: Das Odeion. Untersuchungen an überdachten antiken Theatergebäuden (Europäische Hochschulschriften. Reihe XXVIII, Kunstgeschichte 11) (Frankfurt/Bern/Cirencester). Monterroso Checa, A. 2010: Theatrum Pompei, Forma y arquitectura de la génesis del modelo teatral de Roma (Madrid). Platner, S.B. 1929: A Topographical Dictionary of Rome (London). Reilly, K. (ed.) 2013: Theatre, Performance and Analogue Technology: Historical Interfaces and Intermedialities (Basingstoke). 26  [Pridie non.iun. die primo in th]eatro ligneo commis[s]io nova in qua p[ant]om[imus P]ylades, item die primo in odi[o commiss]io nova in qua pa[nt]omimus Apolaustus, item [die primo i]n theatro Pompei co[mmissio nova in qua pantomimus Ma[rcus …. CIL 6.32326–32336 (for the parts of the commentarii of the Severan ludi saeculares discovered in 1890). Romanelli 1931, for the discovery of further fragments in 1931. See also Frézouls 1981.

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Romanelli, P. 1931: ‘Roma, Reg. IX - Via Paola. Nuovi frammenti degli Atti dei ludi secolari di Settimio Severo (a. 204)’. Notizie degli scavi di antichità ser. 6, 7, 313–45. Rumpf, A. 1950: ‘Die Entstehung des römischen Theaters’. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 3, 40–50. Sear, F. 2006: Roman Theatres: An Architectural Study (Oxford). Strong, D.E. 1968: ‘The administration of Public Building in Rome during the Late Republic and Early Empire’. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 15, 97–109. Waywell, G.B. and Wilkes, J.J. 1995: ‘Excavation at the Ancient Theatre of Sparta 1992–94: Preliminary Report’. Annual of the British School at Athens 90, 435–60. —. 1999: ‘Excavation at the Ancient Theatre of Sparta 1995–1998: Preliminary Report’. Annual of the British School at Athens 94, 437–55.

HERODOTUS AND AMASIS’ COUP D’ÉTAT Květa SMOLÁRIKOVÁ

ABSTRACT A thorough examination of the surviving written sources – Egyptian, Greek and Babylonian – dealing with the civil war between Amasis and Apries clearly shows that the latter was still recognised at Thebes in Upper Egypt over eight months after the first stele dated by the new king Ahmose II/Amasis. Moreover, it is suggested that Apries had at his disposal much more native support than hitherto supposed. Sitting in his well-fortified palace at Memphis he might feel rather safe face-to-face with the military forces of his opponents when the rebellion erupted. It is asserted that Apries was in Egypt for the whole of that turbulent period and Amasis displaced him as king in 570 BC after the battle at Momemphis and chased him abroad, to Babylonia. Later (in 567 BC), Nebuchadrezzar launched an offensive against Egypt with Apries as a prospective puppetking; however, this failed. Be that as it may, the effectiveness and intensity of Ahmose II/Amasis’ subsequent propaganda, mirrored in classical written sources, including Herodotus’ account, seems to be a brilliant move that has misled classicists and Egyptologists for a long time and with little change to the present day.

I first met Gocha Tsetskhladze at an international archaeological conference at Trnava (Slovakia). We had been professionally connected for quite some time through my articles and numerous reviews published in the journal Ancient West and East. Afterwards, our relationship turned into close personal friendship. We both – as true philhellenes – understood Greece to have been an integral part of a large political and cultural milieu of the ancient world and something like a bridge between civilisations of the ancient West and East. I hope that he will enjoy this small investigation of Herodotus’ approach to the reign of one of the most influential Egyptian philhellenes – Amasis. The work of the ancient Greek historian and traveller Herodotus of Halicarnassus is an extremely valuable source for the history of ancient Egypt, especially for the Late Period (664–332 BC)1 when relations between Egypt and Greece were very close and mutually advantageous. He visited Egypt about 450 BC, i.e. during the First Persian Domination (525–404 BC), shortly after Inarus’ unsuccessful revolt which, significantly, was supported by Athenian naval forces.2 As is well known, the nine books of his Histories,3 written between 430 and 425 BC and especially Book 2, Euterpé, dealing with Egypt, a country with a very long past, became very popular among a broad Hellenic audience,4 including Strabo and Diodorus Siculus and later initiated their wish to visit Egypt – the ‘land of 1

 Lloyd 2000, 364–87; Bichler 2018, 94–96.  Ruzicka 2012, 26–34. 3  Rawlinson 1992. 4  Burstein 1996. 2

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thomata’ – personally. Among other matters, Herodotus described in detail the episode of king Apries’ military deposition by his general Amasis in 570 BC. Thanks to this, it is the most detailed story we have about this crucial political and military event of the 6th century BC. Herodotus’ account (2. 161–163, 169) is as follows: … An army despatched by Apries to attack Cyrene, having met with a terrible reverse, the Egyptians laid the blame on him, imagining that he had of malice prepense, sent the troops into the jaws of destruction. They believed he had wished a vast number of them to be slain, in order that he himself might reign with more security over the rest of the Egyptians. Indignant therefore at this usage, the soldiers who returned and the friend of the slain broke instantly into revolt. Apries, on learning these circumstances, sent Amasis to the rebels, to appease the tumult by persuasion. Upon his arrival, as he was seeking to restrain the malcontents by his exhortations, one of them, coming behind him, put a helmet on his head, saying, as he put it on, that he thereby crowned him king. Amasis was not altogether displeased at the action, as his conduct soon made manifest: for no sooner had the insurgents agreed to make him actually their king, that he prepared to march with them against Apries… Apries, informed of this new calamity, armed his mercenaries, and led them against the Egyptians: this was a body of Carians and Ionians, numbering thirty thousand men, which was now with him at Sais, where his palace stood – a vast building, well worthy of notice. The army of Apries marched out of to attack the host of the Egyptians, while that of Amasis went forth to fight the strangers; and now both armies drew near the city of Momemphis, and prepared for the coming fight. When Apries, at the head of his mercenaries, and Amasis, in command of the whole native force of the Egyptians, encountered one another near the city of Momemphis, an engagement presently took place. The foreign troops fought bravely, but were overpowered by numbers, in which they fell very far short of their adversaries. It is said that Apries believed that there was not a god who could cast him down from his eminence, so firmly did he think that he had established himself in his kingdom. But at this time the battle went against him; and, his army being worsted, he fell into the enemy’s hands, and was brought back a prisoner to Sais, where he was lodged in what had been his own house, but was now the palace of Amasis. Amasis treated him with kindness, and kept him in the palace for a while; but finding his conduct blamed by the Egyptians, who charged him with acting unjustly in preserving a man who had shown himself so bitter an enemy both to them and him, he gave Apries over into the hands of his former subjects, to deal with as they chose. Then the Egyptians took him and strangled him, but having so done they buried him in the sepulchre of his fathers ... So, as a whole, he offers this sequence of events: national rebellion under the leadership of Amasis against Apries, a battle at Momemphis, capture of Apries, his death by the masses and sumptuous burial at Sais. Nonetheless, except for this description of the usurpation, we have other accounts, all be they not so detailed, by Diodorus, as well as the Egyptian Elephantine stele of Amasis, and a fragment of a Babylonian royal text. It is not necessary to analyse here in detail the much later story of Diodorus because there are only small differences between him and

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Herodotus: for example, that Apries was forced to flee for safety to his Greek mercenaries before any fighting occurred, and that the battle took place in the vicinity of the village of Maria (Marea) (Diodorus 1. 68. 2–5) instead of Momemphis. It seems therefore reasonable to suppose that Diodorus had, during his stay in Egypt (ca. 59 BC, the length of his visit remains, however, uncertain: 1. 44. 1), access to independent written sources and/or Egyptian informants who would have been able to supply him with information (more or less contaminated at that time with folklore) about this part of Egyptian history. Before beginning to read the Egyptian and Babylonian records, the dreadful story of the civil war raises a whole set of issues that command attention: first of all, the reliability of the Greek written records and their contradictions regarding Amasis, who is characterised here as clearly pro-Egyptian but later his strong philhellene facet is repeatedly stressed; consequently, he had without doubt unparalleled visibility in Greek historiography which tried to tie together Egyptian and Greek affairs; and secondly, the true nature of the revolt/ coup, as well as the role played by the mercenaries in the service of the Saite kings generally. The disastrous military expedition of Apries to neighbouring Cyrene seems to be the starting point of a revolt which makes his trusted general Amasis the new king. Herodotus’ narrative is anchored in the opposition between native soldiers (machimoi) and Greek mercenaries. By describing these confrontational situations, he tried to make the Greek mercenaries look braver by stressing the powerful force of the machimoi against whom they had to fight. Herodotus’ Hellenocentrism led scholars to interpret the events as a nationalist revolt, with Amasis as a favourite of the Egyptians. He emphasised that they revolted because they were jealous of the many privileges of the Ionian and Carian mercenaries5 in the pharaoh’s army, as in the story of the machimoi, garrisoned during the reign of Psamtek I at Daphnae, Marea and in Elephantine, who rebelled against the king because … it happened, that on one occasion the garrisons were not relieved during the space of three years; the soldiers, therefore, at the end of that time, consulted together of the movement, and having determined by common consent to revolt, marched away towards Ethiopia (Herodotus 2. 30). This story is in reality to be dated to the reign of Apries. In fact, during his reign (589– 570 BC)6 the inscription of the high official Nesuhor7 mentions how the Libyan, Greek, Asiatic and foreign mercenaries at Elephantine appeared unreliable, revolted and threatened to go to Nubia:8 For ye rescued me from an evil plight, from the mercenaries Libyan, Greeks, Asiatics, and foreign, who had it in their hearts to …, and who had it in their hearts to go to Shas-heret. His majesty feared because of the evil which they did. I re-established their hearts in reason by advice, not permitting them to go to Nubia, (but) bringing them to the place where his majesty was; and his majesty executed their [punishment]. 5

 Chevereau 1985, 311–15.  Smoláriková 2008, 39–41. 7  Pressl 1998, 225–26. 8  Breasted 1906, 506–08, §§ 989–995. 6

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All in all, from both records it is clear that controlling the troops on the southern border was an issue, regardless of the soldiers’ ethnicity; here he is evidently wrong. Mercenaries were at that time without doubt well-paid employees in the service of whomsoever right across the eastern Mediterranean.9 One may suppose that Herodotus had no information about this second revolt of mercenaries because it was a marginal event that did not reach his horizon of interest, but its absence from his account is eloquent and reinforces the generally favourable tone of his approach to the Greek troops.10 By turning to the relevant non-Greek sources, it is evident that both Herodotus and, much later, Diodorus seem to have misunderstood the statements of their informants or mixed up two fairly crucial events11 following the battle between Apries and Amasis which are colourfully described (here is offered only a shortened version with the most important data) in the Elephantine stele:12 1/Regnal year one of Amasis, second month of Harvest (October/November 570 BC): king Amasis, in his palace-hall at Sais, was informed that Apries,13 accompanied by boats filled with Greeks (ḥꜢw-nbw) are wasting all Egypt, they had reached Sekhetmefkat [modern Kom Abu Bilo] and Apries had acted like a dog at a carcass. Amasis mustered his infantry and his cavalry and routed the opposition at Imaw/Momemphis [modern Kom el-Hisn]. His majesty fought like a lion, he made a slaughter among them, whose number was unknown. Amasis triumphed, however, nothing is said of the fate of Apries, but measures were taken against his earlier base. 2/Regnal year four of Amasis, third month of the Inundation, day eight [March 567 BC]: his majesty was informed of Asiatic/Babylonian14 (sṯtỉw) invasion of Egypt by land and sea, they were thousands and covered every road. They were defeated at an unspecified place, probably near eastern frontier. Apries, who apparently accompanied the foreign force [the army of King Nebuchadrezzar], was slain while taking his ease on one of the vessels, and then Amasis had him honourably buried and founded divine offerings in great multitude for the mortuary observances of the fallen Apries. For curiosity, the cuneiform text (Chronicles of Chaldean Kings) mentions that Amasis’ army included mercenary troops of Ionians and Carians, which is understandable considering their excellent reputation, as well as Greeks from the city of Cyrene (Puṭujaman).15 9

 Smoláriková 2006.  Lloyd 1988, 169–70. 11  Fischer-Bovet 2014, 23. 12  Daressy 1900; Breasted 1906, 509–12, §§ 996–1007; Edel 1978; recently also Jansen-Winkeln 2014. This is certainly one of the most important documents of the Saite Period (664–525 BC); unfortunately, the text on the stele is badly damaged and unintelligible in parts. It is a stele of rose granite, found as part of a doorway in a house in Cairo, was housed in the Cairo Museum, cf. Maspero 1908, 213 (no. 661; Cairo TN 13/6/24/1), now in the Nubian Museum, Aswan. 13  Spalinger 1982, 18. 14  Spalinger 1979. 15  Wiseman 1956, 94–95, pl. XXI. 10

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Thus the tablet is a record of an attack on the Egyptian eastern border by the army of the Babylonian king. In order to make it safe, Amasis responded by raising forces from Cyrene, the eastern Mediterranean and Egypt itself. Military support from Cyrene at the very beginning of his reign becomes clearer if we remember Herodotus’16 story about Amasis’ marriage with the Cyrenean princess Ladiké, daughter of king Battus II. In such a way he might have protected, for little money, his western frontier through a long-standing custom of marriage diplomacy. In that spirit, the removal of the Greek troops of mercenaries from the fortresses or fortifying camps in the eastern Delta should be dated to the same period (Herodotus 2. 154; Diodorus 1. 67. 2). If the attack from that direction was just a question of time, it would be risky to rely on soldiers who might well go over to their previous master. In this respect he showed a brilliant sense of strategy and when, finally, in 567 BC the army of the enemy appeared on the horizon, Amasis’ moment of truth came, he won and the Babylonians were repelled by a well-prepared army. Surprisingly(?), there is no trace of this attack from the east in the accounts of Herodotus and Diodorus. From this we can conclude not only that the tradition regarded the events of year one as decisive, but also that this (and several other events from the reign of Psamtek I onwards)17 is the result of quite frequent ignorance, showing Herodotus’ defective knowledge of Egypt’s relations with the Near Eastern monarchies. It is worth noting in the wider context of the conflict that (1) Amasis counted on the native support of the machimoi whereas Apries relied on Greek mercenaries, (2) there is agreement, as there is on the treatment accorded to Apries after his death in 567 BC. This apparent harmony is deceptive, reflecting the success of Amasis’ propaganda. In this respect we must still keep in mind that it was a retrospective account from the victor’s standpoint. On the other hand there is discrepancy between Herodotus and the Elephantine stele on the person sitting at Sais: Herodotus insists on Apries, whereas the stele places expressis verbis Amasis at Sais with his opponents moving north towards him. Summarising the most crucial events, it is fairly possible that Apries was safely residing at Memphis where he built during his reign a monumental palace, clearly military in character, which was surrounded by a massive mud-brick wall and seems to have been only accessible from the south by way of a great ramp. Moreover, thanks to his position on an artificial mud-brick mound (about 14 m high), he must have created an overwhelming impression of power, well managed strategically and magnificent in appearance.18 Amasis accompanied by rebels advanced on Sais from some point in the north-western Delta, won over the army of Apries and seized the city. Here, Herodotus’ conclusion was badly wrong to suspect that the Battle of Momemphis had already taken place and Apries was driven out of Sais before the events described in the stele took place. After some period of consolidation and preparation for fighting, Apries advanced on Sais from the direction of Memphis, was met by Amasis and suffered a severe defeat at Imaw, Herodotus’ Momemphis. After

16  Herodotus (2. 181). Except for Herodotus’ account, nothing is known about this Greek princess and Amasis’ wife from Egyptian written sources, albeit it was quite usual to marry daughters or princesses of reigning kings from neighbouring kingdoms (cf. De Meulenaere 1968). 17  For this, for example, see the Rassam cylinder of 644 BC, which informs us of Gyges’ help for Psamtek I; cf. Luckenbill 1927, 296–97. 18  Petrie 1909, pl. I.

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this second battle of year one, Apries fled abroad, searching for strong military support in Babylonia, to return only in year four.19 According to the above analysed hieroglyphic text of the Elephantine stele, which is the one extant Egyptian source to clarify significant facets of the civil war explicitly, and other relevant sources,20 Apries was still recognised as king by the Theban administration in Upper Egypt eight months after the battles of 570 BC. In that spirit, it seems to be especially unusual that the last trace of allegiance to Apries should be Theban,21 because it has always been supposed, on the basis of Herodotus and the Elephantine stele, that Apries drew his support largely from Greek mercenaries settled in the Delta. Thus, the acceptance of Amasis as a king was not as rapid or as universal as has sometimes been assumed. But this puts Herodotus’ account of a total desertion of Apries by the Egyptians into a rather different light, because it may even suggest that the perception of Apries’ support as essentially Greek was not a universal contemporary one, but the result of a vigorous and effective publicity campaign by his victorious opponent Amasis.22 The more so that Amasis had over 40 years to disseminate his version of events, and his propaganda would inevitably have coloured the information available to Herodotus and other ancient travellers. If Apries still held the administrative and military centre which the old capital Memphis really was, thus a key position within the country, while Amasis was ensconcing himself at Sais in the western Delta, it would be natural for Thebes in distant Upper Egypt to change nothing in the status quo, continuing to recognise the legitimate and better-established of the two contenders until his final débâcle on the battlefield. The weight given by Herodotus to the troubles of Apries during the final part of his reign should not be imputed to the entire dynasty. This resolves the apparent contradiction among Greek authors, who were too gullible or even naive regarding Amasis’ propaganda on both his accession to the throne and his philhellenic reputation. So far as we can tell, Herodotus’ record of the conflict between the usurper Amasis and the deposed, as a whole, is questionable, since he foreshortened (intentionally or not) military operations and connected events of regnal years one and four in accordance with their impact on Greek affairs. Amasis/Ahmose II (570–525 BC), like other Saite kings from Psamtek I onwards, showed considerable interest in the Greek world through his numerous alliances with the Cyreneans, with Lindus, his friendship or better close co-operation with king Croesus, with the tyrant Polycrates of Samos (Herodotus 1. 30. 1; 3. 39–43), and his offerings to several temples in Greece. Paramount in the Greek world was especially 19

 Be that as it may, some scholars conclude that: ‘Herodotus is purveying a garbled version of the events described in the stele and in combining the evidence of the two sources, we can yield the following sequence of events: Apries was defeated at Momemphis in the last months of the civil year 570 but survived for a further three years, possibly as an exile in Babylonia. He then returned to Egypt with a Babylonian force in 567, doubtless as part of a plan of Nebuchadrezzar II to established him on the Egyptian throne as a puppet. In the ensuing Babylonian defeat during the 3rd month of the civil year 567 Apries was killed’ (Lloyd 1988, 179). 20  Leahy 1988, 183–89. The author clarifies – through the analyses of the Theban donation stele (BM 952) – the accession of Ahmose II to the throne with an unusual degree of precision: this donation stele and the Elephantine Amasis stele of usurpation are the only two documents dated to year one of his reign. 21  In this respect we should keep in mind that the most important office in Thebes ‘God’s wife of Amon’ was at that time held by Apries’ sister Ankhnesneferibre (see Jansen-Winkeln 2014, 150). 22  Leahy 1988, 189–97.

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his help in rebuilding the temple at Delphi. But his image as a ‘philhellene’ has certainly been exaggerated. More accurate seems to be his ambivalent approach to the increasing number of Greeks living scattered in different parts of the country.23 If we look at the grant of the emporion of Naucratis to the Greek merchants (Herodotus 2. 178–180), for example, this can be seen as rather restrictive in character, since the degree of strong control exercised by the Egyptian authorities over the Greek trading activities in Egypt was high from the very beginning, i.e. from the establishment of the emporion by Psamtek I, as much later the well-preserved text on the stele of Nectanebo I (380 BC) clearly declared.24 Finally, I am minded to say, that Herodotus should have been more critical (and/or less selective?) in listening to his Egyptian informants, albeit … king Amasis, long afterwards, removed the Greeks hence, and settled them at Memphis to guard him against the native Egyptians. From the date of the original settlement of these persons in Egypt, we Greeks, through our intercourse with them, have acquired an accurate knowledge of several events in Egyptian history, from the reign of Psammetichus downwards… (Herodotus 2. 154), and we, however clever we are, to read very carefully his ‘philegyptoi’ records.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Austin, M.M. 1970: Greece and Egypt in the Archaic Age (Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society Suppl. 2) (Cambridge). Bichler, R. 2018: ‘Herodotus’ Book 2 and the Unity of the Work’. In Harrison, T. and Irwin, E. (eds.), Interpreting Herodotus (Oxford), 75–98. Boardman, J. 1999: The Greeks Overseas. Their Early Colonies and Trade, 4th ed. (London). Breasted, J.H. 1906: Ancient Records of Egypt: Historical Documents from the Earliest Times to the Persian Conquest, vol. 4 (Chicago). Burstein, S.M. 1996: ‘Images of Egypt in Greek Historiography’. In Loprieno, A. (ed.), Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms (Probleme der Ägyptologie 10) (Leiden/New York), 591–604. Chevereau, P.-M. 1985: Prosopographie des cadres militaires égyptiens de la Basse Époque: Carrières militaires et carrières sacerdotales en Égypte du XIe au IIe siècle avant J.C. (Antony). Daressy, G. 1900: ‘Stèle de l’an III d’Amasis’. Recueil de travaux relatifs à la philologie et à l’archéologie égyptiennes et assyriennes 22, 1–9. De Meulenaere, H. 1968: ‘La famille du roi Amasis’. Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 54, 183–87. Edel, E. 1978: ‘Amasis und Nabukadrezzar’. Göttinger Miszellen 29, 13–20. Fischer-Bovet, C. 2014: Army and Society in Ptolemaic Egypt (Cambridge). Gozzoli, R.B. 2006: The Writing of History in Ancient Egypt during the First Millennium BC (ca. 1070–180 BC). Trends and Perspectives (Egyptology 5) (London). Jansen-Winkeln, K. 2014: ‘Die Siegesstele des Amasis’. Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 141, 132–53. Leahy, A. 1988: ‘The earliest dated monument of Amasis and the end of the reign of Apries’. Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 74, 183–99. Lloyd, A.B. 1988: Herodotus, Book II. 3: Commentary 99–182 (Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 43) (Leiden).

23

 Boardman 1999, 111–41; Austin 1970, 15–45.  Möller 2000, 207–08, n. 170, with relevant references for discussion and translations.

24

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—. 2000: ‘The Late Period’. In Shaw, I. (ed.), The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt (Oxford), 364–413. Luckenbill, D.D. 1927: Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia 2: Historical Records of Assyria from Sargon to the End (Chicago). Maspero, G. 1908: Guide to the Cairo Museum (Cairo). Möller, A. 2000: Naukratis: Trade in Archaic Greece (Oxford). Oldfather, C.H. 1946: Diodorus of Sicily, Books I and II (London). Petrie, W.M.F. 1909: Memphis I (London). Pressl, D.A. 1998: Beamte und Soldaten: Die Verwaltung in der 26. Dynastie in Ägypten (664– 525 v. Chr.) (Europäische Hochschulschriften. Reihe III, Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften 779) (Frankfurt/New York). Rawlison, G. 1992: Herodotus, The Histories (London). Ruzicka, S. 2012: Trouble in the West: Egypt and the Persian Empire 525–332 BC (Oxford). Smoláriková, K. 2006: ‘The mercenary troops – an effective part of the Late Period’s military power’. In Daoud, K. and Abd el-Fatah, S. (eds.), The World of Ancient Egypt: Essays in Honor of Ahmed Abd El-Qader El-Sawi (Cahiers des Annales du Service des Antiquités Égyptiennes 35) (Cairo), 245–48. —. 2008: Saite Forts in Egypt: Political-Military History of the Saite Dynasty (Prague). Spalinger, A. 1979: ‘The civil war between Amasis and Apries and the Babylonian attack against Egypt’. In Reineke, W.F. (ed.), Acts: First International Congress of Egyptologists, Cairo, 2–10 October 1976 (Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur des Alten Orients 14) (Berlin), 593–604. —. 1982: Aspects of the Military Documents of the Ancient Egyptians (Yale Near Eastern Researches 9) (New Haven/London). Wiseman, D.J. 1956: Chronicles of Chaldean Kings (626–556 B.C.) in the British Museum (London).

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA* Mikhail TREISTER

ABSTRACT A significant number of cast bronze cauldrons found in Asian Sarmatia were made by local craftsmen; those with hammered bodies and cast handles, belonging to Western imports, are the subject of this paper. In addition to a rare example made in the 4th–3rd century BC in Macedonia or Epirus, found in the Upper Don basin in a complex of the late 2nd–1st century BC, in that period nomads received cauldrons made probably in the workshops of Asia Minor or the Bosporan kingdom, including those with Greek ownership inscriptions. A significantly more complex picture than those drawn in previous publications emerges with the distribution of bronze hammered cauldrons in the 2nd–3rd centuries AD. Most widespread were cauldrons of the so-called Debelt and Rovnoe groups, which, according to B.A. Raev and S.V. Demidenko, were manufactured in Italian, and then in Roman provincial workshops or in the North Caucasus and Transcaucasia. Our analysis shows that it is highly likely that they were manufactured in Bosporan workshops. Such a preponderance of presumably Bosporan products does not exclude certain pieces finding their way from the Roman provinces, as indicated by the discovery in the Lower Volga area of a vessel with a Greek inscription pointing to Thrace as its place of manufacture.

INTRODUCTION Numerous bronze cauldrons were found in the nomad burials of Sarmatia. A significant proportion was cast, and they were most likely made by local craftsmen.1 Cauldrons with hammered bodies and cast handles belong to Western imports (Fig. 1). More than 30 years ago, B.A. Raev singled out two types of hammered cauldrons, which, in his opinion, were Roman provincial, perhaps of Near Eastern manufacture * This publication was prepared in the frames of a research project sponsored by the German Science Foundation (DFG) and the Russian Humanitarian Science Foundation (RGNF) entitled ‘Forms and ways of the cultural contacts of the nomads of Asian Sarmatia’ (FL-334/15-1). The partner from the Russian side is B.A. Raev. The author expresses his sincere gratitude for the possibility to work in the exhibition rooms and depots of the museums in which the bronze cauldrons discussed are preserved, to: Marina Filimonova and Irina Gusach (Azov, Azov Historical-Archaeological and Palaeontological Museum Reserve); Dmitry Vasil’ev (Astrakhan, State Joint Historical and Architectural Museum Reserve), Roman Berestnev (Voronezh, Regional Local Lore Museum), Alexander Medvedev (Voronezh, State University), Natalia Khabarova and Anna Zhadaeva (Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum), Oksana Khalyapina (Orenburg, Governor’s Historical and Local Lore Museum), Natalia Kampaore (Ostrogozhsk, N.I. Kramskoy Regional Historical and Art Museum), Anna Yazovskikh (Rostov-on-Don, Regional Local Lore Museum), Natalia Shumeiko (Saratov, Regional Local Lore Museum), and Irina Zasetskaya and Sergei Voronyatov (St Petersburg, State Hermitage). My special thanks to Olga Shinkar (Volgograd) for the photographs and drawings of the cauldron from the 2017 excavations near the village of Bazki, and to Zainulla Samashev (Astana) for the photograph of the cauldron from Lebedevka. 1  Demidenko 2008, 15–43, 85–116, figs. 1–16, 48–123.

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after Italic prototypes, the cauldrons of the Debelt and Rovnoe types.2 He later completed his list with the Köngen type, represented by a find from Sadovyi burial mound.3 Later, I.V. Sergatskov attributed also a cauldron originating from mound 75/1974 in Zhutovo to the Köngen type.4 S.V. Demidenko’s thesis, devoted to the cauldrons of Eurasia, defended in 2000, was published 2008. In it he also included a section on hammered cauldrons with a catalogue of 32 items.5 Russian scholars adopted Raev’s typological scheme, attributing hammered cauldrons from the burials of the first centuries AD to these basic types.6 Demidenko suggested substantial corrections on the basis of his selection of features, as a result of which graphs of interconnexion of cauldrons were drawn, and then their typology was created: nine types of cauldron with sub-types were identified. Demidenko refused to designate the Debelt and Rovnoe cauldrons as types, suggesting that they be called groups, because in each of them types and variants were distinguished. Thus, his Debelt group corresponds to his types II and III, and Rovnoe to variants V and VI. He rightly noted that cauldrons with a spherical body and an outstretched rim fell completely outside Raev’s field of view. Six vessels of this type (including five from the complexes of Asian Sarmatia) were included in type I of Demidenko’s classification.7 However, a notable shortcoming of his work is that he failed to take into account quite a significant portion of hammered cauldrons, known and published at the time of preparation of his thesis and book, but also that his interpretation of the origin of imported cauldrons practically repeats Raev’s conclusions.

CAULDRONS WITH SPHERICAL BODIES, OUTSTRETCHED RIMS, WITH CAST HANDLES WITH LEAF-SHAPED ATTACHMENT AND MOVABLE RINGS Demidenko has not taken into account all such cauldrons (Fig. 1.1). Two cauldrons from a burial mound near the village of Averino in the Voronezh region remained outwith his attention (Figs. 2–6). They are dated by the author of the first publication to the 4th–3rd century BC.8 A.V. Simonenko compared these cauldrons with those from Novolugansk, Kilyakovka, Oktyabrskii-V necropolis, mound 27/1965 near Zhutovo, and mound 6/1987 of the Valovyi-I cemetery,9 i.e. ascribed them to type I in Demidenko’s classification, which I cannot accept. On the other hand, the connexion of the cauldrons from Averino, as well as other vessels of this group, with 5th–4th-century BC cauldrons from Thrace (Kukova Mogila) and the Trans-Kuban area (Seven Brothers tumuli – two specimens, Kurdzhips burial mound),10 denied by Simonenko, seems obvious 2

 Raev 1984, 216–19; 1986, 23–25.  Raev 1986, 25–26. 4  Sergatskov 2004a, 146–48. 5  Demidenko 2008, 44–49, 116–19, figs. 17–23, 124–30. 6  See, for example, Sergatskov 2004a, 146–48; 2006, 246–47. 7  Demidenko 2008, 44, 46. 8  Medvedev 1996, 23–25; 1999, 112, figs. 56.6–7, 67.3–4; Novichikhin 2006, 43; 2007, 119; Sergatskov 2006, 246–47; Simonenko 2015, 38, 39, fig. 6.6–7; Berezutskii 2017, 21–22; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 199. 9  Simonenko 2015, 35, 38. 10  Galanina 1980, 35, 36, 83, figs. 12–13; Novichikhin 2006, 43. 3

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Demidenko.11 Probably these cauldrons (the list of which may be completed with an accidental find near Gostagayevskaya cossack village12) served as prototypes for the cauldrons from the Sarmatian burials, the earliest of which appear no later than the 2nd century BC: a cauldron from burial no. 4 in mound 27/1964 near Zhutovo, dating from this time. As a parallel to the finds from the Seven Brothers and Kurdzhips tumuli L.K. Galanina indicated only a find from a burial of the second quarter of the 5th century BC in the Kukova Mogila (Duvanli).13 A.P. Medvedev, followed by A.M. Novichikhin, added to this list a cauldron from Vergina.14 However, four more finds from Macedonia belong to this group of cauldrons: two from the burials of the Derveni necropolis, dated to the last quarter of the 4th century BC,15 one from a grave of the Aigai necropolis of ca. 500 BC,16 and most likely from Macedonia, another recently published cauldron of the same shape, dating to 480–460 BC.17 The researchers of the Kuban cauldrons did not take into account two more finds of this shape and construction from Thrace, in a mound near Staro Selo in the Sliven area,18 and in the Treasure from Letnitsa,19 as well as the find from Peretu (Roumania) of the upper part of such a cauldron.20 Even in the more complete list compiled by D. Teleaga, we lack the cauldrons from tomb 67 of the Sindos necropolis in Macedonia,21 as well as numerous finds from southern Italy: from Cumae,22 from the early 5th-century BC burial 218/1997 in San Vito (Potenza),23 a series of eight such cauldrons found in Apulia, mainly at Rutigliano.24 Certainly, these cauldrons show some differences, in particular in the design of the rim and the form of attachments, thus giving grounds for the assumption that only the finds from Thrace and the Kuban are imitations of the main (Macedonian) group.25 Though it would be tempting to accept that the large cauldron from Averino belongs to the same group of Macedonian-type cauldrons which found their way into the Kuban area, both Novichikhin26 and Simonenko27 are right. The former noticed that the handle attachments of the cauldrons from Averino on one hand, and those from Kukova Mogila and the Seven Brothers mound no. 4 (add to this list also the cauldron the tomb Z in Derveni), on the other, were fixed differently – not to the shoulders 11

 Demidenko 2008, 46. See also Shinkar 2012, 191–92, fig. 1.8.  Novichikhin 2006, 43, fig. 46, 3; 2007, 118–20. 13  Filow 1934, 53–56, no. 19, figs. 67, 69 (iron tripod); Teleaga 2008, 253, no. 10. 14  Andronikos 1984, 70, fig. 31, 118, fig. 73, 160–61, fig. 125; Vokotopoulou 1994, 215 (below); Teleaga 2008, 253, no. 17; Kottaridi 2011, 140, fig. 159 (a cauldron with an iron tripod). 15  Teleaga 2008, 252–53, no. 8.1. Tomb B: Ninou 1979, 65, no. 222; Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 72, B39. Tomb Z: Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 122, Z19, pl. 133. 16  The so-called burial of the Lady from Aigai (tomb ΛII); Kottaridi 2011, 139, fig. 158; Kottaridi and Walker 2011, 244, no. 199 (found together with an iron tripod). 17  Ignatiadou 2015, 81–82, no. 2.5, fig. 9. 18  Venedikov 1964, 81, no. 5, 87, fig. 16. 19  Gold 1987, 203, no. 333; Venedikov 1996, 7, fig. 1; Teleaga 2008, 253, no. 12; Zhuravlev and Firsov 2013, 182, no. 63. 20  Deppert-Lippitz and Meier-Arendt 1994, 160, no. 48.17; Teleaga 2008, 252, no. 2, 442, cat. no. 955. 21  Volotopoulou et al. 1985, 186–87, no. 304. 22  Gabrici 1913, 559–61, figs. 206–208. 23  Giumlia-Mair and Rubinich 2002, 220–22, no. 50.4. 24  Tarditi 1996, 65–68, nos. 125–132, 150–151 (type VIII.B). 25  Teleaga 2008, 252–53, map 44. 26  Novichikhin 2006, 43. 27  Simonenko 2015, 38. 12

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of the vessels, but to the edge; the latter pointed out the presence of a rib at the transition from the shoulders to the body at the latter. As to shape – spherical, with an outwardly bent edge and riveted attachments with movable handles – this was widespread long before cauldrons were produced in Macedonia. In Geometric and Archaic Greece28 they appeared, most likely under the influence of Phrygia and Urartu – recall finds dating to the late 8th century BC, for example, in the great tumulus at Gordion in Phrygia.29 The early cauldrons of the ‘Macedonian group’ existed at the same time as cauldrons with a spherical body of very similar shape and with four attachments. The latter, also used as funerary urns, were widespread in Greece, especially in Attica, in the Late Archaic period. Finds of such cauldrons with dedicatory inscriptions are known.30 Thus, although the large cauldron from Averino (Figs. 4–6) reveals a certain connexion with the cauldrons from the Trans-Kuban area, there are no grounds for considering that it belongs to this group. It is most probably a later piece, imitating them. Discussing the Averino cauldrons, Medvedev rightly drew attention to the difference between the two vessels, comparing the smaller one with a cauldron found in Zhutovo. According to the known context, the cauldron from mound 27/1964 in Zhutovo (Fig. 7)31 is the earliest of the group of round-bottomed cauldrons: the burial dates to the 2nd–1st centuries BC, probably no later than the early 1st century, if one takes into account the unguentarium found in it.32 Given that the cauldron was repaired, it had been in use for some time before it found its way into the burial. The fact that the repair took place most probably in a nomadic environment is revealed by the characteristic method of fixing with narrow strips, which were passed through holes along the edges of the rift (patch) and sewn in a zigzag pattern. This technique was used to repair wooden vessels in Scythia and in the Southern Urals in the 5th–4th centuries BC, and also in the 3rd century BC for the repair of a phalera from Prokhorovka and at the turn of the 3rd– 2nd centuries BC for phalerae from Uspenskaya (in all cases, the strips were of gold or silver).33 In our case, the edges were sewn with tendons or leather straps, threaded through numerous holes along the edge of the breakage.34 Thus, the cauldron could have been manufactured in the 2nd century BC, even earlier. Particular attention should be paid to the design of the attachment: the lower leafshaped part is riveted to the cauldron’s shoulder, turning into a rectangular outwardly 28

 Gauer 1991, 19–26, Le 2–3, pl. 2.1–2; Sideris 2016, 98; Tarditi 2016, 279.  Young 1981, 110–11, MM4–9, pls. 58–59 (tumulus MM); Toker and Öztürk 1992, 147–52, 216– 18, nos. 128–133. 30  General survey of such cauldrons: Marchiandi 2010; Sideris 2016, 99; Tarditi 2016, 277–79. Cauldrons with inscriptions: Vanderpool 1969; Sideris 2016, 99. Cauldron from Marathon (in the P. Canellopoulos collection): Amandry 1971, 602–10, no. 8, figs. 8–9; Tarditi 2016, 277, fig. 60. Cauldron from Ampelokipi: Furtwängler 1890, 134; de Ridder 1915, 101, no. 2590, pl. 93; Amandry 1971, 606, fig. 11, 608. Cauldrons from Apulia: Tarditi 1996, 68, nos. 133–135, 151–52 (type VIII.C). 31  Shilov 1975, 138, fig. 52.2; Sergatskov 1994a, 22; 1994b, 267; Mordvintseva and Shinkar 1999, 139, fig. 6.1; Klepikov and Skripkin 2002, 75, fig. 6Б.9; Skripkin and Klepikov 2004, 98, fig. 5.31; Demidenko 2008, 116, no. 2, fig. 124; Skripkin and Shinkar 2010, 130, fig. 4A.9; Brosseder 2011, 363, fig. 12.19; Skripkin 2013, 93 (ill. in the middle, right), no. 159; Klepikov 2016, 107; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 198. 32  2nd–1st centuries BC (Skripkin and Shinkar 2010, 136); cf. second half of the 2nd–early 1st century BC (Mordvintseva 2015, 176), second half of the 2nd century BC (Mordvintseva 2015, 188). 33  Treister 2006, 441–42; 2009, 119–20; 2013, 98. 34  Skripkin and Shinkar 2010, 130, no. 18, fig. 4A.9. 29

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA

1367

bent plate, at the top of which there is a ring completely protruding over the edge of the cauldron and located in the same plane as the upper part of the attachment. Consequently, the cauldron from Zhutovo could be suspended directly from these rings integrated into the attachments, into which the bent ends of a bronze arc-shaped handle could be inserted. Judging by the description and schematic drawing, the attachments of a bronze cauldron of similar shape, found in burial no. 2 of mound 84/1982 near Novyi Farmstead, were of comparable construction. Unfortunately, neither the dimensions of the cauldron nor a detailed description of the attachments are given in the publications; it is just noted that the ends of the iron arc-shaped handle were inserted into the holes of the attachments.35 Such a construction of the attachment finds parallels on Greek cauldrons and situlae of the Archaic and Classical periods. A situla with an attachment of a similar design from Olympia dates to the late 5th–early 4th century BC.36 The attachment of the bronze situla with a votive inscription to Athena Alalkomenia, found in the area of Mantinea in Arcadia in 1957 and dating from about 520 BC,37 has a similar construction. Similar too are the attachments on a Late Archaic bronze lebes of globular form from Pydna – the only difference is that the figural attachment has an upper part in the form of two rings (the lebes has a double handle).38 Likewise, with the help of attachments with integrated vertical rings, movable arms were attached to Greek bronze situlae of various types of 4th–3rd-century BC date. As an example: a round-bottomed vessel with slightly concave walls from tomb II in Vergina (its handle resembles in detail that of the above-mentioned situla from Olympia).39 A very close parallel to our attachment may be observed on the bronze ovoid situla from the P. Goulandris collection in Athens, dating to the second half of the 4th century BC.40 In this case, such a roughly executed attachment is most likely the result of repair, associated with the loss or breakage of the original handle attachment (the second attachment, in the form of a lion mask which also served as a spout, remains the original).41 However, there is every reason to believe that the handle itself could originally have belonged to a stamnoid situla – on one side these had figural attachments in the form of Silen masks, the bust of Athena, etc., on the other a spout, most often in the form of a lion mask.42 Since we do not know the context of the find of the Goulandris situla, it is impossible to say exactly when the replacement occurred, but it is obvious that this was no earlier than the 3rd century BC. Numerous finds of individual attachments (or their fragments) with a similar fastening of the ring for the passage of the handle end originate in various Greek sanctuaries and were found, as in Isthmia, in a 2nd-century BC context.43 Especially close to the attachment of the Zhutovo cauldron 35

 Ilyukov and Vlaskin 1982, 101, fig. 26.7, 102; Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 29, fig. 125.  Furtwängler 1890, 139, no. 868; Lehmann 1959, 155, pl. 34a; Gauer 1991, 111, 266–67, E 3, pl. 96.2. 37  Lehmann 1959, 152–61, pl. 31a–b. 38  Vokotopoulou 1997, 126, figs. 116–117, 248–49. 39  Andronicos 1984, 166, fig. 126. 40  Andrioménou 1975, 575–78, no. 15, fig. 47. 41  Andrioménou 1975, 576, figs. 44–46. 42  Situlae of the stamnoid type or type C, after the classification by G. Zahlhaas, most probably of Macedonian production: Zahlhaas 1971, 96–107; Pfrommer 1983, 253–58; Zimmermann 1998, 47–54; Teleaga 2008, 262–63. See the most recent and complete list of such bronze situlae: Blečić Kavur 2012. 43  Raubitschek 1998, 30, no. 123, pl. 24. 36

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is one of the pieces found in Olympia during excavations of the stadium and dating to the Hellenistic period; W. Gauer rightly noticed, based on the form of the attachment, that it belonged to a vessel with a horizontal shoulder.44 A close parallel, given the form and construction of the attachments, is demonstrated by an as yet unpublished cauldron with traces of deliberate damage, found in burial 21/2012 of the Zhuravka-7 mound, near Zhuravskaya station in the Kuban, dated to the last quarter of the 2nd–early 1st century BC; the attachments and rings of this cauldron are made of iron.45 A cauldron from burial no. 5 in mound 1/1967 near the village of Novoluganskoe (the burial is dated by the excavator to the 1st century BC, possibly early 1st century AD),46 also has a rounded shape, but the body of the cauldron goes into a low vertical edge. The lost handle attachments were fastened with three rivets each, and the iron oxides in place of one of the attachments suggest that they too were made of iron.47 In any case, only the form of the body brings together the cauldron from Novoluganskoe with those under discussion from the nomadic burials of the Lower Volga, leaving no scope for farreaching conclusions. The Novoluganskoe cauldron is not the only one of this form with a Greek inscription – another similar cauldron, with a low vertical edge, a spherical body and very similar dimensions, was found in a mound near Bazki Farmstead in the Volgograd region in 2017 (Fig. 10).48 Just as with the cauldron from Novoluganskoe, no handles survive. The construction of the attachments may be indicated by the location of two holes with preserved rivets near the edge. A third hole is located strictly along the axis of symmetry, but it is placed much lower than those on all the other cauldrons considered here, almost in the central part of the body; therefore, the comparison made by O.A. Shinkar,49 comparing this vessel with those from Zhutovo, Oktyabrskii-V, Kilyakovka, etc. is arguable. It is also obvious that the construction of the attachment of the cauldron from Zhutovo, contrary to the opinions of Sergatskov50 and Simonenko,51 does not allow this cauldron to be considered a parallel to those with spherical bodies from burial no. 3 of mound 6/1987 of the Valovyi-I necropolis (Fig. 8),52 burial no. 1 of mound 1/1995 of the Oktyabrskii-V cemetery,53 or from Nikolaevka in the Dnieper basin.54 They have a similar form of attachment in the form of rectangular plates with a profiled ring for a movable handle at right angles to the plate, and with a lower leaf-shaped part at an angle to the top of the attachment. Thus, their upper parts were attached to the outwards-bent edges of the cauldrons, and the lower parts to the shoulders. Comparable is the shape of 44

 Gauer 1991, 118, 273, E 56, pl. 99.3.  Levin et al. 2014, 257. 46  Shapovalov 1973, 87; cf. 1st century AD (Simonenko 2015, 35). 47  Shapovalov 1973, 86–87, fig. 6. See also Simonenko 2015, 35, 37, fig. 6.5–6. 48  Shinkar 2018, 162–64, fig. 1; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 193–203, figs. 1–2. 49  Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 198. 50  Sergatskov 2006, 246. 51  Simonenko 2015, 38. 52  Schiltz 1995, 104, no. 130; Bespalyi et al. 2007, 22–23, no 5, pl. 22.4; Simonenko 2015, 37, 38, fig. 7.2–3; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 198. 53  Myskov et al. 1999, 151, no. 30, fig. 4.12; Kiyashko and Myskov 2000, 48, no. 30; Sergatskov 2006, 246–47; Demidenko 2008, 116, no. 5, fig. 124; Simonenko 2015, 37, 38, fig. 7.5; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 198. 54  Simonenko 2015, 37, 38, fig. 7.1. 45

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the attachments of a cauldron from burial no. 4 in mound 1/1984 near the village of Kilyakovka.55 This cauldron is usually considered as belonging to the group with spherical bodies;56 it is not clear how, since the vessel had a flat bottom(!), clearly noticed by Sergatskov: ‘Its condition is such that it is impossible to restore and reconstruct the cauldron. Pieces of a flat bottom have been preserved from it....’57 Close in design are the attachments of the big cauldron from Averino (Figs. 5–6). In contrast, those of the small Averino cauldron (Fig. 3), which is comparable with the vessels under discussion in body form and the outwardly bent edge, do not have a leaf-shaped bottom part – they were attached only to the bent edge of the cauldron with two rivets. Attention must be paid to the fact that the Valovyi-I cauldron was repeatedly repaired (Fig. 8). This is indicated not only by the patches on its bottom and rim, already noticed, but also by observation of the handles: the two remaining handles have attachments with lower parts of different shapes – it is most likely that during one of the repairs one of the attachments was also replaced. ‘A large bronze patch fixed with bronze rivets’ was mentioned in the description of the cauldron fragments from Kilyakovka.58 Not just the fact that the cauldron from Zhutovo (Fig. 7) originates from a much earlier burial but the more ‘archaic’ form of its handle attachment indicate its earlier dating – to a time not later than the 2nd century BC. Other cauldrons with a spherical body, considered above, are apparently somewhat later and date to the 1st century BC, probably to the first half of the 1st century AD. Sergatskov stressed that ‘certain similarities to the cauldron from Kilyakovka in some details, especially in the construction of the handles, are observed ... in vessels from Pompeii’,59 while two V2000 type cauldrons with a spherical body and a rim bent outwards are mentioned as parallels.60 Although their shape shows a certain proximity to the cauldrons from the Lower Don and the Volga, we have no grounds at all to discuss the construction of the handles of the Pompeii cauldrons because of their absence(!) – two rivets have been preserved on the bent rim of one of them, from which it does not at all follow that the lower part of the handle attachments was fixed to the shoulders (moreover, it is unlikely). In my opinion, the chain forged by Sergatskon is counterproductive: the leaf-shaped form of the lower part of the attachments is characteristic of Late La Tène ware; hence, given that the cauldron from Zhutovo comes from a Late Prokhorovka burial, both this cauldron and the vessels from the Kilyakovka and Oktyabrskii-V necropolises should be dated to the Late La Tène period.61 First of all, leaf-shaped attachments are characteristic not only for Late La Tène bronze vessels but were widespread since the Archaic period: there is nothing specific to Late La Tène culture in the attachments of the cauldrons under consideration. Secondly, it is obvious that there is a substitution of cultural-historical and chronological concepts. What I can accept is that is very likely that the vessels from Kilyakovka, Valovyi-I and Oktyabrskii-V probably date to the 1st century BC. 55  Myskov 1992, 127, fig. 6.4; Sergatskov 1994a, 23; 1994b, 268; 2004b, 110, fig. 2.7; 2006, 246–48; Demidenko 2008, 116, no. 1, fig. 124; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 198. 56  Sergatskov 2006, 246–48; Demidenko 2008, 44; Simonenko 2015, 38. 57  Sergatskov 2006, 246. 58  Myskov 1992, 127. 59  Sergatskov 2006, 246–47. 60  Tassinari 1993, 279, V2000, nos. 12138, 12061. 61  Sergatskov 2006, 247.

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To compare the cauldron from Zhutovo (Fig. 7) with those from the Kuban area dated to the 5th–4th centuries BC, as V.P. Shilov did,62 is of course wrong – they are united only by the form of the body, whereas the rims and handle attachments are different. Where exactly the Zhutovo cauldron was manufactured is difficult to say. It could have been made in a workshop located on the Balkan Peninsula, or in Asia Minor, the eastern Mediterranean or the Bosporan kingdom. The lack of exact parallels renders a more specific attribution difficult. The fact that the Sarmatians in the 1st century BC–1st century AD acquired cauldrons coming from Asia Minor is confirmed indirectly by a find in a mound near the village of Novoluganskoe in the Donbass,63 with the Greek inscription πί (ε), δάψον Σμορζης (vel - ζιας) Παρυάδρου (‘drink, fress Sordz (ii), the son of Pariadrou’ or ‘drink, fress Smordz, Periadrou’) (reading by Y.G. Vinogradov) (Fig. 9.3). Vinogradov pointed, on the one hand, to a close analogy of the name of the cauldron’s owner to one patronymic on a Panticapaean gravestone (CIRB 171); on the other hand, he noticed that the patronymic Pariadrou comes from the name of one of the spurs of the Taurus Mountains, between Kotyora and Trabzon. This gave Vinogradov grounds for assuming that the cauldron could reach the nomads both from Asia Minor and via the Bosporan kingdom.64 The context of the find and the palaeography of the inscription suggest a date in the frame of the late 1st century BC/early 1st century AD to the third quarter of the 1st century AD.65 The inscription on the cauldron from the mound near Bazki Farmstead in the Volgograd region, found in 2017 (Fig. 10), is in the same place as that on the Novoguganskoe cauldron:66 on the shoulders there is a two-line dotted inscription, supposedly with the designation of the weight of the vessel and the name of the owner (Fig. 9.2).67 The publishers of the Bazki cauldron suggested the possibility of its manufacture in a Bosporan workshop or in the Maeotian workshops of the Kuban basin.68

CAULDRONS

WITH VERTICAL, SLIGHTLY CONCAVE WALLS, A ROUNDED BOTTOM

AND AN INWARDLY CURVED RIM, WITH T-SHAPED ATTACHMENTS WITH A PALMETTE UNDERNEATH, AT THE BUTT-ENDS OF WHICH THERE WERE INSERTED MOBILE HANDLES

Also falling completely outside Demidenko’s typology (and not included in his list) is a cauldron from the Treasure found near the village of Levaya Rossosh in the Voronezh region (Fig. 11).69 This hoard was found in 1963 in a burial mound destroyed in 1962; the finds were transferred to Voronezh Regional Museum of Local Lore by the construction workers. 62

 Shilov 1975, 139.  Vinogradov 1984, 38, fig. 1; Tolochko 1986, 207, 209, fig. 61; SEG 34 754–55; Vinogradov 1997, 643–44. 64  Vinogradov 1984, 39–40. 65  Vinogradov 1997, 641, n. 3. 66  Cf. Mikhlin 1974, 30. 67  Shinkar 2018, 162–64, fig. 1; Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 193–203, figs. 1–2. 68  Balakhvantsev and Shinkar 2018, 199. 69  On the complex, see Medvedev 1990, 16, 17, fig. 6, 22–23; 2008, 20, fig. 10.1–19; Zaitsev 2008, 149; 2012b, 68, fig. 1, no. 27. On the cauldron: Medvedev 1990, 17, fig. 6.1; 2008, 20, fig. 10.1. 63

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The complex, as Medvedev points out, was dated by P.D. Liberov not later than the early 2nd century BC (in his report on the find Liberov noted, however, that the objects date no later than 3rd–2nd centuries BC).70 In Medvedev’s opinion, based on the rectangular buckle with concave sides and a side hook from the Treasure, which has parallels in the Late Scythian complexes of the 1st century BC from the mausoleum and eastern necropolis of Scythian Neapolis, the complex dates to no earlier than the 1st century BC. The cauldron is attributed by Medvedev (with the reference to the opinion of D.B. Shelov) as Italian production of the 2nd–1st centuries BC.71 But one glance at the attachment of the handles shows that we are dealing with a much earlier object from another cultural circle. The shape of the cauldron – vertical smoothly concave walls, turning into a slightly rounded bottom and a horizontal edge bent inside the mouth – gives grounds for comparing it with the bronze cauldrons spread primarily in Illyria, Epirus and Macedonia in the 5th–4th centuries BC.72 I. Vokotopoulou73 considered the finds from Galaxidi74 and Perakhora,75 which probably date to the second half of the 5th century BC, to be the earliest vessels of this group, whereas the remaining cauldrons, originating from Votonosi and Trebeniste, were dated by her to the late 4th century BC.76 Today it is obvious that this type of cauldron appeared not later than the second half of the 6th century BC. A series of finds of such vessels of the Archaic period originates from Olympia and Gauer assumed that this form appeared first in the north-eastern Peloponnese.77 The tomb in Sala Consilina (Salerno) in southern Italy, where two such vessels with similar attachments of movable handles (in one case rectangular, in the other oval) were found, is dated to the late 6th century BC.78 These early vessels have almost vertical walls; for later cauldrons the walls are more concave. To these late vessels should be added a series of finds unknown to Vokotopoulou, but taken into account by E. Teleaga in 2008, from aristocratic burials – in Belsh in Illyria (three),79 in Derveni (two)80 and from Zhdanets81 in Macedonia – found in complexes of the middle and the last quarter of the 4th century BC. A similar cauldron was found also at Antigoneia in Illyria.82 A series of such vessels dated to the middle–second half of the 5th century BC comes from southern Italy – in 1996, C. Tarditi listed 14 cauldrons of this type from Apulia.83

70

 Liberov 1963, 41.  Medvedev 2008, 20. 72  Teleaga 2008, 252–53, nos. 3–5, 7, 8.2, 15, 18–19, map 44. 73  Vokotopoulou 1975, 783–84. 74  British Museum, inv. 1884,0806.2: Vokotopoulou 1975, 785, fig. 46; Zimi and Sideris 2003, 49, pl. 19γ. 75  Payne 1940, 159, pl. 62.5, 7. 76  Vocotopoulou 1975, 784. 77  Gauer 1991, 27–30, 123, 183–85, Le 31–41, pls. 14–15. 78  Giumlia-Mair and Rubinich 2002, 335, nos. 51.5–6. 79  Eggebrecht 1988, 248–49, nos. 114–116; Gauer 1991, 29, n. 67; Teleaga 2008, 252, no. 7. 80  Teleaga 2008, 252–53, no. 8.2. Tomb A: Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 31–32, A52, pl. 32. Tomb Δ: Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997, 102, Δ12, pl. 109. 81  Sokolovska and Pasić 1975, 241, pl. 5.1; Teleaga 2008, 253, no. 19. 82  Budina 1972, 304–05, 331–32, fig. 45, pl. 22.6, 8; Teleaga 2008, 252, no. 4. 83  Tarditi 1996, 59–65, nos. 111–124, 149–150 (type VIII.A). 71

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MIKHAIL TREISTER

Not only the shape of the vessels but also the attachments of the handle (for example, of one of the vessels from Belsh,84 the vessels from Derveni and that from the Levaya Rossosh Treasure) demonstrate an amazing affinity. There is also no doubt that the form of these attachments itself goes back to those of vessels of various types of the Archaic period, which are represented by numerous finds in Olympia,85 Delphi,86 Isthmia,87 Dodona,88 Athens89 and Olynthus90 – the latter finds confirm their use up to the mid-4th century BC (although in a very primitive scheme). Separate finds of such attachments are known in the Lower Danube and in Transcarpathia.91 Among the finds from Olympia, dating from the second half of the 5th century BC,92 there are examples with the design of palmettes resembling the lower part of the attachments of the cauldron from Levaya Rossosh. Based on the shape of the vessel, and taking into account the stylistic features of the attachment, the cauldron from Levaya Rossosh can hardly be dated before the late 5th century BC. What about the materials found together with the cauldron? Indeed, buckles with concave sides with hemispherical protrusions in the corners and side hooks occur in the complexes of Late Scythian culture, and not only in the burials from Scythian Neapolis (mausoleum, burial XXV, eastern necropolis, grave no. 54), as pointed out by Medvedev, but also in the crypts nos. 1 and 39 of the Belyaus necropolis, dating within the late 2nd– 1st centuries BC.93 But to designate the buckles from Late Scythian burials as ‘exact analogies’ to the find from the Treasure, which Medvedev does, seems to me incorrect – they have hemispherical protrusions and their sides are bent, but the shape of the buckles is different, as is the number of protrusions. Y.P. Zaitsev considers these rare Crimean finds as a manifestation of Celtic influence, pointing to Danubian parallels.94 Anyway, there is every reason for dating the buckle from Levaya Rossosh no earlier than the late 2nd and no later than the 1st century BC. However, buckles of a similar shape (rectangular with concave sides and one peg) are also known among materials from Dura Europos.95 Thus, the North Greek (Epirote or Macedonian) origin of the bronze vessel found in the upper reaches of the Don basin, which after ca. 250–300 years fell into a so-called ‘ritual’ or ‘votive’ treasure,96 does not cause doubts. It is worth noting that, for all the 84

 Eggebrecht 1988, 249 (ill.).  Furtwängler 1890, 132, nos. 825–829, pl. 50; Gauer 1991, 48–63, pls. 34–49. 86  Perdrizet 1908, 78, figs. 273–275, 79, nos. 345, 346, 348. 87  Raubitschek 1998, 15, 19, no. 72, pl. 15. 88  Carapanos 1878, 90, pl. XLVII.6. 89  Tarditi 2016, 196–97 (inv. 7121, 7139), 280. 90  Robinson 1941, 247, no. 986, pl. 65; Teleaga 2008, 253, no. 14. 91  Teleaga 2008, 253, nos. 10, 13. 92  Gauer 1991, 57, pl. 45.3. 5–6. 93  Dashevskaya 1991, 36, pl. 63.2; 2014, 13, 87, pls. 8.12, 69.10. A buckle with concave long sides and a knob in the centre of the narrow side in front originates from the Tuar-Alan sanctuary in the south-eastern Crimea, which dates to the 2nd century BC–first half of the 1st century AD (Gavrilov and Trufanov 2014, 98, no. 19, fig. 30.19). 94  Zaitsev 2011, 588–89, fig. 2.3–4. See the finds from Central Europe in general: Łuczkiewicz and Schönfelder 2008, 161–65; in particular a similar buckle from Switzerland: Łuczkiewicz and Schönfelder 2008, 163, fig. 4.20; type E; 202, no. 36. See also a comparable buckle from north-western Bulgaria dated to the 2nd–1st centuries BC: Torbov 2005, 208–09, fig. 1. 95  James 2004, 76–78, nos. 48–50, fig. 37. 96  See, for example, Simonenko 2001; Redina and Simonenko 2002; Zaitsev 2012a; 2012b; Mordvintseva 2013. Recently a complete section of Stratum Plus was devoted to this theme: Glebov 2016; Dedyulkin 2016; Vdovchenkov 2016. 85

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA

1373

variety of the spectrum of composition of such treasures, Greek bronzeware rarely found its way into them, and the bronze lamp from the complex from the Klimenkov Farmstead, located close to Levaya Rossosh, is much closer to the date of the Treasure in which it was found.97

CAULDRON

OF THE SO-CALLED

KÖNGEN

TYPE

Among objects from the remains of the funeral feast in the Sadovyi mound, a large bronze cauldron was found; it has a wide mouth with an outwardly bent edge and a vertical rim, with the body gradually expanding towards the rib in its lower third, and a rounded bottom. The body is made of hammered bands, bonded on the rib, connected with a rounded bottom. An iron hoop is set around the mouth (Fig. 12). Two handles, also made of iron, take the form of horizontal protrusions with loops into which large iron rings are inserted (Fig. 13).98 S.I. Kaposhina rightly pointed to a close parallel with a cauldron found during 19thcentury excavations in Köngen. Realising that the date given by its publisher, F. Behn, for the Köngen vessel in no way corresponded to that of the cauldron from Sadovyi, Kaposhina suggested that the former was a later development of the Celtic form and, accordingly, identified the Sadovyi cauldron as Celtic, probably made in Gaul, and brought in the North Pontic steppes by Celtic mercenaries in the 1st century BC.99 Kaposhina’s interpretation was criticised by Raev, who, nevertheless, also attributed the find from Sadovyi as a cauldron of the Köngen type.100 Turning to the dating of the Köngen vessel, he stressed that Behn had never written that it dated to ca. 260 AD and that this was only a terminus ante quem.101 Indeed, Behn did not write about this definitely, but the circumstances of the find of the cauldron – discovered in 1874, together with a strainer of the Eggers type 161 and a number of other items, already well known at the beginning of the 20th century, in the well of a villa rustica, not far from Vicus Grinario – give no reason to doubt that this set of objects was deposited around the middle of the 3rd century AD.102 Raev also notes that Behn referred to a similar cauldron of the first half of the 2nd century AD from Zugmantel.103 Indeed, Behn compared the cauldron from Köngen with that from the Roman camp of Zugmantel; the latter, however (I doubt that Raev checked the reference), has different proportions (the rib is much closer to the bottom and the edge is not bent, but the vertical).104 Anyway, Raev, noted the proximity of the cauldron from Sadovyi to those of the Westland type, recognising thus its late date (to period C or not earlier than ca. AD 200).105 But it is unclear how the late date of the cauldron is consistent with Raev’s chronological observations concerning 97

 Treister 2017, 209–14, figs. 6–8.  Kaposhina 1969, 76–79, fig. 22; Raev 1986, 5–6, 25–26, pl. 18.2; Klein 2016, 102, no. 1, fig. 62. 99  Kaposhina 1969. 100  Raev 1986, 5–6, 25–26. 101  Raev 1986, 26. 102  Barthel 1907, 37; Haug and Sixt 1914, 302. See also Weinrich-Kemkes 1993, 301, no. 21a; Luik 2005, 261. 103  Raev 1986, 26. 104  Fundchronik für die Zeit vom 1. Juli bis 31. Dezember 1935, Germania 20 (1936), 144, fig. 5. 105  Raev 1986, 26. 98

1374

MIKHAIL TREISTER

the dating of Sadovyi mound – all parallels to the various finds from the burial, mentioned by him, are within the range 1st century BC–early (first half at the latest) 2nd century AD. (It is worth noting that in the section of his book devoted to the cauldron the question of its absolute dating is not considered at all.106) Later, Sergatskov attributed to the Köngen type a cauldron found in mound 75/1974 in Zhutovo (Fig. 14),107 although stressing various techniques used for the production of the two vessels – the cauldron from Sadovyi is bonded at the rib from two bands of metal, while the vessel from Zhutovo was hammered from one piece of metal.108 Sergatskov here paid no attention to the significant differences in size of the cauldrons – that from Zhutovo is much smaller (height 18.8 cm, diameter at rim 26.6 cm, maximum diameter of body 32.4 cm) than the cauldron from Sadovyi (height 26.0 cm, diameter of rim 46.8 cm, diameter max. 54.0 cm, width of rim 1.8–2.1 cm, thickness of wall 0.15 cm; iron hoop: cross-section 1.8 × 0.6 cm; handles: cross-section of attachment rings 0.8 × 1.1 cm; cross-section of loop 0.9 × 1.1 cm). Moreover the proportions of the two vessels also vary significantly (the ratio of height to maximum diameter of the body of the Sadovyi cauldron is 0.481, of that from Zhutovo 0.58. Demidenko includes the Sadovyi cauldron in the Debelt group109 (in this case, probably the vessel from mound 75/1974 in Zhutovo should be included too; however, it is absent from Demidenko’s catalogue). If we turn to the modern literature, then M. Luik, who published an article devoted to the cauldron from Köngen, rightly attributes it to the early group of cauldrons of the Westland type (Eggers 11–12, NE 4),110 also represented by a series of finds of large cauldrons from Neupotz111 – these vessels, like that from Köngen, are dated to the first half of the 3rd century AD. Indeed, both in its shape, in the presence of an iron hoop with rings under the edge, and in size, the cauldron from Köngen is close to that from Sadovyi. They are distinguished, however, by one very significant detail – that the latter is bonded from two strips of metal at the rib. Although this feature is not considered at all by Raev, and, apparently, was considered insignificant by Sergatskov, it is very important, since cauldrons close in shape to those of the Westland type, but also made of bonded strips of metal and with iron hoops along the edge and movable ring-shaped handles, belong to earlier types: Eggers 6–8 / NE 1–3. In this case, those of Eggers type 8 (variant Harsefeld), with a smoothly expanding bottom part (ausgebauchtes Unterteil ),112 are the closest in form to the cauldron from Sadovyi. Having dwelt on the similarities between Sadovyi and Eggers type 8 cauldrons, what are their differences? 1) The fact that there is no rib in the lower part – the transition to the bottom is smooth and rounded; 2) the separate strips from which the cauldrons are made are connected not in the lower part but in the transition from the upper part, with almost vertical walls to the rounded lower part; 3) the iron hoop is neither square nor diamond-shaped, but of rectangular section.

106

 Raev 1986, 44–46.  Sergatskov 2004a, 146–48, fig. 4. 108  Sergatskov 2004a, 146. 109  Demidenko 2008, 46–47. 110  Luik 2005, 261–62, fig. 4, 277, no. 1, 281, fig. 4. 111  Künzl 1993 I, 231–36; II, 43–44, nos. E8–16; Erdrich 2001, 47–48. 112  Eggers 1951, 159–60, App. 3, pl. 2.8. 107

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA

1375

Cauldrons of Eggers types 4–8 were distributed mainly in Germania magna, in the Lower Elbe basin, where they were often used in later graves as funerary urns. Nevertheless, there are various grounds for dating their appearance not later than the end of the 2nd and the first half of the 1st century BC, on the whole; and in particular those of Eggers type 8 to the second half of the 1st century BC. How long their production continued is a complex issue; at least, their finds are absent in Roman camps of the Augustan period on the Lippe in Westphalia, but some researchers do not rule out the possibility of their manufacture in the 1st century AD.113 Among rare finds of such cauldrons from other regions I would mention those from grave no. 38 in Kostolná on the Danube,114 and from Mannersdorf on the March.115 The typology of the early cauldrons, developed by J. Eggers, has repeatedly raised criticism; this applies in particular to type 8.116 If we turn not to the schematised drawings of Eggers but to real finds, then cauldrons from Osterholz attract attention. Although the strips of which they are made are connected higher than on the Sadovyi cauldron, the lower part of the vessels also has a rib at the transition to the bottom. K. Raddatz determined the cauldrons from Osterholz as being ‘close to Eggers type 8’ and assigned them to the Early Imperial period.117 Obviously, in the case of the cauldron from Sadovyi, it too can be said to be close to the shape of Eggers type 8 and to date no later than the 1st century AD. The distribution area of the cauldrons under discussion and the probable dating of the Sadovyi vessel are quite consistent with the attribution of an iron shield umbo found in the same mound. In the opinion of M.B. Shchukin, it is Germanic, dating to the turn of our era, and finds parallels in the antiquities of the early Roman Imperial period of the Przeworsk culture (in CzechoSlovakia and in the interfluve of the Elbe and the Oder).118 It is interesting that in burial no. 157 in Harsefeld such an umbo was found together with a cauldron of Eggers type 8.119 As for cauldrons close to the vessel from Köngen, that means those of the Westland type. It is obvious that a very close parallel to them is the find from mound 1/1966 in Lebedevka, western Kazakhstan.120 It is clear that this cauldron originally had an iron hoop under the edge: iron oxides are visible. The current form of fixing the handle attachments to the edge of the cauldron is undoubtedly the result of restoration. The iron attachments themselves and the large flat rings confirm our assumption (Fig. 15). Also the shape of a cauldron found in mound 2/1993 of Krep-II necropolis in the Volga region is comparable (Fig. 16).121 This fragmentary cauldron also had movable ring-shaped handles like those from Sadovyi and Lebedevka, which were fastened to the loops which go through the rim; besides, these places are further secured with lamellar holders. 113  Raddatz 1976, 21–23; Kunow 1983, 17, 69; Wielowiejski 1985, 167–68; Wegewitz 1986, 73–74, fig. 1.2, 101, fig. 37, 129–30, fig. 60; Bernhard and Petrovszky 1990, 35, fig. 21, form 1a; Hachmann 1990, 649–57, fig. 24 (map); Peschel 1995; Karasová 1998, 9, 11, map II, pl. I.8; Sedlmayer 1999, 136–38, fig. 17; Erdrich 2001, 39–41; Bienert 2007, 127, form 43; Jílek 2009, 29–33; Łuczkiewicz 2012, 115–16. 114  Hrnčiarik 2013, 40, pl. IX.860. 115  Drobejar 2006, 677, fig. 57; Jílek 2009, 29, fig. 20. 116  Peschel 1995, 83; Erdrich 2001, 39–40. 117  Raddatz 1976, 21–23, no. 3b, 7, pls. 34, 39–41. 118  Raev 1986, 39, pl. I.2; Shchukin 1987, 49–51; 2004, 447–52, fig. 1; Klein 2016, 102, 115, fig. 84. 119  Wegewitz 1986, 100–01, fig. 37a. 120  Bagrikov and Senigova 1968, 83, 84, fig. 14.5; Kropotkin 1970, 26, no. 86, 132, no. 1310a; Moshkova 1995, 155, fig. 14e; Tasmagambetov 2003, 272 (below); Demidenko 2008, 46, type VII.1, 116, no. 19, 242, fig. 130. 121  Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 31, fig. 126.

1376

CAULDRONS

MIKHAIL TREISTER

OF THE

DEBELT

GROUP

The cauldrons of this type, named after a find in Debelt in south-eastern Bulgaria,122 are widely represented among the finds in Pompeii,123 but the similarity is limited just to the shape – a wide bent edge and walls extending to the bottom, going into a rounded bottom. The cauldrons from Pompeii, as Raev states, unlike the find from Debelt and those from the nomadic burials in Sarmatia, do not have an iron hoop under the rim and the handles;124 nevertheless, he suggested that vessels of Debelt type are of Italian origin, and the difference between the finds from Pompeii and those from Sarmatia lies in the fact that in Pompeii they were used in stationary fireplaces, while the nomads used them on bonfires.125 Whether they were made specifically for export to nomads or if the refurbishing was made by the end-users remains unanswered. In a later article, written jointly by Raev and Naumenko, it was suggested that the cauldrons could be completed with iron hoops and handles, both in Roman provincial workshops and by nomads.126 According to Sergatskov and Demidenko, this finishing could have been executed by the nomads.127 Raev assumed that the cauldrons found in Eastern Europe, and characterised by ‘comparatively rough’ workmanship, were products of provincial workshops, while the vessel from the burial of the Tsentralnyi-IV necropolis, ‘judging by the quality of its manufacture, it is not of the provincial production’.128 Also Demidenko stresses that ‘the production of the cauldrons of the Debelt group in Italic and later on in Roman provincial workshops does not raise questions.129 It is unclear, however, on what such confidence is based. Neither Raev nor Demidenko gives any argument in favour of their assertion that cauldrons of the Debelt type/group were manufactured in Roman provincial workshops (which?, where?). Of the formal proximity (biconical body, rounded bottom, bent edge) with the cauldrons from Pompeii, there is, on the whole, no argument – with the exception of a find from Debelt, from an obscure complex, published by Raev as a drawing, and since then never republished. The proposition is advanced that cauldrons of Debelt type, as well as hammered jugs of the Straldzha type, could have been manufactured in Thrace. We cannot exclude the connexion with the same area also of the hammered cauldron of the Debelt type. The parallels to this type can be found in Italy [reference to the work by G. Zahlhaas, referring to the finds from Pompeii – MT] and in the areas where the objects of Italian production penetrated. Here there are two references, both indistinct: the first to a publication by Raev on bronze vessels from Thrace and Lower Moesia, namely the group of finds from Debelt; the 122

 Raev 1977, 636, no. 23, pl. 11.3, form 9.  Tassinari1993, 253–73, U2120–2350. 124  In fact, some cauldrons of this form from Pompeii have handles, which were attached not with the help of hoops, but attachments (see Tassinari 1993, 272, U2330, no. 1801, 273, U2342, nos. 16601, 16604). 125  Raev 1984, 216; 1986, 24. 126  Raev and Naumenko 1993, 156. 127  Sergatskov 2000, 122; Demidenko 2008, 47. 128  Raev and Naumenko 1993, 156. 129  Demidenko 2008, 47. 123

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA

1377

second, to fig. 1 in the article by Behn (1936),130 only confuses the researcher, since it shows 12(!) cauldrons of various types and forms from Germany, Denmark, Sweden and Norway, and is entitled ‘Central and northern European cauldrons from the Late La Tène to the Migration period’. Which one of them was meant as a parallel to the vessel of Debelt type is unclear to me (I cannot see any offering parallels).131 Thus, in one sentence, the place of manufacture of Debelt-type cauldrons is presumably supposed to be Thrace; and in the next, this vessel is indirectly associated with imports from Italy. In the only case known to me, when the researcher, applying Raev’s typology, identified a cauldron found in Central Europe as of Debelt type, this cauldron had nothing in common with it, nor with finds from the burials of the nomads of Eastern Europe.132 Thus, we must conclude that the cauldrons of the so-called Debelt group, which are undoubtedly imported items in Sarmatian complexes, are in no way connected with the centres of production of bronzeware in the Roman provinces. Moreover, balancing the single eponymous example from Thrace, we are confronted with 15 examples of cauldrons of types II–III, according to Demidenko. Finally Demidenko has not listed the cauldrons of this group from Novo-Podkryazh and Shevchenko,133 and the recent find in Taksai-I cemetery134 in western Kazakhstan. Thus, the total number of vessels of this group found in Sarmatia is 18, with the largest concentration in the Lower Don,135 the Don–Volga interfluve and the Lower Volga,136 as well as in the Kuban basin and in western Kazakhstan.137 Raev determined the time when such cauldrons were used in Sarmatia as the 2nd– early 3rd century AD138 (he considered as the latest, dating to the late 2nd–early 3rd century AD, the complexes from mound 67/1954 of the Berezhnovskii-II cemetery [Fig. 18]139 and mound 2/1966 in Lebedevka140). Given the current chronology, it is obvious that the upper date should be extended to the middle of the 3rd century AD.

130

 Raev and Naumenko 1993, 156.  Behn 1936, 123, fig. 1. 132  Cf. Jílek 2007, 129, no. 1, 132, figs. 1–2 = Jílek 2009, 198, no. 1.3, fig. 88.2 (this cauldron has different proportions, another edge design and there is no rib in the lower part of the body). 133  Shchepko 1987, 165, 166, fig. 7.5; Simonenko 2011, 66–67, fig. 45. 134  Krivosheev and Lukpanova 2015, 99, no. 3, 103, fig. 2.1, 104–05. 135  Tsentralnyi-IV, mound 20/1975, burial no. 1: Raev 1984, 216, 217, table I.9; Raev and Naumenko 1993, 152, no. 3, fig. 4.3; Sergatskov 2000, 122; Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 25, fig. 127; Bezuglov 2017, 31. Valovyi-I, mound 4/1987, burial no. 2 (Fig. 17): Bespalyi et al. 2007, 17, no. 11, pl. 15.2; Demidenko 2008, 117–18, no. 14, fig. 126; Bezuglov et al. 2009, 20, fig. 6.2, 24. Rostov-on-Don, Vyatskaya St, mound 6/1983: Volkov and Guguev 1986, 73, pl. 53.5; Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 27, fig. 126. 136  Berezhnovskii-II, mound 67/1954, burial no. 1 (Fig. 18): Sinitsyn 1960, 74, fig. 27.12; Kropotkin 1970, 91, no. 778, fig. 63.4; Raev 1984, 216, 217, table I.15; Demidenko 2008, 118, no. 18, fig. 127. Solyanka-I, mound 3/2000, burial no. 2 (Fig. 19.1): Skvortsov 2001, 243, fig. 1.3–4; Sergatskov 2004a, 147. Staritsa, mound 26/1961, burial no. 2 (Figs. 19.2, 20): Kropotkin 1970, 91, no. 777, fig. 61.8–9; Shilov 1975, 162, 163, fig. 61.1; Sergackov 1994, 264–65; Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 28, fig. 126 (mistakenly as originating from barrow no. 21). Berdiya, mound 3/1991, burial no. 1 (Fig. 21): Mordvintseva and Sergatskov 1995, 118, fig. 5.3; Sergatskov 2000, 121–22, fig. 87.1; Sergatskov 2004b, 110, fig. 2.3; Demidenko 2008, 118, no. 15, fig. 125; Skripkin 2013, 113 (second from above), no. 226. Avilovskii-II, mound 11/1991, burial no. 1: Sergatskov 2000, 121–22, fig. 104.4; Demidenko 2008, 118, no. 23, fig. 125. 137  Raev 1986, 24; Demidenko 2008, 158, fig. 22 (map). 138  Raev 1986, 24. 139  Sinitsyn 1960, 74, fig. 27.12; Raev 1984, 216, 217, table I.15. 140  Bagrikov and Senigova 1968, 78, fig. 7.3, 80; Raev 1984, 216, 217, table I.16; Demidenko 2008, 118, no. 22, fig. 127; Moshkova 2009, 105–06, fig. 3.4. 131

1378

CAULDRONS

MIKHAIL TREISTER

OF THE

ROVNOE

GROUP

Hammered cauldrons with narrowing walls and hemispherical bottoms, which, like the cauldrons of Debelt type, had an iron hoop under the rim, were attributed by Raev141 to the Rovnoe type after one of the find-spots: mound 9 near the village of Rovnoe in the Saratov region.142 In the Lower Don basin the finds of such cauldrons originate from grave no. 2 in mound 1 of Kirovskii I cemetery,143 from mound 20 near the settlement of Sagvanskii,144 as well as from burial no. 1 in mound 11(33) of the Krepinskii necropolis.145 Raev dated them on the whole to the second half of the 2nd–3rd century AD.146 Noting the fact that cauldrons of the Rovnoe type are known only after finds from the Lower Don, the Lower Volga and the Kuban areas, he suggested their production in the North Caucasus or Transcaucasia, proceeding from a thesis, inexplicable to me, that there were no centres for making bronzeware in the Black Sea region.147 However, special studies of hammered bronze cauldrons from Sarmatian burials have demonstrated that the Rovnoe group is not homogenous, but, according to the shape of the rims and bodies, divides into two types: V and VI according to the classification by Demidenko. All the aforementioned vessels from the Lower Don basin belong to variant 1 of type V, dating to the 1st–2nd centuries AD (Y.K. Guguev) or to the late 1st–2nd century AD (Demidenko).148 A similar cauldron was found recently in mound 1 of the Gremyachii III burial ground in the Lower Volga, dated around the middle of the 3rd century AD.149 In Demidenko’s opinion, the vessels of the Rovnoe group, as well as those of the Debelt group, have Italic prototypes known from the finds in Pompeii (type V1220, in the classification by S. Tassinari, a prototype of Demidenko’s type V; types U1000-1200, according to Tassinari, a prototype of Demidenko’s type VI),150 while the question of where the cauldrons of the Rovnoe group were manufactured was not considered by Demidenko at all.

CAULDRONS

WITH FLAT BOTTOMS AND WALLS EXPANDING UPWARDS

A separate group consists of the cauldrons found in Shcherbakovka in the Volgograd region (Fig. 22)151 and in Krasnogor in the Southern Urals (Fig. 23).152 They are flatbottomed, with walls expanding upwards. 141

 Raev 1984, 216–17; 1986, 24–25.  Sinitsyn 1961, 101–02, fig. 36.3; Guguev 2000a, 144; Demidenko 2008, 117, no. 8, fig. 129. 143  Ilyukov 2000, 101, fig. 5.13; Guguev 2000a, 143; Demidenko 2008, 117, no. 7, fig. 128. 144  Raev 1984, 216, 217, table I.10; Guguev 2000a, 143; Demidenko 2008, 117, no. 9, fig. 128. 145  Raev 1984, 216, 217, table I.11; Guguev 2000a, 144; Demidenko 2008, 117, no. 10, fig. 129. 146  Raev 1984, 216–17; 1986, 23–25. 147  Raev 1984, 217; 1986, 25. 148  Guguev 2000a, 143, 144; Demidenko 2008, 44–47. 149  Demidenko 2016, 202, fig. 5.6, 205, no. 1, 211. 150  Demidenko 2008, 47. 151  Berkhin 1961, 151, no. 2, fig. 6; Kropotkin 1970, 91, no. 780; Shilov 1975, 161; Demidenko 2008, 117, no. 12, fig. 128. 152  Berkhin 1961, 151; Kropotkin 1970, 91, no. 785; Shilov 1975, 161, 162, fig. 60.1; Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 32, fig. 120. 142

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA

1379

The edge of the horizontal rim of the vessel from Shcherbakovka is bent upwards. There are four diametrically located holes for fixing iron trapezoidal attachments for handles: two on the horizontal part of the rim, and two on the walls. On one side one hole is pierced on the rim and one on the wall. On the vessel from Krasnogor, which is somewhat smaller in size, there is a partially preserved iron strip along the edge, connected to the body by rivets, to which the lost handle was probably fastened. The cauldron from Shcherbakovka was attributed by Demidenko to his type IV.1,153 and that from Krasnogor to type IV.2.154 These are the only representatives of type IV according to his classification.155 It is not clear why Demidenko defines this type of vessel as cauldrons with a rounded bottom. The only explanation is that he has not seen them. It is also unclear to me why I.P. Berkhin (Zasetskaya) determined the shape of the vessel from Shcherbakovka as cylindrical.156 Comparing the cauldrons from Shcherbakovka and Krasnogor, Berkhin also mentions as parallels the vessels from Rovnoe and Berezhnovskii157 that I discuss above. I can accept this comparison, given that the latter show rounded bottoms and almost vertical walls (the vessel from Berezhnovskii, which belongs to the Debelt group, somewhat tapering upwards). Demidenko has not mentioned parallels to the cauldrons from Shcherbakovka and Krasnogor. I am aware of a cauldron close in shape, with an iron ring along the edge and a handle and with numerous patches on the body, from burial no. 1 of mound 9 of the Gradeshka burial ground, erroneously designated by Simonenko as a situla.158 I am not aware of analogies to these vessels, which should most probably be dated to the 3rd century AD, in the Western provinces of the Roman empire. However, vessels of similar shape are known in Late Antique and Early Byzantine times, in particular, after finds from Crete159 and Sardis.160

CAULDRONS

NOT INCLUDED IN

EXISTING TYPOLOGIES

The Cauldron from Bolshaya Dmitrievka. A cauldron from the 3rd-century AD burial no. 2 in mound 13/1988 near the village of Bolshaya Dmitrievka in the Saratov region (Fig. 24),161 which is not included in the list compiled by Demidenko. It has a rounded bottom, passing smoothly into the body, tapering towards the mouth, and a funnel-shaped edge bent outwards. The lost looped handle was inserted into the iron attachments, fastened to the rim with rivets. I am unaware of parallels in the burial complexes of the nomads of Asian Sarmatia. The closest parallels to its shape originate from the eastern Mediterranean and date to the Late Antique–Early Byzantine period.162

153

 Demidenko 2008, 117, no. 12, fig. 128.  Demidenko 2008, 119, no. 32, fig. 128. 155  Demidenko 2008, 45. 156  Berkhin 1961, 151, no. 2, fig. 6. 157  Berkhin 1961, 151. 158  Gudkova and Redina 1999, 177–79, fig. 2; Simonenko 2008, 18, 85, no. 157.1, pl. 158.8. 159  Brokalakis 2005, 41–42, figs. 7–9. 160  Waldbaum 1983, 88, no. 490, pl. 31, 91, no. 517, pl. 33. 161  Matyukhin and Lyakhov 1991, 141, fig. 3.7, 142–43, no. 27, 147. 162  Brokalakis 2005, 40, no. 1, figs. 3–5. 154

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The Cauldron from Sosnovka. A special place is occupied by a cauldron from Sosnovka in the Volgograd region (Figs. 25–26), which has so far attracted the attention of researchers solely because of the inscription on it;163 the cauldron itself was not included, for reasons that are not clear to me, in Demidenko’s catalogue. From the text of the inscription it follows that a certain Apollinarius Preiskos, whose name speaks of some Roman connexions, took care that from the funds stored in the treasury of the sanctuary or the temple of Ares, this very cauldron was made and dedicated, and a dedicatory inscription was scratched on its rim. The epiclesis of Ares Βληκουρος, for the first and only time attested by this text in Sarmatia, occurs only once in the territory of Thrace. The name of Apollinarius Preiskos is not known in the northern Black Sea area, but it has been repeatedly witnessed in Thrace. These gave Y.G. Vinogradov grounds to suggest that the cauldron could have found its way into the Volga steppes from Thrace via the northern Black Sea area with Roman legionaries who, after the reforms of the emperor Hadrian, merged into the corps of the Roman troops in Moesia.164 The shape of this cauldron is very unusual and reminds me very much of the form of situlae of the Bargfeld (or Manu) type, which became quite widespread in what are now Roumania and Moldova in the 1st century BC,165 despite the fact that the vessel from Sosnovka (height 41.0 cm) is about twice as high as the latter. The problem, however, is also that the inscription on the cauldron from Sosnovka dates, on palaeographic and linguistic grounds, to the 2nd–3rd centuries AD.

CONCLUSIONS Analysis has shown that imported bronze cauldrons from the burials of the nomads of Asian Sarmatia represent a significantly larger number of types than were identified by Raev or (later) by Demidenko. Obviously, until now the situation with the attribution of the early group of cauldrons was particularly unsatisfactory. In addition to rare examples, made in the 4th–3rd centuries BC in Macedonia or Epirus, one of which was found in the Upper Don basin in a complex of the late 2nd–1st century BC (Levaya Rossosh), in this period (2nd–1st century BC) nomads received cauldrons, probably made in the workshops of Asia Minor or the Bosporan kingdom, including those with Greek ownership inscriptions (vessels from Novoluganskoe and Bazki). We should decline using the term ‘cauldron of Köngen type’: the Sadovyi vessel is close to Eggers form 8 and should be dated no later than the 1st century AD. The range of distribution of the cauldrons under consideration and the probable dating of that from Sadovyi correspond to the attribution of the iron German shield umbo found in the same barrow. It is obvious that the cauldron from Sadovyi originates from Central Europe. Our analysis has shown that Raev’s thesis, that bronzeware was not made in Black Sea workshops, and imported vessels were brought from either Italy or Thrace, or were 163  Tsutskin 1974; SEG 34 775; Vinogradov 1984, 40–43; 1997, 644–47; Saprykin 2003, 225–32; Skripkin 2013, 131 (below left), no. 346; SEG 53 802. 164  Vinogradov 1984, 41; 1997, 646. 165  Tentiuc et al. 2016, 45–50, figs. 5–10. See the distribution map: p. 50, fig. 10.

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produced in the workshops of the North Caucasus or Transcaucasia, does not withstand criticism. A significantly more complex picture emerges with the distribution of bronze hammered cauldrons in Asian Sarmatia also in the 2nd–3rd centuries AD. The confidence of Raev and Demidenko that cauldrons of the Debelt type/group were manufactured in Italian, and then in Roman provincial workshops is unfounded. I conclude that such vessels, which are undoubtedly imported objects in Sarmatian nomadic complexes, were in no way connected with the production centres of bronzeware of the Roman provinces. Moreover, the single eponymous find in Thrace is countered by 18 such cauldrons in Sarmatia, with the largest concentration in the Lower Don, the Don– Volga interfluve, the Lower Volga basin and the Kuban. A similar distribution is shown by cauldrons of the Rovnoe group, and hammered jugs with cast handles (Blechkanne), which I have discussed elsewhere,166 analysis of which shows that their manufacture in Bosporan workshops was highly likely. Of course, such a preponderance of presumedly Bosporan products among the imported cauldrons acquired by the nomads of Asian Sarmatia does not exclude certain pieces finding their way there from the Roman provinces, as shown by the find in Sosnovka of a vessel with a Greek inscription pointing to Thrace as its place of manufacture. The distribution patterns of imported cauldrons in Asian Sarmatia vary. The Hellenistic cauldrons originated primarily from the Lower and Upper Don basins with only two finds to the east of the Don, both in the Don–Volga interfluve, whereas in the first centuries AD a considerable numbert of them came from the Volga basin and the Southern Urals. Imported bronze cauldrons in Sarmatia were highly valued by their new owners, as shown by numerous traces of repairs and losses of handles and their attachments.

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Perdrizet, P. 1908: Petits bronzes, terres-cuites, antiquités diverses (Fouilles de Delphes 5) (Paris). Peschel, K. 1995: ‘Beobachtungen an zweigliedrigen Kesseln mit eisernem Rand’. Alt-Thüringen 29, 69–94. Pfrommer, M. 1983: ‘Italien–Makedonien–Kleinasien. Interdependenzen spätklassischer und frühhellenistischer Toreutik’. Jahrbuch des deutschen archäologischen Instituts 98, 235–85. Raddatz, K. 1976: Grabfunde der römischen Kaiserzeit und der Völkerwanderungszeit von Kirchweyhe und Osterholz, Kreis Grafschaft Hoya (Materialhefte zur Ur- und Frühgeschichte Niedersachsens 10) (Hildesheim). Raev, B.A. 1977: ‘Die Bronzegefäße der römischen Kaiserzeit in Thrakien und Mösien’. Bericht der Römisch-Germanischen Kommission 58.2, 605–43. —. 1984: ‘Les chaudrons marteles: Les traditions italiques dans les ateliers provinciaux’. In Gehrig, U. (ed.), Toreutik und figürliche Bronzen römischer Zeit (Akten der 6. Tagung über antike Bronzen, 13.–17. Mai 1980 in Berlin) (Berlin), 216–19. —. 1986: Roman Imports in the Lower Don Basin (BAR International Series 278) (Oxford). Raev, B.A. and Naumenko, S.A. 1993: ‘Pogrebenie s rimskimi importami v Rostovskoi oblasti’. In Skifiya i Bospor (Materialy konferentsii pamyati akademika M.I. Rostovtseva) (Novocherkassk), 151–60, 183–87. Raubitschek, I.K. 1998: Isthmia 7: The Metal Objects (1952–1989) (Princeton). Redina, E.F. and Simonenko, A.V. 2002: ‘“Klad” kontsa 2–1 vv. do n.e. iz Veseloi Doliny v krugu analogichnykh drevnostei Vostochnoi Evropy’. Materialy i Issledovyniya po Arkheologii Kubani 2, 78–96. Robinson, D.M. 1941: Metal and Minor Miscellaneous Finds (Excavations at Olynthus 10) (Baltimore). Saprykin, S.Y. 2003: ‘Greek Inscription on Bronze Cauldron from Sosnovka, Volgograd Region, Russia’. Thracia 15, 225–32. Schiltz, V. 1995: Entre Asie et Europe: L’or des Sarmates. Nomades des steppes dans l’antiquité (Exhibition Catalogue) (Daoulas). Sedlmayer, H. 1999: Die römischen Bronzegefässe in Noricum (Monographies Instrumentum 10) (Montagnac). Sergatskov [Sergackov], I.V. 1994a: ‘Sarmaty Volgo-Donskikh stepei i Rim v pervykh vekakh nashei ery’. In Tugan-Baranovskii, D.M. (ed.), Problemy vseobshchei istorii (Materialy nauchnoi konferentsii, Volgograd, sentyabr’ 1993) (Volgograd), 19–29. —. 1994b: ‘The Sarmatians of Volga-Don Steppes and Rome in the First Centuries AD’. In Genito, B. (ed.), The Archaeology of the Steppes. Methods and Strategies (Papers from the International Symposium held in Naples, 9–12 November 1992) (Istituto Universitario Orientale, Dipartimento di studi asiatici, series Minor, XLIV) (Naples), 263–77. —. 2000: Sarmatskie kurgany na Ilovle (Volgograd). —. 2004a: ‘Bronzovyi kotel iz Zhutovskogo mogil’nika v Volgogradskoi oblasti’. Rossiiskaya Arkheologiya 1, 146–48. —. 2004b: ‘K khronologii srednesarmatskoi kul’tury Nizhnego Povolzhya’. In Raev, B.A. (ed.), Sarmatskie kul’tury Evrazii: Problemy regional’noi khronologii (Doklady k 5 mezhdunarodnoi konferentsii “Problemy sarmatsskoi arkheologii i istorii”) (Krasnodar), 107–16. —. 2006: ‘Bronzovyi kotel iz Kilyakovki (rabota nad oshibkami)’. Nizhnevolzhskii Arkheologicheskii Vestnik 8, 246–47. Shapovalov, T.O. 1973: ‘Sarmats’ki pokhovannya poblizu s. Novolugans’ke’. Arkheologiya (Kiev) 8, 82–88. Shchepko, L.G. 1987: ‘Pozdnesarmatskie kurgany v Severnom Priazove’. Sovetskaya Arkheologiya 4, 158–73. Shchukin, M.B. 1987: ‘Umbon shchita iz kurgana “Sadovyi” (k voprosu o sarmato-germanskikh kontaktakh)’. In Raev, B.A. (ed.), Antichnaya tsivilizatsiya i varvarskii mir v Podone–Priazove (Tezisy dokladov k seminaru) (Novocherkassk), 49–51. —. 2004: ‘Umbon iz kurgana “Sadovyi” pod Novocherkasskom’. In Vishnyatskii, L.B., Kovalev, A.A. and Shcheglova, O.A. (eds.), Arkheolog: detektiv i myslitel‘. Sbornik statei, posvyashchennykh 77-letiyu Lva Samoilovicha Kleina (St Petersburg), 445–63.

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Shilov, V.P. 1975: Ocherki po istorii drevnikh plemen Nizhnego Povolzhya (Leningrad). Shinkar, O.A. 2012: ‘Severoprichernomorskie importnye izdeliya v pogrebeniyakh III–II vv. do n.e. Volgo-Donskogo mezhdurech’ya’. In Telnov, N.P. (ed.), Drevnosti Severnogo Prichernomor’ya III–II vv. do n.e. (Tiraspol), 192–96. —. 2018: ‘Kovanyi bronzovyi kotel s nadpis’yu i sarmatskie pogrebeniya kurgannogo mogil’nika u khut. Bazki s territorii Volgogradskoi oblasti. Raskopki 2017 goda’. In Malyshev, A.A. (ed.), Mezhdunarodnaya nauchnaya konferentsiya ‘Novoe v issledovaniyakh rannego zheleznogo veka Evrazii: problemy, otkrytiya, metodiki’ (Tezisy dokladov) (Moscow), 162–64. Sideris, A. 2016: Metal Vases and Utensils in the Vassil Bojkov Collection, vol. 1 (Sofia). Simonenko, A.V. 2001: ‘Pogrebenie u s. Chisten’koe i “strannye” kompleksy poslednikh vekov do n.e.’. Nizhnevolzhskii Arkheologicheskii Vestnik 4, 92–106. —. 2011: Rimskii import u sarmatov Severnogo Prichernomor’ya (St Petersburg). —. 2015: Sarmatskie vsadniki Severnogo Prichernomor’ya, 2nd ed. (Kiev). Sinitsyn, I.V. 1960: ‘Drevnie pamytniki v nizov’yakh Eruslana’. In Krupnov, E.I. and Smirnov, K.F. (eds.), Drevnosti Nizhnego Povolzhya (Itogi rabot Stalingradskoi arkheologicheskoe ekspeditsii 2; Materialy i Issledovaniya po Arkheologii SSSR 78) (Moscow), 10–168. —. 1961: ‘Rovnenskii kurgannyi mogil‘nik’. Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Arkheologii 84, 91–102. Skripkin, A.S. (ed.) 2013: Arkheologicheskoe nasledie Volgogradskoi oblasti. K 100-letiyu Volgogradskogo oblastnogo kraevedcheskogo muzeya (Volgograd). Skripkin, A.S. and Klepikov, V.M. 2004: ‘Khronologiya rannesarmatskoi kul’tury Nizhnego Povolzhya’. In Raev, B.A. (ed.), Sarmatskie kul’tury Evrazii: Problemy regional’noi khronologii (Doklady k 5 mezhdunarodnoi konferentsii ‘Problemy sarmatsskoi arkheologii i istorii’) (Krasnodar), 95–106. Skripkin, A.S. and Shinkar, O.A. 2010: ‘Zhutovskii kurgan no. 27 sarmatskogo vremeni v VolgoDonskom mezhdurech’e’. Rossiiskaya Arkheologiya 1, 125–38. Skvortsov, N.B. 2001: ‘Arkheologicheskoe issledovanie kurgannogo mogil’nika Solyanka I’. Nizhnevolzhskii Arkheologicheskii Vestnik 4, 243–45. Sokolovska, V. and Pasić, R. 1975: ‘Eden grob od Ždanec’. In Zbornik posveten na Dimce Koco (Zbornik Arheološki muzej na Makedonija 6–7) (Skopje), 231–44. Stillwell, A.N. 1948: Corinth 16.1: The Potters’ Quarter (Princeton). Tarditi, C. 1996: Vasi di bronzo in area apula: Produzioni greche ed italiche di età arcaica e classica (Università del Salento, Dipartimento di Beni Culturali 8) (Galatina). —. 2016: Bronze Vessels from the Acropolis: Style and Decoration in Athenian Production between the Sixth and Fifth Centuries BC (Thiasos Monografie 7) (Rome). Tasmagambetov, I. 2003: The Centaurs of the Great Steppe: The Art Culture of Ancient Nomads (Almaty). Tassinari, S. 1993: Il vasellame bronzeo di Pompei (Cataloghi 5) (Rome). Teleaga, E. 2008: Griechische Importe in den Nekropolen an der unteren Donau. 6. Jh.–Anfang des 3. Jhs. v. Chr. (Marburger Studien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 23) (Rahden). Tentiuc, I., Bubulici, V. and Simalcsik, A. 2016: ‘Despre mormântul de incineraţie în situlă de bronz de la Sipoteni (sec. II–I a. Chr.)’. Tyragetia 10(25).1, 39–74. Themelis, P. and Touratsoglou, I. 1997: Οι Τάφοι του Δερβενίου (Athens). Toker, A. and Öztürk, J. 1992: Metal Vessels. Museum of Anatolian Civilizations (Ankara). Tolochko, P.P. (ed.) 1986: Arkheologiya Ukrainskoi SSR, vol. 2 (Kiev). Torbov, N. 2005: ‘Toki ot kolan i kolani-verizhki, otkriti nateritoriaya, zaklyuchena mezhdu rekite Timok i Iskar’. In Kitov, G. and Dimitrova, D. (eds.), Natsionalna nauchna konferentsiya ‘Zemite na Bulgaria – lyulka na trakiiskata kultura’ 2: Trakolozhka ekspeditsiya za mogilni prouchvaniya (Sofia), 208–14. Treister, M.Y. 2006: ‘Falary iz stanitsy Uspenskoi (k voprosu o vremeni poyavleniya bol’shikh naplechnykh falarov ellinisticheskogo vremeni’. Drevnosti Bospora 10, 429–62. —. 2009: ‘Silver Phialai from the Prokhorovka Burial-Mound No. 1’. Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 15, 95–135. —. 2013: ‘Edelmetallgefäße des achämenidischen Kreises aus dem südlichen Uralvorland’. In Treister, M.Y. and Yablonsky, L. (eds.), Einflüsse der achämenidischen Kultur im südlichen Uralvorland (5.–3. Jh. v. Chr.), vol. 1 (Ancient Toreutics and Jewellery in Eastern Europe 5) (Vienna), 69–108.

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—. 2017: ‘Nakhodka u khut. Klimenkova (polveka spustya publikatsii I.V. Yatsenko)’. Istoricheskie Issledovaniya: Zhurnal Istoricheskogo Fakul’teta MGU 8, 201–20. —. 2018: ‘Blechkanne. Mednye kovanye kuvshiny perykh vekov n.e. v Severnom Prichernomor’e i Sarmatii’. Drevnosti Bospora 22, 216–38. Tsutskin, E.V. 1974: ‘Bronzovyi kotel s drevnegrecheskoi nadpis’yu’. In Istoriko-Kraevedcheskie Zapiski, vol. 2 (Volgograd), 138–42. Vanderpool, E. 1969: ‘Three Prize Vases’. Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον 24, 1–5. Vdovchenkov, E.V. 2016: ‘Kochevnicheskie zhertvenno-pominal’nye kompleksy (“strannye kompleksy”) III–I vv. do n.e.: sotsial’naya interpretatsiya yavleniya’. Stratum Plus 3, 197–215. Venedikov, I. 1964: ‘Nakhodka ot Staro selo, Slivensko’. Izvestiya na Arkheologicheskiya Institut 27, 77–109. —. 1996: Trakiiskoto sakrovishche ot Letnitsa (Sofia). Vinogradov, Y.G. 1984: ‘Dva bronzovykh kotla s grecheskimi nadpisyami iz sarmatskikh stepei Donbassa i Povolzhya’. In Melyukova, A.I., Moshkova, M.G. and Petrenko, V.G. (eds.), Drevnosti Evrazii v skifo-sarmatskoe vremya (Moscow), 37–43. —. 1997: Pontische Studien: Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte und Epigraphik des Schwarzmeerraumes (Mainz). Vokotopoulou, I/ [Vocotopoulou, J.] 1975: ‘Le trésor de vases de bronze de Votonosi’. BCH 99.2, 729–88. —. (ed.) 1994: Makedonen, die Griechen des Nordens (Exhibition Catalogue) (Athens). —. 1997: Elliniki Techni: Argyra kai Chalkina Erga Technis (Athens). Vokotopoulou, I., Despoine, A., Misaelidou, V. and Tiverios, M. 1985: Sindos: Katalogos tes ekthesis, Archaiologiko Mouseio Thessalonikis (Exhibition Catalogue) (Athens). Volkov, I.V. and Guguev, Y.K. 1986: ‘A Late Sarmatian Burial in Rostov-on-Don’. In Raev, B.A., Roman Imports in the Lower Don Basin (BAR International Series 278) (Oxford), 73–74. Waldbaum, J.C. 1983: Metalwork from Sardis (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis 8) (Cambridge, MA/London). Wegewitz, W. 1986: ‘Bestattungen in importiertem Bronzegeschirr in den Urnenfriedhöfen der jüngeren vorrömischen Eisen- und der älteren römischen Kaiserzeit im Gebiet beiderseits der Niederelbe’. Hammaburg n.F. 7 (for 1984–85), 69–132. Weinrich-Kemkes, S. 1993: ‘Zwei Metalldepots aus dem römischen Vicus von Walldürn, NeckarOdenwald-Kreis’. Fundberichte aus Baden-Württemberg 18, 253–323. Wielowiejski, J. 1985: ‘Die spätkeltischen und römischen Bronzegefäße in Polen’. Bericht der Römisch-Germanischen Kommission 66, 123–320. Young, R.S. 1981: Three Great Early Tumuli (Gordion Excavations Final Reports 1; University Museum Monograph 43) (Philadelphia). Zahlhaas, G. 1971: Grossgriechische und römische Metalleimer (Dissertation, Munich). Zaitsev, Y.P. 2008: ‘Votivnye klady Severo-Zapadnogo Prichernomor’ya III–I vv. do n.e. Khronologiya i kul’turnaya prinadlezhnost’’. Drevnee Prichernomor’e 8, 146–52. —. 2011: ‘“Pozdneskifskii” kostyum kat etnoindikator (na primere elementov poyasnoi garnitury III–I vv. do n.e.)’. In Bosporskii Fenomen: Naselenie, yazyki, kontakty (St Petersburg), 585–92. —. 2012a: ‘Antichnaya keramika v ritual’nykh (votivnykh) kladakh Severnogo Prichernomor’ya’. In Telnov, N.P. (ed.), Drevnosti Severnogo Prichernomor’ya III–II vv. do n.e. (Tiraspol), 55–66. —. 2012b: ‘Severnoe Prichernomor’e III–II vv. do n.e.: ritual’nye klady i arkheologicheskie kul’tury (postanovka problemy)’. In Telnov, N.P. (ed.), Drevnosti Severnogo Prichernomor’ya III–II vv. do n.e. (Tiraspol), 67–72. Zhuravlev, D.V. and Firsov, K.B. (eds.) 2013: Frakiiskoe zoloto iz Bolgarii: Ozhivshie legendy (Exhibition Catalogue) (Moscow). Zimi, E. and Sideris, A. 2003: ‘Xάλκινα σκεύη από το Γαλαξείδι: πρώτη προσέγγιση’. In Themelis, P. and Stataki-Koumarou, P. (eds.), Το Γαλαξείδι από την Αρχαιότητα έως σήμερα (Πρακτικά 1ου Επιστημονικού Συνεδρίου Γαλαξείδι 29–30 Σεπτεμβρίου 2000. Υπό την Αιγίδα του Δήμου Γαλαξειδίου) (Athens), 35–60. Zimmermann[-Elseify], N. 1998: Beziehungen zwischen Ton- und Metallgefäßen spätklassischer und frühhellenistischer Zeit (Internationale Archäologie 20) (Rahden).

Fig. 1. Map 1. Bronze hammered cauldrons of the 4th–1st centuries BC in Asian Sarmatia and Kuban area. 1 – Novoluganskoe, 2 – Averino, 3 – Levaya Rossosh, 4 – Valovyi-I, 5 – Sadovyi Burial-mound, 6 – Novyi, 7 – Bazki, 8 – Oktyabrskii-V, 9 – Zhutovo, 10 – Zhuravka-7. Circle – cauldrons with spherical bodies, quadrate – cauldrons with vertical walls and t-shaped handle attachments with palmettes, triangle – cauldron of Eggers 8 form.

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Fig. 1. Map 2. Bronze hammered cauldrons of the first centuries AD in Asian Sarmatia and Kuban area. 1 – Aerodrom, 2 – Valovyi-I, 3 – Rostov-on-Don, Vyatskaya St, 4 – Krepinskii, 5 – Sagvanskii, 6 – Tsentralnyi-IV, 7 – Kirovskii-I, 8 – Gremyachii-III, 9 – Avilovskii-II, 10 – Yutaevka, 11 – Berdiya, 12 – Staritsa, 13 – Shcherbakovka, 14 – Berezhnovskii-II, 15 – Rovnoe, 16 – Solyanka-I, 17 – Saratov region (Demidenko 2008, no. 21), 18 – Andreev Burial-mound, 19 – Taksai-I, 20 – Lebedevka, 21 – Krasnogor, 22 – Tselinnyi-I, 23 – Tbilisskaya, 24 – Stavropol krai (Demidenko 2008, no. 24). Circle – cauldrons of the Debelt type, quadrates – cauldrons of the Rovnoe type, triangles – cauldrons with flat bottoms and the walls expanding upwards (maps: M. Treister, 2018).

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Fig. 2. Averino, chance find in burial mound, 1979. Small cauldron. General views. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/2, A-800 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 3. Averino, chance find in burial mound, 1979. Small cauldron. Details. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/2, A-800 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 4. Averino, chance find in burial mound, 1979. Big cauldron. General views. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/1, A-801 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 5. Averino, chance find in the burial mound, 1979. Big cauldron. Details. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/1, A-801 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 6. Averino, chance find in the burial mound, 1979. Big cauldron. Separate fragments. Ostrogozhsk, Historical and Art Museum named after I.N. Kramskoi, inv. 4357/1, A-801 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 7. Zhutovo, mound 27/1964, burial no. 4. Bronze cauldron. General view. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 1216 (museum photograph).

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Fig. 8. Valovyi-I, mound 6/1987, burial no. 3. Bronze cauldron. 1–3 – details, 4–7 – general views. Azov, Historical-Archaeological and Palaeontological Museum Reserve, inv. 25309/176 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 9. Bronze cauldrons with inscriptions. 1 – Sosnovka, chance find, 1972. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 8081/4 (drawing: N.E. Bespalaya); 2 – Bazki, mound 1/2017. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 34064/1 (drawing: O.A. Shinkar); 3 – Novoluganskoe, mound 1/1967, burial no. 5. Donetsk, State University, Archaeological Museum (drawings: T.O. Shapovalov, after Vinogradov 1997).

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Fig. 10. Bazki, mound 1/2017. Bronze cauldron. 1 – detail, 2–5 – general views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 34064/1 (photographs: O.A. Shinkar, 2017).

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Fig. 11. Levaya Rossosh Hoard. Bronze cauldron. 1–2 – details, 3–6 – general views. Voronezh, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 12108. A-253 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 12. Novocherkassk, Sadovyi mound, 1961. Bronze cauldron. General views. Rostov-on-Don, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 2564 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 13. Novocherkassk, Sadovyi mound, 1961. Bronze cauldron. Details. Rostov-on-Don, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 2564 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 14. Zhutovo, mound 75/1974. Bronze cauldron. General views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 14261/3 (photograpsh: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 15. Lebedevka, mound 1/1967. Bronze cauldron. Astana, National Museum of the Republic of Kazahkstan, ҒОМА no. 276. ҚРҰМ УҚ ТК2-766 (photographs: courtesy Z. Samashev).

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Fig. 16. Krep-II, mound 2/1993. Bronze cauldron. General views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 29159/1 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 17. Valovyi-I, mound 4/1987, burial no. 2. Bronze cauldron. 1 – general view, 2–3 – details. Azov, Historical-Archaeological and Palaeontological Museum Reserve, inv. 25309/123 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 18. Berezhnovskii-II, mound 67/1954, burial no. 1. Bronze cauldron. General views. Saratov, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 5899 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015; drawing: N.E. Bespalaya).

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Fig. 19. Bronze cauldrons of the Debelt group. 1 – Solyanka-I, mound 3/2000, burial no. 2. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. HB-9313/1. 2 – Staritsa, mound 26/1961, burial no. 2. Astrakhan, State United Historical-Architectural Museum Reserve, inv. 11989/238 (drawings: N.E. Bespalaya).

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Fig. 20. Staritsa, mound 26/1961, burial no. 2. Bronze cauldron. General views. Astrakhan, State United Historical-Architectural Museum Reserve, inv. 11989/238 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

IMPORTED BRONZE HAMMERED CAULDRONS FROM ASIAN SARMATIA

Fig. 21. Berdiya, mound 3/1991, burial no. 1. Bronze cauldron. General views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 28007/2 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 22. Shcherbakovka. Chance find, 1899. Bronze cauldron. General views. St Petersburg, State Hermitage, inv. 2198/2 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 23. Krasnogor, mound 1/1936. Bronze cauldron. 1–2, 4–5 – general views, 3 – detail. Orenburg, Governor’s Historical and Local Lore Museum, inv. 307/1 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 24. Bolshaya Dmitrievka, mound 13/1988, burial no. 2. Bronze cauldron. General views. Saratov, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 51963 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015; drawing: N.E. Bespalaya).

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Fig. 25. Sosnovka. Chance find, 1972. Bronze cauldron. 1 – detail, 2–5 – general views. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 8081/4 (photographs: 1–2, Volgograd Museum; 3–5, M. Treister, 2015).

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Fig. 26. Sosnovka. Chance find, 1972. Bronze cauldron. Details. Inscription. Volgograd, Regional Local Lore Museum, inv. 8081/4 (photographs: M. Treister, 2015).

MIGRATION – NOT COLONISATION: WHAT MOTIVATED PEOPLE TO LEAVE THEIR COMMUNITY ACCORDING TO THE TEXTS OF ARCHAIC GREECE Christoph ULF

ABSTRACT Recently it has been argued that mobility should be seen as a ‘natural’ phenomenon, observable everywhere, also in Archaic Greece. In this view, the discussion of possible causes and motivations for migrations has lost the importance it had for so long. It is not the aim of this paper to resume this debate, but to prove the thesis of general human mobility by analysing the texts of Archaic Greece, from the Homeric poems to Solon. Focusing on cases of forced migration, three main positions can be differentiated. They differ in their main causes for migration and can be arranged chronologically. Yet they could also represent three different perspectives on the various changes Greece underwent in the 7th and 6th centuries BC. When taking into account the outcome of recent archaeological research on Archaic Greece, these perspectives can also relate to the view of the contemporaneous world of different kinds of settlements (and societies), compounds, dispersed settlements and settlements with an agora.

From the 18th century onwards the search for the reasons why in the Archaic and Classical periods Greeks founded settlements in foreign territories embodied a spectrum from overpopulation and trade to power politics. The new settlements were identified as colonies.1 Such a conglomeration of reasons for leaving the home settlement can be found even in recent publications. For example, Klaus Bringmann speaks of a ‘relative overpopulation of Greece’ and ‘a gap between population growth and limited, additionally unevenly distributed land resources in the 8th century’. This situation was matched by the uniqueness of the answer, by which the Greeks encountered the big challenges posed by the crisis: by expanding the space to live in (Lebensraum), founding of settlements for settlers overseas, improving the basis for survival (Lebensgrundlagen) by emigrating, partaking in Mediterranean trade and, in connexion there, increasing craft production, and in political matters, citizens’ self-determination in all public issues, the order of law included.2 Although in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, David Ridgway more cautiously names reasons for the founding of particular colonies, he nevertheless repeats in the résumé the well-known general arguments: 1 2

 Mauersberg 2019, part 2.  Bringmann 2018, 128–29.

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The factors that influenced any given colonizing city, or indeed the founding of any given colony, were inevitably many and various: it is not possible to compile a generally applicable assessment of the interlocking claims of overpopulation and land hunger at home, opportunities for commercial or social advancement abroad, ‘internal’ (Greek vs. Greek) rivalry and reaction to external pressure.3 Obviously, the discussion about the reasons for ‘Greek colonisation’ has not brought forth a generally accepted result.4 Serious doubt arose as to the alleged strong population growth and a consequent economic crisis.5 No less criticised was the notion of rationally acting individuals making their decision to emigrate and found settlements as trading posts in foreign countries as a premise of the neo-classic economic theory of the Homo Oeconomicus6 and as an unlikely basis for the thinking of Archaic Greeks.7 The debate about wandering traders and craftsmen makes up part of this context.8 As early as 1976, with regard to the mix of various connotations of the word colony underlying these discussions, Moses Finley underlined the need for an apt appraisal of population movements to require a typology of colonies, which ought to be based on the categories of land, labour and the socio-economic fabric of the metropolis.9 Yet according to him, no migration in Archaic Greece fits such a typology because at that time all Greek settlements were ‘independent city-states’ right from the start.10 Recently, Frank Bernstein argued in a similar manner that in his view the ‘huge process of migration’ between the 8th and 5th centuries was not a coherent movement, nor was it centrally steered. Like Finley, he interprets this process as a valve for internal socio-political strife. However, contrary to Finley, he draws the picture of ‘an act of separation in terms of religious categories’, as ‘katharmos and thus a reaction to a miasma’.11 Without such a seemingly construed religious background, Anne Jacquemin pointed out the possibility of internal tensions as reason for migrations and not colonisation.12 It is worth noting that in spite of the difficulties encountered when attempting to give reasons for migrations in the Archaic period, the very existence of the migrations was never really questioned. This of course hinges on the archaeological reports and also on the ability to trust that the stories told by the written sources from the 5th century onwards rely on truthful information stemming from the Archaic period. Still, there also resonates the self-perception of the European nations, reaching back into the 3  Ridgway 2002, 363; in the Cambridge Dictionary of Classical Civilization, Hodos (2006, 215) avoids making a clear statement: ‘Reasons often cited for colonization include trade, overpopulation, natural disaster and political or socio-economic advancement.’ 4  See the overviews Tsetshkladze 2006; Tsetskhladze and Hargrave 2011. 5  Critically Scheidel 2003; 2004; 2007, 42–50; Osborne 2009, 68–82. 6  von Reden 2015, 89–91. 7  See, for example, Kloft 1992, 103–05; Descœudres 2008, 332–41; Günther 2008, 80–95; Ruffing 2012, 57; von Reden 2015, 11–13, 109–10; Osborne 2009, 110–21, who focus on different points. 8  See, for example, Morgan 2013, 48–52. 9  Finley 1976. 10  Finley 1976, 174. 11  Bernstein 2004, 11, 37. His method is problematic, insofar as he presupposes a more or less fixed tradition about large migrations that should have found expression in the foundation stories slowly developing from the 5th century onwards. 12  Jacquemin 2005, 525–26.

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19th century, according to which the creation of the nations was, as Jürgen Osterhammel put it, the result of a ‘mobility that came to a standstill’ (stillgelegte Mobilität).13 Consequently, there was no discussion whether the alleged huge migratory movements were real. It was only their appraisal as an early kind of colonisation that came under debate. Many studies analysed the motives for identifying mobility with the founding of colonies and demonstrated the connexions between the various concepts of colonisation and the imperialistic thinking of the nation-states in the late 19th century. The notion that gained importance in the course of the 19th century, namely that colonies serve to secure the exercise of power in distant countries was identified as part of the culturalimperialistic narrative, mostly but not exclusively created in the context of the ideology of the British empire.14 Via an analysis of the dialectic relationship between the notions known from the Classical period to post-Augustan time concerning the founding of new settlements and the legitimising reasons for modern colonialism, the role of Classics and Altertumswissenschaft also entered the focus of attention.15 As a consequence, it was discussed whether the term ‘colony’ for Greek settlements other than in the southern Balkans or on the coastlands of Asia Minor should be replaced with ‘apoikiasation’ or ‘apoikismos’ in order to eliminate the aftertaste of modern colonialism.16 Due to the fact that discussion rigidly revolved around the normally named reasons for migration and around the question whether colonisation was a fitting term,17 it is no coincidence that socio-political tensions were only rarely thought to be a possible reason. This reasoning can first be detected in the post-colonial studies that showed particular interest in the various appearances and consequences of a ubiquitous connectivity as a result of human mobility. In the footsteps of Fernand Braudel, the Mediterranean was regarded as a case example especially well suited for analysis.18 The opinion that ubiquity of migration is a general phenomenon has recently become more dynamic since new types of investigation have been applied. Bioarchaeological and biogeoarchaeological methods, DNA and biodistance analyses make it possible to prove mobility over shorter and longer distances and spaces.19 And here, too, investigators were admonished to be cautious. While these scientific methods make it possible to spatially trace huge migratory movements in prehistoric times, they do not provide an understanding of the motivation for people to move in small-scale historical circumstances.20 Nevertheless, the euphoria surrounding the new scientific methods gave rise to the assertion that migration is a fundamental part of human existence that is not only characteristic of a single historical period or of particular historical situations. Not directly bound to this kind of scientific argument, but rather to be found in the older context of migrating peoples, are the attempts to prove human mobility and migration as a constant

13

 Osterhammel 2011, 199.  De Angelis 1998; Dietler 2010; Mauersberg 2019, 184–88, 257–93. 15  Goff 2005; Mauersberg 2019, especially 347–49. 16  De Angelis 2009, 52; Mauersberg 2019, 33–46. 17  Purcell 2005. 18  van Dommelen and Knapp 2010. 19  van Dommelen 2014, 479–80. 20  Cameron 2013. 14

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phenomenon in the history of ‘the Greeks’.21 This argument seems to reflect contemporary experiences and ensuing statements that migratory movements over the globe are quite normal. In the light of these obviously very general assumptions on human behaviour, it makes good sense to revert to the earliest extant Greek texts in the search for the motivations causing people to leave their home settlement.22 Yet, as post-colonial studies have shown, it must be remembered that also the ancient texts were shaped by contemporary interests. For example, almost everything we seem to know about the founding of settlements was not written earlier than the 5th century. Only texts from the time of Augustus and later provide more detailed statements. Obviously, these are stories that were extended and adapted to meet the political needs of the time, but were not based on sound information.23 The widely accepted dating of the Homeric epics to the 7th century presents a new situation for the investigation of migratory movements in the Archaic period on the basis of the contemporary texts.24 Thus, not only are the epics close temporal neighbours of the first lyric texts, but the question also arises whether the three types of reasons for migration, that are recognisable in the texts from the epics to the beginning of the Classical period, must be read in a chronological sequence, or whether they could also be seen as giving perspective to the multiple and profound processes of change that took place in all fields of social and political life in the course of approximately 150 years.

KINSHIP – POWER

OF

NUMBERS – EXPULSION

AND

ESCAPE

In the Homeric epics it is only the oft-cited group of specialists (Odyssey 17. 382–387: seer, doctor, carpenter, singer; Odyssey 19. 135: herald) that purposely and methodically go to foreign places for work. They respond to existing demand and are welcomed by their clients. Anyone else moves by necessity, because of material difficulties forcing them to move from place to place to secure their survival. They are in danger of being treated like beggars and hence are dependent on the goodwill of others, more precisely, on whether they are given nurture and shelter for one or more nights and days. How they are treated, depends on whether they are viewed as idlers or as someone who has suffered a bad stroke of fate through no fault of their own. If they were thought to be fit for work, they can be offered work.25 Slaves, repeatedly mentioned in the Homeric epics, are of a different social status.26 The path to slavery as the outcome of war is of less importance in the epics than are the detailed stories about traders like the Phoenicians (Odyssey 15. 445–465) or the Taphians (Odyssey 15. 427–429). They come from distant parts and by fraudulent means acquire possession of people, whom they sell as human commodities. 21

 Hunter and Rutherford 2009; Garland 2014. De Angelis (2010, 251) argues with the geographical profile of Greece for the reason why migration ‘has been a constant feature of Greek history’. 22  For an overview of refugees in ancient Greece, see Seibert 1979. 23  Mauersberg 2019 (part I). The assumption thus becomes problematic that such information was orally handed down over centuries; cf. Ulf and Kistler 2020 (chapters I.1 and II.2). 24  Overviews: Ulf 2013, 81–83; Ulf and Kistler 2020 (chapter II.4). 25  See, for example, Gschnitzer 1981, 33–34; Ulf 1988. 26  For a brief overview, see Thalmann 2011, 808–09.

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Far more often and much more detailed are the stories about a person, who alone or accompanied by comrades (hetairoi) has to leave his own community because of a serious conflict. The main reason is not a planned murder, but manslaughter committed in the throes of a sudden surge of emotions. The best known example is Patroclus, who, foolishly and without intending to, killed his comrade when playing dice (amph’ astragaloisi cholotheis) (Iliad 23. 82–90). Further examples of such sudden outbursts of rage are Tlepolemus, Epeigeus, Melampus or Theoclymenus. The frequency of this kind of situation27 follows from the scene in which Penelope’s suitors are killed. Odysseus points out to Telemachus the consequences of murder, which are pronounced like a code of behaviour (Odyssey 23. 118–120): who kills but one man in the demos and who does not have many supporters (aosseteres) must fear the dead person’s extended kin (peoi) and leave his homeland (patris gaia). In this code of behaviour, four terms – demos, aosseteres, peoi, patris gaia – are obviously set in a functional relationship to one another. Their interplay seems to provide the basis for understanding the coercive power that forces people to leave their own community. To kill someone in the demos means in most cases to kill a relative. This happens as an outburst of rage. Medon, an illegitimate son (nothos), killed a relative or brother of his stepmother (gnotos metryies), i.e. the wife of Oileus (Iliad 13. 694–697). Tlepolemus suddenly (autika) killed the brother of his father‘s mother (metros), namely Licymnius, the brother of Alcmene.28 In anger, Phoenix (Iliad 9. 446–482) intended to kill his father. It sounds quite similar when Phyleus (Iliad 2. 628–630), father of Meges, was angry with his father and therefore came to Doulichion. Epeigeus (Iliad 16. 570–576) killed a cousin (anepsios). If someone else in the demos is killed, the term emphylos appears.29 This directly reminds us of the warning given to Diomedes by Nestor (Iliad 9. 63–64). Nestor warns not only young Diomedes, but also Agamemnon not to incite an internal war (polemos epidemios). For he who strives for internal war becomes aphretor, athemistos and anestios, i.e. he will be without his social community. Theoclymenus brought himself into such a situation because he killed an aner emphylos in Argos (Odyssey 15. 270–278). This also holds true for Patroclus (Iliad 23. 82–90), who killed a son of Amphidamas, and for Melampus (Odyssey 15. 223–278), who killed an unnamed man. After landing in Ithaca Odysseus tells Athena in this lying tale (Odyssey 13. 188–328) that he killed Orsilochus, son of Idomeneus, because Orsilochus attempted to take away Odysseus’ booty from Troy. Immediately following the murder, Odysseus fled on a ship owned by Phoenicians. The power of the suitors, which becomes an attempt to kill Telemachus, also belongs in this context, as does the real murder of the suitors by Odysseus. If the vain efforts of the suitors to kill Telemachus were to become known to the people in the agora, they would have to expect ill doings (kaka erga), i.e. to be driven out of the land (gaia) and to have to go to the demos of other people (Odyssey 16. 364–382). Conversely, Eupeithes, leading figure among the suitors’ fathers, warns in the agora that immediately after the murder Odysseus would try to escape to Elis or Pylos (Odyssey 24. 27

 For a brief overview, see Gagarin 2011.  Janko 1992, 134: ‘a traditional topos often involves uncles or stepmothers’. 29  For the semantic field, see Seelentag 2015, 334–73. 28

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426–437). They had to prevent that; otherwise they would be despised (katephees) forever. From the very beginning, Odysseus is aware of precisely this danger arising from the murder. For this reason, he asks Athena if he could secretly flee (Odyssey 20. 36–43). Laërtes’ deliberations following the murder of the suitors make clear how the supporters (aosseteres) in Odysseus’ code of behaviour are to be defined. He is afraid that the Ithacans will quickly appear and send information to the Cephallenes. His fear is caused by the fact that the number of Odysseus’ supporters is much smaller than before (cf. Odyssey 15. 466–68, 496–557; 17. 75–83) and than the number of people on the side of the suitors’ families. When Eupeithes and Halitherses finish their speeches in the agora, this is indeed seen to be the case.30 The people assembled in the agora split into two groups. Only because Mentor mentioned that the gods would obviously support Odysseus, does the larger group remain passive, but it does not side with Odysseus (Odyssey 24. 420–466). Therefore, Odysseus can only count on his own relatives and some dependent supporters. Against all odds Odysseus remains successful, because Zeus dictated the outcome of the happenings. He does not let the bad war (kakos polemos) and horrible internal strife (aine phylopis) continue. The Ithacans are called upon to swear oaths to forget the murder of their sons and brothers and to live in peace and well-being (Odyssey 24. 473–486). With this obviously wishful thinking the poet ends his story.31 The various examples tell a different story: the person with the smaller number of supporters has to leave. The story of Tlepolemus is a very good example of this (Iliad 2. 653–670). Heracles destroyed Ephyre on the Selleeis river and subsequently begot Tlepolemus with Astyocheia. In a sudden (autika) outburst of rage, Tlepolemus killed the already old (geraskon) Licymnius, a brother of Alcmene, who was the mother of his father Heracles. He left Ephyre because the other sons and sons of sons (hyies, hyionoi) of Heracles threatened him (Iliad 2. 665–666). Quite similar was the situation of Theoclymenus. He told Telemachus that he had to flee because many siblings (kasignetoi) and relatives (etai) were threatening to kill him (Odyssey 15. 270–278). The concrete examples show that it is not solely the deed, but in fact the real balance of power that decides whether someone will remain or flee. How the other stories about slaughter and murder develop also relies on the power structures. These alone can also prompt someone to leave. In the lying tale that Odysseus tells Eumaeus, he pretends to be an illegitimate child (nothos), whose step-brothers deprived him of almost his entire inheritance (Odyssey 14. 209–245), whereupon he left. Penelope’s suitors in Ithaca created such an intolerable situation with their behaviour that Philotios, Odysseus’ old cattle herder, considered going to a different basileus, if it had not been for Telemachus (Odyssey 20. 217–223). Also to be placed in this context is the story about the origin of the Phaeacians, which is often too easily interpreted as the story of a colonisation movement. The Cyclopes, living close by and being stronger (pherteroi) than their neighbours, violently robbed the Phaeacians. For this only reason, Nausithous led the Phaeacians from their home settlement 30  This is presaged in the very first agora (Odyssey 2. 25–256), where Telemachus brings forward his problem that is then judged by the people to be idion and not demion. For this reason, even those in the demos who were not relatives or followers of the suitors did not want to actively take care of Telemachus. 31  It is noteworthy that the possibility mentioned in the Iliad (9. 632–636) of compensating for the loss with goods (poine) does not play a role here. As to the regulations, which are ascribed to Draco about blood revenge and could here serve as background and foil, see Schmitz 2001, 20–36.

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Hypereia to the mythically wondrous isle of Scheria (Odyssey 6. 5–10).32 Not least of all, the relationship between Agamemnon and Achilles is determined by the imbalance in power between them. Odysseus makes the principle clear in a situation that is dangerous for the Achaeans. He tells Agamemnon that he is only the paramount leader of the Achaeans because most of the men (laoi) follow him. This would immediately change if he made a wrong decision (Iliad 14. 83–103).33 At the very beginning of the Iliad, when he (still) held full power and his leading position was uncontested, it was different. He took the female slave, taken as booty, from Achilles. Achilles had to decide between two options: draw his sword and fight Agamemnon or leave the (artificial34) community of the Achaeans. Conversely, Odysseus protected one of the suitors’ fathers, Eupeithes, from the demos. Eupeithes had fled to him because he had made a deal with the Taphians that would be to the detriment of the demos (Odyssey 16. 424–430). Even the stories of Phoenix and Bellerophon, packed with fairy-tale motives, gain their full meaning only when taking into account their relationship to an atmosphere where the more followers you have means the stronger you are. Amyntor cursed his son Phoenix, because he slept with his father’s concubine (pallakis) at his mother’s request. Boiling with rage, Phoenix comes close to killing his father.35 Yet, as this story serves in the Iliad to mirror the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, a god convinces Phoenix to control his anger. Like Odysseus or Antinous, what he fears is that the rumour (phatis) could spread through the demos: it is an abomination for someone to murder his father. Therefore, Phoenix is left with only one possibility, namely to leave (pheugein) despite the fact that his extended relatives and cousins (etai kai anepsioi) attempt to hold him back (Iliad 9. 446–482). Also in the narrative about Bellerophon, a murder is prevented by the weaker person leaving the community. However, this story sheds light on the texture of the community. There are two lineages (gene) at Ephyre in Argos.36 Genealogically, Bellerophon’s lineage can be traced back to Glaucus, Sisyphus and Aeolus. The other lineage is that of the basileus Proetus. His wife Anteia covets the handsome and virile Bellerophon. But Bellerophon, with ‘smart-thinking’ (daïphron), shies away from being seduced, whereupon Anteia defames him to Proetus. As is the case in such situations, Proetus is overcome with bitter rage (cholos), but does not commit murder. Instead, he exercises his power and sends Bellerophon to Lycia to his brother-in-law (gambros) and sends with him the famous ‘baneful signs, inscribing many life-destroying things in a folded tablet’ to be given to the Lycian basileus, who is able to read them. The message tells that Bellerophon should be given deadly tasks. However, Bellerophon not only survives, but even brilliantly fulfils all the tasks to the advantage of the Lycians (Iliad 6. 151–195). The importance of how power is distributed between opponents also results from the fact that it makes no difference whether the main figure, who is forced to leave the demos 32

 Some of its characteristics are not only the behaviour of the peaceful inhabitants of the isle, but also an artificially appearing town harbouring a grove and two springs, an agora and two harbours, and the house of Alcinous containing elements that stem from Assyrian palace architecture. 33  The young (kouori, neoi) reproach Agamemnon for kakotes in order to give a reason for their passive behaviour in battle; this fits the situation (Iliad 13. 105–125); cf. Ulf 1990, 91–95. 34  Cf. Ulf 1990, 118–25. 35  A counter example is Orestes; he murders with purpose. 36  This proves that the Homeric world was not only made of individual families; cf. Donlan 2007.

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and patris gaia, has to leave alone or in the company of (his) hetairoi. In any case, the fate of an outcast awaits him. The props of such stories are always the suffering experienced when wandering errantly over land and sea without a goal (Odyssey 14. 122–125, 379–381; 19. 166–170, 379; 20. 189–196). Theoclymenus calls this kind of roaming (kat‘ anthropous alalesthai) the necessary fate (aisa) of an outcast (Odyssey 15. 270–278). Basically, this also applies when an exile flees only within the closer surroundings. Patroclus (Iliad 23. 82–90) went from Opus to the Phthiotis and Peleus. Medon (Iliad 13. 694–697), half-brother (nothos) of Oileus, came from the Phthiotis and then lived in Phylake. Phoenix (Iliad 9. 446–482) fled through the small region of Hellas to Phthia and Peleus. Epeigeus (Iliad 16. 570–576) had to leave Badeion (on Magnesia or in Phithiotis?) and also came to Peleus and his wife Thetis. Nor did Melampus move much farther (Odyssey 15. 223–278), namely from Argos to Pylos, or Tydeus from Kalydon to Argos. This also holds true for the often quoted move by Tlepolemus (Iliad 2. 653–670), in addition to the story of the Phaeacians, as the main evidence for a colonial undertaking. Even though Tlepolemus was able to summon many men (laos) to accompany him on his flight across the sea, it is said that he wandered errantly and suffered severely before he finally, inadvertently, arrived at Rhodes. The lying tale told by Odysseus to Eumaeus does not contain a similar reason for his move from Crete. However, it also becomes his fate to roam and suffer (Odyssey 14. 199–359). Although the nothos Odysseus, after being robbed by his legitimate half-brothers of almost his entire inheritance, was able to compensate this material loss by making a good marriage, he was in no mood to work. As the rumours (pheme) in the demos increased, he first took part in the campaign against Troy. On his return, he voluntarily decided to go on raids with his comrades,37 who plundered in Egypt against his will and were defeated. Odysseus, however, was taken in by the Egyptian basileus. Then Phoenicians persuaded him to take up with them. After they were shipwrecked Odysseus reached the land of the Thesprotians, who would take him to Doulichion. On the way, the ship’s crew robbed him and Odysseus escaped by swimming from the ship to Ithaca. The beggar Odysseus illustrates the various types of dangers awaiting outcasts. For unlike the seer, carpenter, singer and herald, no one immediately invites into his home the foreigner who is recognisable as ptochos. When Odysseus approaches the hut of Eumaeus, his dogs almost tear him to pieces (Odyssey 14. 29–48). In his own house where currently the suitors are feasting, Melantho and the goatherd Melanthius call him dreadful names (Odyssey 19. 65–88; 20. 174–182). In order to survive in such circumstances, the foreigners adhere to simple rules such as, for instance, asking for a meal in the country rather than in town (Odyssey 17. 10–25). Someone who is turned away from a rich person’s house still has the chance to spend the night in the house of the smith or the lesche, as the servant Melantho ironically recommends (Odyssey 18. 327–336). Seemingly better, but not in Odysseus’ mind, is Eurymachus’ offer to let him work for him as a day labourer (thes) (Odyssey 18. 356–364). How much such an offer depends on a person’s character is shown by the arrogant Antinous, who throws a stool at the beggar’s shoulder instead of offering him the expected gift. This scene in the course of the story is long and ornate 37  In the lying tale which Odysseus tells Laërtes (Odyssey 24. 302–314), Odysseus was forced by the daimon to go from Sicany to Ithaca against his will.

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and draws a detailed picture of the foreigner’s sorrow and the fragile nature of his position (Odyssey 17. 336–504). Independent of the distance from his place of origin, an expellee suffers because he is away from those who are philoi, i.e. those with whom he has a strong social relationship (Odyssey 1. 49–50). Conversely, this means that the expellee longs all his life for his home settlement. Again, it is Odysseus, not recognised at this time, who gives Alcinous (Odyssey 9. 19–36) and Penelope (Odyssey 19. 116–120) drastic descriptions of this situation. Being a foreigner means suffering many trials, not knowing anyone, complains Odysseus when Athena leads him to the settlement of the Phaeacians (Odyssey 7. 24–25). One becomes a ptochos and this specifically means hunger and being cold (Odyssey 14. 504–517; 15. 341–345) accompanied by unknown encounters in foreign parts (Odyssey 8. 572– 577). This is the reason why foreigners attempt to please their potential hosts. Eumaeus and Penelope (Odyssey 14. 360–389) make the experience that newly arrived foreigners will say anything to enter their host’s graces. It is noteworthy that a different picture is shown to make clear how negative was such behaviour toward the foreigner. Eumaeus as someone who often tells how the world ought to be points out that it is wrong not to respect (atimesai) foreigners and ptochoi (Odyssey 14. 56–74, 508–517). It is part of their positive characterisation by the poet when Telemachus takes in Theoclymenus in Pylos (Odyssey 15. 279–281) and Odysseus, in the lying tale told to Laērtes, tells how a foreigner was shown hospitality (Odyssey 24. 266–279). Again, this conduct is cast in something of a code of behaviour. It is Nausicaa, who tells their comrades (hetairai) about the naked Odysseus they found at the seashore and had to take care of (komeein) since he was unfortunate and errant (alomenos). She justifies this position by making a reference to Zeus: ‘Everyone is from Zeus, foreigners and ptochoi’ (Odyssey 6. 199–210: pros gar Dios eisin hapantes, xeinoi te ptochoi te).38 Restrictions on this code result from the repeatedly asked question as to the country (gaia) and polis the foreigner comes from and who his parents (tokees) are (Odyssey 10. 325; 14. 187; 15. 264; 19. 103; 24. 298). This situation gives the foreigner the chance to present himself, but also to mislead his potential host. In the house of Alcinous, it is Odysseus who asks to be received by Arete, but who does not reveal his own identity (Odyssey 7. 146–183). The further fate of the foreigner thus depends on his personal skills. In Scheria and Ithaca an agon serves as means of proof. Among the Phaeacians Odysseus throws a stone farther than anyone else. In Ithaca he beats up the other ptochos Iros and praises himself as being someone able to work more than anyone else (Odyssey 18. 365–375). As Bellerophon proves himself brilliantly in all dangerous events, he is taken into the community by marrying the daughter of the basileus. Such an offer is also made to Odysseus by the Phaeacians. Against these fairy tale-like events that transport the intention of the text, reality may well have been more sober, as the fate of the three foreigners who came to Peleus shows. Phoenix was treated by Peleus like his own late-born son; he holds him for wiser than Achilles (Iliad 9. 480–482). Patroclus was made the therapon of Achilles (Iliad 23. 82–90); of Epeigeus it is only said that Peleus sent him to Troy (Iliad 16. 570–576).  Similar to the request to be received because also a refugee is aidoios (Odyssey 5. 445–450; 9. 266–271); the Phaeacians honour Odysseus’ request (Odyssey 7. 161–165; 8. 544–547) for the appeal to Zeus who protects foreigners cf. Odyssey. 13. 213–214; 14. 283–284, 389; 16. 422–423. 38

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The position someone can take in his new community obviously depends on his personal skills. The above-mentioned offer to let Odysseus work for Eurymachus is also part of this context, no less the dangerous tasks Bellerophon fulfilled so splendidly.

HETAIRIAI – POLITICAL POWER – EXILE How the expellees and refugees tell of their troubles in the texts of the lyric poets sounds very much like in the epics. In his well-known elegy (fr. 6. 3–10 Gentili and Prato = 6 Diehl), Tyrtaeus equates the necessity to leave the polis with the fate of a ptochos. He calls it the most distressing (anierotatos) of all. For it means to wander around with your aged parents, small children and your wife, to live in poverty and hardship because the people you turn to in foreign parts (hiketai) loathe you. Solon (fr. 3. 23–25 Gentili and Prato) underscored the fate of the poor who were sold (prathentes) to foreign lands (gaia allodape) and there shamefully shackled because of the behaviour of their leaders (hegemones).39 He praises himself for undoing this unworthy situation, without it being clear how those people came to be in foreign parts or what actions Solon took to bring them back.40 He categorises the exiles’ fate, that he calls dolosyne, as a demosion kakon (fr. 3. 26 Gentili and Prato) and thus explicitly makes it a problem for the entire city (fr. 3. 17 Gentili and Prato).41 By contrast, the hardship Alcaeus speaks about is not so serious. He complains that as a phygas he is forced to live like a farmer (zoo moiran echon achroikotikoan). This is not an existential problem. What he misses most is belonging to the polis, expressed by the metaphoric picture that he cannot hear the call to the agora and the boule; he is separated from the politai like a wolf that everyone avoids (fr. 130b Voigt = 24c Diehl 1–12).42 It should be noted that unlike in the epics, the lyric poets never call slaughter or its avoidance the reason for forcibly leaving the polis. They always name wrongdoing in the context of communal and political cohesion. To give conviction to his appeals to stand together in battle, Tyrtaeus in fr. 6 Gentili and Prato explicitly states what the outcome would be if they do not. Dying for the patris he calls kalon (fr. 6. 1–2 Gentili and Prato = 6 Diehl) and adds to this the description of the fate of an exile.43 Such a man lives in poverty and hardship and sullies his ancestors (genos); he negates what is expected of someone of good appearance.44 The consequence is the entire atimie and kakotes (fr. 6. 3–10 Gentili and Prato = 6 Diehl). That man does not encounter either providence or respect (aidos)45 for himself and his descendants (fr. 6. 39  Cf. fr. 30. 5–11 Gentili and Prato = 24 Diehl, where it is told that Solon made the enslaved (douleusousa) earth free (eleuthera) again and brought many people back to their home (patris) who had been sold contrary (ekdikos) or according to the law (dikaios). 40  The discussion revolves around what horoi means and how they are connected with Seisachtheia. For an overview, see Forsdyke 2006, 339–40. Meier 2012 offers an interesting new solution. 41  For this being part of the tendency of the regulations in the early written laws, see Hölkeskamp 1999, especially 280–85; Harris 2006. 42  Cf. Rösler 1980, 279–80. 43  There is no reason here to think of citizens of a conquered polis; cf. Meier 1998, 295–300. 44  In fr. 8. 14 Gentili and Prato = 8 Diehl it is said that fleeing men lose their entire arête since they are killed from behind. This coincides with Sappho’s statement (fr. 50 Voigt) since she relativises beauty by making it dependent on personal quality: A beautiful man is so only in the eye of the beholder; but one who is agathos also becomes beautiful. 45  Cairns 1993, 161–65.

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11–14 Gentili and Prato = 6 Diehl). Elsewhere (fr. 9. 27–44 Gentili and Prato = 9 Diehl), he also alludes to this contrast, but from a positive point of view. Young and old and the entire polis weep over someone who falls in battle. His tomb (thymbos), children and children’s children are distinguished; the goodness of his reputation (kleos esthlos) will not pale and his name will be immortal. If he escapes death (keres), everyone will hold him in high esteem (timosin). In this context it is not important whether these assertions were merely necessary appeals and thus hardly reality, in Sparta or elsewhere.46 Of much greater importance is the fact that the selected argument refers to someone’s behaviour within the community of the polis. Tyrtaeus did not want to give dangers for the cohesion of the community a chance to arise; the community as a political entity does not need to be explicitly mentioned. Alcaeus argues differently. Himself an exile, he sees the way the political entity is internally organised as precisely the reason for his fate. He uses the metaphor of a ship to describe the problem in general terms. The ship becomes caught in a strife (stasis)47 between the winds (fr. 46a Diehl = 208a Voigt) and is in danger of sinking. This means that the wrong men are leading the polis, men like Myrsilus and Pittacus, who emerged victorious from the competition between the hetairiai.48 This is a demosion kakon, a matter that Solon explains in greater detail (fr 3. 5–6 Gentili and Prato = 3 Diehl). All the people in a city (astoi) want to ruin the great political entity (polis) for no sensible reason since they let themselves ‘be swayed’ (peithomenoi) by material goods (chremata).49 Their wrongdoing (kakotes) is the cause of their own hardship, i.e. their dependence and bondage (dolosyne). For they themselves made (such) men strong by heeding only the speeches (glossa) and the words of the clever man and not his erga, i.e. deeds (fr. 15 Gentili and Prato = 8 Diehl). In actual fact, the blame lies with these leaders (hegemones) and their massive wrongdoings (fr. 3. 7–8, 11–20 Gentili and Prato = 3 Diehl).50 They have adikos noos and give way to their great hybris; they do not know they should keep koros (abundance) at bay and instead enjoy the meal (dais) by nursing euphrosynas. They submit to (peithomenoi) richness (ploutos) and unjust deeds, spare neither hieron nor demosion, but instead they steal. They do not respect the honest basic principles (semna themethla) of Dike, which inflicts an inescapable (aphykton) wound (helkos) on the entire polis. From this rapidly ensues kake dolosnye, which he describes. It gathers (epageiro) the stasis emphylos and polemos heudon (sleeping war), which means death for many young men.51 According to Solon, eunonmie can make up for all the wrongdoings. It is interesting to see that at the end of the list of the 46  The critical statements made by Archilochos (fr. 133 West) open a door to everyday experiences: nobody is held by the astoi as periphemos and becomes thanon when he is dead; it is better to flee than to persevere – an argument he proves with a mythological example. Similarly Sappho who equates being forgotten with not being a member of the community (fr. 55 Voigt = 58 Diehl): nobody remembers you once you are dead; no one will long for you. 47  In order to appropriately understand the texts of the Archaic period, it is important that they not be read in the light of the established polis; cf. Gehrke 1985. 48  Rösler 1980, 137–48; cf. also fr. 6 Voigt = 119/120/122 Diehl. 49  Cf. Mülke 2002, 109–10, 218–19; Blaise 2006, 127–28. 50  This is drastically stated in fr. 3. 26–29 Gentili and Prato = 3 Diehl. Here the demosion kakon enters everyone’s house; the doors do not keep it out; it jumped high over the fence and detects a person even if he flees to the farthest corner of the room. 51  In fr. 1. 7–13 Gentili and Prato = 1 Diehl the argument is similar. He wants only goods (chremata) that are bestowed on someone by the gods, i.e. goods acquired by his own hand. These are not acquired

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wrongdoings Solon comes back to the motif that in the epics causes and propels internal strife: cholos, i.e. the bitter anger that can hardly be tamed (fr. 3. 33–39 Gentili and Prato = 3 Diehl).52 Thus, according to Alcaeus and Solon, the politai share in the blame for this development, for all of them applauded the tyrant Pittacus (Alcaeus fr. 348 Voigt = 87 Diehl). Referring to Pittacus, Alcaeus, very much like Solon, states: Pittacus devours (dapto) the polis. Alcaeus (fr. 129. 21–24 Voigt = 24A Diehl) calls him pot belly (physgon), who celebrates the symposium with inferior people, with villains (fr. 70 Voigt = 43 Diehl).53 Only subtly does this resonate in Sappho’s statement (fr. 92 Diehl = 148 Voigt), namely that when richness (ploutos) is not bound to personal qualities (aretai), the close neighbour (paroikos) will not remain unhurt (asines). Causing a person to forcibly leave the community is always thought to be a public issue, whose responsibility lies with the leaders and the trusting politai and astoi. Particularly the texts of Alcaeus give further insights into the fabric of such a political community and the lines along which it can fracture. At its centre is the term hetairoi. Its meaning is at odds with the terms that relate to the community as a whole and those like neoi and gerontes in Tyrtaeus. It refers to groups of men who are bound together in a close personal relationship. In the epics, groups of hetairoi appear in four different communal and more or less political relationships: a small group of men following its leader; a group comprising a few leaders and their followers (laoi); a large group called ethnos formed around a leader; a group consisting solely of leaders.54 In Alcaeus’ texts one finds only hetairoi groups of the kind that can exert an impact on the political processes within their own political entity, outside of and parallel to the agora and boule and thus presumably also often exerting an influence on the decision-making process in such assemblies. Although such a group of hetairoi basically relies on kinship, it clearly reaches beyond its borders to other forms of personal relationship, expressed by the term philos. Beside Alcaeus’ brother, a larger number of not precisely identified persons are members of this hetairie and remind one of the above-mentioned supporters (aosseteres) in the Odyssey. In the epics, we see the make-up of this kind of bond between the members of a group of hetairoi. When sailing to Pylos Telemachus was followed by former hetairoi of Odysseus and additional hetairoi of his own age group (Odyssey 4. 652–656). Hector calls upon such an extended group when he wants to defend Troy without the help of other Trojans or their allies (Iliad 5. 472–476), and Odysseus had to rely on such a group in the approaching fight against the fathers of the suitors and their supporters (Odyssey 24. 496–515). The plural ‘fathers’ indicates that a larger number of hetairoi groups collaborated in this action for their common interest. Alcaeus is even more precise (fr. 70 Voigt = 43 Diehl): Pittacus was allied with the Atrides by marriage. Sappho, too, speaks of this bond in a negative tone of voice (fr. 71 Voigt = 70 Diehl), stating that it is not in keeping with the adikos. By contrast, men (andres) acquire these with hybris and not kata kosmon; thus, they obey adikois ergmasi including some delusion (ate). 52  For the broader political context of this argument, see Ulf 2001. 53  For the relation between negative connotation and lack of personal quality but not personal provenance see Rösler 1980, 186–91. 54  Ulf 1990, 127–38.

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rules (themis) that Mika chose a union with a woman of the Penthilidae. She moved from one kinship group to another. In this case this must presumably mean that she was no longer a member of Sappho’s hetairai. In the sphere of men such a change would mean a reduction in political power. Since kinship was not at the core of membership in the groups of hetairoi, an oath was necessary to secure the bond within and between those groups. These actions served to ready the hetairoi groups for competition between each other. For the stasis against the more powerful does not ensure success (Alcaeus fr. 30b. 11–12 Voigt = 24c Diehl). Yet precisely that was the situation in Mytilene that Alcaeus complained of profusely. The stasis is the competition between the hetairoi groups for leadership in the polis, in other words between politai contemplating bad luck (kaka) for each other (fr. 130b. 3–7 Voigt = 24c Diehl).55 Pittacus and his hetairie first supported the hetairie of Alcaeus against their common opponent (presumably Melanchrus), but then switched to Alcaeus’ enemy Myrsilus and thus broke his oath (fr. 129. 21–24 Voigt = 24 A Diehl). For this reason Alcaeus called him several names56 and put him in line with those who cause hardship for the demos and ‘devour’ the polis, metaphorically and literally. Yet since the majority follows Pittacus (fr. 348 Voigt = 87 Diehl), Alcaeus is left with no other choice than to invoke the picture of his own group of hetairoi. His group is represented by the big house (megas domos), whose walls are hung with weapons (fr. 140 Voigt = 54 Diehl). This picture is accompanied by the need and the wish to fight Pittacus (fr. 69 Voigt = 42 Diehl; fr. 140. 7 Voigt = 54 Diehl).57 As Tyrtaeus says, this would prove that you are worthy of your virtuous parents (fr. 6. 11–14 Voigt = 119/110/122 Diehl). Still with resignation, he accepts that this is wishful thinking and wishes instead (fr. 70. 9–13 Voigt = 43 Diehl) that ‘we’ forget cholos and stop the heart-rending (thymobore) separation (lya), full of conflicts, and the internal skirmishes (machai emphylo). The simple reasoning for this is that the other side has more power. This is recognisable, not only from the declared approval of the demos,58 but from the fact that the house where the hetairie of Myrilos gathers was named Myrsileion when he passed away. In this house hang the weapons of his hetairoi and of Alcaeus’ opponents Dinnomenes and Pittacus (fr. 383 Voigt = 40 Diehl59). In the poem (fr. 130b Voigt = 24c Diehl) where Alcaeus describes his fate as an exile more forcefully than anywhere else, appears like a glimmer of hope – to be faintly connected with Solon’s request – at its fragmentary end the sanctuary that he also pictures in another poem (fr. 129. 1–9 Voigt = 24 Diehl). He speaks of how he rejoices at the gatherings (synodoi) there, relieved from all kaka (fr. 130b. 13–22 Voigt = 24c Diehl). 55

 This competition is also seen in Sappho in fr. 99 Lobel and Page, where one of the Polyanactidae is mentioned, or fr. 150 Diehl, where she speaks of a rival who is a member of this kin group. In fr. 98 a, b. 20–22 Diehl = 98b. 7–9 V, a connexion is made between the Cleanactidai and leaving the town. In fr. 130 a Diehl = 161 Voigt the leaders of the polis, who are possibly also the leaders of the hetairiai, are called basilees. 56  He tricks like a fox with slick words (fr. 42 Diehl = 69 Voigt), stems from ekgeones, that is bad parents (fr. 72 Voigt = 45 Diehl), has fun with tricksters at the symposium (fr. 70 Voigt = 43 Diehl): see Rösler 1980, 160–70. Similarly Hipponax fr. 115 West, who wishes that a former Hetairos who broke his oath should suffer ill fate when going out to the sea. 57  This sounds like a parainesis without being one: cf. Rösler 1980, 149–58; Bagordo 2011, 210–11. 58  This is indicated by the combination of the verb epainein and the subject aollees. In the epics, this verb is employed to denote unanimous consent of the assembly; cf. Elmer 2013. 59  Concerning the discussion about the name Tyrrakos as patronymic and its allusion to Pittacus, see Liberman 1999, 247–48.

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The term synodos seems to point to the gatherings of groups of hetairoi.60 Negatively connoted, Solon applies it in the phrase synodois tois adikousi philais (fr. 3. 22 Gentili and Prato = 3 Diehl). The meals (daites) of the leaders (hegemones) in fr. 3. 8 Gentili and Prato = 3 Diehl can be read in parallel. The impression that these synodoi served to discuss political positions and decide on actions to be taken is indirectly confirmed in Solon’s self-praise (fr. 30. 22–25 Gentili and Prato = 24 Diehl). He tells the reader that he did not do what would have pleased the opponents (hoi enantioi), nor what was thought to be the fate of the respective party. For then the stasis emphylos would have turned into war (polemos) and the polis would have been stripped of many men.

POLITICAL ENTITY – SOCIO-POLITICAL CONFLICT – APOIKIA It is not possible, nor is this the place to describe and categorise the many cases of exile and flight from the political community in the late 6th and 5th centuries, or to compare them with the cases known from the epics and the lyric poets. Nevertheless, I shall analyse only the example of Dorieus as told by Herodotus since it is partly similar to the exiles in the texts of the Archaic period.61 On closer inspection, however, significant differences are observed that relate to the different political circumstances. The story of Dorieus can only be understood in the light of the particular situation in which his father Anaxandridas, basileus in Sparta, found himself, as we know from Herodotus (5. 39–48). His wife, daughter of his sister, did not become with child over a longer period of time. For this reason, the ephors summoned Anaxandridas and requested that he dismiss his wife and marry a different woman. In this way, he would please the Spartans. They argued that they could not allow the genos of Eurysthenes to die out (Herodotus 5. 39. 2). Anaxandridas refused to separate from his beloved wife. The ephors thereupon deliberated the matter with the gerontes and offered Anaxandrias a compromise that he should accept lest the Spartans come to another solution, meaning they would remove him from his position as archegetes. The ephors no longer requested that he divorce his wife, but that he take a second wife. Anaxandridas agreed to the compromise, but lived with his two wives in different households and thus did not follow Spartan practices (Herodotus 5. 40). Even though this solution, which ran contrary to Spartan customs, solved Anaxandridas’ emotional problem, a new problem quickly arose. His second wife, daughter of Prinetades, gave birth to a son, named Cleomenes, and thus, as Herodotus says, gave the Spartans the long-awaited successor for the basileus. Yet, against all odds, the first wife also became pregnant. Although this was a fact, Herodotus continues (41. 2), the second wife’s relatives (oikeioi) harassed the family of the first wife by speaking ill of her (pythomenoi). They alleged that she had no reason to boast that she was pregnant, but instead wanted to foist an illegitimate child on her husband. Since they made much noise about it, the ephors checked on the birth of the child; it was Dorieus. This was quickly followed by the birth of two further sons, Leonidas and Cleombrotus. The behaviour of  For the debate about the synodoi and the sanctuary, see Rösler 1980, 281–85, with a different interpretation. 61  Thommen 1996, 69–71, deals with the course of the narration and some further fields of discussion. 60

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the relatives of the second wife indicates the problem of the existence of two first-born sons, Cleomenes and Dorieus. The fact that Cleomenes was mentally handicapped (phrenes akromanes) gave a further edge to the problem, even increased by the situation that Dorieus was by far the best in his age group and thus for good reason felt that he must become the next basileus on the basis of his andragathie, i.e. manly virtues (Herodotus 5. 42. 1). On Anaxandridas’ death, the Lacedaemonians again came into play. They heeded neither Anaxandridas’ preference for his first wife nor the personal qualities of Dorieus, but, according to custom, declared the oldest son Cleomenes to be the basileus. If we look at the epics and the lyric poets, who feel that leadership is founded on real personal ability, Dorieus’ reaction to this decision appears to be understandable. At the same time, it becomes obvious that the principle of the relation between personal ability and leadership cannot have priority in a political world that is governed by clear (legal) rules. What happened next was therefore a compromise between those two socio-political worlds. Although Dorieus was indignant at this situation since he thought that taking a subordinate position (basileuesthai) to Cleomenes was inappropriate, he did not have to set about gathering comrades (hetairoi) as is the case in the epics. Instead, he asked the Spartans for people (leoi) and move into an apoikia (Herodotus 5. 42. 2). It is also noteworthy that Herodotus indirectly characterises Dorieus by stating that he did not go to Delphi to ask an oracle which country he should found an apoikia in, nor did he follow any other customs. Moreover, this distancing from prevailing forms of behaviour is matched by the fact that he let the Theraeans show him the way to Libya.62 As a consequence of this unusual behaviour, it might be seen that he settled with his people on the River Kinyps, but then in the third year was driven away by the Makes, Libyes and Karchedones and had to return to the Peloponnese. It is obvious that Dorieus could not remain there. It was Antichares of Eleon who advised him to follow the advice of the oracle of Laios and found (ktizein) Hercleai in Sicily, because the land around the hill of Eryx belonged to the Heraclidae, after Heracles had previously acquired it. Only now did Dorieus go to Delphi, where the Pythia confirmed the advice he had. He thereupon set sail with his fleet along the western shores of Italy to Sicily. After making a stopover and providing support for Croton against Sybaris, he reached Sicily, now accompanied by other co-founders (synktistai) from Sparta, Thessalos, Parabaites, Keleis and Euryleon, and the Olympic victor Phillipos. The latter had fled Croton, was then disappointed by his marriage to the daughter of the Sybarites Telys and consequently with his own ship and crew joined forces with Dorieus at his own expense. Despite the good prognoses, the undertaking failed. Dorieus was defeated by Phoenicians and Egestans. Only Eurylos survived, gathered other survivors and founded Minos, the apoikia of the Selinuntines. He then freed Selinunte of its monarch Peithagoras, installed himself as tyrant there, but lasted only a short time because the Selinuntines soon revolted and killed him.

62  If one contrasts the name Dorieus and its relation to Heracles and the Heraclidae with Cleomenes‘ claim ou Dorieus eimi all’ Achaios (Herodotus 5. 72. 3–4) when he requested admission to the adyton of the Parthenon at the Acropolis of Athens, a further facet of a possible internal conflict in Sparta surfaces. To my knowledge, this possibility has not yet been taken into account: for example, Malkin 1994, 42–43; Parker 1998, 4–5.

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SOME BRIEF CONCLUSIONS In the course of the various presentations of persons forced to leave their community, from the epics to the lyric poets and finally to Herodotus, various circumstances are given as the prime structural reason: kinship, hetairia, political entity. Normally the course of historical change is interpreted as ‘Greek’ development and as a phenomenon of politicisation embedded in the context of the emergence of the polis and thus as part of the process of the emergence of the political. However, if one picks up Thucydides’ reference to the contemporary existence of different socio-political organisations in his time (Thucydides 1. 5–6), the various reasons given in the texts can be read as hints at parallel existing different socio-political communities also in the 7th and 6th centuries. Resumption of the discussion of the so-called origin of the polis does not provide a better understanding of complex processes. In this context, archaeology has in recent decades made important progress by revealing and making available much new information about the Greek Archaic, namely contrary to the long-held view that no ‘real’ towns are to be detected before the 6th century.63 Instead, next to each other and in parallel there existed different kinds of settlements: compounds, dispersed settlements, settlements with or without an agora.64 They represent different kinds of communal organisations that appear to provide the fields of reference for the various reasons given in the texts from the 7th to the 6th centuries for the need to leave one’s own community. Further research should take this into account and make methodologically sound connexions between the archaeological record and the interpretation of the texts.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bagordo, A. 2011: ‘Lyrik’. In Zimmermann, B. (ed.), Handbuch der griechischen Literatur der Antike 1: Die Literatur der archaischen und klassischen Zeit (Munich), 124–249. Bernstein, E. 2004: Konflikt und Migration: Studien zu griechischen Fluchtbewegungen im Zeitalter der sogenannten Großen Kolonisation (St Katharinen). Blaise, F. 2006: ‘Poetics and politics: tradition re-worked in Solon’s “Eunomia” (Poem 4)’. In Blok and Lardinois 2006, 114–33. Blok, J.H. and Lardinois, A.P.M.H. (eds.) 2006: Solon of Athens: New Historical and Philological Approaches (Mnemosyne Suppl. 272) (Leiden/Boston). Bringmann, K. 2018: Im Schatten der Paläste: Geschichte des frühen Griechenlands. Von den Dunklen Jahrhunderten bis zu den Perserkriegen (Munich). Cairns, D. 1993: Aidōs: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature (Oxford). Cameron, C.M. 2013: ‘How people moved among ancient societies: broadening the view’. American Anthropologist 115.2, 218–31. Crielaard, J.-P. 2013: ‘Cities’. In Raaflaub and van Wees 2013, 349–72. De Angelis, F. 1998: ‘Ancient past, imperial present. The British Empire in T.J. Dunbabin’s The Western Greeks’. Antiquity 72, 539–49. —. 2009: ‘Colonies and Colonisation’. In Boys-Stones, G., Graziosi, B. and Vasunia, P. (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Hellenic Studies (Oxford), 48–64. Descœudres, J.-P. 2008: ‘Central Greece’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and other Settlements Overseas, vol. 2 (Mnemoysne Suppl. 193) (Leiden/Boston), 289–382. 63

 Morris 1991, 40; Hölscher 1998, 11; Crielaard 2013.  Ulf and Kistler 2020 (chapter II.3).

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Diehl, E. 1936: Anthologia Lyrica Graeca, 2nd ed., vol. 1 (Leipzig). Dietler, M. 2010: Archaeologies of Colonialism: Consumption, Entanglement, and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France (Berkley/Los Angeles/London). Donlan, W. 2007: ‘Kin-Groups in the Homeric Epics‘. Classical World 101, 29–39. Elmer, D.F. 2013: The Poetics of Consent: Collective Decision Making and the Iliad (Baltimore). Finkelberg, M. 2011: The Homer Enyclopedia, vols. 1–3 (Malden, MA/Oxford). Finley, M.I. 1976: ‘Colonies: An attempt at a typology’. Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 26, 167–88. Forsdyke, S. 2006: ‘Land, labor and economy in Solonian Athens’. In Blok and Lardinois 2006, 334–50. Gagarin, M. 2011: ‘Homicide’. In Finkelberg 2011, 366–67. Garland, R. 2014: Wandering Greeks: The Ancient Greek Diaspora from the Age of Homer to the Death of Alexander the Great (Princeton). Gehrke, G. 1985: Stasis: Untersuchungen zu den inneren Kriegen in den griechischen Staaten des 5. und 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Vestigia 35) (Munich). Gentili, B. and Prato, C. 1988: Poetarum Elegiacorum Testimonia et Fragmenta, pars prior (Leipzig). Goff, B.E. 2005: ‘Introduction’. In Goff, B.E. (ed.), Classics and Colonialism (London), 1–24. Greenblatt, S. (ed.) 2010: Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto (Cambridge). Gschnitzer, F. 1981: Griechische Sozialgeschichte: von der mykenischen bis zum Ausgang der klassischen Zeit (Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 16) (Stuttgart). Günther, L.-M. 2008: Griechische Antike (Studium Geschichte 3121) (Tübingen). Harris, E.M. 1997: ‘A new solution to the riddle of the Seisachtheia’. In Mitchell, L.G. and Rhodes, P.J. (eds.), The Development of the Polis in Archaic Greece (London/New York), 103–12. —. 2006: ‘Solon and the spirit of the laws in archaic and classical Greece’. In Blok and Lardinois 2006, 290–318. Hodos, T. 2006. ‘Colonization’. In Shipley, G. et al. (eds.), The Cambridge Dictionary of Classical Civilization (Cambridge), 215–20. Hölkeskamp, K.J. 1999: Schiedsrichter, Gesetzgeber und Gesetzgebung im archaischen Griechenland (Historia Einzelschriften 131) (Stuttgart). Hölscher, T. 1998: Öffentliche Räume in frühen griechischen Städten (Schriften der Philosophischhistorischen Klasse der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften 7) (Heidelberg). Hunter, R. and Rutherford, I. (eds.) 2009: Wandering Poets in Ancient Greek Culture: Travel, Locality and Pan-Hellenism (Cambridge). Jacquemin, A. 2005: ‘Colonisation grecque’. In Leclant, J. (ed.), Dictionnaire de l’Antiquité (Paris), 525–26. Janko, R. 1992: The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. IV: books 13–19 (Cambridge). Kloft, H. 1992: Die Wirtschaft der griechisch-römischen Antike: Eine Einführung (Darmstadt). Liberman, G. 1999: Alcée. Fragments, vol. 2 (Paris). Lobel, E. and Page, D.L. 1955: Poetarum Lesbiorum Fragmenta (Oxford). Malkin, I. 1994: Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean (Cambridge). Mauersberg, M. 2019: Die „griechische“ Kolonisation. Ihr Bild in der Antike und der modernen altertumswissenschaftlichen Forschung (Histoire 152) (Frankfurt). Meier, M. 1998: Aristokraten und Damoden: Untersuchungen zur inneren Entwicklung Spartas im 7. Jahrhundert v. Chr. und zur politischen Funktion der Dichtung des Tyrtaios (Stuttgart). —. 2012: ‘Die athenischen Hektemoroi – eine Erfindung?’. Historische Zeitschrift 294, 1–29. Morris, I. 1991: ‘The early polis as a city and a state’. In Rich, J. and Wallace-Hadrill, A. (eds.), City and Country in the Ancient World (London/New York), 25–58. Mülke, C. 2002: Solons politische Elegien und Iamben (Fr. 1-13; 32-37 West) (Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 177) (Munich/Leipzig). Osborne, R. 2009: Greece in the Making, 1200–479 B.C., 2nd ed. (London). Osterhammel, J. 2011: Die Verwandlung der Welt. Eine Geschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Munich). Parker, R. 1998: Cleomenes on the Acropolis. An Inaugural Lecture delivered before the University of Oxford on 12 May 1997 (Oxford). Purcell, N. 2005: ‘Colonization and Mediterranean History’. In Hurst, W. and Owen, S. (eds.), Ancient Colonizations: Analogy, Similarity and Difference (London), 115–39.

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Raaflaub, K.A. and van Wees, H. (eds.) 2013: A Companion to Archaic Greece (Malden, MA/ Oxford). von Reden, S. 2015: Antike Wirtschaft (Enzyklopädie der griechisch-römischen Antike 10) (Munich). Ridgway, D. 2002: ‘colonization, Greek’. In Hornblower, S. and Spawforth, A. (eds.), Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd ed. (Oxford), 362–63. Rösler, W. 1980: Dichter und Gruppe: Eine Untersuchung zu den Bedingungen und zur historischen Funktion früher griechischer Lyrik am Beispiel Alkaios (Munich). Ruffing, K. 2012: Wirtschaft in der griechisch-römischen Antike (Darmstadt). Scheidel, W. 2003: ‘The Greek demographic expansion: models and comparison’. JHS 91, 120–40. —. 2004: ‘Gräberstatistik und Bevölkerungsgeschichte. Attika im achten Jahrhundert’. In Rollinger, R. and Ulf, C. (eds.), Griechische Archaik: Interne Entwicklungen – Externe Impulse (Berlin), 177–83. —. 2007: ‘Demography’. In Scheidel, W., Morris, I. and Saller, R.P. (eds.), The Cambridge Economic History of the Greco-Roman World (Cambridge), 38–86. Schmitz, W. 2001: ‘„Drakonische Strafen“. Die Revision der Gesetze Drakons durch Solon und die Blutrache in Athen’. Klio 83, 7–38. Seelentag, G. 2015: Das archaische Kreta: Institutionalisierung im frühen Griechenland (Klio Beihefte n.F. 24) (Berlin). Seibert, J. 1979: Die politischen Flüchtlinge und Verbannten in der griechischen Geschichte: von den Anfängen bis zur Unterwerfung durch die Römer (Impulse der Forschung 30), 2 vols. (Darmstadt). Thalmann, G. 2011: ‘Slavery’. In Finkelberg 2011, 808–09. Thommen, L. 1996: Lakedaimon Politeia: Die Entstehung der spartanischen Verfassung (Historia Einzelschriften 103) (Stuttgart) Tsetskhladze, G.R. 2006: ‘Introduction. Revisiting ancient Greek colonisation’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas, vol. 1 (Mnemoysne Suppl. 193) (Leiden/Boston), xxiii–lxxxiii. Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Hargrave, J.F. 2011: ‘Colonisation from antiquity to modern times: comparisons and contrasts’. Ancient West and East 10, 161–82. Ulf, C. 1988: ‘Die Begründung der Existenz von Außenseitern in der Sicht der homerischen Epen’. In Weiler, I. (ed.), Soziale Randgruppen und Außenseiter im Altertum (Referate vom Symposion ‘Soziale Randgruppe und Antike Sozialpolitik’ in Graz, 21. bis 23. September 1987) (Graz), 73–79. —. 1990: Die homerische Gesellschaft. Materialien zur analytischen Beschreibung und historischen Lokalisierung (Vestigia 43) (Munich). —. 2001: ‘Gemeinschaftsbezug, Stratifizierung, Polis – drei Bedingungen für das Entstehen aristokratischer und demokratischer Mentalität im archaischen Griechenland’. In Papenfuß, D. and Strocka, V.M. (eds.), Gab es das griechische Wunder? Griechenland zwischen dem Ende des 6. und der Mitte des 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Tagungsbeiträge des 16. Fachsymposiums der Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung, veranstaltet vom 5. bis 9. April 1999 in Freiburg im Breisgau) (Mainz), 163–83. —. 2013: ‘The world of Homer and Hesiod’. In Raaflaub and van Wees 2013, 81–99. Ulf, C. and Kistler, E. 2020: Der Entstehung Griechenlands (Oldenbourg Grundriss der Geschichte 46) (Berlin/Boston). van Dommelen, P. 2014: ‘Moving on: archaeological perspectives on mobility and migration’. World Archaeology 46, 477–83. van Dommelen, P. and Knapp, A.B. (eds.) 2010: Material Connections in the Ancient Mediterranean: Mobility, Materiality and Mediterranean Identities (London). Voigt, E.-M. 1971: Sappho et Alcaeus. Fragmenta (Amsterdam). Walter, U. 1998: ‘Das Wesen am Anfang suchen: Die archaische Zeit Griechenlands in neuer Perspektive’. Gymnasium 105, 537–52. West, M. 1989: Iambi et Elegi Graeci ante Alexandrum Cantati 1: Archilochus. Hipponax. Theognidea, 2nd ed. (Oxford).

THE LOST INSCRIPTION OF ARGOS (IG IV 556 = SYLL3 182): A CASE OF ATHENIAN PROPAGANDA IN THE 4TH CENTURY BC?* José VELA TEJADA

ABSTRACT The well-known inscription of Argos, now unfortunately lost, in which Greeks and Persians signed a treaty, has been traditionally considered as a source of historical information on the Peace of 362/1 BC, in the aftermath of the Battle of Mantinea. However, both from the fact that is written in the Attic dialect and from the sense of the text, doubts of its authenticity have arisen. Even if the context of weakness in the Persian kingdom after the Satraps’ Revolt would explain its content, the firmness of the Greek conditions contained seems suspicious. Accordingly, the aim of this contribution is to verify the propaganda target of this decree that, just like other similar witnesses, might be explained under the influence of the rhetorical schools of the 4th century BC, in particular that of Isocrates: the Attic dialect used, the concept of Κοινὴ Εἰρήνη quoted, a common idealised rhetorical compromise among the Greeks, and the fact that this Peace is not mentioned by Xenophon albeit it appears in such late sources as Diodorus (15. 89. 1), Polybius (4. 33. 8) and Plutarch (Agesilaus 35), can be understood in the frames of rhetorical Panhellenic propaganda. As of that moment, the effectiveness of the history it portrays is more important than the historical truth.

INTRODUCTION The Athenian defeat of Aegospotami in 405 BC and the entry of the Spartan fleet in the port of Piraeus, in 404, after accepting the peace terms of the Peloponnesian League, opens a new stage more than closing the previous one. Sparta’s victory elevates it as a hegemonic power for the next 30 years. But this new role, as a new example of Greek hybris, led Sparta to abandon its traditional policy of internal security and move to a strategy of expansionism abroad, a fact symbolised by the seizure of the Cadmean citadel of Thebes in 382 BC, setting up a Spartan garrison with the support of the local oligarchical party. This entirely contravened promises of not engaging in the same expansionist policy as Athens in respect of Greek allies, and additionally it also provoked a Theban reaction. Furthermore, the rise of Epaminondas,1 after driving the Spartans out of Cadmeia in 379 * This contribution was written under the general framework of the Research Project HAR 2016-76098C2-2-P of the Spanish MINECO. 1  In my opinion (see Vela 2005), Xenophon’s evidence (Hellenica 5. 4. 1–12) must be followed, which attributes to Melon the recapture of the Cadmeia citadel of Thebes contrary to the communis opinio that assigns leadership to Pelopidas (Buckler 2003, 213–14). Isocrates (Plat. 126) supports Spartan occupation: cf. Thompson 1983, 79–80.

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BC, marks a new departure in relations among the Greek states. Epaminondas appeared determined to destroy Spartan hegemony and release cities under its control: thanks to his victory at Leuctra, in 371 BC, he liberated Messenia, after centuries of Lacedaemonian occupation (just from 668 BC, after the Second Messenian War), and supported the creation of the Arcadian League to ensure the independence of the Peloponnesian poleis. However, the details here briefly outlined would explain only in part the policy of the first third of the 4th century, if we did not pay attention to a crucial fact arising from the earlier conflict, the Peloponnesian War: the Persian tutelage of Greek policy, which is embodied with the signing of the Peace of Antalcidas (in honour of the commander of the Spartan fleet who negotiated it) in 387 BC, referred to by the Greeks as the King’s Peace. We have only the indirect information provided by Xenophon (Hellenica 5. 1. 31): Ἀρταξέρξης βασιλεὺς νομίζει δίκαιον τὰς μὲν ἐν τῇ Ἀσίᾳ πόλεις ἑαυτοῦ εἶναι καὶ τῶν νήσων Κλαζομενὰς καὶ Κύπρον, τὰς δὲ ἄλλας Ἑλληνίδας πόλεις καὶ μικρὰς καὶ μεγάλας αὐτονόμους ἀφεῖναι πλὴν Λήμνου καὶ Ἴμβρου καὶ Σκύρου· ταύτας δὲ ὥσπερ τὸ ἀρχαῖον εἶναι Ἀθηναίων. ὁπότεροι δὲ ταύτην τὴν εἰρήνην μὴ δέχονται, τούτοις ἐγὼ πολεμήσω μετὰ τῶν ταῦτα βουλομένων καὶ πεζῇ καὶ κατὰ θάλατταν καὶ ναυσὶ καὶ χρήμασιν. Artaxerxes the King, deems it just that the cities in Asia, with the islands of Clazomenae and Cyprus, should belong to himself; the rest of the Hellenic cities he thinks it just to leave independent, both small and great, with the exception of Lemnos, Imbros, and Scyros, which three are to belong to Athens as of yore. Should any of the parties concerned not accept this peace, I, Artaxerxes, will war against him or them with those who share my views. This will I do by land and by sea, with ships and with money.  Certainly, Persia, which had been defeated by Athenians and Spartans in the Persian Wars, to the extent of being expelled from the poleis of Asia Minor, had learned to manage its influence skilfully in the years of the Peloponnesian War by funding the opposing contenders at the same time, so that they were weakened in a bloody confrontation of 30 years. Hence, it did not want any contender to be strengthened into a hegemonic power to avoid having to face too tough an opponent in the future. This policy was ably handled by Artaxerxes II, the new Persian king from 404 BC, bribing Athens, Thebes and Corinth to rise against Sparta in the War of Corinth, and later abandoning them to reach with Sparta the Peace of 386 BC mentioned above: he gave Sparta hegemony over Greece, in exchange for recovering Persian control over the cities of Asia Minor. In essence, the aforementioned occupation of the Theban citadel, and the emplacement of governors, harmostai, in cities under Spartan domain, is the consequence of the expansionist strategy of Agesilaus as the result of the new policy emanating from the King’s Peace. We even see in Xenophon, despite frequent criticisms of bias, disapproval at the change in traditionally non-expansionist Spartan policy, when he does not hesitate to criticise the policy conducted by Agesilaus, his friend and protector (Xenophon Hellenica 5. 4. 1): Πολλὰ μὲν οὖν ἄν τις ἔχοι καὶ ἄλλα λέγειν καὶ Ἑλληνικὰ καὶ βαρβαρικά, ὡς θεοὶ οὔτε τῶν ἀσεβούντων οὔτε τῶν ἀνόσια ποιούντων ἀμελοῦσι · νῦν γε μὴν λέξω τὰ προκείμενα. Λακεδαιμόνιοί τε γὰρ οἱ ὀμόσαντες αὐτονόμους ἐάσειν τὰς πόλεις τὴν ἐν Θήβαις ἀκρόπολιν κατασχόντες ὑπ’ αὐτῶν μόνων τῶν ἀδικηθέντων ἐκολάσθησαν πρῶτον οὐδ’ ὑφ’ ἑνὸς τῶν πώποτε ἀνθρώπων κρατηθέντες ....

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Of course, we could apply many other facts Greeks and barbarians, for example, how the gods do not forget those who violate the divine and human laws, but now I will relate what I have proposed. The Lacedaemonians, who had sworn off the free cities, while retaining the acropolis of Thebes were punished for the same injured before, but no one had ever won. In short, the treaty determined the political conditions of the next decades, first by Persian guidance of foreign Greek policy, secondly by the desire for emancipation in the cities under the Spartan yoke, which would be achieved after the Battle of Leuctra in 371 BC. The subsequent decline of Sparta would not be filled by a firm replacement, because the death of Epaminondas in the Battle of Mantinea in 362 BC left Thebes orphaned and indecisive, despite victory on the battlefield. This left Athens, which, through the Second Maritime League – constituted in 378 BC to deal with Sparta – sought to exploit the confusion existing after Mantinea, to recover dominion over the Aegean Sea. In consequence of the failure of that attempt, the Athenian League was definitely dissolved in 355.

THE INSCRIPTION

OF

ARGOS (IG IV 556 =SYLL3 182)

In this context, let us consider a well-known inscription of Argos (IG IV 556 = Syll 3 182), traditionally identified with a peace treaty between the Greeks, but which remains difficult to interpret:

Apud IG IV 556, p. 87.

This is the fragment of a stele that was part of a well in a garden, outside its original context, something that is not surprising if we consider that modern Argos is erected over

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the old city, and that in 1825, during the Greek War of Independence, it was burned and destroyed by the Ottomans. Moreover, because of its fragmentary state of preservation – the header and footer lines of the inscription had disappeared, and both sides were also damaged – the stele did not retain information indicating the names of the magistrates under whom it was approved, if it was a decree, and therefore the dating. Likewise, the text recorded in epigraphic editions is actually a manuscript copy, the only extant copy handwritten by Fourmont (CIG 1118 Böckh) and Pouqueville,2 since the original stele is lost. Definitely, the material conditions do not allow for contextualising it with certainty, and from this doubtfulness arise difficulties of historical interpretation.

EPIGRAPHIC EVIDENCE — — —] νου φυγ [— c. 9 — | — c. 18 — μετ]έχουσι τῆς κοινῆς [εἰρήνης· δηλῶσαι δὲ τῶι παρὰ τ]ῶν σατραπῶν ἥκοντι, διότ οἱ [Ἕλληνες πρεσβεύσ]αντες πρὸς ἀλλήλους διαλέλυνται τὰ [ιάφορα πρὸ[5] ς κ]οινὴν εἰρήνην, ὅπως ἀπαλλαγέντες τοῦ π[ρὸς αὑτοὺς πολ|έ]μου τὰς πόλεις ἕκαστοι τὰς αὑτῶν ὡς μεγί[στας καὶ εὐδαίμονα]ς ποιῶσιν καὶ χρήσιμοι μένωσιν τοῖς φίλο[ις καὶ ἰσχυροί. Β]ασιλεῖ δὲ οὐδένα πόλεμον οἴδασιν ὄντα πρ[ὸς αὑτοὺς. ἐὰν ο] ὖν ἡσυχίαν ἔχηι καὶ μὴ συνβάλληι τοὺς Ἕ[λληνας, μηδὲ τὴν ν[10] ῦν] γεγενημένην ἡμῖν εἰρήνην ἐπιχειρῆ[ι διαλύειν τέχνηι μηδ]εμιᾶι μηδὲ μηχανῆι, ἕξομεν καὶ ἡμεῖς [εἰρηνικῶς πρὸς βα]σιλέα· ἐὰν δὲ πολεμῆι πρός τινας τῶν [συσπόνδων ἡμῖν ἢ πράγ]ματά τισι παρέχηι ἐπὶ διαλύσει τῆς εἰρή[νης τῆσδε, ἢ αὐτὸς] ἐναντίον τοῖς Ἕλλησιν τοῖς τήνδε [τήν εἰρήνην ποήσα[15] σιν] ἢ ἄλλος τις τῶν ἐκ τῆς ἐκένου χώρ[ας, ἀμυνοῦμεν κοινῆι πάντε]ς ἀξίως τῆς τε νῦν γεγενημένης ε[ἰρήνης καὶ ὧν πρὸ τοῦ ἐπράξα]μεν. Vacat Τοῖς δικασταῖς τοῖς ἀπὸ τῶν [— — — — περὶ τᾶς] χώρας ἇς ἀμφιλλέγοντ[ι — — [20] — —]ν ἐπὶ τούτοις διην — —|— — — αντας — — —3 Since the inscription lacks the opening words, we do not know its status: is it a decree, even a letter? Nor can we be sure of the writing: the extant hand-written copy could reflect an inscription written in stoichedon style: namely letters in alignment vertically. In this case, we could be confronted by the characteristic style of treaties and public Athenian inscriptions from the 5th–4th centuries BC. Besides, in the 4th century, Athenian epigraphy was present throughout Greece. The Athenians produced a steady growth of permanent 2

 Pouqueville 1826–27, 209.  Cf. Tod 1948, 138–41, no. 145. See also IG IV 556, p. 87 = Syll 3 182 (cf. A Wilhelm in Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien [1900], 145); De Sanctis 1934, 152; Bengtson 1975, 291; Rhodes and Osborne 2003, 42. 3

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record, and the practice was taken up by cities and states as they gradually developed their political identity. The text is written in the regular Ionic alphabet (including the graphemes ΕΙ and ΟΥ for closed long vowels), adopted in Athens from 403 BC. Afterwards, in the first quarter of the 4th century BC, definitely from 375 BC, the Ionic alphabet – and Attic koine! – was in official use in the Amphictyonic Council and, from this moment, in the second half of the century the process of ‘koineisation’ develops tightly. However, l. 15 yet displays a form EKEΝΟΥ with grapheme E for the long closed vowel |e·|, the normal spelling in the 5th and earlier 4th century (EI becomes universal in the middle of the 4th century BC). The spelling of long diphthongs ΗΙ (9 ἔχηι, συνβάλληι) ΑΙ (11 μηδεμιᾶι) ΩΙ (3 τῶι) is coincident with Attic inscriptions. Abbreviated diphthongs are attested only from the second half of the 4th century BC.4 Finally, let me stress that, following the first 17 lines written in Attic dialect, from l. 18 Doric traits are shown (χώρας ἇς ἀμγιλλέγοντ]ι), which could suggest a bilingual Decree or ‘International Treaty’ inspired or guided by Athenian influence. Anyway, inscriptions in koine in the Argolis are definitely documented later.

LINGUISTIC EVIDENCE An inscription located in a place with a different dialect requires a deeper linguistic approach to determine its true nature. From this point of view and taking into account features which we shall discuss below, our inscription seems to us authentic evidence of Attic dialect from the first half of the 4th century BC, and therefore a variety very close to the koine: PHONOLOGY – l. 14: ποήσασιν: the spelling without iota (specially before ει or η) increases in frequency until the second half of the 4th century, when it becomes more common (it decreases after 300 BC5). – l. 6: Attic αὑτ- (supplied in ll. 5 and 8) / instead of koine ἑαυτ-: from 400 to 300 BC no contracted forms are usual. Here it could be considered a literary influence typical of Attic oratory. MORPHOLOGY [Plural datives -οῖς -αῖς from the Eleusinian inventory 422/1–419/8 BC are the latest -οισι] – l. 6: τὰς πόλεις: accusative pl. with ending -ες instead of -ας occurs in inscriptions from the 4th century. – l. 8: The shortened dative Βασιλεῖ instead of long Βασιλῆϊ is attested in an inscription of 410 BC. Only one example of ΗΙ appears in inscriptions of 4th century BC. 4

 Thus, the grapheme EI is generalised by the mid-4th century BC. On the linguistics traits, see Threatte 1980, passim; 1996, 328. 5  Threatte 1980, 329.

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– l. 8: οἴδασιν: if we accept the lecture of Fourmont, we would have a witness of the extension of the singular root to the plural one, a phenomenon only attested in koine from Ptolemaic papyri6 and inscriptions of the Imperial period. Nonetheless, before it is seen in literary prose (Herodotus 2. 43; Xenophon Oec. 20. 14; Ps.-Xenophon AP 12. 81?). SYNTAX – l. 5: the pronominal use of ἕκαστοι instead of the adjective is attested until 318 BC. – The combination in using the demonstrative after the nominal syntagma (l. 13: τῆς εἰρήνης τῆσδε) or before (l. 14: τήνδε τὴν εἰρήνην), without distinction of precedence or posterity, implies an archaistic use, as a result of its fossilisation and tendency to disappear in Hellenistic age. – l. 15: ἄλλος τις with a plural sense occurs in inscriptions after 418 BC.7 – l. 5: ὅπως+subj.+ἄν: it is the regular order in final sentence in Attic (ἵνα occurs from 3th century BC). On the contrary, the use without the particle ἄν only predominates in inscriptions from the 2nd century BC, while it had been prevalent in literary Attic prose. INDECLINABLES – l. 3: διότι: its declarative sense arisen from the koine begins to appear in inscriptions from 300 BC.8 – l. 9: συνβάλλει; l. 11 συσπόνδωμ: ξυν appears until 410 BC. From 378 BC onwards only attested in compounds (the frequency of συν increases in public documents – the most conservative – in the last quarter of the 5th century9). From a phonetic point of view both forms present a more colloquial spelling in συνβ- and συσ- (from συνσ-). – ἐναντίον/α (l. 14) as a preposition + dative is mainly attested in 4th-century inscriptions.10 – ἐὰν δὲ τις (with ἐὰν instead of ἄν): it is a typical decree formula from the 5th century BC. But it was really a decree? And on which subject?

In conclusion, both the alphabet and the language of this text correspond to a stage of Attic dialect that can clearly be placed in the first half of the 4th century BC (even we could bring it closer to the second quarter). The evident correspondence of the linguistic evidence with this stage allows us to reaffirm the authenticity of the inscription. Nevertheless, we have to underline that some of these traces are more characteristic of the literary variety than of an intermediate level characteristic of epigraphic language.

6

 Mandilaras 1973, 135.  Meisterhans 1900, 199. 8  Meisterhans 1900, 253. 9  Threatte 1980, 554. 10  Meisterhans 1900, 215. 7

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INTERNAL EVIDENCE Nonetheless, if the epigraphic and linguistic features do not correspond to the local but to the Attic dialect, and not to a medium level but to the high variety, doubts about the meaning of the text – even its authenticity – arise. In fact, from references to a ‘Common Peace’ (l. 2 τῆς κοινῆς εἰρήνης, also in ll. 5, 10, 13, 14 and 16), and to an ‘embassy of the satraps’ (l. 3 τῶι παρὰ τ]ῶν σατραπῶν ἥκοντι), with regard to a ‘Peace Treaty’ δ[ιάφορα (l. 4), most scholars11 tend to read it as an agreement between Greeks for peace, datable ca. 361/2 BC, which would have arisen as a sequel to the uncertain outcome of the Battle of Mantinea: thus, the Theban victory over the Spartan-Athenian alliance was counteracted by the death of their leader Epaminondas on the battlefield. This hypothesis would be supported further by the testimony of Greek sources: Diodorus (15. 89. 1), Polybius (4. 33. 8) and Plutarch (Agesilaus 35). But all the three are indirect and literary. Diodorus, following 4th-century sources, echoes the uncertain outcome of the battle, which, together with the depletion of the continuum of fighting, favoured a cessation of hostilities and reaching a peace agreement and common alliance: Diodorus (15. 89. 1–2): [1] οἱ δ’ Ἕλληνες μετὰ τὴν μάχην ἀμφισβητουμένην ἔχοντες τὴν νίκην, καὶ ταῖς ἀνδραγαθίαις ἐφάμιλλοι καθεστῶτες, ἔτι δὲ τῇ συνεχείᾳ τῶν κινδύνων καταπονούμενοι, διελύσαντο πρὸς ἀλλήλους. συνθέμενοι δὲ κοινὴν εἰρήνην καὶ συμμαχίαν, κατέταττον ἐν τῇ συμμαχίᾳ καὶ τοὺς Μεσσηνίους. [2] οἱ δὲ Λακεδαιμόνιοι διὰ τὴν πρὸς τούτους ἀκατάλλακτον ἀλλοτριότητα τῶν σπονδῶν οὐ προείλοντο κοινωνεῖν [διὰ τοὺς Μεσσηνίους] καὶ μόνοι τῶν Ἑλλήνων ὑπῆρχον ἔκσπονδοι. After the uncertain outcome of the battle, all the Greeks claimed the victory, having shown evenly in value, and, moreover, were exhausted by the continuous series of battles, so they reached a mutual agreement. After agreeing on a common peace and alliance, tried to include the Messenians. [2] But the Lacedaemonians, because of his bitter dispute with them, decided not to join the Treaty and they solely among the Greeks were excluded themselves from the agreement. Polybius had already underlined the uncertain outcome of the Battle of Mantinea, which is attributed to τὸν Ἐπαμινώνδου θάνατον, and refers again to Spartan opposition to Messenian engagement in a treaty: Polybius (4. 33. 8–12): καθ’ οὓς γὰρ καιρούς, τῆς περὶ Μαντίνειαν μάχης τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἀμφιδήριτον ἐχούσης τὴν νίκην διὰ τὸν Ἐπαμινώνδου θάνατον, ἐκώλυον Λακεδαιμόνιοι μετέχειν τῶν σπονδῶν Μεσσηνίους, [9] ἀκμὴν σφετεριζόμενοι ταῖς ἐλπίσι τὴν Μεσσηνίαν, ἐπὶ τοσοῦτο διέσπευσαν Μεγαλοπολῖται καὶ πάντες οἱ κοινωνοῦντες Ἀρκάδων τῆς αὐτῶν συμμαχίας ὥστε Μεσσηνίους μὲν ὑπὸ τῶν συμμάχων προσδεχθῆναι καὶ μετασχεῖν τῶν ὅρκων καὶ διαλύσεων, Λακεδαιμονίους δὲ μόνους ἐκσπόνδους γενέσθαι τῶν Ἑλλήνων. … [11] Ταῦτα μὲν οὖν εἰρήσθω μοι χάριν Ἀρκάδων καὶ Μεσσηνίων, ἵνα μνημονεύοντες τῶν συμβεβηκότων αὐτοῖς περὶ τὰς πατρίδας 11

 See De Sanctis 1934, 149–51; Momigliano 1934, 497; Carlier 1995, 71–72; Cawkwell 2005, 179–81.

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ἀτυχημάτων ὑπὸ Λακεδαιμονίων ἀληθινῶς ἀντέχωνται τῆς πρὸς αὑτοὺς εὐνοίας καὶ πίστεως, …. In those days when, after the Battle of Mantinea, there was no clear victory for any Greek, due to the death of Epaminondas, the Spartans opposed the Messenians to participate in alliances, [9] as they hoped for possession of Messenia. However, the Megalopolitans and all their allies in Arcadia put so much effort that the Messenians were accepted by the Allies, and they took part in dealings and oaths, while the Spartans were solely excluded from the treaty. … [11] Certainly, I had to say this so that the Arcadians and Messenians remember the calamities the Spartans did fall upon on their homelands, and therefore they sincerely maintain loyalty and mutual trust. Finally, Plutarch12 reproduces this episode, in similar terms to those of Polybius: Μετὰ δὲ τὴν μάχην καὶ τὸν θάνατον τοῦ Ἐπαμεινώνδου γενομένης εἰρήνης τοῖς Ἕλλησι πρὸς αὑτούς, and makes use of it to introduce a very critical view of the protagonist as responsible for undermining τὰς κοινὰς διαλύσεις: Plutarch (Ages. 35. 2–36. 1): Μετὰ δὲ τὴν μάχην καὶ τὸν θάνατον τοῦ Ἐπαμεινώνδου γενομένης εἰρήνης τοῖς Ἕλλησι πρὸς αὑτούς, ἀπήλαυνον οἱ περὶ τὸν Ἀγησίλαον τοῦ ὅρκου τοὺς Μεσσηνίους, ὡς πόλιν οὐκ ἔχοντας. [3] ἐπεὶ δὲ οἱ λοιποὶ πάντες ἐδέχοντο καὶ τοὺς ὅρκους ἐλάμβανον παρ’ αὐτῶν, ἀπέστησαν οἱ Λακεδαιμόνιοι, καὶ μόνοις αὐτοῖς πόλεμος ἦν ἐλπίζουσιν ἀναλήψεσθαι τὴν Μεσσηνίαν. βίαιος οὖν ἐδόκει καὶ ἀτενὴς καὶ πολέμων ἄπληστος ὁ Ἀγησίλαος εἶναι, τὰς μὲν κοινὰς διαλύσεις πάντα τρόπον ὑπορύττων καὶ ἀναβάλλων …. After the battle and the death of Epaminondas, when the Greeks concluded peace among themselves, Agesilaus and his partisans tried to exclude the Messenians from the oath of ratification, on the ground that they had no city. [3] And when all the rest admitted the Messenians and accepted their oaths, the Lacedaemonians held aloof from the peace, and they alone remained at war in the hope of recovering Messenia. Agesilaus was therefore deemed a headstrong and stubborn man, and insatiable of war, since he did all in his power to undermine and postpone the general peace, …. In contrast, Xenophon, the closest witness of the events, does not say anything like that; he ends his Hellenica (7. 5. 27) noting that ‘There was more confusion and disorder in Greece after the battle than before it’ (ἀκρισία δὲ καὶ ταραχὴ ἔτι πλείων μετὰ τὴν μάχην ἐγένετο ἢ πρόσθεν ἐν τῇ Ἑλλάδι).13 Returning to our inscription: to whom do the satraps speak? Or, again, who authorised the negotiation of this peace treaty? The Persian king is absent, in contrast to what Xenophon tells us about the Peace of Antalcidas (see above). In this case, it could be, at the first instance, an agreement only among the Greeks and, due to the lack of a foreign arbitration, this would include an alliance. But in ll. 9–11, indeed the Greeks referred to 12  Thus, Plutarch (Agesilaus 35. 2–3) is close to Polybius (4. 33. 8) when he says: Μετὰ δὲ τὴν μάχην καὶ τὸν θάνατον τοῦ Ἐπαμεινώνδου γενομένης εἰρήνης τοῖς Ἕλλησι πρὸς αὑτούς. As a consequence, Polybius introduces a very critical view on Agesilaus as responsible for undermining common agreements: τὰς κοινὰς διαλύσεις. See Vela 2011, 294–95. 13  See Accame 1941, 168–70; Carlier 1995, 70; Buckler 2003, 349–50.

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the Persian embassy with arrogance (‘If, therefore, he keeps quiet and does not embroil the Greeks, and does not attempt to break up the peace that has been agreed among us, by trickery or plots, we too shall keep quiet in matters which concern the King’). By contrast, in l. 7, it is said that the Greek states party to this agreement shall be ‘useful to their friends and strong’, in similar terms to the clauses of the Peace of Antalcidas.

THE SATRAPS’ REVOLT: PERSIAN WEAKNESS? According to the apparent Persian weakness, which seems to emerge from these lines, the communis opinio14 after Wilhelm (see above edited inscription) related this inscription to a so-called and legendary ‘revolt of the Satraps’, a conflict documented for first time by Pompeius Trogus, a Gallo-Roman historian of the 1st century BC, whose Prologus to the Res persicae (Book 10) of the Philippicae Historiae reports that Artaxerxes II went after governors who had risen in Asia, viz. Datames, satrap of Cappadocia, then Ariobarzanes, satrap of Hellespontic Phrygia, and finally in Syria, Orontes, satrap of Mysia (Armenia): Vt Artaxerxes Mnemon pacificatus cum Euagora rege Cyprio bellum Aegyptium in urbe Ace conpararit, ipse in Cadusis uictus, defectores in Asia purpuratos suos persecutus, primum Dotamen praefectum. —Paphlagonon origo repetita—, deinde praefectum Hellesponti Ariobarzanen, deinde in Syria praefectum Armeniae Oronten, omnibusque uictis decesserit filio successore Ocho. Is deinde occisis optimatibus Sidon accepit. Aegypto bellum ter intulit. Vt post mortem Ochi regnarit Arses, deinde Darius, qui cum Alexandro Macedonum rege bello conflixit. Leaving aside that Mausolus of Caria remained strangely loyal to the king, these satraps would have rebelled with the initial support of Athens and Sparta, together with that of the pharaoh Teos, who proclaimed the independence of Egypt from the Persian empire. Anyway, we might assume that the revolt of Datames, who seized Paphlagonia in 370 BC, would have marked the beginning of a revolt on which ancient sources give us information but confuse different events and periods. According to Hornblower,15 we should set indeed four periods of revolt – or rather revolts – covering almost 20 years: 1. 2. 3. 4.

That of Datames beginning in 370 BC. That of Ariobarzanes from 387 to 362 BC. A general rebellion in the second half of the 360s (366–360 BC). The defection of Artabazus II (358 BC), including the Egyptian uprising.

In line with these, at what date did the Peace referred to in our inscription occur? Can we agree on the generally accepted date of 362/1 BC, or perhaps better the year 371 BC, as suggested by Momigliano?16 And as regards to threats made by the Greeks to the king in the last six lines – ‘But if he makes war on any who have sworn the oath or provides money for the breaking-up of this peace, either himself in opposition to the Greeks who 14

 Further Momigliano 1934, 494–98; Tod 1944, 99; Buckler 2003, 351–69.  Hornblower 1994, 84. See also Weiskopf 1989, 11–12. 16  Momigliano 1934, 32. 15

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have made this peace or anyone else of those from his territory, we shall all resist in common, worthily of the peace that has now come into being and of what we have done before now’17 – are they aimed at an embassy of rebel satraps or loyalists to the Persian king, as proposed Accame?18 The problem is that our knowledge of the Persian empire is not only poor but also derives mainly from the Greek side, so we should submit to sceptical revision Greek information on Persia. Certainly, most scholars have followed the Greek traditional point of view and they talk in terms of the ‘mediocrity’ of the Persian kings in the 4th century BC.19 Thence, although there were really troubles in some departments of this great empire – disputes occurred in the ‘glorious’ past too – Persian ‘decadence’, as referred by Greek sources, ‘is something of a myth’, in the words of Hornblower.20 The decadent and effeminate 4th-century Persia is to some extent, a literary topos-cliché of the Greek historiography (including Ctesias, Heraclides of Cyme, Dinon of Colophon; also Xenophon, an author not suspected of anti-Persianism, in Cyropaedia 8. 8. 9, censures the Persian contemporary lifestyle in contrast to that of Cyrus the Elder’s time) and, above all, as we will highlight immediately, in the speeches of Isocrates (see Panegyric 120, 150–152).21 To some extent, recent studies22 see the satraps’ revolt as some kind of minor conflict and not a massive uprising against the king. Other troubles had occurred in the past, and the conventional image of an empire in serious decline and riven by internal struggles is not consistent with the historical truth. Eventually, this issue of ‘regional instability’ does not prove the weakness of Persia, nor demonstrate that the satraps’ revolt(s) was/ were planned or coordinated. It is tempting to attribute to Ephorus, main source for Diodorus, the mere transmission of Panhellenic thought from his teacher Isocrates. But, ‘things are not so simple’, in the words of Hornblower23 again, and the Greek image of Persian weakness displays a serious logical inconsistency arising from the persistence of anti-barbarian ethno-types. As a matter of fact, anti-Persian bias traces to Herodotus, who endowed his work with a Panhellenic tone under the impact of Persian defeat. But as we said, in contrast with Greek ‘laurels of victory’ in the Persian Wars, now Persia, thanks to the King’s Peace of 387 BC, regained control of all the Greek cities of Asia Minor. The true and contrasted history informs us that, after the death of Artaxerxes II in 358 BC, Artaxerxes III restored his rule over the territories of the empire: in fact, in 355 BC Athens was forced to sign a peace and accept the independence of its allies in the Second Maritime League. At the end of the 350s BC Persia was able and had the resources to take up the struggle for control of Egypt, its main concern (not the Greeks), and decisive for the next decades of the 4th century (until Alexander’s expedition).

17

 Rhodes and Osborne 2003, 215.  Accame 1941, 176–77. 19  Hornblower 1994, 47–49. 20  According to Hornblower (1994, 49). 21  See also Masaracchia 1995, 62. 22  See Starr 1975, 71; Weiskopf 1989, 45–68. 23  Hornblower 1994, 84. See also Starr 1975, 60. 18

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THE EGYPTIAN REVOLT I want to dwell briefly on this point because it may provide another example of historical manipulation, in relation to which I shall return to the previous citation of Plutarch’s Agesilaus (see above Agesilaus 35. 2–36. 1). In a Spanish Plutarch Conference of the International Plutarch Society,24 I submitted conclusions removing the traditional anti-Spartan view of king Agesilaus, presented here by the biographer as an unworthy mercenary (in contrast, Xenophon [Agesilaus 2. 28–31] comments that Agesilaus took this step, in order to punish the Great King and liberate again the Greeks of Asia): Plutarch Ages. 35.3–36.2: πάλιν δὲ ὑπὸ χρημάτων ἀπορίας ἀναγκαζόμενος ἐνοχλεῖν τοῖς κατὰ πόλιν φίλοις καὶ δανείζεσθαι καὶ συνερανίζεσθαι, [4] δέον ἀπηλλάχθαι κακῶν εἰς τοῦτο περιήκοντι τῷ καιρῷ, καὶ μὴ τὴν ἅπασαν ἀρχὴν τοσαύτην γενομένην ἀφεικότα καὶ πόλεις καὶ γῆν καὶ θάλατταν, ὑπὲρ τῶν ἐν Μεσσήνῃ κτημάτων καὶ προσόδων σφαδάζειν. 36 [1] Ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον ἠδόξησε Τάχῳ τῷ Αἰγυπτίῳ στρατηγὸν ἐπιδοὺς ἑαυτόν. οὐ γὰρ ἠξίουν ἄνδρα τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἄριστον κεκριμένον καὶ δόξης ἐμπεπληκότα τὴν οἰκουμένην, ἀποστάτῃ βασιλέως, ἀνθρώπῳ βαρβάρῳ, χρῆσαι τὸ σῶμα καὶ τοὔνομα καὶ τὴν δόξαν ἀποδόσθαι χρημάτων, ἔργα μισθοφόρου καὶ ξεναγοῦ διαπραττόμενον. [2] κεἰ γὰρ ὑπὲρ ὀγδοήκοντα γεγονὼς ἔτη καὶ πᾶν ὑπὸ τραυμάτων τὸ σῶμα κατακεκομμένος ἐκείνην αὖθις ἀνεδέξατο τὴν καλὴν καὶ περίβλεπτον ἡγεμονίαν ὑπὲρ τῆς τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἐλευθερίας, οὐ πάμπαν ἄμεμπτον εἶναι τὴν φιλοτιμίαν· 35 [3] and again since his lack of resources compelled him to lay burdens on his friends in the city and to take loans and contributions from them. [4] And yet it was his duty to put an end to their evils, now that opportunity offered, and not, after having lost Sparta’s whole empire, vast as it was, with its cities and its supremacy on land and sea, then to carry on a petty struggle for the goods and revenues of Messene. 36 [1] He lost still more reputation by offering to take a command under Tachos the Egyptian. For it was thought unworthy that man who had been judged noblest and best in Hellas, and who had filled the world with his fame, should furnish a rebel against the Great King, a mere Barbarian, with his person, his name, and his fame, and take money for him, rendering the service of a hired captain of mercenaries. [2] For even if, now that he was past eighty years of age and his whole body was disfigured with wounds, he had taken up again his noble and conspicuous leadership in behalf of the freedom of the Hellenes, his ambition would not have been altogether blameless, as men thought. Then (Chapter 37), Plutarch displays as a betrayal (προδοσία) his path to the ranks of the rebel Nectanebo II, to complete the negative description of the protagonist as opposed to the loyalty of the Athenian admiral Chabrias: (1) Τότε δὲ συμμίξας τῷ Τάχῳ παρασκευαζομένῳ πρὸς τὴν στρατείαν, οὐχ, ὥσπερ ἤλπιζεν, ἁπάσης στρατηγὸς ἀπεδείχθη τῆς δυνάμεως, ἀλλὰ τῶν μισθοφόρων μόνων, τοῦ δὲ ναυτικοῦ Χαβρίας ὁ Ἀθηναῖος· ἡγεμὼν δὲ συμπάντων αὐτὸς ἦν ὁ Τάχως. … 24

 See Vela 2011.

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(6) οὕτω δὴ λαβὼν τοὺς μισθοφόρους ὁ Ἀγησίλαος ἀπὸ τοῦ Τάχω μετέστη πρὸς τὸν Νεκτάναβιν, ἀτόπου καὶ ἀλλοκότου πράγματος παρακαλύμματι τῷ συμφέροντι τῆς πατρίδος χρησάμενος· ἐπεὶ ταύτης γε τῆς προφάσεως ἀφαιρεθείσης τὸ δικαιότατον ὄνομα τῆς πράξεως ἦν προδοσία. Λακεδαιμόνιοι δὲ τὴν πρώτην τοῦ καλοῦ μερίδα τῷ τῆς πατρίδος συμφέροντι διδόντες οὔτε μανθάνουσιν οὔτε ἐπίστανται δίκαιον ἄλλο πλὴν ὃ τὴν Σπάρτην αὔξειν νομίζουσιν. But now, on joining Tachos, who was making arrangements for his expedition, he was not, as he expected, appointed commander of all the forces, but only of the mercenaries, while Chabrias the Athenian had charge of the fleet, and Tachos himself was commander-in-chief [cf. Diodorus 15. 92. 2]. … So Agesilaus took his mercenaries and went over from Tachos to Nectanabis, making the interests of his country serve as a veil for a strange and unnatural proceeding, since when this pretext was removed, the most fitting name for his act was treachery. But the Lacedaemonians assign the chief place in their ideas of honour to the interests of their country, and neither learn nor understand any other justice than that which they think will enhance the glory of Sparta. By comparing this with the testimony of Xenophon,25 some scholars26 usually deny the truthfulness of Xenophon by turning around the usual argument of his silences, and giving an unjustified credential of aletheia to Plutarch. Indeed, the testimony of Xenophon’s encomium (Agesilaus 2. 31) does not hide the dynastic Egyptian complaint referred to by Plutarch, although the genre would have justified omissions: (31) ἐνταῦθα δὴ Ἀγησίλαος γνοὺς ὅτι, εἰ μὲν μηδετέρῳ συλλήψοιτο, μισθὸν οὐδέτερος λύσει τοῖς Ἕλλησιν, ἀγορὰν δὲ οὐδέτερος παρέξει, ὁπότερός τ’ ἂν κρατήσῃ, οὗτος ἐχθρὸς ἔσται, εἰ δὲ τῷ ἑτέρῳ συλλήψοιτο, οὗτός γε εὖ παθὼν ὡς τὸ εἰκὸς φίλος ἔσοιτο, οὕτω δὴ κρίνας ὁπότερος φιλέλλην μᾶλλον ἐδόκει εἶναι, στρατευσάμενος μετὰ τούτου τὸν μὲν μισέλληνα μάχῃ νικήσας χειροῦται, τὸν δ’ ἕτερον συγκαθίστησι· καὶ φίλον ποιήσας τῇ Λακεδαίμονι καὶ χρήματα πολλὰ προσλαβὼν οὕτως ἀποπλεῖ οἴκαδε καίπερ μέσου χειμῶνος ὄντος, σπεύδων ὡς μὴ ργὸς ἡ πόλις εἰς τὸ ἐπιὸν θέρος πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους γένοιτο. Thereupon Agesilaus took his decision. If he helped neither, it meant that neither would pay the service-money due to his Hellenes, that neither would provide a market, and that, whichever of the two conquered in the end, Sparta would be equally detested. But if he threw in his lot with one of them, that one would in all likelihood in return for the kindness prove a friend. Accordingly, he chose between the two that one who seemed to be the truer partisan of Hellas, and with him marched against the enemy of Hellas and conquered him in a battle, crushing him. His rival he helped to establish on the throne, and having made him a friend to Lacedaemon, and having acquired vast sums besides, he turned and set sail homewards, even in mid-winter, 25  Xenophon, who can see no fault in Agesilaus, says (Agesilaus 2. 31): ‘Accordingly, he chose between the two that one who seemed to be the truer partisan of Hellas, and with him marched against the enemy of Hellas and conquered him in battle.’ 26  In relation to that, Shipley (1997, 48) suggests ‘selectivity’ in the omission or inclusion of events and personalities, in a context sympathising with Agesilaus and Sparta and hostile to Thebes.

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hastening so that Sparta might not lie inactive, but against the coming summer be alert to confront the foe. Given this testimony, we have only to give a concrete name to ‘ἕτερον’ (actually he does not tell us whom Agesilaus chose); the indefinite ‘οὐδέτερος’ and ὁπότερος’ denote a natural neutrality, since for a mercenary, payment determined choice. If Plutarch makes use of this deed as the basis for his scathing criticism, demonstrating ignorance – or malignity! – in relation to his source, that seems to me, therefore, indirect. Actually, the events reported by historical sources did not seem odd at this time. There is another Attic inscription (IG 2. 60 = 2. 2. 119),27 datable to 361/0 BC, in which the Egyptian pharaoh Tachos (or Teos, or Tamos in Polyaenus; in fact Irimaatenra Djedhor, who, as the sources tell us, fell victim to the treachery of his brother Tjahapimu, who proclaimed as pharaoh his son Kheperkara-Nakhtnebef – Nectanebos II among the Greeks, taking the name from Nectanebo I or Nakhtnebef) sent ambassadors asking for help or better an alliance with Athens and Sparta.

As a matter of fact, this information confirms, in part, Plutarch’s in Agesilaus 37, and that of Nepos in Chabrias 2, in the sense of Chabrias acting in command of the Athenian fleet, and Agesilaus, with Spartan infantry, joining the revolt. For a better understanding, it should be noted that we are in the years immediately after the Battle of Mantinea (362 BC), in which it is most evident, according to this testimony, that Athens under Timotheus and Agesilaus from Sparta exploited Theban confusion caused by the death in battle of Epaminondas. Internal conflicts in Persia (the last years of the reign of Artaxerxes II until his death in 358 seem to denote some weakness) were magnified deliberately by Athenian-Isocratean propaganda and, alongside this, the very serious rebellion in Egypt, in which this episode is framed, indeed contributed to create an atmosphere of confusion (the Egyptian rising was resolved only in 343 BC, when Artaxerxes III defeated Nectanebo II and recovered sovereignty of this territory until Alexander’s conquest in 332 BC). However, if we pay attention to other sources, we find much more neutral and uncensorious information on Agesilaus: Diodorus (15. 92–93), who even confuses the behaviour of both pharaohs; or Polyaenus (2. 1. 22), who mentions Agesilaus II fighting at Nectanebo’s side, and, in 3. 11. 5, Chabrias advising Tamos (or Tachos), ‘king of the 27

 For further information, see Weiskopf 1989, 10–11; Vela 2011, 292–94.

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Egyptians’, but neglects the struggle for the Egyptian throne. It is particularly interesting to contrast Nepos’ information, frankly different in tone, with that of Plutarch. Thus, in the Life of Agesilaus 7, he seems even to praise the Spartan king’s intervention in Egypt as a service to his country: (1) Sine dubio post Leuctricam pugnam Lacedaemonii se numquam refecerunt neque pristinum imperium recuperarunt cum interim numquam Agesilaus destitit quibuscumque rebus posset patriam iuvare. (2) Nam cum praecipue Lacedaemonii indigerent pecunia ille omnibus qui a rege defecerant praesidio fuit; a quibus magna donatus pecunia patriam sublevavit. (3) Atque in hoc illud in primis fuit admirabile cum maxima munera ei ab regibus ac dynastis civitatibusque conferrentur quod nihil umquam domum suam contulit […] No doubt, after the Battle of Leuctra, the Spartans did not raise themselves and they did not regain its former dominance, and notwithstanding Agesilaus stopped to help his homeland to the extent of their forces. (2) Thus, when the Lacedaemonians were lacking financial resources, he came to the aid of those who had rebelled against the King; with the large sums of money they gave him, he relieved the situation in his homeland. (3) And in this regard, it is to be applauded that worthy fact: whereas kings, princes and states used to give him great gifts, he never saved anything from them for their personal care and home [...] Later, in Chapter 8, Nepos displays confusion of both stories, because first he reports Agesilaus’ expedition to Egypt, convened by Tachos, while after he speaks of the payment of 220 talents provided by Nectanebo II, omitting any reference to the usurpation of throne. In conclusion, let me highlight the divergences of Plutarch’s version from Xenophon’s, as we noticed earlier in relation to the episode of Theban Cadmeia’s liberation. In both cases the authors differ, and Plutarch follows a different source, here anti-Spartan, which excludes Philolaconian authors such as Theopompus. Nevertheless, if we read further paragraphs 5–6 of Chapter 23 (Plutarch Ages.), an answer may be found for the line he took: (5) τοῖς δὲ μὴ βουλομένοις δέχεσθαι τὴν εἰρήνην ἀπειλῶν καὶ καταγγέλλων πόλεμον ἠνάγκασεν ἐμμένειν ἅπαντας οἷς ὁ Πέρσης ἐδικαίωσε, μάλιστα διὰ τοὺς Θηβαίους, ὅπως αὐτόνομον τὴν Βοιωτίαν ἀφέντες ἀσθενέστεροι γένωνται. δῆλον δὲ τοῦτο τοῖς ὕστερον ἐποίησεν. (6) ἐπεὶ γὰρ Φοιβίδας ἔργον εἰργάσατο δεινὸν ἐν σπονδαῖς καὶ εἰρήνῃ τὴν Καδμείαν καταλαβών […] [5] Moreover, by threatening with war the Greeks who were unwilling to accept the peace, he forced them all to abide by the terms which the Persian dictated ,28 more especially on account of the Thebans, his object being to make them weaker by leaving Boeotia independent of Thebes. This he made clear by his subsequent behaviour. For when Phoebidas committed the foul deed of seizing the Cadmeia in a time of perfect peace […] 28  In fact, the Peace of Antalcidas was ratified by all the Greek states with the exception of Thebes in 387 BC: see Xenophon Hellenica 5. 1. 29.

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Plutarch indeed connects the ‘betrayal’ of Greece, as the Peace of Antalcidas was regarded, with the occupation of the Theban citadel by Phoebidas, which, on the other hand, breached the terms of that reviled Peace. To sum up, the confluence of philo-Theban propaganda, as in the Life of Pelopidas, with the anti-Laconian bias inspired by Isocrates, discloses criticism of Agesilaus. With regard to this, we can share the words of Claude Mosse,29 in the sense that Plutarch ‘a contribué plus que tout autre à élaborer une image du monde grec au IVe siècle dont nous ne sommes pas encore tout à fait libérés’. In my opinion, according to this information and coming back to the inscription, the aforementioned alliance among the Greeks was never achieved and a threatening Greek response to Persian interference is implausible (for instance, we can see in Xenophon Hellenica 7. 1. 33 Pelopidas submitting to Persia in the year 367 BC).

KOINE EIRENE Actually, for a definitive interpretation of the text, the key information lies in the concept of Κοινὴ Εἰρήνη: the stele provides the earliest evidence of the use of the term ‘Common Peace’ (quoted in l. 1: τῆς κοινῆς [εἰρήνης), an idealised compromise among the Greeks,30 according to some sources, which had emerged after the Battle of Mantinea with the realisation that hegemony was not possible.31 But the signing of the treaty is not quoted by Xenophon, and the explanation that he omitted it because of his disagreement with the clause requiring Spartan recognition of the independence of Messenia seems too forced and deviates from the end of the Hellenica. In contrast, it occurs in later sources, such as in the text of Diodorus before commented upon (who, at 15. 89. 1, says: διελύσαντο πρὸς ἀλλήλους. Συνθέμενοι δὲ κοινὴν εἰρήνην καὶ συμμαχίαν [...] very close to ll. 4–5 of the inscription: οἱ [Ἕλληνες πρ|εσβεύσ]αντες πρὸς ἀλλήλους διαλέλυνται τὰ δ[ιαφορὰ πρὸ|ς κ]οινὴν εἰρήνην), the same as in Polybius (4. 33. 8) and Plutarch (Ages. 35). This evidence should be understood in the context of Panhellenic propaganda – as well as anti-Spartan – inspired by panegyric oratory of the 4th century cultivated in rhetorical schools, particularly that of Isocrates. Although εἰρήνη, with its sense of peace treaty, is documented for the first time in Plato Menexenus (242a–241d: Καὶ οὗτος μὲν δὴ πάσῃ τῇ πόλει διηντλήθη ὁ πόλεμος ὑπὲρ ἑαυτῶν τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ὁμοφώνων πρὸς τοὺς βαρβάρους· εἰρήνης δὲ γενομένης καὶ τῆς πόλεως τιμωμένης ἦλθεν ἐπ ‘αὐτήν), its Panhellenic meaning – deriving from Herodotus 1. 74. 14: τῆς μάχης τε ἐπαύσαντο καὶ μᾶλλόν τι ἔσπευσαν καὶ ἀμφότεροι εἰρήνην ἑωυτοῖσι γενέσθαι. – found a propagandistic tone in the speeches of Isocrates,32 a political pamphleteer whose logoi provided a means of influencing Greek public opinion through his ideological slogans by founding a rhetorical school to train politicians and strategoi. From the Panegyric (380 BC), together with the Περὶ εἰρήνης (357/6 BC), to the last Panathenaic (339 BC), despite changes of addressee, a primal principle sums up his thinking: a Common Peace to leave behind the struggles among the Greeks, who, 29

 Mossé 1996, 62.  Jehne (1994, 9) is right to observe that a simultaneous peace among all the Greeks never happened. 31  See Bengtson 1975, 223; Will et al. 1975, 94–95. 32  See Nicolai 2004, 74–83. 30

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like their ancestors, will join forces to liberate the Greek cities of the Ionian33 coast from Persia, an idea clearly stated in Chapters 120–121 of his Panegyric: [120]. Μάλιστα δ’ ἄν τις συνίδοι τὸ μέγεθος τῆς μεταβολῆς εἰ παραναγνοίη τὰς συνθήκας τάς τ’ ἐφ’ ἡμῶν γενομένας καὶ τὰς νῦν ἀναγεγραμμένας. Τότε μὲν γὰρ ἡμεῖς φανησόμεθα τὴν ἀρχὴν τὴν βασιλέως ὁρίζοντες καὶ τῶν φόρων ἐνίους τάττοντες καὶ κωλύοντες αὐτὸν τῇ θαλάττῃ χρῆσθαι· νῦν δ’ ἐκεῖνός ἐστιν ὁ διοικῶν τὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων καὶ προστάττων ἃ χρὴ ποιεῖν ἑκάστους καὶ μόνον οὐκ ἐπιστάθμους ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν καθιστάς. [121] Πλὴν γὰρ τούτου τί τῶν ἄλλων ὑπόλοιπόν ἐστιν; Οὐ καὶ τοῦ πολέμου κύριος ἐγένετο καὶ τὴν εἰρήνην ἐπρυτάνευσεν καὶ τῶν παρόντων πραγμάτων ἐπιστάτης καθέστηκεν; Οὐχ ὡς ἐκεῖνον πλέομεν ὥσπερ πρὸς δεσπότην ἀλλήλων κατηγορήσοντες; Οὐ βασιλέα τὸν μέγαν αὐτὸν προσαγορεύομεν ὥσπερ αἰχμάλωτοι γεγονότες; Οὐκ ἐν τοῖς πολέμοις τοῖς πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἐν ἐκείνῳ τὰς ἐλπίδας ἔχομεν τῆς σωτηρίας, ὃς ἀμφοτέρους ἡμᾶς ἡδέως ἂν ἀπολέσειεν; [120] Anyone would understand very well the magnitude of change if he would read the treaties carried out when we had the hegemony, and this undersigned now. It will be seen then we limited the rule of King, we laid some taxes and prevent him from using the sea, but now is the King who rules the affairs of the Greeks; he orders what to do everyone and the only thing he lacks is to impose governors in the cities. [121] Well, except this, what remains to be done? Was not Lord of War, led the peace and became arbiter of these matters? Do not sail towards him as towards a love to accuse each other? Do not call him Great King as if we were his servants? Do not look the hopes of salvation for our mutual wars he would gladly annihilate us one and all? Undoubtedly, this idea was a direct consequence of the frustration generated by the King’s Peace of 386 BC, and the delivery to Persian control of the Greek cities of Asia Minor regained after the Medical Wars. This anti-Persian obsession would bring Isocrates even to inviting Philip (in the homonymous speech of 346 BC) to lead the Greeks. Standing out among the ideas proposed by Isocrates to him is connivance with local satraps against the Persian king (Isocrates Philip 104). To achieve this target, in 390 BC Isocrates had abandoned his work as a logographer in order to found a school of political eloquence. He aimed to be influential in Greek politics by training future leaders. But at the same time, he perceived the force of the written world,34 to which this end not only traditional logos but also letters, coins, and inscriptions would be important instruments of propaganda. In this respect, very accurate studies35 have revealed the falsehood of some inscriptions, whose propagandistic intention must be understood in the context of 4th-century panegyric oratory. And this is the conclusion I reach for the well-known inscription of Argos, whose rhetorical flavour is better understood in that context.

33  See Masaracchia 1995, 79: ‘L’onda lunga della rottura tra greci e barbari, partita dalle guerre persiane, pervade quindi […] tutti gli scrittori più importanti del IV secolo, Demostene, Isocrate, Platone, Aristotele.’ 34  Nicolai 2004, 182. Further Thompson 1983, 75–79. 35  With regard to that, Schrader (1976, passim) clearly demonstrated the falsehood of the Peace of Callias, another false inscription of anti-Persian propaganda.

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Thus, despite being no stranger to the influence of prose style in inscriptions (for instance, the correlation μέν… δέ…), our text displays indeed a clear rhetorical tone: – A great quantity of participles, more expected in literary prose: πρεσβεύσαντες (4), γεγενημένην (10), ὀμοσάντων (12), γεγενημένης (16); even in the dative! μετέχουσι (2), ἥκοντι (3), ποήσασιν (14–15), or in a participle phrase, completive ὄντα (with οἴδασιν 8), or passive ἀπαλλαγέντες (5). – In l. 3 the attributive syntactic clause τῶι παρὰ τ]ῶν σατραπῶν ἥκοντι more characteristic of literary prose. – There are examples of variatio: l. 4 πρὸς ἀλλήλους /5 πρὸς αὑτούς. l. 13 τῆς εἰρήνης τῆσδε /14 τήνδε τὴν εἰρήνην. – In l. 9 οὖν, a characteristic particle of literary prose. – In l. 14 we read ἐναντίον+τοῖς Ἕλλησιν+τοῖς τήνδε τὴν εἰρήνην ποήσασιν (an explanatory apposition plus attributive structure). – In l. 16 an adverb (instead of adjective) ἀξίως + gen, introduces a structure reminiscent of the oratory style: τῆς τε νῦν γεγενημένης εἰρήνης [article + (participle with dependent adverb) + substantive closing noun phrase] and following attraction of relative pronoun ὧν (= τούτων ἅ), in order to maintain the syntactic parallel in genitive into a binary structure τε…καί. (εἰρήνη occurs together with συσπόνδων)

CONCLUSION To sum up, the inscription of Argos (a strategic city in the Peloponnese and a traditional ally of Athens against Sparta) must be interpreted in the context of the years after Mantinea, when the Athenians took the political initiative, trying to obtain advantage from the Theban turmoil after Epaminondas’ death. With the tool of the Second League, and under the direction of the brilliant strategos Timotheos (a fine disciple of Isocrates’ school), Athens tried to ensure the fidelity of allies on the northern and eastern Aegean shores, which caused the clash of the Social War, also known as the War of the Allies (357–355 BC). This political issue is well attested in the works of his master Isocrates, who, in a last attempt to regain hegemony, devoted paragraphs 101–139 of Antidotis (354/3 BC) to asking his disciple to end Persian hegemony36 (in Letter IX addressed to Archidamus [356 BC], he proposes that the Spartan king, son of Agesilaus, join the war). In the same context, 4th-century panegyric oratory created eventually false peace treaties (even dating to the 5th century: the Peace of Callias [449/8 BC], the Epilico Peace [424/3 BC], a reaffirmation of the Peace of Callias, the Congress Decree promoted by Pericles), as propagandistic exaltations of a glorious past that is presented as a paradigm 36

 See Carlier 1995, 40–41; Nicolai 2004, 102–03.

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for the present.37 Through the inspiration of a dominant ideology, Koine Eirene emerged in the aftermath of the rejection of the King’s Peace.38 Accordingly, the ‘Common Peace’ of our decree was never achieved and, in my opinion, the inscription reflects more the propagandistic aim of ideologues than reality (Herodotus’ narrative of the ‘Ionian Revolt’ of 500–494 BC would have provided a parallel model to encourage the anti-Persian fight). The reality was quite different: as a result of increasing Athenian operations near the Persian empire, in 356 BC Persia asked Athens to quit Asia Minor, under threat of war, and the Greeks would have to wait for Macedonian dominion – once more under external tutelage – to reach a real Kοινὴ Eἰρήνη involving all Greeks: the Peace of Philocrates,39 concerted by Philip with Athens in 346 BC, and that after Chaeronea in 338/7 BC. Other treaties, in the words of Ryder, cannot clearly be admitted.40 In conclusion, the analysis of this inscription highlights the need to accept with reservations the evidence of Greek historiography, in particular that of rhetorical inspiration (in this case Ephorus, Callistenes). After Isocrates, the effectiveness of History – and its educational and paradigmatic value – is more important than historical truth, alétheia. Furthermore, we are obliged to a review of Greek inscriptions from the 5th and 4th centuries in the area of foreign affairs, with the prospect that some of them may have been composed under the influence of these schools of rhetoric that sought to influence the decisions of rulers, mainly evidence related to unsuccessful attempts to recover the status quo after the victory over the Persians in the 5th century BC.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Accame, S. 1941: La Lega ateniese del secolo IV aC (Studi pubblicati dal R. Istituto italiano per la storia antica 2) (Rome). Bearzot, C. 2007: ‘La «Vittoria dei Barbari» nell’Epitafio di Lisia (II, 59)’. In Vivere da democratici: Studi su Lisia e la democrazia ateniese (Centro ricerche e documentazione sull’antichità classica, Monografie) (Rome), 177–98. Bengtson, H. 1975: Die Staatsverträge des Altertums 2: Die Verträge der griechisch-römischen Welt von 700 bis 338 v. Chr., 2nd ed. (Munich). Buckler, J. 2003: Aegean Greece in the Fourth Century BC (Leiden/Boston). Carlier, P. 1995: Le IVe siècle grec, jusqu’à la mort d’Alexandre (Nouvelle histoire de l’Antiquité 3) (Paris). Cartledge, P. 1987: Agesilaos and the Crisis of Sparta (London/Baltimore). Cawkwell, G. 2005: The Greek Wars: The Failure of Persia (Oxford). De Sanctis, G. 1934: ‘La pace del 362/1’. Rivista di filologia e di istruzione classica n.s. 12, 145–55. Hamilton, C.D. 1991: Agesilaus and the Failure of Spartan Hegemony (Ithaca, NY/London). Hornblower, S. 1994: ‘Persia’. CAH VI2, 45–96. 37  Thus, Accame (1941, 251) outlines a cult for peace ‘quale veniva maturando nel sec. IV’. See also Ryder 1965, 116–17. 38  Schrader (1997, 31) is right when describes the reception and transmission method for past events: ‘esas menciones al pasado ateniense, en una época en que la gloria de la ciudad distaba de poseer las formidables cotas de prestigio del siglo anterior, adquieren, por un lado, un carácter tópico y, por otro, una notable tendencia a la deformación engrandecedora’. In short, is a mere glorification and not a detailed or true description of the past. In this regard, see also Bearzot 2007. 39  See Ryder 1965, 145. 40  Ryder 1965, 143–44. Accame (1941, 177) suggests truly that ‘durante il sec. IV il gran Re o i suoi rappresentanti si vincolarono con giuramento solo per la pace del 386’.

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Jehne, M. 1994: Koine eirene: Untersuchungen zu den Befriedungs- und Stabilisierungsbemühungen in der griechischen Poliswelt des 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Hermes Einzelschriften 63) (Stuttgart). Mandilaras, B. 1973: The Verb in the Greek Non-Literary Papyri (Athens). Masaracchia, A. 1995: Isocrate. Retorica e política (Filologia e critica 73) (Rome). Meisterhans, K. 1900: Grammatik der attischen Inschriften (Berlin). Momigliano, A. 1934: ‘La κοινὴ εἰρήνη dal 386 al 338’. Rivista di filologia e di istruzione classica n.s. 12, 482–514. Mossé, C. 1996: ‘Plutarque historien du IVe siècle’. In Carlier, P. (ed.), Le IVe siècle av. J.-C. Approches historiographiques (Études anciennes 15) (Nancy), 57–62. —. 1999: ‘Plutarque et le déclin de Sparte dans les Vies de Lysandre et d’Agésilas’. Eirene 35, 41–46. Nicolai, R. 2004: Studi su Isocrate: La comunicazione letteraria nel IV sec. a.C. e i nuovi generi della prosa (Quaderni dei Seminari romani di cultura greca 7) (Rome). Pouqueville, F. 1826–27: Voyage de la Grèce, avec cartes, vues et figures, vol. 5 (Paris). Rhodes, P.J. and Osborne, R. 2003: Greek Historical Inscriptions, 404–323 BC (Oxford). Ruzicka, S. 1997: ‘The Eastern Greek World’. In Tritle, L.A. (ed.), The Greek World in the Fourth Century: From the Fall of the Athenian Empire to the Succesors of Alexander (London/New York), 107–36. Ryder, T.T.B. 1965: Koine eirene: General Peace and Local Independence in Ancient Greece (London). Schrader, C. 1976: La Paz de Calias: Testimonios e interpretación (Barcelona). —. 1997: ‘Plutarco y la oratoria panegírica del siglo IV’. In Schrader, C., Ramón, V. and Vela, J. (eds.), Plutarco y la Historia (Actas del V Simposio Español sobre Plutarco, Zaragoza, 20–22 de Junio de 1996) (Monografías de Filología Griega 8) (Saragossa), 29–63. Schmidt, K. 1999: ‘The Peace of Antalcidas and the Idea of the koine eirene. A Panhellenic Peace Movement’. Revue internationale des droits de l’antiquité 46, 81–98. Shipley, D.R. 1997: Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos: Response to Sources in the Presentation of Character (Oxford). Starr, C.G. 1975: ‘Greeks and Persians in the Fourth Century B.C. A Study in Cultural Contacts before Alexander (Part I)’. Iranica Antiqua 11, 39–99. —. 1977: ‘Greeks and Persians in the fourth century BC. A study of cultural contacts before Alexander (part 2)’, Iranica Antiqua 12, 49–115. Thompson, W.E. 1983: ‘Isocrates and the Peace Treatises’. Classical Quarterly 33.1, 75–80. Threatte, L. 1980: The Grammar of Attic Inscriptions 1: Phonology (Berlin/New York). —. 1996: The Grammar of Attic Inscriptions 2: Morphology (Berlin/New York). Tod, M.N. 1948: A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions 2: From 403 to 323 BC (Oxford). Tod, M.N. and Austin, R.P. 1944: ‘Athens and the Satraps’ Revolt’. JHS 64, 98–100. Vela, J. 2005: ‘Historiografía y biografía: a propósito de la reconquista de la Cadmea tebana (Plutarco, Pelópidas, 7–13)’. In Pérez Jiménez, A. and Titchener, F. (eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works: Studies Devoted to Professor Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Málaga/Logan, UT), 465–78 —. 2011: ‘Plutarco transmisor de Jenofonte: la Vida de Agesilao y la propaganda anti-espartana del siglo IV’. In Candau Morón, J.M., González Ponce, F.J. and Chávez Reino, A. (eds.), Plutarco transmisor (Actas del X Simposio Internacional de la Sociedad Española de Plutarquistas, Sevilla, 12 al 14 de Noviembre de 2009) (Seville), 289–99. Weiskopf, M.N. 1989: The So-Called “Great Satraps’ Revolt”, 366–360 BC: Concerning Local Instability in the Achaemenid Far West (Historia Einzelschriften 63) (Stuttgart). Will, E., Mossé, C. and Goukowsky, P. 1975: Le monde Grec et l’Orient 2: Le IVe siècle et l’époque hellénistique (Peuples et civilisations 2) (Paris).

ΚΟΙΝΟΙ ΕΥΕΡΓΕΤΑΙ AND ῬΩΜΑΙΟΙ ΕΥΕΡΓΕΤΑΙ IN INSCRIPTIONS FROM MACEDONIA Ioannis K. XYDOPOULOS

ABSTRACT The use of the title Ῥωμαῖοι εὐεργέται, which first appears in 182 BC, after the defeats of Philip V and Antiochus III by the Romans, became widespread after the Battle of Pydna (168 BC). The introduction of this cult is considered an act by which the Greeks expressed their gratitude but also their allegiance and obedience to the conquerors. In Macedonia, the cult of Ῥωμαίων εὐεργετῶν is first encountered in 95 BC, and continued to be in use through the whole of the 1st century BC, until the time of Augustus, when the emperor is referred to as the ‘benefactor of all’. What is noteworthy, I believe, is the absence of the adjective ‘κοινῶν’ from references to the Ῥωμαίων εὐεργετῶν in inscriptions from Macedonia, although this is common in other areas of the Greek world.

In the Hellenistic period, kings were considered by Greek cities to be benefactors;1 as a result, they are referred to as εὐεργέται in inscriptions throughout the Hellenistic world. However, the use of the phrase κοινὸς εὐεργέτης for these kings is seldom encountered in the same period, a fact weakening any arguments that the phrase reflected ‘an established point of view’.2 The only epigraphic evidence we possess of an occurrence of the phrase before the Roman interference in Greece proper and the eastern Mediterranean comes from Teos in Asia Minor and is dated to 204–203 BC. It should be noted, however, that the inscription is a very fragmented one and the restoration of the word εὐεργέτης on it renders any absolute conclusions impossible.3 The title (provided we accept the restoration) was attributed by the τιμοῦχοι (chief magistrates) and the generals of the city to Antiochus III, who is mentioned as ‘common [benefactor] of the other Greek [cit|ies and] of our own city’ (ll. 7–8). After Rome’s intervention to the East, it is Eumenes II of Pergamum who is praised by the Koinon of the Ionians in the early 160s BC, as κοινὸς εὐεργέτης τῶν Ἑλλήνων, following his victory over the barbarian Gauls.4 Still, there are some reservations regarding the application of this phrase to Eumenes, since there have been suggestions that it was circumstantial: it was applied to him due to the then current political situation, i.e. his quarrel with Rome in 167/6 BC.5 1  Erskine 1994, 71. On Hellenistic kings as benefactors, see Schubart 1937; Préaux 1978 I, 202–07; Gauthier 1985, 39–53. 2  Erskine 1994, 75. 3  The inscription was published by Herrmann 1967. The word εὐεργέτης is restored in 34.6–8. See Bulletin épigraphique 1969, 495 for extended comments upon the inscription. 4  OGIS 763, 7–8 (= McCabe 1984, 63). 5  Robert 1969, 58–59; Ferrary 1988, 129, n. 290; Erskine 1994, 74.

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The epigraphic evidence in which the kings are mentioned as benefactors of all (πάντων) the people of their state or of all Greeks (τῶν Ἑλλήνων) is scarce. In his 1994 paper on the Romans as ‘common benefactors’, Andrew Erskine drew attention to the existence of the phrase in papyri coming from individuals in Ptolemaic Egypt, where the king is referred to as ‘common benefactor of all’. He underlined the fact that there could be a comparison between the individuals ‘petitioning the Egyptian king’ and the Greek cities in the context of a ruler–subject relationship, and he argued that this evidence indicates ‘that the phrase may have been more widespread than the epigraphic evidence suggests’.6 I believe that this is not the case with Egypt: the use of the phrase κοινὸς εὐεργέτης πάντων should be understood in the context the Ptolemies being a continuation of the Egyptian pharaohs. Therefore, the monarchic ideology of the former had to encompass the latter’s older perception by the locals as common benefactors. In other words, the existence of this evidence is the result of the Ptolemies having adopted the local tradition, which they were repeating for use inside their state, rather than an indication of a common Hellenistic topos. Back to Greece proper again, T. Flamininus’ declaration of Greek ‘freedom’ in 196 BC, during the festival of Isthmia, was followed by the withdrawal of the Roman troops two years later (Polybius 18. 46. 15). These two facts made many Greeks think that a new era of Greek history had begun, since Rome had helped the Greek cities escape from the pressure Macedonia exercised over them for a century and a half. As a result, this sense of ‘freedom’ was vital for the relations between the Greeks and the new power that had emerged.7 The political vocabulary of the leading class in these cities had now to adapt to the new political circumstances: the Romans were, thus, protectors (προστάται) and benefactors (εὐεργέται) of all Greeks and the only ones who could guarantee their freedom and concord (ὁμόνοια) (Polybius 18. 46. 15).8 Theory was followed by practice: in order to prevent Philip V from being re-elected in the Delphic Amphictyonic Council in 186 BC, the representatives of the Greek cities asked for Roman help, using as an argument Flamininus’ declaration. According to the decree passed in 186–184 BC, the Amphictyonic envoys to Rome went to the Roman senate, the generals and the tribunes, and spoke in a way that aimed to protect the common interests of the Amphictyones and the other Greeks, who all wanted their freedom and democracy.9 It is not surprising, therefore, that from the 2nd century BC onwards the term κοινοὶ εὐεργέται began to be attributed to the Romans, a phrase indicative of the recognition on behalf of the Greeks of Roman supremacy.10 The oldest example seems to be another decree of the Delphic Amphictyony, dated to 182 BC, in which king Eumenes is honoured for his deeds and his good will towards all Greeks; in the very same inscription, the Romans are mentioned as common benefactors of the Greeks.11 It has been suggested that the use of the phrase 6

 Erskine 1994, 75 and 85.  Touloumakos 1972, 24. 8  Robert 1937, 488, n. 3; Touloumakos 1972, 25, n. 3. 9  Syll.3 613 (= SEG 37 393bis), 17–18; Touloumakos 1972, 24–25; Canali de Rossi 2001, 51 §151. Giovannini (1970, 149) argued that the Greeks who are mentioned in the inscription from Delphi as those wanting democracy and freedom were the ones who had recognised the Roman order. Therefore, the inscription was aimed at those who had not accepted the new order, first among them being the Aetolians. 10  Erskine 1994, 83. 11  Fouilles de Delphes III.3, 261, 17–18; Robert 1969, 58 and n. 6; Wehrli 1978, 482. 7

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Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται by the Greeks was not just a continuation of this Hellenistic practice; it was more of an acknowledgement that Rome was now being perceived by them as the only leading power in the world.12 However, in all cases where the term Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται occurs, it was not the Romans who were honoured; instead, honours were attributed to local individuals who were praised for their beneficence toward their city, while the Romans behind these benefactions, since it was their good will that had allowed those individuals to benefit their homelands.13 The Greeks, from their side, seem to have adopted this phrase, a clear implication that they had fully accepted the view about the salvation of all Greeks which had been introduced by the Roman propaganda already from 196 BC. Although the Greek elite in the rest of the Greek world had been compromised with the new order and had the Romans introduced in its political thinking as ‘common benefactors’, in Macedonia there is no reference to the Romans as such. In all cases of local individuals being honoured in Macedonia as benefactors from the 2nd century BC until the Imperial era, there is no mention of the Romans in general as koinoi euergetai. On the other hand, all the Romans honoured as benefactors in Macedonia are mentioned as simply euergetai.14 The question raised, therefore, is whether this absence of the term ‘Romans the common benefactors’ from inscriptions for local individuals in Macedonia is just a matter of coincidence or if we should look for another explanation, for instance that perhaps the Macedonians did not share the same pro-Roman feelings as the other Greeks. * * * To begin with, prior to the Roman conquest, the institution of beneficence is epigraphically attested in Macedonia. The picture that comes out from the available data for the period before 168 BC is that it was probably only the Macedonian kings who were honoured by the cities of the kingdom with the title of euergetes, a fact that rendered the attribution of this title to other Macedonians almost prohibitive. Despite what was happening for other Hellenistic kings, albeit rarely, the Macedonian kings are never mentioned as common benefactors. After the fall of the kingdom to the Romans, the cities in the Greek East in general and in Macedonia in particular had a need for protection. This consequently led the Macedonian cities as well to exploit their friendship with important Roman officials, in order to ensure the latter’s good will towards them, as well as the cities’ safety.15 In the Republican period (168–end of the 1st century BC) ten inscriptions from the province of Macedonia honour Roman officials with the title of εὐεργέτης.16 Two of these belong to the period before or during the establishment of the 12  Robert 1969, 59–60; Touloumakos 1988a, 203–04; 1988b, 318; Erskine 1994, 73–75; Ferrary 1997; Bernhardt 1998, 44–45. On benefactors in general in this period, see Gauthier 1985; Veyne 1990, 208–50. 13  Erskine 1994, 70, n. 3, and 79. 14  Erskine 1994, 80 has also pointed out the absence of the adjective κοινῶν in the phrase Ῥωμαίων εὐεργετῶν in inscriptions from Macedonia, albeit without further interpretation. 15  Xydopoulos 2018, 88–89, n. 24. The cultic honours for Mark Antony in Thessalonica are a fine example (see Xydopoulos 2018, 89, n. 25). The feeling of insecurity was the same throughout Greece (Alcock 1993, 77–78, 113–14). 16  Xydopoulos 2018.

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province, eight honour Roman officials. In the former, the reason for the attribution of the title remains unclear. Perhaps, one could think of senatorial decisions regarding economic reliefs for the cities involved or of personal ties between members of the local elites and the honourees. For example, 20 years after the Battle of Pydna, in 148–146 BC, an important Roman official, Quintus Caecilius Metellus, was honoured by the citizens of Thessalonica as soter (saviour) and euergetes.17 Also, in 143 BC Metellus was honoured by the commissioning of a statue in Olympia by Damon, a citizen of Thessalonica.18 The reasons were Metellus’ virtue and the favour (eunoia) he had shown to Damon, to the city of Thessalonica, to the rest of the Macedonians and to the other Greeks. We may assume safely that, in this case also, the term eunoia refers to the honorand’s benefactions, the nature of which remains obscure. The honorand is not mentioned as a ‘common benefactor’ and it is very likely that this ‘private honorific monument is very much about the association between the local friend of Rome and Roman power’.19 As far as the other officials are concerned, the reason in six cases seems to have been especially the successful defence against invaders from the north. Still, despite the lethal dangers the cities of Macedonia were facing during the 2nd century BC and the fact that ‘the conception of the Romans as benefactors was common among the subjugated [my emphasis] Greeks’,20 in Macedonian inscriptions there is no mention whatsoever of the Romans in general as ‘common benefactors’ during that period.21 In the centuries that followed up to the 3rd century AD, the title of ‘benefactor’ was given both to Romans as well as to illustrious natives who had contributed in various ways to the survival of their hometowns (as is the case with the well-known case of Parnassus from Thessalonica: IG X.2.1, 5). Still, the decrees for both Romans and native benefactors from the 1st to the 3rd centuries AD do not always provide specific information in regards to their actions and the fragmentary nature of many of those decrees do not allow us to reach secure conclusions.22 But references to the Romans as ‘common benefactors’ had by then ceased to exist in the Greek world. An important point should be made: when dealing with benefactions and power, we should distinguish between the Romans as benefactors of cities and communities and the introduction of a cult for the Roman benefactors. It is certain that there was a cult of the Roman benefactors (Ῥωμαίων εὐεργετῶν) as well as a cult of Thea Rome in the Greek world.23 The latter was an example of the Greeks adopting new cults that substituted for those of the Hellenistic rulers.24 It has been suggested by Erskine that ‘a cult of Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται ... developed among the Greeks in the second century BC’25 and that 17

 IG X.2.1, 134 (Appendix, No. 8). Papazoglou (1979, 306, n. 11) mentioned that the restoration σω[τῆρα καὶ εὐεργέτην] was made by Edson (IG X.2.1, 134). On Metellus’ presence in Macedonia, see Kanatsoulis 1955, 71, no. 661; Payne 1984, 160; Xydopoulos 1999, 1373. On epigraphic evidence related to him, see Tataki 2006, 155, ‘Caecilii’, no. 14. See Xydopoulos 2018, 88–89. 18  IOlympia 325; IG X.2.1, 1031 – Appendix, No. 9. 19  Cf. Payne 1984, 161; Xydopoulos 2006, 137; Nigdelis 2006, 426–27, T 14; Ma 2013, 186–87. 20  Erskine 1994, 83. 21  See Xydopoulos 2018, appendix nos. 10–19. 22  Xydopoulos 2018, 92–98. 23  Erskine 1994, 81 (with references). For the cult of dea Roma, see, for example, Mellor 1975 (in general); and 1981. For the numismatic evidence on dea Roma, see Kremydi-Sicilianou 2005, 97–98. 24  Kremydi-Sicilianou 2005, 97. 25  Price 1984, 41–44.

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‘if there could be a cult of Roman benefactors, there could no doubt also be cults of the Romans as the common benefactors’. This last suggestion, however, is weakened by the author’s own admission of the lack of evidence: ‘The phrase, Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται, may have been widespread but only some will have decided to embody it in a cult.’26 Further, it is based on no epigraphic evidence at all from the rest of the Greek world. In Macedonia, the cult of Thea Rome is epigraphically attested in a number of inscriptions, the earliest known being an attestation of the cults of Zeus Eleutherios and Rome from Petres, in Eordaia, dated to the late 2nd century BC (Appendix, No. 1).27 The same gods were also worshipped in Thessalonica in the 1st century AD (Appendix, No. 2). On the other hand, five inscriptions, all from Thessalonica, refer to the cult of the Roman benefactors; two of them are dated to the 1st century BC, while the other three are placed in the 2nd century AD.28 The cult is first encountered in 95 BC29 and apparently continued to exist until sometime in the 1st century BC. According to the evidence at hand, in the oldest inscription (Appendix, No. 3, l. 11) one can read about the usual honours paid to τοῖς τε θεοῖς καὶ Ῥωμαίοις εὐεργέταις. These Gods must be the Olympian ones, as in the second inscription, dated to the Augustan era, we read about the priest(s) τῶν θεῶν Δω[․c.5–6․ τοῦ ․c.4–5․]||που, Ῥώμης δὲ κ[αὶ Ῥωμαίων] | εὐεργετῶν (Appendix, No. 4, ll. 9–11). Besides the Gods and the Roman benefactors, Ῥώμη was now added as a cult in Thessalonica, something repeated with certainty in the other two inscriptions, dated to the 2nd century AD (Appendix, Nos. 5, ll. 6–7; 6, ll. 7–8) and possibly in the last one (Appendix, No. 7, l. 3). We cannot overlook the considerable time gap between 26

 Erskine 1994, 79–80.  EAM 93 (= SEG 27 303 – see Appendix, No. 1 below), which also mention another inscription found at Kalamoto. Examples of inscriptions regarding the cult of Rome in Edson 1941, 127–34 (see the re-editions in IG X.2.1, namely nos. 31 and 32) and Thériault 2001, 210; Daubner (2016, 394) suggested that ‘Early evidence for Thea Rome in Macedonia is extraordinarily rare’ [referring to IG X.2.31 (by mistake, instead of 32) and 226 (Thessalonica); Samsaris 1989, 239, n. 41 (from Serres); SEG 35 744 (from Kalindoia)]. According to Mellor (1975, 107–09) and Kremydi-Sicilianou (2005, 97), the cult was held in Macedonia already in the 2nd century BC and its introduction should go back to 167 BC, when Macedonia was declared ‘free’. Ferrary (1988, 131, n. 297) puts it in 146 BC, misinterpreting Mellor. Edson (1941, 131 and 133–35) as well as Papazoglou (1979, 307–08) believed the cult was introduced after 148 BC. According to Voutiras (2011, 594), we cannot be certain whether the cult of Rome existed before the establishment of the Roman province of Macedonia in 148 BC, an opinion shared also by Daubner (2018, 130–32), who rightly does not come to a conclusive date regarding the cult of Rome, as the evidence is scarce. 28  Appendix, Nos. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 29  Makaronas (1950, 294–300, ll. 10–11) and Papazoglou (1979, 307–08) have wrongly identified the cult of the Roman euergetai with the games held at Lete ἐν τῶι Δαισίωι μηνὶ ὅταν καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις εὐεργέ||ταις. Contra Thériault 2001, 210; Daubner 2018, 230–32, n. 27. For the cult of the Roman benefactors, see also IG X.2.1, 31, 32, 128, 133, 226. Papazoglou distinguishes the gods-benefactors (see, for example IG X.2.1, 90; ΕΚΜ Ι, 2) from the Roman benefactors and makes the hypothesis that the former were the Egyptian gods. Contra Thériault 2001, 210. Gauthier 2000, 43 noted that the Macedonian cities were already celebrating each year, in the month of Daesius (around May), a festival of the benefactors, which included games and sacrifices (he quotes Hatzopoulos, Bulletin épigraphique 1987, 688, and Hatzopoulos and Loukopoulou 1989, 45–48): there is evidence for the common worship of the benefactors in Lete (Syll 3 700), in Kalindoia (Hatzopoulos and Loukopoulou 1992, 77–80, K 2; see SEG 42 579; SEG 46 754; SEG 55, 694), and in a group of inscriptions from Thessalonica (IG X.2.1, 4, 5, 133, 226). However, except for IG X.2.1, 5, all other inscriptions are mentioning the Roman benefactors, not benefactors in general. Wehrli (1978, 489) noted that the cult of the Roman benefactors was not introduced after the Battle of Philippi. Also, I think that this could not have been the case in the inscription from Kalindoia, as a reference to the heroised past kings would be at least inappropriate in the context of Roman rule in Macedonia and the introduction of the emperor cult. 27

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the two groups of inscriptions from Thessalonica mentioning the cult of Roman benefactors (two belonging to the 1st century BC and three to the 2nd century AD respectively), something already problematic itself. If this is no coincidence, due to an accidental lack of evidence from the intermediate period, then we should look for an explanation and answer to questions such as why there was a revival of this cult in the 2nd century (if this was a revival). * * * To sum up: the phrase, Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται, had been used by the Greeks in order to praise the Romans in the 2nd century BC, when Rome was powerful and had dealt successfully with Philip V and Perseus; as the Hellenistic kings were now gradually being replaced by Rome in the East, Greek cities found themselves in a new political environment. Their reaction was a clear indication of their adaptability: the Romans were now the common benefactors. The situation in Macedonia was different. In order to explain the difference, one can make the following suggestions: a) Starting from the Hellenistic era, despite what was the case for others (for example Antiochus III), albeit rarely, the adjective ‘common’ (koinos) was not attributed to the Macedonian kings when they were mentioned as euergetai. The reason, I believe, was the very nature of the Macedonian kingship, which was different from Hellenistic monarchy, since the worship of the kings in Macedonia was never established on a state basis.30 So, is it possible that there was a continuation of the tradition related to Macedonian ethics, something that would justify the absence of the same adjective in inscriptions for the Romans as benefactors. b) This absence could also be related to the fact that the Romans were simply not considered by the Macedonians as ‘common’ benefactors of all Greece. This could be an implication that the view about the salvation of all Greeks, introduced by the Romans during the Isthmia Games of 196 BC, was not universally accepted, at least not by the Macedonians (since the country was sacked after the Battle of Pydna).31 What is more, numismatic evidence shows that the financial burden for coping with the barbarian invasions from the North in the 2nd and 1st centuries BC fell heavy on Macedonian shoulders.32 c) Closely connected with this argument is a third: the absence of the adjective ‘common’ is perhaps indicative of some sort of conscious denial of what the other Greeks accepted due to their servile (or realistic) attitude towards the Romans, a denial that should be linked with an ethnic sentiment expressed by the Macedonians with the use of their past from the 2nd century AD onwards. In this case, one would suggest that Macedonia was a land apart, so that what was a common practice for the rest of the Greeks was not so there. 30

 Daubner 2018, 130–31 and n. 184 with further bibliography.  Polybius 18. 35. 4; Livy 45. 40. 1–3, Diodorus Siculus 31. 8. 10–12; Plutarch Aem. 32–34; see Hammond and Walbank 1988, 567. Contra Papazoglou 1979, 307–08, who believed that the Macedonians were manifesting their gratitude and loyalty to the Romans via the introduction of the cult of Ῥωμαῖοι εὐεργέται. 32  Tselekas forthcoming. 31

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All of these suggestions, however, are wrong. To begin with, the picture we get from the available data is that until the 1st century BC it is only individual Roman officials belonging to the administrative elite who receive honours from the Macedonian cities saved from the barbarian raids in the 2nd and 1st centuries BC, not locals belonging to the aristocracy, as, for example, can be deduced from the decree coming from Lete, dated to 119/8 BC.33 Secondly, despite the fact that a cult of Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται does not seem to be confirmed by the – admittedly – relatively scarce data we possess from Macedonia, the inscriptions do, however, show that a collective cult of the Roman benefactors existed in Macedonia.34 Thirdly, what is interesting in the oldest example is that there is no mention of Thea Rome along with the Roman benefactors. This means that the cult of Rome was introduced to Macedonia (either this introduction was made in 167 BC or in 148 BC) after the cult of the Roman benefactors. The latter seems to have existed exclusively in Thessalonica; it was apparently linked with the cult of Thea Rome and may have resulted from the fact that Thessalonica was the seat of the Roman administration as capital of the province35 (but not yet a civitas libera, since the city was awarded this title by Marc Antony, after the Battle of Philippi, in 42 BC).36 Therefore, the existence of both cults in Thessalonica could also indicate the adoption of the new political reality, i.e. the perception of the Romans as the only power in the world, a realisation the cities of Macedonia also had to accept from the 2nd century onwards.37 We do not know whether all Macedonian incorporated cities had the cult of Rome in their religious lives. Since, however, there is evidence from Petres, Serres, Kalindoia and Thessalonica, I suggest that the cult was widespread in Macedonia. As for the introduction of the cult of Roman benefactors in Macedonia (i.e. in Thessalonica), I believe that it can be easily explained in the context of its occupation; perhaps it was imposed by Rome and accepted by the local elite. Louis Robert rightly suggested that in the 1st century BC, it was no longer ‘the greatness of Rome’ that was praised; instead, individuals such as Sulla, Pompey, Caesar, Mark Antony and Octavian were honoured as benefactors and saviours in the Greek cities.38 The Roman civil wars changed that belief and the Greeks had to adapt themselves (again) in the new political circumstances. No longer were the Romans in general the ‘common benefactors’, although it seems that there must have been cases where the phrase Ῥωμαῖοι οἱ κοινοὶ εὐεργέται was still used in honorary inscriptions for local individuals,39 apparently 33  Demitsas 1896, no. 675; Syll.³ 700 (Xydopoulos 2018, appendix no. 10). The very phrase (ll. 23–25) καὶ ἑτέ|ρους μὲν στρατιώτας ἐπὶ συμμαχίαν παρὰ τῶν Μακεδόνων οὐκ ἔκρινεν || μεταπέμψασθαι διὰ τὸ μὴ βούλεσθαι θλίβειν τὰς πόλεις τοῖς ὀψωνίοις, in the same decree clearly indicates the financial burden for the cities of Macedonia. In a private conversation, P.M. Nigdelis suggested that the bronze coins cut during that period were used for the war preparation or the payment of the auxilia. If this is true, then the cities were in big financial trouble. 34  Erskine 1994, 80. 35  Payne 1984, 160–61; Nigdelis 2006, 427, T14. For the first testimony of Thessalonica being the seat of the province commander, see Haensch 1997, 108; Nigdelis 2006, 434–35, T18. 36  Pliny NH. 4. 36; Papazoglou 1988, 206–07. For a fragmentary inscription denoting the freedom of Thessalonica, see IG X.2.1, 6. 37  Thériault 2001, 210–12. 38  Robert 1969, 43. 39  Robert 1969, 52–53 for the inscription in honour of Theophanes; see also Quaß 1993, 142–43. In all other cases I know of, the Romans as common benefactors are met exclusively in 2nd-century BC inscriptions (IG II2, 1134, 117/6 BC, Attica; IG II2, 1224, ca. 166 BC, Attica; Kent 1966, 40, 196–146 BC?, Corinth; IC III.iv. 9, 112–111 BC, Itanos; IIasos 65, 2nd century BC, Caria; IMagnesia 160, 111 BC,

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an indication of the gradual change. Honours were now bestowed to their leaders – and, finally, to Augustus, the benefactor of all.40 Macedonia was no exception to that rule: the honours paid, for example, to Mark Antony as a benefactor by the citizens of Thessalonica in 42–31 BC are indicative, especially if one thinks that Brutus, before the Battle of Philippi, had promised to his troops the sack of the city.41 Also, in the inscription from Kalindoia, dated to AD 1, we read about the sacrifices made to Zeus, to Augustus and to the ‘other benefactors’.42 The final question raised is ‘who was belonging to the elite of the Macedonian cities after 167 BC?’ I believe that the regulation of 167 BC did not decapitate the cities of Macedonia of all those belonging to the ‘old’ elite. Not all members of the local aristocracies were connected with the palace and the Antigonids; also, it would not have been wise on the part of the Romans to leave the cities of Macedonia in a messy situation, without any prominent citizens taking care of the cities’ needs. Finally, the Romans must have depended on those citizens after 167 BC, in order to secure the passage to the new political era. On the other hand, there are no local individuals honoured as benefactors from their cities until the mid-1st century AD, a fact that makes Daubner’s explanation about the non-existence of a Macedonian aristocracy attractive. It seems that the issue about the formation of a new local aristocracy in the cities of Macedonia after 167 BC remains open, for one would normally expect an expression of gratitude towards the Romans – similar to that shown by the southern Greeks – from those Macedonians who were holding a leading position in their cities after 167 BC (provided that this was a brand ‘new’ local elite) and were now somehow forced to adopt the new political reality.43 Instead, praise and honours are limited to Roman administrative officials, a fact linked with the interpersonal relations of the Roman honourees with the local aristocracy, another important chapter in Macedonian history that cannot be treated here.44

APPENDIX 1) EAM 93 (= SEG 27 03), Petres, 2nd/1st century BC. Δαβρείας | Ὀνομάστου | ἱερητεύσας | Διὶ Ἐλευθερίωι || καὶ Ῥώμηι | τὸν βωμόν. 2) IG X.2.1, 32 Thessalonica, 1st century AD; Edson 1941, 130, n. 2; BCH 97 (1973), 586, 32; SEG 26 733. ἡ πόλις κ[αὶ οἱ συμπραγματευόμενοι] | Ῥωμαῖο[ι, ἐπὶ ἱερέως καὶ ἀγωνοθέ]|του Αὐτ[οκράτορος Καίσαρος θε]|οῦ υἱοῦ [θεοῦ Σεβαστοῦ] Γαΐου | Ἰουλίου [․․c.8․․․, ἱερέ] ως Διὸς || Ἐλευθε[ρίου καὶ Ῥώμης Ζ]ωΐλου, | φύσει δ[ὲ ․․c.8․․․, θεῶ]ν Ἀντι|δότο[υ Caria; IG XII.9, 899, 2nd century BC, Chalcis; Fouilles de Delphes III.2, 270, 112/11 BC, Delphi; Fouilles de Delphes III.3, 261, 182 BC, Delphi; CID 4, 120, 117/6–112 BC, Delphi; IG XII.6, 1:6, shortly after 167 BC, Samos; IG XII Suppl. 692, 2nd century BC, Lesbos; IMylasa 23, 2nd century BC, Caria). 40  Robert 1960, 327–29; Erskine 1994, 87; Touloumakos 1988b, 318–19; Ferrary 1988, 124–32; 1997, 200. 41  Plutarch Brutus 46. 1; Wehrli 1978, 489. 42  Appendix, No. 10; Daubner 2018, 260–63. See n. 29 above. 43  Daubner 2018, 135–38 for his arguments. Contra Xydopoulos 2018, 99–101. 44  The data available from Macedonia is rich and needs a thorough examination. I would like to thank A. Rizakis, who has dealt with the social mobility in Greece in many of his works (see, for example, Rizakis 2007), for his valuable remarks.

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τοῦ ․c.8–9․․]ς, Ῥώμης | καὶ Ῥω[μαίων Διονυσ]οδώρου? | τοῦ Ἱλ[άρου?  πολιταρχ] ούντων | Ἐπικ[τήτου τοῦ ․ca. 4–5․]δος, Σω| [— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —] 3) IG X.2.1, 4 Thessalonica, 95 BC; BCH 97 (1973), 586, 4; Maia 25 (1973), 199, 4. οἱ νέοι | Ἀθηναγόρας Ἀπολλοδώρου, Πύρρος Κλειτομάχο[υ], | Νεικόστρατος Ν[ε]ικομάχου, Διογένης Ἐπιγένου, | Στράτων Ξένωνος, Ν[ε]ικήρατος Ἀνδροκλέους| εἶπαν·|| ἐπεὶ Παράμονος Ἀντιγόνου αἱρεθεὶς γυμνασίαρ[χος] | εἰς τὸ v τρίτον v καὶ v πεντηκοστὸν v ἔτος πολλὴν π[ροση]|νέγκατο προθυμίαν [ε]ἰς [τ]ὸ προστατῆσαι τῆς ἀρχῆς εὐ[σχη]|μόνως, ἔν τε τοῖς χορηγουμένοις ἅπασιν ἐκτενῆ π[αρα]||σκευάζων ἑαυτὸν καὶ τὰς ἠθισμένας τειμὰς Γ․5–6․․| τοῖς τε θεοῖς καὶ Ῥωμαίοις εὐεργέταις ἐπαύξων· π[ρονο]|ούμενος δὲ καὶ τῆς εὐταξίας τῆς ἐν τῶι τόπωι κ[αὶ κα]|θόλου στοχαζό[μ]ενος ἐμ πᾶσι τοῦ πρέποντος, οὐ τ[ὴν δα]|πνην τὴν προσήκουσαν παραλέλοιπεν, ἀλλὰ τ[ὸν] || χρόνον τῆς ἀρχῆς ΤΗΣΙ․ΑΣ τιθεὶς τὸ ἄλε[ιμμα δι]|ατελεκεν· δίκαιον δέ ἐστιν τοὺς φιλοδόξῳ προα[ιρέ]|σει χρωμένους τῶν καθηκουσῶν τιμῶν τυνχάνε[ιν], | ἵνα καὶ ἕτεροι, θεωροῦντες τὰς γινομένας τιμὰς | ὑπὸ τῶν νέων, τῶν ὁμοίων ζηλωταὶ γίνωνται· || ἔδοξεν τοῖς ἀπὸ τοῦ γυμνασίου ἐπαινέσαι τ[ε] | τὸν Παράμονον ἐπὶ τῆι προαιρέσει καὶ στεφανῶσ[αι] | θαλλοῦ στεφάνωι καὶ εἰκόνι χαλκῇ καὶ γραπτῆι τ[ε]|λείαι, τὸ δὲ ψήφισμα ἀναγραφὲν εἰστήλην λιθίνη[ν] | τεθῆναι προφανὲς ἐν τῶι γυνασίωι, χορηγηθέ[ν]||τος ὑπὸ τῶν ταμιῶν κατὰ τὸ παρὸν τοῦ τε εἰς τὴ[ν] | γραπτὴν εἰκόνα καὶ στήλην ἀναλώματος. vacat| {intervallum}| ἐπεχειροτονήθη v ἔτους γʹ v καὶ vv νʹ, vacat | [Ὑπ]ερβερταίου vv δεκάτηι〚Ε〛 ἀπιόντος. vacat | vacat 4) IG X.2.1, 31 Thessalonica, Augustan era; BCH 97 (1973), 586, 31; Edson 1941, 127, n. 1. [— — — — — — — — —] | [․ca. 3–4․]ΒΟΣΑ[— — —] | ἀ[ν]θύπατος [․ca. 7–8․․] | λατομίας ἐπόησ[εν τὸν] | Καίσαρος να[όν]. || ἐπὶ ἱερέως καὶ ἀγων[οθέτου · Αὐ]|τοκράτορος · Καίσα[ρος · θεοῦ] | υἱοῦ Σεβασ{βασ}το[ῦ {Σεβαστοῦ} · ․ca. –-8․․]|ως τοῦ Νεικοπόλ[εως · ἱερέως] | δὲ τῶν θεῶν Δω[․ca. 5–6․ τοῦ ․ca. 4–5․]||που, Ῥώμης δὲ κ[αὶ Ῥωμαίων] | εὐεργετῶν · Νεικ[․ca. 6–8․ τοῦ] | Παραμόνου· vacat | πολειτα[ρχούντων] | Διογένους το[ῦ ․․ca. 9–10․․], || Κλέωνος τοῦ Π[․ca. 8–9․․], | Ζωπᾶ τοῦ Καλ[․․ca. 9–10․․], | Εὐλάνδρου τοῦ [․ca. 7–8․․], | Πρωτογένους τοῦ [․ca. 5–6․], | τοῦ καὶ προστα[τήσαντος] || τοῦ ἔργου· ταμ[ίου τῆς πόλεως] | Σώσωνος τ[οῦ ․․ca. 11–12․․․], | ἀρχιτεκ[τονοῦντος] | Διονυσίο[υ τοῦ ․ca. 6․․] | [— — — — — — — — —] 5) IG X.2.1, 133 Thessalonica, after AD 153/4; photograph: BCH 100 (1976) 215, fig. 4; Revue de philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes (1974), 213–15; SEG 26 738. {vacat ca. 0.05} | [v ἔτους v ․ʹ v καὶ v ․ʹ v καὶ v ․ʹ] v σεβαστοῦ. v | [κατὰ · τὸ · δόξαν · τῇ · βουλῇ? ·] καὶ · τοῖς · νέοις · Π. · Κερ|[․․․․․․ca. 16․․․․․․ δ]ιὰ διαθήκην · ἱερέως · καὶ ἀγω|[νοθέτου · Αὐτοκρά]τορος · Καίσαρος · θεοῦ · υἱοῦ · Σεβαστοῦ || [Τι(βερίου) · Ἰουλίου · Ῥοιμη]τάλκου · δυνάστου · ἀνταγωνοθε|[τοῦντος · Ἡλιοδώ]ρου? · τοῦ · Ἡλιοδώρου · ἱερέως · θεῶν | [․․ca. 8․․․ το]ῦ Φ[ίλ]ωνος · Ῥώμης δὲ καὶ Ῥωμαίων εὐεργετῶν | [․․ca. 7․․]νος · το[ῦ ·] Διονυσίου · πολειταρχούντων | [․ca. 4․]δώρου · τοῦ [· Ν]εικάνδρου · Ἀσκληπιοδώρου · τοῦ | Ἀσκληπιοδώρου · [Σω]σιπάτρου · τοῦ · Εἰσιδώρου · Ζωΐλου | τοῦ · Ζωΐλου · τοῦ · Λυσιπόνου · Ἀθηνογένους · τοῦ | Πλουσίας

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· γυμνασιαρχοῦντος · Μενελάου | τοῦ · Ἀντιγόνο[υ ·] ἐφηβαρχοῦντος Νεικολάου | τοῦ · Ἐπιμένο[υ]ς · ταμίου · τῆς πόλεως · Γ(αΐου) · Ἀγιλ||ληίου Ποτείτου · ἀρχιτ[έ] κτονος · Λ(ουκίου) · Εἰουλείου · Φύρμου | ταμιευόντων v τῶν | νέων 〚․․․․ca. 13․․․․․Υ〛| Τ(ίτου) Μεμμίου Ζωσίμου | [— — — — — — — — —] 6) IG X.2.1, 226 Thessalonica, 2nd century AD. [— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —] |․․․․ΔΡΑΩ[— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —] | ․․ τῆς ἰδίας · Π․2–3․ΝΟΣ[․․․․․․․․ca. 20․․․․․․․․]|το ἀπὸ τῆς Ἀλτίας · ἀποκαθεστη[κότα, ὥστε πᾶσι] | τὴν χάριν [δ]ιάδηλον γενέσθαι · κα[ὶ αὐτῶι καὶ] || διὰ στήλης ἐπιμ[α]ρτυρηθῆναι. | [ἀ]γωνοθετοῦντος [· Π]οπλίου · Οὐαλερίου · ΟΥ[․․ca. 7․․], | [v ἱε]ρέως θεῶν · Ναυ[σε]ινίκου · τοῦ · Σωσιπ[άτρου {Σωσιπ[όλεως]}, Ῥώμης δὲ] | [v] καὶ Ῥωμαίων εὐ[εργε]τῶν · Ἀσκληπᾶ · τοῦ · Ἐπ[․․ca. 7․․], | πολιταρχούν[των ·] Π(οπλίου) · Ἑρεννίου · Γεμίνου, [․․․ca. 10․․․] || [v Μα]ξίμου · Γ(αΐου) · Σκ[ρειβω]νίου · Ῥούφου · Δι[ο]νυσ[․․ca. 8․․․], | [v · ․ ·] Αὐτρωνίου · Π․4–5․ΚΟΥ · Γ(αΐου) · Ἰουλ[ίου] · Ἀπε[․․ca. 7․․], | v [․]ΗΘΙ․2–3․ΟΔΑ․․ca. 7․․ πολιταρχ․ca. 4․[․․․ca. 10․․․] | v Δημητρι[․․ca. 10–12․․]τρίου [— — — — — — — — — — — — —] | [— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —] || [— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — ——] 7) IG X.2.1, 128 Thessalonica, 1st–3rd century AD; see also IG X.2.1 Addenda, p. 288, 128. [— — — — — — — — — —] Ἀπελλᾶ το[ῦ {Ἀπελλαο[υ]} — —] | [— — — — — — — — — Κ]αίσαρος ΙΣΙ[— — — — — —] | [— Ῥώμης δὲ καὶ Ῥω] μαίων εὐε[ργετῶν — — — —] | [— — — — — — — — — —] πολιταρχ[ούντων — — —] || [— — — — — — — — — — — —]ου, Μάρκου [— — —]| [— — — — — — — — — Διο]νυσίου ΑΜΕΙ[— — — —] | [— — — — — — — — — — — — — —]ΤΗΣ ΤΑΛ[— —] | [— — — — — — ἀρ]χιτεκονοῦντος [— — — — —]| 8) Thessalonica (148–146 BC); IG X.2.1, 134. Κόιντον Καικέ[λιον Κοίντου Μέτελλον] | στρατηγὸν ἀ[νθύπατον Ῥωμαίων] | τὸν αὑτῆς σω[τῆρα καὶ εὐεργέτην] | ἡ π[όλις] 9) Olympia (143 BC); IOlympia 325 (IG X.2.1, 1031). Δάμων Νικάνορος Μακεδὼν ἀπὸ | Θεσσαλονίκης v Κόϊντον Καικέλιον | Κοΐντου Μέτελλον, στρατηγὸν ὕπατον | Ῥωμαίων, vvvv Διὶ Ὀλυμπίωι || ἀρετῆς ἕνεκεν καὶ εὐνοίας ἧς ἔχων διατε|λεῖ εἴς τε αὐτὸν καὶ τὴν πατρίδα καὶ τοὺς λοιποὺς | Μακεδόνας v καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους Ἕλληνας 10) Kalindoia (AD 1); SEG 35 744, 5–51; Bulletin épigraphique 1987, 688. ἐπεὶ Ἀ|πολλώνιος Ἀπολλωνίου | τοῦ Κερτίμμου γενόμε|νος ἀνὴρ ἀγαθὸς καὶ πάσης | τειμῆς ἄξιος, ἐπιδεξάμενος || αὐθαίρετον ἱερατήαν Διὸς καὶ Ῥώμης | καὶ Καίσαρος θεοῦ υἱοῦ Σεβαστοῦ τοσαύτην | εἰσηνέγκατο μεγαλοφροσύνην ἀξίως καὶ τῆς τῶν προ|γόνων καὶ τῆς ἰδίας ἀρετῆς φιλοδοξήσας, ὥστε μηδε|μίαν ὑπερβολὴν καταλιπεῖν τῶν εἰς τοὺς θεοὺς καὶ τὴν || πατρίδα δαπανημάτων, τάς τε γὰρ παρ’ ὅλον τὸν ἐνιαυτὸν | ἐκ τῆς πόλεως κατὰ μῆνα γεινομένας Διὶ καὶ Καίσαρι Σεβα|στῶι θυσίας ἐκ τοῦ ἰδίου παριστὰς καὶ τοῖς θεοῖς τὰς | τειμὰς πολυτελεῖς προσηνέγκατο καὶ τοῖς πολεί-

ΚΟΙΝΟΙ ΕΥΕΡΓΕΤΑΙ AND ῬΩΜΑΙΟΙ ΕΥΕΡΓΕΤΑΙ IN MACEDONIAN INSCRIPTIONS

1463

ταις τὴν | ἑστίασιν καὶ εὐωχίαν μεγαλομερῆ παρέσχετο καὶ λαϊ||κῶς πανδημεὶ δειπνίζων καὶ κατὰ τρίκλεινον καὶ τὴ[ν] | ἐπὶ τῆς πανηγύρεως πομπὴν ποικίλην καὶ ἀξιοθ[έατον] | σκευάσας καὶ τοὺς ἀγῶνας Διὶ καὶ Καίσαρ[ι τῶ]ι Σεβ[αστῶι] | πολυτελεῖς θέμενος καὶ ἀξίους τ[……….ca. 19………] | οὐ μόνον πρὸς τὴν τῆς εὐωχίας [..]ονων [……..ca. 14……..] || τὴν θέαν καὶ τὴν ἀπά[τη]ν [καὶ τὴν διά]χυσιν τῆς ψ[υχής] | ἐφιλανθρώπησεν τοὺς πολείτας τάς τε ἐκ τῆς π[όλε]|ως ἐν τῆι πανηγύρει δημοτελεῖς γεινομένας θυσίας Διὶ | καὶ Καίσαρι τῶι Σεβαστῶι καὶ τοῖς λοιποῖς εὐεργέταις παραι|τησάμενος τὴν πατρίδα ταῖς ἰδίαις δαπάναις παρέστη||σεν καὶ βουθυτήσας καὶ ἰδίᾳ καθ’ ἕκαστον τῶν πολειτῶν | τὴν πᾶσαν ἑορτὴν εὐώχησεν ἐν τοῖς τρικλείνοις καὶ | κατὰ τὸ κοινὸν ταῖς φυλαῖς ἐπιδόσεις ἐποιήσατο λαμ|προτάτας, ἵνα, ὅποι ποτ’ ἂν ἥδεσθαι βούλωνται, τὴν αὐ|τοῦ χάριν ἑστιῶνται, τὸ δὲ παράπαν πάσης δαπάνης || ἀφειδήσας καὶ Καίσαρος ἄγαλμα κατεσκεύασεν ἐκ τοῦ | ἰδίου καὶ ἀναθεὶς αἰώνιον ὑπόμνημα τῆς εἰς πάν|τας ἀνθρώπους εὐεργεσίας τοῦ Σεβαστοῦ καὶ | τῆι πατρίδι τὸ προσκόσμημα καὶ τῶι θεῶι τὴν | καθήκουσαν τειμὴν καὶ χάριν ἔνειμεν· δι’ ἃ δεδό||χθαι τῆι βουλῆι καὶ τῶι δήμωι ἐπαινέσαι τε αὐ|τὸν ἐπὶ τῆ λανπρότητι τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ τῆς εἰς | τὴν πατρίδα φιλοδοξίας καὶ στεφανῶσαι θαλλοῦ στε|φάνωι καὶ ἐψηφίσθαι αὐτοῦ καὶ τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ Ἀπολλω|νίου καὶ τῆς μητρὸς αὐτοῦ Στραττοῦς ἑκάστου ἄγαλμα λίθινον· || σταθῆναι δὲ τὰ ἀγάλματα καὶ τὸ ψήφισμα τοῦτο ἐν ᾧ ἂν αὐτὸς ὁ ἀγω|νοθέτης ἐπισημοτάτω τῆς ἀγορᾶς αἱρῆται τόπωι, ἵνα καὶ οἱ λοιποὶ τῶν πο|λειτῶν ἀποθεωροῦντες εἰς τὴν εὐχαριστίαν τῆς πόλεως πρόθυμοι γεί|νωνται φιλοδοξεῖν καὶ τῆι πατρίδι προσφέρεσθαι φιλανθρώπως· καὶ ἐπι|χειροτονηθέντος τοῦ ψηφίσματος Ἀπολλώνιος τὰς μὲν τειμὰς || καὶ τὴν ἐκ τῆς πατρίδος χάριν ἐδέξατο, τοῦ [δ]ὲ δαπανήματος ἀπέλυ|σεν τὴν πόλιν vacat ἐπεχειροτονήθη Δαι[σί]ου ιδʹ.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alcock, S.E. 1993: Graecia Capta: The Landscapes of Roman Greece (Cambridge). Bernhardt, R. 1998: Rom und die Städte des hellenistischen Ostens (3.–1. Jahrhundert v.Chr.). Literaturbericht 1965–1995 (Historische Zeitschrift Sonderheft 18) (Munich). Canali De Rossi, F. 2001: Il ruolo dei «patroni» nelle relazioni politiche fra il mondo greco e Roma in età repubblicana ed Augustea (Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 159) (Munich/Leipzig). Daubner, F. 2016: ‘Macedonian Small Towns and their Use of Augustus’. Religion in the Roman Empire 2.3, 391–414. Daubner, F. 2018: Makedonien nach den Königen (168 v. Chr.–14 n. Chr.) (Historia Einzelschriften 251) (Stuttgart). Demitsas, M. 1896: E Makedonia en lithois phtheggomenois kai mnemeiois sozomenois (Athens; repr. Thessalonica 1988). Edson, C. 1941: ‘Macedonica. State Cults of Thessalonika’. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 51, 127–36. Erskine, A. 1994: ‘The Romans as Common Benefactors’. Historia 43, 70–87. Ferrary, J.-L. 1988: Philhellénisme et impérialisme: Aspects idéologiques de la conquête romaine du monde hellénistique, de la seconde guerre de Macédoine à la guerre contre Mithridate (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 271) (Rome). —. 1997: ‘De l’évergétisme hellénistique à l’évergétisme romain’. In Actes du Xe Congrès International d’épigraphie grecque et latine, Nîmes, 4–9 octobre 1992 (Paris), 199–225. Gauthier, P. 1985: Les cités grecques et leurs bienfaiteurs (IVe–Ier siécle avant J.-C.). Contribution à l’histoire des institutions (BCH Suppl. 12) (Paris).

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—. 1988a: ‘Patrocinium Orbis Terrae’. Ariadne 4, 192–207. —. 1988b: ‘Zum römischen Gemeindepatronat im griechischen Osten’. Hermes 116, 304–24. Tselekas, P. forthcoming: ‘Paratiriseis stis chalkines ekdoseis ton poleon tes Makedonias kata ten isterie ellinistikē epochē’. In Archaia Makedonia 8 (Thessalonica). Veyne, P. 1990: Brot und Spiele: Gesellschaftliche Macht und politische Herrschaft in der Antike (Theorie und Gesellschaft 11) (Darmstadt). Voutiras, E. 2011: ‘Une ère nouvelle: la Macédoine antique sous domination romaine. Cultes et sanctuaires’. In Descamps-Lequime, S. (ed.), Au royaume d’Alexandre le Grand. La Macédoine antique (Paris), 594–616. Wehrli, C. 1978: ‘Sur la formule «Rhômaioi hoi koinoi euergetai» dans les inscriptions grecques de l’époque républicaine’. Siculorum Gymnasium n.s. 31, 479–96. Xydopoulos, I.K. 1999: ‘O thesmos tes patroneias ste Makedonia’. In Archaia Makedonia/Ancient Macedonia VI: Macedonia from the Iron Age to the Death of Philip II (Papers read at the Sixth International Symposium held in Thessaloniki, October 15–19, 1996) (Hidryma Meletōn Chersonēsou tou Haimou 272) (Thessalonica), 1371–79. —. 2006: Koinonikēs kai politistikēs schēseis ton Makedonon kai ton Notion Hellēnon (Thessalonica). —. 2018: ‘Euergetes and euergesia in inscriptions for public benefactors from Macedonia’. Ancient West and East 17, 83–117.

MODERN TIMES

‘OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY’: AN ESSAY ON ANGLO-GEORGIAN RELATIONS Paul EVERILL

ABSTRACT In marking the anniversary of Gocha Tsetskhladze’s arrival in the West, this paper seeks to celebrate his contribution in the sphere of academic ‘diplomacy’. While formal diplomatic links were re-established with Georgia following its independence in 1991, Gocha features prominently among the small number of academics who have brought the archaeology of Georgia to the attention of the west through developing scholarly links. Building on this theme of formal and informal diplomacies, and the author’s research interest in this area, this paper will consider the historic policies of Britain towards Georgia, and the extent to which individuals have influenced them – both negatively, through the misrepresentation of government policy, and positively through genuine friendship and affection for the country of Georgia and its people.

INTRODUCTION For those of us working in Georgia, trying to bridge Western techniques and approaches with existing Georgian scholarship, Gocha is the most outstanding example of what can be achieved. He embodies the successful integration of both traditions and illustrates how, together, they can unlock Georgia’s potential to inform our knowledge of the distant past beyond the more widely studied heartlands of ancient empires. His tireless support for others, his energy and phenomenal publication record are simultaneously invaluable and humbling to all of us. In 1990, Gocha’s arrival in the West mirrored the journey on which his mother country was taking its first tentative steps, with independence from the Soviet Union clearly in the sights of people across Georgia, and many hoping to re-establish Georgia as a progressive European democracy. Despite the fact that the best known Georgian to the outside world was the most brutal exponent of Bolshevik ideology, Georgian political expression was far more naturally Menshevik in character. Women were granted full suffrage in 19181 in the brief period of democratic self-rule between the Tsarist and Bolshevik occupations. After nearly 70 years as a Soviet Republic, a significant increase in pro-independence activity through the 1980s culminated in the brutal crackdown by Soviet authorities on protestors in Tbilisi on the 9th April 1989. Exactly two years later Georgia declared its independence from the Soviet Union. After the initial joy of achieving self-determination, the 1990s were immensely hard for Georgia. Industry, so long dependent on the complex networks and supply chains of the Soviet Union, foundered; 1

 Ten years earlier than the UK.

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the economy crashed, and unemployment soared. The birthing pains of modern Georgia were in the form of the civil war, ethnic conflict, and the corruption of the 1990s. As Gocha’s career and reputation become more established, bringing Georgia to the lecture theatres of Western academia – a community which had, with some notable exceptions, been largely ignorant of Georgia’s archaeological potential – something was also stirring in Georgia itself. As the academic symposia such as those at Vani began to attract increasing numbers of Western scholars, opportunities arose for new international collaborations; and through them for international funding to replace the budgets once available in the Soviet period. In this way, the British-Georgian excavation at Pichvnari (1998–2009) was established, followed by the Anglo-Georgian Expedition to Nokalakevi (2001–present). My own involvement with the latter has often given me cause to contemplate the historic relations between Britain and Georgia. With Gocha now once again resident in the UK I offer, in tribute to the success of what might be considered his own academic diplomacy, a consideration of the rather more mixed efforts of my country towards Georgia. In doing so, I revisit and revise some elements of previous work,2 brought together into a single narrative for the first time.

EARLY ANGLO-GEORGIAN RELATIONS Political relations between England and Georgia extend at least as far back as the early 15th century, when Johannes de Galonifontibus, archbishop of Sultanieh and de facto diplomatic envoy between Timur and the Christian world, arrived at the court of the English king, Henry IV. Henry was able to provide Galonifontibus with an introduction to a number of Christian rulers, including George VII of Georgia,3 suggesting that diplomatic contact had already been established though the extent of it is not clear. Several centuries later, at the time of the Crimean War, Britain’s interest in Georgia was squarely focused on preventing the Russian empire expanding into the vacuum left by the declining might of the Ottoman world. However, in order to secure the independence of the Southern Caucasus republics Britain, France, and Turkey needed military success in the region to give them leverage over Russia in peace negotiations. Consequently a small Turkish force was despatched from the Crimea to the Black Sea port of Sokhumi, in September 1855,4 and from there marched south-east to the Ingour river, near Zugdidi, where they had to force passage into Mingrelia against strong Russian positions on the 6th November. The Turkish army included in its ranks a number of British officers who had served in the Indian army, as well as other nationalities, and was accompanied by embedded British journalists such as Laurence Oliphant who travelled with the Turkish Rifle Brigade. Oliphant was able to shed some light on the local attitude to this invasion, having explored nearby villages with a guide and translator: Then we smoked pipes of Mingrelian tobacco which I found excellent. Over these we discussed politics and the men assured me that though they hated the Turks as much as the Russians, if an English or French army came they would be delighted to see 2

 Everill 2019; Everill 2012.  Tardy 1978, 85. 4  Dodd 1856, 466–67. 3

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them and give them every assistance in the shape of supplies &c. Whether this was genuine or only for my benefit I was unable to judge.5 However, the Mingrelian campaign was ultimately doomed by the sudden change in weather in late November 1855, with heavy rain sweeping away a number of bridges and making the River Tskhenitskali, the last obstacle between the Turkish army and the main Russian garrison at Kutaisi, impassable.

WARDROP’S AUTHENTIC DIPLOMACY Britain’s role in the region immediately after the First World War, during which it was conversely allied with Russia and against Turkey, was particularly complex. Following the overthrow of the Tsar, newly independent Georgia initially sought the protection of Germany primarily, perhaps, from the Turks for whom the withdrawal of the Imperial Russian army presented an opportunity to take swathes of territory from the Caucasus republics. However, by September 1918 the inevitable defeat of Germany and its allies, including Turkey, forced the Georgian government to emphasise its neutrality before looking to the likely victors to support its independence. Following the armistice with Bulgaria and the Ottoman empire, the British government despatched the 27th Division to the region to secure the Black Sea ports. By 1919 the primary British objective was to ensure that Caspian oil travelled west, through Georgia, rather than south to the Turkish nationalists or north to the Bolsheviks, however Lord Curzon, British Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs (1919–1924), was determined that Georgian sovereign territory was to be respected by Denikin’s Whites, the Armenians and the Reds. Curzon’s intent was signalled by his appointment of the noted Georgiaphile and scholar, (John) Oliver Wardrop, as British Chief Commissioner to the now independent Southern Caucasian republics, a move described by Wardrop’s successor, Harry Luke, as ‘an outstanding and all too rare example of the completely appropriate appointment’.6 Wardrop first travelled in Georgia in 1887, and the instant affection he felt for the country and its people is clear to see in the opening pages of the book he published the following year, The Kingdom of Georgia: Notes of Travel in a Land of Women, Wine and Song. There is no reason why Georgia should not become as popular a resort as Norway or Switzerland. It is not as far away as people imagine – you can go from London to Tiflis [Tbilisi], overland, in a week; it is as least as beautiful as either of the countries just named; it has the great advantage of being almost unknown to tourists; there is none of the impudent extortion which ruffles our tempers nearer home, and it is, after all, a cheaper place to travel in than Scotland. All these circumstances ought to have an influence on the holiday-maker in search of health and recreation. The botanist, the geologist, the archaeologist, the philologist will all find there mines of rich materials yet unknown to their respective sciences.7

5

 Oliphant 1856, 142.  Luke 1953, 100. 7  Wardrop 1977 [1888], vii–viii. 6

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In the concluding pages of this work Wardrop declared, with extraordinary prescience in 1888, ‘Should Russia ever become involved in a great war, Georgia would undoubtedly declare her independence, and endeavour to seize the Dariel Road; the Armenians and Lesghians would also revolt, each in their own way.’8 While continuing to study and publish on Georgian history and literature, including collaborations with his sister, Marjory, Wardrop pursued a diplomatic career and, when serving as consul in St Petersburg, he advocated on behalf of Georgia where Cossacks had responded brutally to the 1905 revolution. Returning to Georgia in 1919, Wardrop was warmly welcomed by the Menshevik government led by Noe Zhordania which recognised his heartfelt support for Georgian self-determination, and respect for Georgia’s unique culture and history. Luke, in reflecting on Wardrop’s departure from Tbilisi was struck by the genuine affection for him in Georgia. But in Wardrop’s case I felt that something deeper than mere hospitality and politeness underlay the Georgians’ farewell. They knew that, irrespective of régime, he had studied them, sympathized with them and loved them from his early youth. Despite criticism of Great Britain’s efforts on their behalf since the national revival, criticism which was often captious, they knew that he had done his utmost for them to the extent of impairing his health from overwork on their behalf. They knew that he was a sick man and they scarcely expected to see him again; and these unemotional hardbitten Realpolitiker Mensheviks were truly regretful at seeing him go.9

COMPETING AGENDA Despite Curzon’s best efforts, supported on the ground by Wardrop and Luke, the British political position was not clear-cut in practice. There were complex and often contradictory motivations at play, including the expressed desire of Churchill and others to undo the revolution and restore the monarchy, not always expressed with a diplomat’s skill. The British commander, General Thomson, told Zhordania that British objectives included the restoration of the Caucasian viceroyalty in the name of Russian authority. Britain desired to liberate the Caucasus from the Germans and the Bolsheviks; to re-establish order without interfering in the internal affairs of the country; to restore trade with the ports of Persia and other areas not occupied by Bolshevik Russia; and to provide for the movement of Allied military personnel over the Transcaucasian railways. Such a programme, particularly the first item, was naturally unacceptable to the Georgians. In the memoirs which he wrote years later, Zhordania contrasts the ‘genuinely noble, profoundly friendly and respectful’ manners of the German commander Kress von Kressenstein with the behaviour of the first British representative to arrive in Tbilisi – ‘like a sergeant major, coarse, rude, imperious and masterful’. At one point, the Georgians talked wildly of opposing by force the entry of British troops into their country. However, more conciliatory counsels prevailed. By the end of December 1918, Evgeni Gegechkori, who succeeded the pro-German Chkhenkeli 8

 Wardrop 1977 [1888], 166.  Luke 1953, 138.

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as Foreign Minister, was assuring the British Mission in Tbilisi that ‘the Georgian government, animated by the desire to work in harmony with the Allies for the realization of the principles of right and justice proclaimed by them, gives its consent to the entry of the troops’.10 The British 27th Division, deployed to the southern Caucasus in late 1918, was comprised of regular army units recalled from garrisons across the empire, including Canada, Hong Kong and India. It mobilised and assembled in November 1914 at Magdalen Hill camp outside Winchester before marching to Southampton, from where it was despatched to the Western Front in late December. It served there until the end of 1915 when it was ordered to the Macedonian front, where it spent the remainder of the war. From Bulgaria it was sent to undertake operations in the eastern Black Sea region from December 1918, when the first detachments of the British 27th Division arrived at the Adjaran port of Batumi (in modern Georgia but retaken by the Ottoman empire from Russia during World War One). Batumi was declared a free port and became a British protectorate under the governorship of Brigadier General James Cooke-Collis, and the rest of the 27th Division moved eastwards across the southern Caucasus. Divisional H.Q. was established in Tbilisi in January 1919 and by May detachments of the division were also in Batumi and Poti (modern Georgia), Gagra (Abkhazia), Baku and Julfa (Azerbaijan), Shusha (Nagorno-Karabakh), Yerevan (Armenia), Kars (Turkey), Krasnovodsk (modern Türkmenbaşy, Turkmenistan, on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea) and Petrovsk (modern Makhachkala, Dagestan, on the western shore of the Caspian Sea) where 221 Squadron and 266 Squadron, Royal Air Force were also based. Forming part of the British Army of the Black Sea, under the overall command of Lieutenant General Sir George Milne, the principal role of the 27th Division was to keep the peace and assist in the evacuation of ‘White Russian’ soldiers and civilians ahead of the advance of the Red Army. However, the units, supported by the Royal Navy’s Aegean Squadron which had moved into the Black Sea, attempted to slow the Bolshevik troops wherever possible. HMS Ark Royal transported Sopwith Camel and Airco de Havilland DH.9 aircraft to Batumi, and other ships, including HMS Liverpool, HMS Riviera, HMS Caradoc and HMS Calypso, fired on Red Army troop movements near the northern and eastern Black Sea coast. An interesting account of Georgia at this time, from a British perspective, is provided by Col. Alfred (‘Toby’), Rawlinson. Rawlinson was an Intelligence Officer; former Olympic polo player; racing driver; and aviator. Having served with distinction in Baku in 1918, he was once again despatched to the region in 1919 to gather information on subjects including the discipline of the White Army troops in the north Caucasus, and whether the Turks were abiding by the terms of the armistice in the south. He landed at Batumi on March 10th 1919, and travelled on to Tbilisi with the Chief of the General Staff at Constantinople, Major General George Cory, on the late Tsar’s Imperial train. Arriving in Tbilisi on March 11th he offers the following description: Tiflis itself is a most interesting city, and even at the time with which we are dealing it was hard to imagine, when there, that one was in the Caucasus. The town is finely 10

 Ramishvili 2010, quoted in Everill 2012.

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sited astride of the Koura River, which, rising on the old Russo-Turkish frontier, flows through Georgia and its eastern neighbour, the old Russian province of Baku (now the Republic of Azerbaijan), and falls eventually into the Caspian Sea, about 100 miles south of the town of Baku. The valley, rising by an easy slope to the north of the river, is well cultivated on that side; but to the south rises more abruptly till, within 2 miles of the river, almost precipitous heights are reached at 2,000 feet above the river level. The main public buildings and the better part of the city are situated between the river and the steep hillside on the south; the streets are well laid out, with electric light and trams, fine hotels, an opera-house, the old Royal palaces, and all the marks of Western civilisation.11 Rawlinson only spent about a month in Georgia, leaving Batumi for his next mission on April 11th 1919, however before departing he provides a fascinating anecdote to illustrate the plight of the Georgian aristocracy. He describes them as being, prior to the revolution, ‘wealthy and well educated’, and ‘refined and hospitable people’,12 but now stripped of their possessions and forced to take whatever menial work was available in order to avoid starvation. One most pathetic story came to my knowledge which well illustrates the sad state of these cultured families, upon whom, through no fault of their own, fell the cruellest effects of the revolution. One night some of our officers told me, they had ‘asked themselves’ to dinner with a charming Georgian family whom they knew to be actually starving in their own great house, without food, light, fire, or money to buy any of these things. Our men said they would bring their own food and fuel, if they might have the use of the big kitchen of the house to cook it in. So they collected provisions from everyone, and took care to take with them a supply which would leave over sufficient to keep the whole family for a week, until they could offer to come again without hurting the feelings of their hosts. A true and, I think, pretty story of the spirit which distinguishes the British Army, and which makes them welcomed the world over.13 While one might doubt the validity of his final statement, for anyone familiar with the proud Georgian traditions of good ‘hostliness’ (and good ‘guestliness’) this story represents a powerful moment of cultural sensitivity, perhaps because those traditions were also important in Britain then. Either way, it is a small, but wonderful example of the positive, personal impact of the British presence in Georgia in 1919, regardless of the political/ military failure to prevent the country falling into the hands of the Red Army. However, it was not long before the advance of the Red Army forced the 27th Division to begin the retreat from Azerbaijan on August 15th 1919. By September 7th 1919 Divisional H.Q. had been moved from Tbilisi to Batumi, before the commanding officer and general staff handed over control to the Governor-General. An Inter-allied force remained at Batumi until July 9th 1920, when the city was handed over to the Georgian 11

 Rawlinson 1924, 142.  Rawlinson 1924, 147. 13  Rawlinson 1924, 148. 12

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government. The Georgians rejoiced as the last British troops left Batumi, revelling in the reclamation of historic Georgian territory, but the British were in effect abandoning them to their fate. On February 25th 1921 the Red Army seized Tbilisi, completing the invasion and occupation of Georgia by March 18th, when the Menshevik government itself was forced to flee from Batumi to France. During this brief but very bloody war the British government under Lloyd George signed a trade agreement with Moscow in exchange for British non-involvement, and the Royal Naval units stationed in the Black Sea were ordered not to intervene.

CONCLUSION It is hardly surprising, in light of the events outlined above, that the historic role of Britain in Georgia has a mixed reception amongst the people of that country. It is very pleasing to be able to conclude by adding that formal diplomatic efforts since 1992, when they were re-established, have been rather more fruitful. Recent highlights have been the appointments of Denis Keefe (2007–10) and Justin McKenzie-Smith (2016–20) as British Ambassadors to Georgia, both of whom seem to share Wardrop’s affection for the country and aptitude for its language, and have been visitors to the collaborative project in Nokalakevi. At the time of writing we look forward to celebrating the twentieth season of the Anglo-Georgian Expedition in July 2020. Our own soft diplomacy has been bringing Georgian and British specialists and students together for many years, and the fact that the expedition’s longevity is itself founded on friendship perhaps explains its remarkable character. There is one important aspect that does need to be addressed, however, and that is the fact that the Anglo-Georgian Expedition has not yet had the good fortune of being able to be host to Gocha during its field season in Nokalakevi. If this humble contribution to Gocha’s well-earned Festschrift achieves one thing, it can only be hoped that it might be the acceptance of an invitation to join us for a celebration of Anglo-Georgian friendship.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Dodd, G. 1856: Pictorial History of the Russian War 1854–5–6 (Edinburgh/London). Everill, P. 2012: ‘Excavating a memory: The British in Georgia 1918–1920’. AS 62, 153–62. —. 2019: ‘Travellers’ Tales of Mingrelia and of the ancient fortress of Nokalakevi’. Ancient West and East 18, 195–224. Luke, (Sir) H.C. 1953: Cities and Men: An Autobiography 2: Ægean, Cyprus, Turkey, Transcaucasia and Palestine (1914–1924) (London). Oliphant, L. 1856: The Trans-Caucasian Campaign of the Turkish Army under Omar Pasha: A Personal Narrative (Edinburgh/London). Ramishvili, L. 2010: Independent Georgia (1918–1921) (http://matiane.wordpress.com/2010/02/ 15/independent-georgia-1918-1921) (consulted November 2010). Rawlinson, T.A. 1924: Adventures in the Near East 1918–1922, 3rd ed. (London). Tardy, L. 1978: ‘The Caucasian peoples and their neighbours in 1404’. Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 32.1, 83–111. Wardrop, J.O. 1888: The Kingdom of Georgia: Notes of Travel in a Land of Women, Wine and Song (London; repr. 1977).

BETWEEN EAST AND WEST: MEMORIES OF THE COLD WAR Oswyn MURRAY

venio in campos et lata praetoria memoriae (St Augustine) And somewhere from the dim ages of history the truth dawned upon Europe that the morrow would obliterate the plans of today. Preparations for the slaughter of mankind have always been made in the name of God or some supposed higher being which men have devised and created in their own imagination. Jaroslav Hašek, The Good Soldier Schweik

The 20th century was the bloodiest century since the 17th for the persecution of intellectuals. After the collapse of confidence in bourgeois liberalism in the trenches of the First World War, the terrors unleashed by Communism, Fascism, Nazism and the threat of nuclear destruction devastated the Western intelligentsia more effectively than any wars of religion. At a certain point one wakes up to discover that one has become truly an ‘ancient historian’ (as I declared my profession to be on my first passport: no-one understood, except an Italian frontier official – ‘Ah la storia antica’). That is, one has become not an historian, but a part of history itself. I was born in 1937,1 my generation came of age in the 1950s, and was dominated by the propaganda of the Cold War. In 1956 I was conscripted into the British army to fight Communism, but instead was assigned to the invasion of the Suez Canal; fortunately the Americans ordered the British to withdraw before we went out as the second wave of the occupying force. I had already decided to become a deserter, because we, who were busy painting our vehicles sand-coloured with a big white H on top (since it was intended that the Israelis should destroy the Egyptian air force before the invasion), already believed that the expedition was the result of a corrupt and secret plot between Britain, France and Israel; this fact is now revealed by the memoir of Patrick Dean, the junior British official who conducted the negotiations. The British Prime Minister burned his copy of the agreement in the fireplace of 10 Downing Street, the French copy is ‘lost’; but the Israelis preserved theirs, and it is available on the World Wide Web.2 That taught me the essential lesson that foreign policy is always based on lies, and that politicians and generals are fools who do not understand the nature of the historical 1  If I had been born five years earlier, I would have been killed in the Korean War; for my battery in the Royal Artillery (170 Imjin Battery) fought at the Battle of the Imjin River in 1951 alongside the ‘Glorious Glosters’, and like them was wiped out. 2  A full account in Shlaim 1997.

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forces that they unleash. The aborted invasion of Egypt resulted only in the destruction of yet another of the greatest and most civilised cities of the modern world – Alexandria, which once again rots in decay after the expulsion of all Italians, Greeks and Jews: the city of Cavafy, Ungaretti and Laurence Durrell was destroyed by the stupidity of politicians along with Smyrna and Salonica, and perhaps now London.3 The same year the Soviets invaded Hungary, but because of the moral corruption of the West we were unable to intervene. Instead I spent the rest of my military service defending the non-existent frontier between Northern Ireland and the Republic, until I was demobbed with a resoundingly ambiguous testimonial to two years military service: ‘Somewhat lacking in initiative and drive. But this (what?) should be more apparent in his civilian life’. I had clearly joined the honourable ranks of the Good Soldier Schweik. So I went to Oxford University and entered the ancient Republic of Letters, where I vowed to devote myself to ignoring the Iron Curtain that we were not supposed to penetrate. Friendship was my only weapon. Most of my teachers were second-rate historians, whose careers had been stunted by four years of war work. The intellectual life of the academic world was sustained by the Jewish refugees who had fled Nazi persecution in the 1930s. I was saved by two great figures of this diaspora, both of them connected to the Warburg Institute, which had transported itself from Hamburg to London in 1934. The first was the art historian Ernst Gombrich (1909–2001), director of the Warburg from 1959 to 1972, who opened my eyes to the visual element in history. The second was my doctoral supervisor Arnaldo Momigliano (1908–87), the most learned historian of his age, a refugee from Fascist Italy. It was from him that I learned the importance of the classical tradition for the defence of European culture. As a penniless graduate student, I made money by teaching Latin to less than enthusiastic young women. I recall a traumatic moment on 27th October 1962, the day of the Cuban missile crisis. We were translating Ovid’s Ars amatoria (which I had selected as a suitable text to interest a bored young girl), when I became aware of an immense throbbing noise in the air: in order not to be caught on the ground, all the B52 bombers from the American airbases were circling above Oxford, fully armed with nuclear warheads. I continued my lesson, reflecting that if this was to be the last day of Western Civilisation, there could be no better way to die ‘waiting for the barbarian’ than studying Ovid. Nevertheless it caused me to join the Aldermaston march of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in 1963.4 My first Eastern friend was the Polish archaeologist and papyrologist, Zbigniew Borkowski (1936–91). In 1970 the Fondation Hardt in Switzerland was the only place where Western and Eastern scholars could meet; we bonded late at night over the Baron’s last bottle of whisky. We agreed that we had both been fools deluded by propaganda: we searched vainly for the Red Star in the night sky. Zbigniew told me that he had once 3

 Mazower 2004; Haag 2004. I finally visited Alexandria in November 2014.  The Aldermarston Marches from the Nuclear Weapons Research Establishment, Aldermaston to central London (52 miles) were a mass protest against nuclear weapons that began in 1958; organised by the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament they took place at Easter each year, and had a considerable effect on public opinion and ultimately government policy. 4

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been a member of the Communist Youth: ‘I am so convinced I even denounce my grandmother because she is reactionary’. ‘But I thought all grandmothers were by definition reactionary’. ‘Yes’, he replied with Polish Catholic logic, ‘But she is MY grandmother’. Zbigniew taught me to understand the holes that allowed transit through the Iron Curtain.5 In 1946 the great papyrologist Raphael Taubenschlag had gathered in Warsaw the best collection of legal papyri, and founded the very specialised Journal of Juristic Papyrology. In the Communist era, because of his connexion with the Polish Communist leadership, it was thought essential to maintain its publication; so Polish papyrologists were permitted to travel abroad to Western institutions to consult other collections. While on a mission in Syria (to Palmyra?) Zbigniew and his group were ordered to go to Alexandria and transform themselves into archaeologists (where he published the inscriptions from the late Roman hippodrome). They sent a telegram, ‘Arrivons jeudi complètement ivres’. The reason for this sudden change of career was hidden deep in the economic arcana of the Cold War. After Suez the Soviets were secretly rearming the Egyptians with weapons made mainly in Czecho-Slovakia. But the Egyptians had no foreign currency to pay for these weapons. So the Soviets ordered the Poles to undertake major excavations and restoration work in Egypt, in order to supply the necessary Soviet bloc currency.6 Thus archaeology was turned into armaments. Later Zbigniew visited Oxford to work on the Oxyrhynchus archive, and lived with me. In the summer evenings after work we would depart with a bottle of whisky in my camping van to the woods nearby, and spend the night singing Russian folksongs – the most haunting one I remember was ‘The girl on the high trapeze’. He would talk of the trackless forests of eastern Poland that we would one day visit together. Alas, 20 years later he died on just such an expedition, unwilling to go to hospital for a minor complaint. In the late 1970s I met Gert Audring from the East German Academy of Sciences when he was on an official visit to England: he invited me to visit East Berlin. I well remember the fear with which I passed through Checkpoint Charlie, famous from so many spy stories: Gert was waiting for me discreetly hidden about a hundred yards into the Soviet Zone, and showed me round the remnants of former German culture, the Altes Museum, the Pergamum Museum, the opera house Unter den Linden and the other side of the Berlin Wall. He was very brave to offer friendship to a Western colleague. It was then that I formed the opinion that one day Germany might perhaps be reunited; but no, all my young West German colleagues said it was impossible. I have not seen Audring since the reunification of 1992 but know that he has devoted himself to publishing the papers of the ancient historian Eduard Meyer. Gert told me that if I ever went to Prague I must visit the great epigraphist and archaeologist, Jan Pecirka (1926–93), who possessed the best collection of Western books in the East, thanks to his friend in Cambridge, Moses Finley, who would send them to him: every Eastern scholar, he said, would visit Pecirka in his private flat for study, despite the fact that he had been expelled from the university for political reasons.  Years later I read the wonderful book of Ryszard Kapuscinski, Travels with Herodotus, and understood the great gulf that separated Poland from the West in the 1950s. 6  See Borkowski 1981; Szafrański 2001. 5

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Later I did indeed visit him, towards the end of his life: his work in the Crimea had been prevented and he was a very bitter man. He died in 1993. My visit to Prague was for the 16th Eirene conference in 1982, at the invitation of Pavel Oliva. The previous year I had invited him to come to Oxford to give a set of lectures on ancient Sparta as the visiting ‘Nellie Wallace Lecturer’. We took great care with the invitation, since we knew that Oliva was in trouble with the authorities: before issuing the formal invitation we had sent a private letter via a friend in the Netherlands to ask him whether he would like to be invited: he replied in the affirmative. And to our surprise he was allowed to visit together with his wife Vera Olivova. This was perhaps the first sign of that perestroika of 1986, when Gorbachev admitted he had been inspired by the ‘Socialism with a human face’ of Dubček of Czecho-Slovakia. Something was moving in the Soviet bloc. The reason for Oliva’s difficulties was that despite being a senior member of the Czech Academy and well known in the West, he had been involved in the Prague spring of 1968, and his wife had signed the famous Charter; unfortunately shortly afterwards in 1972 her book on Tomáš Masaryk had (without her knowledge) been translated into English under the inflammatory title The Doomed Democracy. Before the secret police could arrest her, medical friends certified her insane, and she spent the next five years in a mental hospital, where as long as she was a patient she could not be dismissed from her university post; finally she was declared ‘cured’ and returned to the university, but was not allowed to write on modern history: instead she became an expert on ancient sport (in her youth she had been an international athlete). The problems of the Olivas were further compounded by the fact that both their children had recently fled to the West. Nevertheless they came to Oxford and were made members of Balliol College common room. I recall a moment during a guest night in Balliol, where the college silver is laid out and good food and vintage wine are served. As we sat talking in the common room after dinner, suddenly with her characteristic honesty and directness Vera said, ‘How strange it is that here we are sitting in all this luxury, and 35 years ago Pavel was a starving boy walking barefoot across Europe with the SS guards from one concentration camp to another.’ ‘Yes’, added Pavel, with a melancholy smile of regret, ‘and now perhaps you understand why I joined the Communist Party. I wanted a better world.’ In that moment, which I have never forgotten, I first fully understood the reality of the history which we had experienced and the futility of the Cold War; that was reinforced later the next year, when I was one of the few Western scholars to attend the Eirene conference, and met so many colleagues from Eastern Europe; then too I visited the exhibition of art by my exact contemporaries, the Jewish children of the concentration camps who had not survived the war, and reflected on the suffering which everyone in our generation had known, directly or indirectly. That visit to Prague was memorable in so many other ways. Oliva took me round the university; every so often we would meet an elderly man with a brush wearing worker’s overalls, and Pavel would formally introduce me to the Professor of Mediaeval History or Philosophy: they were all victims of the purge after 1968, but their colleagues still treated them as if they were in post. I began to respect the wit and ingenuity whereby the Czechs were circumventing the Communist system, worthy indeed of the good soldier Schweik.

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The level of dissidence among Eastern classical scholars at the conference was obvious. The Russians had been ordered to give their communications in Russian; the majority insisted on speaking French. The conference was very friendly and everyone was keen to speak to the few Western scholars who had come; only when a member of the East German delegation entered the room, would they all suddenly fall silent. We went on an expedition to Konopištĕ, the hunting lodge of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. It was the most effective piece of propaganda against the former ruling classes of Europe that I have ever seen: every inch of the walls was decorated with stuffed birds and animals, all meticulously listed in books recording their massacre by the crowned heads of Europe in great shooting expeditions across India, Africa, the Far East and Europe. I began to understand that the First World War had been simply an extension of this royal pre-war shooting party, in which they were using machine guns to exterminate the peasants and the working classes for their pleasure. We took our lunch at Konopištĕ, and I sat with Prof. Irena Svencickaya (1929–2006) and her husband. The meat was surprisingly good: ‘Do you have meat like this in Moscow?’ I asked; ‘In Moscow we have no meat’, she replied, and pointed across the room to a handsome young man with a broken arm in plaster (much younger than any of the rest of the Russian contingent – where had he got that broken arm? I thought), ‘That is the KGB man’, she said in a conversational tone. My English philosophy colleague said brightly ‘Oh, I thought he was a poet.’ I lost all faith in philosophy. Later I told this story to a young Roumanian scholar, Manuela Tecusan; the Roumanians were housed apart from all the other delegates in a hostel far from the centre of Prague. ‘We have a KGB man’, she said mournfully, ‘But we do not know who he is.’ We kept in touch with Pavel and Vera, and I contributed to his Festschrift in 1999;7 I was delighted to meet Pavel again on a second visit to Prague in 2014. His wife was already ill, and died in 2015. Manuela Tecusan was a Roumanian rebel, who had been inspired by her uncle Petru Cretia (1927–97), professor of Greek, poet and literary critic, the great expert on Eminescu, in ideals of classical education that went back to the 1930s. She was fluent in French and English, and was determined to escape from Communism. She was helping her uncle prepare the first translation of Plato into Roumanian; at great personal risk she contributed an article on Plato’s sympotic writings to my book Sympotica (1990), and I would send her classical texts and lexica to Roumania: sometimes these would be returned as subversive literature, but they usually got through on the second attempt. Finally Manuela escaped to England. Because she had not been a party member she had been prevented from studying for a doctorate; so I persuaded the students at Balliol to appoint her as a refugee scholar, paid for by their personal contributions; and she studied for a doctorate with me, which eventually won the Conington Prize as the best classical thesis of the year.8 She now lives in Cambridge. Through Manuela my wife and I became friends with Petru Cretia, who visited us in Oxford in 1989. On 20th December Petru was due to return to Bucharest. He decided to compose an open ‘birthday letter’ of denunciation of Ceausescu, and we helped him 7 8

 Eirene 35 (1999) (in honorem Pavel Oliva).  Symposion and Philosophy (Oxford 1993), alas still unpublished.

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translate it into English: he declared his intention of leaving it to be broadcast on the BBC Roumanian service as he returned. I knew that he was signing his own death warrant, but could not dissuade him. The day of his departure it was raining torrentially; and I wandered for hours through the streets of Oxford, distraught and wondering what I could do to save him. Finally I decided that the only chance was to publish his text in English in the Times newspaper, in the hope that the resulting publicity in the west might protect him from summary execution. Through friends on the newspaper the essay was published next day, on the 21st December, the same day on which Ceausescu fell from power. Later I discovered that Petru had not gone home on arrival, but had hidden for several days underneath the railway arches until it was safe to emerge. Petru subsequently became the editor of a literary journal and a leading politician in the chaotic new party system. He visited us once again, but died in 1997. With the arrival of perestroika and glasnost, personal relations between Eastern and Western scholars became easier. But Western governments did not respond; they were still imprisoned (as they are today) in a Cold War mentality, and simply tried to capitalise on the economic and political difficulties in the Soviet bloc. So I established a research programme which would offer bursaries for young scholars throughout Europe, but especially from the East. This was called Bibliotheca Academica Translationum, and aimed to create a bibliographical database of all translations of works of classical scholarship between all European languages. The idea was to offer travel awards to young scholars across Europe, so that they could work on the project in their own and foreign libraries. It was moderately successful and still continues, funded first by Oxford University and the British Arts and Humanities Research Council, then by the European Union, Googlebooks and the Onassis Foundation, and based first in Oxford, then in Paris and now in Athens. We established links with young scholars in France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Greece, Russia, Hungary and the USA. One of my earliest contacts was with a remarkable man, Gregory Bongard-Levin of the Russian Academy of Sciences, who did more than any other individual to protect and promote classical studies in the difficult days of the collapse of the Russian economy. He was a wise and good friend who is sadly missed. He had devised a similar scheme which created funds for young Russian scholars, by using his contacts to obtain for them short study trips to Western libraries: these travel bursaries, small enough by Western standards, provided Western currency sufficient to enable them to live for three or four years in Russia. So the leaders of the next generation were preserved for Russian scholarship. Sergei Karpyuk, editor of Vestnik Drevnei Istorii, was one of Bongard-Levin’s beneficiaries, who has become a close friend, and has stayed with us twice on his visits to Britain. It was through this connexion that I first travelled to Moscow and to the excavations at Anapa (Gorgippia) on the Black Sea, where I met Prof. G.A. Koshelenko (1935–2015), the teacher of another beneficiary of such East-West contacts who later came on a Soros scholarship to Oxford, my former pupil, the Georgian scholar Gocha Tsetskhladze whom we are honouring in this volume. The Bibliotheca Academica Translationum contacts also provided me with another friend in Hungary, Attila Ferenczi of Budapest, with whom we now have reciprocal ties of hospitality. In September 1996 I was invited to tour the sites of the Crimea by my former pupil Raymond Asquith, attaché at the British embassy in the Ukraine (and himself a major

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protagonist in the Cold War, whose ancestor had taken part in the ‘charge of the Light Brigade’ during the Crimean War, and returned with a captured Russian musket, which is still in the family). Together we visited the classical sites of the Crimea at a time when the archaeological service was deprived of virtually all funds: I was amazed at the dedication of archaeologists who were working without regular pay to preserve one of the greatest collections of classical sites in the world: in particular I think of one young girl who was spending the winter in a pair of metal shipping containers at the site of Kalos Limen, supplied only with food from a friend at the local collective farm, in an attempt to prevent the peasantry from stealing the foundation stones to use as hard core in the entrances to their fields: she said it was better than being an out-of-work secretary. We also met the staff of the museum and site at Chersonesus, surviving in their historic monastery only because of a dispute between the Ukrainian and Russian orthodox churches. A second visit with Raymond in 2013 occurred just before the Russian annexation of the Crimea, which has once again put in jeopardy the future of this World Heritage Site.9 In 1995 in preparation for the attempt to wrest the Olympic Games from the stranglehold of the west, contacts with China began to open up. One of the first visitors to Oxford was the doyen of Chinese western ancient historians, Prof. Wang Dunshu, who has established at Nankai University (where my great-uncle started a missionary university around 1905) a graduate school of Western Classical Historiography which is now the largest in the world. Initially it was intended to produce experts in every ancient Western language from Sumerian to Egyptian, Greek and Latin; now it seems to specialise especially in Silk Route studies. I assume this enterprise is part of a programme of world domination: since the first principle in understanding Chinese civilisation is the study of the teachings of Confucius, it was assumed that successful diplomacy with the West must begin from training diplomats in the origins of Western civilisations, despite the fact that these have long been forgotten in our cultures. We invited Wang Dunshu to dinner to meet some Oxford colleagues. Halfway through the meal he said ‘this wine is not strong enough, have you anything stronger?’10 After some thought I produced a bottle of vintage Grappa, of which he proceeded to drink half. When the meal was over we began to discuss the differences between Western and Chinese political systems. Wang Dunshu emphasised the importance of calligraphy, poetry and dancing in the training of the traditional Chinese elite (he himself was a survival from the mandarin class, whose great uncle had passed out top in the Imperial Chinese Civil Service examinations in these three skills, and had immediately been appointed in his twenties as ambassador to the whole of South America). He told us that the current rulers of China were still experts in ballroom dancing, which they had learned as impoverished refugees in the dance-halls of Paris in the 1920s: Chou En-lai was especially famed for his skill at the foxtrot and the quickstep – all that is except Chairman Mao, who had no sense of rhythm (although of course he married a dancer). This seemed a damning criticism of the Great Leader. Wang Dunshu ended with a display of the 9

 For the earlier story of archaeology at this historic site see the excellent anonymous account, entitled ‘About Chersonesos competent but not officially’: www.chersonesos.org/p=museum_hist&l=eng. 10  Subsequently I learned that in Chinese the same word is used to denote all forms of alcohol.

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forgotten art of performing ancient Chinese drinking songs accompanied by dancing that reminded me of Plato’s Laws. As a consequence of this friendship I was invited to partake in the First International Congress of Ancient World Historians at Nankai University (Tianjin), and subsequently visited by primitive coach and train the ancient capitals from Xian onwards, and crossed the Gobi desert to the Buddhist caves of Dunhuang and the cities of Turfan, Urumchi and Kashgar along the Silk Road. We returned on a decrepid plane borrowed from Uzbeki Airlines which had the unfortunate reputation of a mere 60% of successful flights. Twenty years later I was invited to another conference at Nankai, and participated in another Silk Road trip, this time in brand new aeroplanes and through brand new airports, as if several centuries had intervened. One comment from our first proceedings stays in my mind. Prof. Lin Zhi-chun in his nineties asked why Western scholars had been invited to the conference: after all, he said, the West kept forgetting its past, and was always having to have renaissances, whereas China had been a continuous civilisation for 5000 years. This reminded me of the rebuke of the Egyptian priests to Herodotus: ‘You Greeks are but children compared to us Egyptians.’ These memories are of course tiny footnotes in the black history of a century of intellectual persecution; but when I look back in my eighties I feel that I have tried to uphold the traditions of the ancient Republic of Letters that were defended in 1914 by my greatgrandfather, Sir James Murray, editor of the Oxford English Dictionary. In his son’s unpublished biography there appears the following passage: In 1914 he applauded the decision to join in the War, and, though he refused to sign the manifesto of Oxford Professors in the autumn of the year lest his doing so should be inimical to the interests of the Dictionary, he wrote to friends in South Africa in grateful recognition of what the Dominions were doing in aid of the mother country.11 And in 2015, in preparation for a talk on the centenary of his death, among the unsorted papers of Sir James Murray (Bodleian Library) in the box relating to 1914, under the rubric ‘undated’, I discovered the following letter: 82 Woodstock Road Oct 15th [of course 1914] Dear Sir James Thank you for your letter. I fully understand your position and think you are quite right not to sign. After all there will be peace some day & we must not imperil the Dictionary. Yours very sincerely Gilbert Murray

11  H.J.R. Murray, Sir James Murray, editor of the OED, typescript ms. p. 276 (copies in the OED archives and the Bodleian Library).

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These somewhat opaque references relate to a famous series of episodes in September and October 1914, which began with a letter to the Times of 18th September, known as ‘The Writers’ Manifesto’, organised by his namesake (no relation), the great Liberal professor of Greek, Gilbert Murray (later founder of the League of Nations Union): this was signed by most of the ‘eminent writers’ of the age: it denounced German atrocities and militarism and renounced all contact with German colleagues. In turn the Germans responded with a pamphlet addressed to the world of culture, An die Kulturwelt!, signed by 93 of the most eminent scientists, artists, musicians and academics in Germany.12 The British responded in the Times of 21st October with a ‘Reply to German Professors. Reasoned Statement by British Scholars’, signed by 118 eminent academics from all the universities of Britain, including its protagonist Gilbert Murray. Similar actions were taken in France and Italy: honorary degrees and memberships of academies were rescinded and eternal enmity against ‘the Huns’ was declared. Ulrich von WilamowitzMoellendorff, one of the protagonists of the German response, defiantly listed among his honours that of being a deposed member of the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. As he recognised in his post-war memoirs, this was the definitive end to 400 years of the international Republic of Letters: it poisoned relations between European intellectuals on both sides of the conflict until at least 1926, in which year Germans and Austrians were first readmitted to any international academic conference.13 It was not in fact until the diaspora of Jewish intellectuals expelled by Hitler that the wounds were healed, or at least superseded in a new crisis. In both the letters to the Times of September and October 1914 the name of James Murray is absent. It is not at all easy to discover the very few intellectuals on either side who joined him in refusing to sign such declarations renouncing their friendship with the enemy; but they include some of the greatest names of the 20th century, such as the philosopher Bertrand Russell, the Irishmen George Bernard Shaw and W.B. Yeats in Britain, G.F. Nicolai (professor of medicine) and his friend Albert Einstein (who together created a counter-organisation for peace), the mathematician David Hilbert, and the authors Stefan Zweig and Hermann Hesse in the German-speaking world, Romain Rolland in France, and the composers Puccini, Leoncavallo and Mascagni in Italy.14 I have kept the faith of my great-grandfather. But will the Republic of Letters survive the triumph of ruthless capitalism and nationalism that is the curse of the 21st century: only the next generation can answer that question. We have kept faith, but will you?15  von Ungern-Sternberg 1996; cf. Norton 2008; Horne and Kramer 2001.  German and Austrian scholars were only readmitted to meetings of the CVA in 1930. 14  It is a pleasure to recall that my ancestor’s friendship and respect for the world of scholarship was reciprocated by some of his colleagues on the opposite side. He had been a corresponding member of the Vienna Royal Academy since 1905; in 1916 it published an obituary by Karl Luick, which ends with these warm words: ‘Aus seine Rede klang Tatkraft und Ausdauer, aber auch Wohlwollen. Gleich Furnivall war er immer bereit, deutsche Mitforschung anzuerkennen. Wie viele ihrer Träger haben in seinem “Scriptorium” und seinem gastfreundlichen Hause in Oxford angeregte Stunden verbracht!’ (Luick 1916). 15  These memories were shared with colleagues and students of the ELTE University Budapest in June 2019, in the presence of Prof. Zsigmond Ritoók, who had himself been involved in the events of 1956. It was also presented to a meeting of the European Network for the Study of Ancient Greek History at Utrecht in October 2019, where I received a standing ovation. A version of this paper will also appear in the first issue of a new on-line journal History of Classical Scholarship, edited by my friend Lorenzo Calvelli of Venice. 12 13

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Borkowski, Z. 1981: Inscriptions des factions à Alexandrie (Alexandrie 2) (Warsaw). Haag, M. 2004: Alexandria City of Memory (New Haven). Horne, J. and Kramer, A. 2001: German Atrocities 1914: A History of Denial (New Haven). Kapuscinski, R. 2007: Travels with Herodotus (London). Luick, K. 1916: ‘Sir James A.H. Murray. Gestorben am 26. Juli 1915’. Almanach der kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Vienna), 426–30. Mazower, M. 2004: Salonica City of Ghosts (London). Norton, R.E. 2008: ‘Wilamowitz at War’. International Journal of the Classical Tradition 15, 74–97. Shlaim, A. 1997: ‘The Protocol of Sèvres, 1956: Anatomy of a War Plot’. International Affairs 73, 509–30. Szafrański, Z.E. (ed.) 2001: Queen Hatshepsut and her Temple 3500 years later (Cairo). von Ungern-Sternberg, J. and W. 1996: Der Aufruf “An die Kulturwelt!” das Manifest der 93 und die Anfänge der Kriegspropoganda im Ersten Weltkrieg (Historische Mitteilungen der RankeGesellschaft Beiheft 18) (Stuttgart).

WHAT DO THEY KNOW OF LEARNING WHO ONLY UNIVERSITIES KNOW? SURVIVING THE DYSTOPIA OF AUSTRALIAN TERTIARY EDUCATION* James HARGRAVE In memory of Frank Knopfelmacher, a great invectivist

My academic interests are sufficiently removed from those of the other contributors that whatever I wrote would be an uneasy fit. In that knowledge I embark on the following polemic on tertiary education in Australia: many who have worked or studied in universities, particularly the public universities of the English-speaking world, will find something depressingly familiar. I have ‘adopted’ various things I saw happening to others (among whom are contributors to this volume) as I witnessed the final decline of the Republic of Letters, ‘the systematic debasement of … academic life over the last two decades’, as Fergus Millar wrote in an obituary nearly two decades ago, and the rise and triumph of a meritocracy lacking anything meritorious but with a deal that is meretricious. The current Australian university ‘system’ owes much to a politician called Dawkins – shot-gun mergers, vast scale, oppressive one-size-fits-all, expansionism, i.e. far too many students in institutions that are far too large – as Commonwealth Minister for Employment, Education and Training (a ministry that employed not a single schoolteacher).1 In the words of one commentator: ‘Australian universities are some of the most expensive Potemkin villages ever contrived.’2 Dystopia (and myopia), abound, far removed from the impression given by the extensive marketing and advertising indulged in. Little has needed to be said about Sydney since David Stove’s description of its Faculty of Arts as ‘a disaster area, and not of the merely passive kind, like a bombed building, or an area that has been flooded. It is the active kind like a badly-leaking nuclear reactor, or an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in cattle.’3 Overall, Australian universities are not simply left-wing madrassas, they are now immigration agencies with a side order of ideological indoctrination, their distance from learning measured by their self-obsession, * This piece would not have been possible without W. Anderson, T. Burnard, M. Considine, G. Davis and, especially, M. King. It was written before Australia locked itself away in an inept response to a virus. 1  He quit politics not long after an incident in which his bullying behaviour, when Treasurer, towards a young public servant caused her superior, a much later Secretary to the Treasury, to suggest that, unless an apology were forthcoming, the minister might find his teeth down the back of his throat (pers. comm.). Dawkins has since repented of his university policy. 2  Coleman 2019a, 3. 3  Stove 1986. The most recent monograph by the current dean is Orgasmology, ‘taking orgasm as its scholarly object … to think queerly about questions of politics and pleasure; practice and subjectivity; agency and ethics’; other wondrous areas of research include ‘Multispecies Justice’ and ‘Ecological Poetics’. My thanks for this to Bella d’Abrera of the Institute of Public Affairs, Melbourne.

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politicisation and an incoherent rage at the possibility of entertaining dissent within their ranks – places of intellectual torpor if not turpitude. Whereas senior leadership positions were once occupied by devoted and highly-respected scholars who effused the high values of academe, nurturing a collegiate and open-minded ethos, now they are filled by folk careerist, technocratic and corporatist in outlook, often outsiders to the university or academe, with scant interest in, and no time for understanding, the motivating values of scholarship, debate and the free exchange of ideas. These are institutions with a great future behind them, a form of modern torment that matches anything Ovid might offer in Ibis. As many have come to realise, at least in Australia, modern universities actually subtract knowledge and replace it with politics. * * * I never expected to become one of the principal backers of an archaeological excavation, but I had no doubt that I should when asked in early 2009 for financial help by Gocha Tsetskhladze, who had (prematurely) ‘inherited’ the Pessinus excavation in Central Anatolia from Ghent, in order to keep it afloat while he looked for longer-term, larger-scale funding (I had supported his Phanagoria excavation modestly a decade prior); and I felt sufficient confidence to recommend family and old friends contribute too. It was my less pleasant task to act as a reader of the draft application to the Australian Research Council (the ARC, which inhabits the groves of acronym better than those of academe; sensibly, it came up with a very large award), not through lack of enthusiasm but in mounting dismay that taxpayers should have to fund such a bizarre organisation (it exhibited no enthusiasm to recover monies left at the end of the project despite repeated attempts by Gocha to interest it in conserving public resources): hopelessly provincial and out of touch, and manically prescriptive in what it requires (down to typeface and font size). It sponsored journal rankings, starting after these had demonstrably failed in ‘Europe’, and despite being warned that no other fate could be expected to befall them in Australia (where the compliant culture of too many home-grown academics produced fewer objections), trumpeting the great success of this bovine idea to the very day that it was bundled out for unmarked midnight burial at a crossroads: no experience of the practical failure of a policy could shake its faith in its essential excellence. By comparison, the procedures of similar bodies in ex-Communist, even ex-Soviet, states are models of clarity and simplicity which the denizens of ‘Moscow on the Molonglo’ (in the insightful phrase of Max Corden, an Australian academic economist, on his return from the USA) might usefully follow. Based on my experience, I suggested, tongue half in cheek, that research councils be ranked (‘Rank Nonsense’, a letter in The Australian, 17 November 2010 – giving the ARC beta double minus at best), an idea that drew stony-faced expressions of incredulity from various university lickspittles incapable of understanding either a stab at humour or that one could have ‘the doubts’ about such a universally exalted body (like doubting the ‘world-class’ Australian Electoral Commission until it lost a ballot box required for a recount, thus causing a six-seat Senate by-election in Western Australia).4 4  The letter focused on the crassness of journal rankings, the specious solidity of ‘metrics’, the quantification of the un-quantifiable (‘not everything that can be counted counts and not everything that counts

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Despite its good sense in giving money, the ARC is a fundamentally flawed organisation, even by the low standards of Canberra, and should itself be buried forthwith: its distribution of grants might be done more cheaply and expeditiously, albeit randomly (though possibly to greater public good), by a modified version of the gambling machines prevalent in many Australian drinking dens. Nevertheless, it is as nothing when compared with the self-satisfied parochialism of Melbourne, somewhere that could thank me for the donation without spelling my name consistently or correctly. It is a fine specimen of an Australian university, an exemplar of a ‘crook’ system in which too many are led by shonky spruikers.5 The defective spelling was at the hands of ‘one of Australia’s most respected and highly cited … specialists’ in a debased discipline (proof-reading not his forte; and citation does not mean approval); he is now a university Tánaiste (in defiance of the Peter Principle, already tested in his then appointment, and in his reappointment for a second term).6 can be counted’, attributed to Einstein), etc. The suggestion about the ARC was thrown in as a coda. The ARC’s research assessment exercise (‘Excellence in Research Australia’, alias ERA – rhyming with error?) had a category ‘better than world class’, too easily prompting the jibe: ‘What planet do these people live on?’ (one could still, thanks to enforced use of drop-down boxes, in a country with a hefty South Slav population, co-operate with ‘Yugoslavia’ in ARC applications as late as 2009). This is a world where irony is something done to laundry and onomastics a form of self-abuse. Let me mention too the many layers of interference from a university before an application even reaches the ARC, most of them, it seems, aiming to homogenise applications and make them as boring as possible for anyone reading them – but it is deemed necessary to feed the obese grant-administering bureaucracies within the universities. All of this has become worse in the decade since; I like to think that Pessinus obtained a large grant, in part, because of an attractive, enthusiastic and individualistic application, not one filled with the usual anodyne platitudes and ‘buzz words’. It also seems that all communication between grant-awarder and grant-holder is ‘filtered’ through these intermediaries (i.e. censored by them). ‘Rigidification’ is the word preferred in Hil 2012, a scathing account of life in the Australian university world, full of incidences of the casual incompetence that infuses it, written by a British import (not a ‘whingeing Pom’, but further indication of the supine nature of too many Australian academics, aquiescence their our most notable trait), who (p. 131) quotes the Chancellor of the Australian National University: ‘Trying to get everyone to produce research to some sort of “world standard” – whatever that means – is destined to be an absolutely ludicrous, lamentable failure.’ Absolutely. Now, I understand, people have to submit a grant application every other year to be considered ‘Research Active’. To quote one: ‘It’s just a big pain. I felt like the university benefited from the money more than I did.’ 5  Cain and Hewitt 2004 had already analysed the failings of the place under the Gilbert regime; after a brief interregnum, matters worsened under Davis’s new order: ‘the Melbourne model’ of broad and bland courses devoid both of teachers enthusiastic to teach them and of students keen to take them (to the predictable and predicted benefit of other institutions further down the league tables); no longer spoken of and, under the next Taoiseach, probably to go the same way as journal rankings. From the cover of Cain and Hewitt: ‘… [Melbourne has] lost its way. A burgeoning central administration is directing policy; academic staff feel alienated and out of the loop; the University Council has been sidelined; and academic standards are falling … cut through the rhetoric that cloaks this esteemed institution…, in its brash marketing and selfpromotion [it] has lost sight of its fundamental role…’. The Grafton Everest campus novels of Ross Fitzgerald, an Australian academic, generally end with the biblical destruction of the campus (located in Mangoland alias Queensland). And Tony Coady, head of the Centre for Applied Philosophy and Public Ethics at Melbourne, found that the university press resiled from publishing one of the Centre’s volumes because of casual criticism of the university by some of the contributors (see what became Coady 1999, particularly the introductory matter and the final chapter) – apparatchiks presume ethics to be a county near London (Melleuish 2018 on ‘Machiavellian modernity’ and ethics in Australian universities). For the tribulations of conscientious chancellors with an academic background, see McPhee 1999 on Wright at Melbourne and Kramer 2012 for her own time in Sydney. Melbourne’s publishing house continues to be a troubled beast in respect of China, Cardinal Pell, etc., showing none of the spirit of its long-serving former director, Peter Ryan (retired 1989; returned his leaving present in reaction to the appointment of his successor), who described Australian universities as ‘money-grubbing academic slums’ (Tony Thomas, pers. comm.). 6  https://www.crikey.com.au/2009/11/06. The present Dean of Arts is keen to detoxify things and differentiate the current regime from its dysfunctional predecessor.

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James Allan, a Canadian-born law professor in Queensland, is in print saying that he would not send his own children to an Australian university (he has been as good as his word).7 My sometime position as a Visiting Fellow to a part of the university that found itself merged and liquidated (it became a ‘centre’ with two co-directors but no periphery) left me increasingly bewildered: a form of corporate insanity seemed to have gripped the institution (more seasoned hands than I agreed), which always had a high opinion of itself not necessarily warranted by the evidence (its self-defeating purge of locally-domiciled Fellows also brought a backwash of ill will from people hitherto generously disposed towards it; as did the failure to make several long-serving professorial retirees emeriti). An example of the ability of its layers of managers: I had my e-mail address reissued undifferenced to someone else within a year of my departure.8 Melbourne was never a place to undersell itself; here is a university that could have been (could still be) better than it was were it not that it already assumed (actually believed as an article of faith in a secular religion in which the apparatchiks are the ‘elect’) that it was indeed much better than it is. In its own words, it ‘is a public-spirited institution that makes distinctive contributions to society in research, learning and teaching and 7  For a summary of his many published thoughts on the problems, see Allan 2016 (hitting many of the same targets as Hil, though from a different perspective; note again that Allan is an experienced incomer); see also Allan 2014 and subsequent responses to it, and, from a local, Gava 2014. See further Melleuish 2017, with particular reference to the ARC and the arrogance of the administrator, but telling us much about the ‘history profession’ in Australian universities, the cavalier activities of round-headed vice-chancellors, the methods of ‘the blob’ (as Mr Secretary Gove labelled it), etc. For a succinct account of woe throughout the universities of the Anglosphere, see Spurr 2017 (with bibliography). See now Allan 2019; Coleman 2019a; Spurr 2019. For what once would have been a commonplace – a succinct and instinctive defence of a liberal arts/humane education by a vice-chancellor – one needs to escape that sphere: the opening remarks by Prof. Mircea Dumitru, Rector of Bucharest University (and formerly Minister of Education in Roumania), to the Sixth International Congress on Black Sea Antiquities, Constanţa, 18 September 2017, were a refreshing example of sense delivered with passion. Amidst the arid marketing slogans of the modern Australian university, rare will be any mention of education, teaching, learning, research, etc. 8  Much good might electronic access be because, in an elementary failure of project management, the university imposes (with unseemly regularity) fresh systems without establishing that all the computers that need to make use of them are ‘compatible’. But the time of academics (wasted in discovering this) is a free good, unlimitedly expandable (whereas that of administrators is valuable). Entering marks into ‘software’ designed to calculate totals and grades revealed that this had been faultily programmed to reverse the weighting of pieces submitted (only someone arithmetically adept and paying attention would have noticed) – the question of why highly paid specialists and not low-paid clerks do this work is seldom if ever raised; tutorials were scheduled to take place before the lectures to which they were linked (and if immediately afterwards, then in a room at the other end of the campus reachable punctually only by an Olympic sprinter). (And rounding was always up, and the instructions for awarding penalties were written by someone with no knowledge of simple vs compound and their different outcomes – despite a flourishing Faculty of Commerce/Business.) Compulsory electronic submission of theses too large for the university’s own system to accommodate, never mind those of the examiners, who wanted paper copies (and got them)... Entry of publication details into both the old and new electronic ‘systems’ used to record them – stifle the mirth, supposedly to provide evidence for the ‘work-load’ formula (another exercise in fiction – see Hil 2012, passim, who demonstrates that Melbourne is far from alone in its electronic and other follies: form-filling is never part of the work-load) – is so involved that training courses are necessary (no smooth, intuitive systems here). But, in a system where one can apply for a grant in order to go through the cumbersome procedures (many devised by the university itself) of applying for a grant, nothing should surprise us – nor that obtaining a grant to do something that could be done without one actually aids one’s career prospects. It is galling to have to ask a well-established publisher not on the system (many well known, but tending to publish in ‘foreign’) to prove that they are a ‘commercial’ publisher. The same publisher can be both ‘commercial’ and ‘non-commercial’, and one faces the choice of, for example, Peeters in Leuven, Louvain or any one of its several outstations.

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engagement. It’s consistently ranked among the leading universities in the world…’. The phrasing inadvertently reveals the hollowness of university rankings and a debilitating and contagious narcissism. Entire cadres of officials are employed to find problems with solutions rather than solutions to problems (even getting in the way of large benefactions to the university, as another of the major private donors to Pessinus, reduced to monosyllabic incandescence, discovered). Many of the staff are zealous only in their unhelpfulness,9 ever ready to try again something that has demonstrably failed in the past, in the (supposed) expectation of a different outcome (parodying Einstein’s definition of insanity, and unaware of Proverbs 26:11, the Faculty of Arts has since tried its own journal- and even publisher rankings).10 There are splendid exceptions to this on the front line, invariably moved on to be unwilling square pegs in round holes under the latest of the all-too-frequent reorganisations. They deserve sympathy.11 Woody Allen remarked that a stockbroker is someone who invests your money until there is none left. Australian universities administer projects until there is nothing left and, ideally, an entire grant has been wasted on administration.12 These everted institutions would operate perfectly were it not for the inconvenient, unpredictable and unwelcome presence of academics and students. They are populated by risk-averse automatons careering round the place like deranged Daleks shouting ‘you will obey/comply’ (compliance being a euphemism for box-ticking to satisfy the requirements of the credentialed but ignorant). As Judith Sloan, a Professorial Fellow in economics, wrote, give more money to an Australian university and it will ‘simply piss it up against the wall’ on more 9  Years ago, the editor of a journal was berated by some Melbourne administrator over the publication of an article in which the author’s affiliation was given without the definitely capitalised definite article in front of university; the author was entirely unconcerned by this ‘lapse’. A clear if anecdotal sign of institutional arrogance and the priorities of officials making work to fill their time and justify their existences. Pitiful. Compare this prickliness with the university’s own cavalier practices. What is the collective term for university administrators – an insanity, a pride (certainly), a midden, a vulture, an iniquity? As a new recruit (with experience of universities in four other countries) put it in pained amazement: ‘I’ve never seen a university so keen on generating surplus admin.’ This is a system in which administration gets in the way of delivery, by design not accident. 10  The vice-chancellor’s principal deputy (to 2017) (not to be confused with a charabanc-load of deputy principals) used to run the ARC. As (Groucho) Marx might have observed: ‘Here are my principals. If you don’t like them, I have another lot…’ On the rankings nonsense, the mysterious regrading of journals, the attempt of administrators to (mis)use such rankings as hard evidence – they will grasp at anything that appears to give them data: presumably they would believe Minoan GDP calculations – and many associated follies, see Hil 2012, Chapter 5, ‘Research, metrics and money’, but also Allan 2014 and 2016 passim. The first draft of Melbourne Faculty of Arts’ publisher rankings demonstrated, once again, ineffable monoglot provincialism (aside from repetition and egregious errors). One might have thought that no reputable publishers exist(ed) in Germany. 11  One colleague in an academic-related post has kept the same job but, over eight years, had four different offices, all in different buildings, and at least four different locations in the university’s structure – a change in the one not necessarily betokening a change in the other. Old hands advised him, wisely, that money for a publication project be kept out of the university. He has also found life more invigorating once removed from any link, physical or administrative, to the ‘School’ with which his work is most logically connected. 12  For example, a small prize, funded and previously awarded by the Fellows mentioned above, has been ‘taken over’ by the university, which now nominates several of those who sit on the awarding committee (some conflict of interest, perhaps?), requires this form and that to be completed and then approved by a couple of layers of committees before it is prepared to allow the prize to be advertised, etc.. All of this costs more in time than the amount of the prize – and, yet again, discourages donations and discourages people from offering their time for free to judge such things. Small people and small amounts of money are clearly below the salt.

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administrators.13 More elegantly: if the Anglosphere has created a system which, on the whole, rewards production better than predation, the modern corporate university has returned to previous practice, back from contract to status (the vice-chancellor and his caravansary taking the salute from the ‘tribune’ as the torchlight procession rolls by).14 Thus, in relation to Pessinus, it was proposed in all seriousness (by he who could not proof-read), that all vouchers in Turkish be translated into English for checking by a hired Turkish-speaker. This would have included scores of receipts for groceries, more expensive to translate than the goods listed were to purchase. Just as revealing was the refusal to countenance Business Class travel to Turkey, one way, once, to convey an expensive piece of apparatus, newly purchased, that the university’s own insurers would not cover if it travelled in the hold! Others thought that helpful ways of paying for things in rural Anatolia would be to load up electronic payment cards, in a location nowhere near a bank or an ‘ATM’, or to provide travellers’ cheques in a country averse to them (as a series of travel guides published in Melbourne by two alumni emphasises), again unmindful of the absence of banks (not that these ‘solutions’ would work any better in the remoter areas of the Australian interior). Probably, Melbourne would have been satisfied only if, at the expense of the project, an administrator and a health-andsafety expert had travelled with the team, checked everything, second-guessed everything, prevented most of the archaeological work as too dangerous, applied Australian employment law and minimum wages to the Turks, etc. These people would have required accommodation at the nearest four-star hotel, a translator, a vehicle and driver, and their salaries supplemented to cover the unpleasant and harsh conditions. Thanks to the sloth with which the university would transfer money it had long since received and banked to cover such recurrent expenditure as the site guard’s annual salary, private resources had to be used and refunds obtained. I suppose that administrators are paid so handsomely that they leave five-figure sums in current accounts routinely. In 2013, however, faced with months of what turned out to be futile negotiations over the transfer of money (in hand!) for the field season, and by a fresh determination from the usual suspect that receipts should somehow be transmitted electronically mid-season (no doubt through a dodgy Internet café at a truck stop on the Eskişehir road) before the second instalment of money would be wired to Turkey, I talked to my bank manager, fearing that I might find myself temporarily financing the whole thing (it was already 13  Mainly people with no sympathy for, or knowledge of, either tertiary education or the particular institution (Aberystwyth and Durham, for examples close to me); though some can know an institution and still have no feel for it: Durham again in the past decade, especially University College since September 2019. One of this species asked a former deputy vice-chancellor (he had been one when such positions were few and serious, and paid as professors plus 25%, rather than 250%) to prove his entitlement to work in Australia. He had graduated from the institution, taught at it, had links with it stretching over 60 years, but… The university does have an archive repository (founded by an inspired, groping drunkard, though now with some practices that fail ‘Archives 101’ – material left overnight in a van; the van was stolen; it was recovered but the archives were not), but no corporate memory. Its then chancellor had a background in ‘corporate governance’. 14  Up to the mid-1990s it was routine for vice-chancellors and their deputies to meander into the staff club to test the waters, or to arrange get-to-know-you luncheon parties for small groups of readers and professors, working through the entire body over the year, to enable the latest concerns to be aired in both directions (now also Coleman 2019a, especially 9–10: ‘now they are more likely to be driven around the campus by a “chauffeur”, to use the term chosen by one for their driver’). Even chancellors used to keep their finger on the pulse (McPhee 1999, 176–92).

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clear that the first money would arrive after the team reached the site). This did not require following through. I was left, however, with an impression of Gocha handing over wads of used banknotes (from his own resources) to individual students at the airport check-in. Thus, I am intensely aware of the unnecessary strain that all of this nonsense placed on him. Winning a large grant was a burden. There was no realisation by the university of either the prestige or responsibilities that attach to ‘having’ an excavation. Anecdotal evidence suggests that even its participation in other institutions’ excavations is a hindrance to their successful execution (tell it not in Gath…). To mix imagery appropriate to Pessinus, Melbourne had a reverse Midas touch. How could anyone deal with an organisation that forbade an excavation director, at short notice and after the excavation permit had been issued by Ankara, from being absent to conduct a field season? This command from an academic-administrator, supposedly an historian,, couched in terms more appropriate to an emanation from a bunker in Berlin in 1945, required that that the excavation project be conducted by some other unspecified means – means, I deduce, that did not involve a physical presence in Turkey to excavate, or permitted this only in the snow of the Anatolian winter, i.e. the Australian summer vacation. Money in this and other grants specifically allocated for buying-out teaching was to be used for other purposes within the ‘School’,15 or perhaps to buy out other people’s teaching – a dubious diversion of monies at best. This ‘historian’ exhibited a profound ignorance of any of the subjects within his empire – for example, his crass questioning of why (ancient) language classes were so many and so small, proposing their merger into fewer and larger (like mixed-ability classes in a bad comprehensive school, of the beginners, intermediate and advanced streams).16 What can one do with an institution whose vice-chancellor makes wishy-washy promises about Pessinus to the Turkish authorities which he/it is no position to fulfil (Melbourne as an institution had no standing in Turkish law in respect of the project), and does so behind the back of the director (who had such standing and was thus left in a false position in his dealings with Ankara for months until he realised what was happening; after a further lapse of time he obtained the details, but only through the kindness of Ankara officials)? Indeed, having drunk too deeply the brew of Melbourne’s self-esteem, its puffed-up minor officials, their horizons stretching all the way from Parkville to Carlton, seem genuinely to believe that some policy of theirs must take precedence in Turkey over the laws of the country,17 incapable of comprehending that foreigners must obey the rules of their hosts, and 15  Erstwhile departments and centres are now disciplines; archaeology is subsumed in something called Ancient World Studies which, as many students complain, means nothing to outsiders, least of all potential employers. For each there is a ‘Discipline Chair’, not to be confused with a punishment stool or some apparatus to be found in a specialist bordello. The ‘Schools’ are dodgy amalgamations of the incompatible, like the LMS (see below), with amply-remunerated Heads. 16  It took much effort to persuade an appointing panel that an ancient historian really needed ancient languages; it was later proposed by the aforementioned academic-administrator, that the appointee teach those languages. Should the professor of Irish Studies be required to teach Gaelic? No, merely to supervise theses in British history after all British historians had gone. 17  Suburbs adjoining the university. One particular inept sought the cancellation of a trip to Turkey at four days’ notice, two of those the weekend, when the ambassador and a translator had been lined up, with much effort and long planning, for a meeting with, and called by, the top level people in the General Directorate of the Ministry of Culture in Ankara! There was an ‘important’ meeting (unimportant by normal standards) to attend in Melbourne.

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arrogantly assuming an extra-territorial jurisdiction unknown since the end of the foreign Concessions in China.18 They are perplexed when their ‘suggestion’ to make scores of workers and small tradesmen in the deep hinterland of Anatolia complete lengthy ‘overseas contractor’ forms in English, a language they do not know, so that belatedly they can be paid uneconomically small amounts of money by electronic transfer from Australia into bank accounts they may not have, is ignored. One (European) team member who did sign such a form waited over eight months for reimbursement of an amount probably less than the cost of administering the payment, having resubmitted the paperwork time and time again (in another instance of folk searching zealously for problems but unwilling to expend any effort on finding solutions). This is the modern businesslike university. In the real world it would rapidly fail, financially, as it has intellectually.19 My entanglements with Melbourne brought to mind both Sandwell Metropolitan Borough Council, UK (awash with policies; abysmal in delivering services), and the London, Midland and Scottish Railway Company (LMS): overcentralised, too many layers of managers with long titles (one in Who’s Who charted his progression from chief assistant to assistant chief – or was it the other way round? – and even the actual ‘chief’ was subordinate to a vice president), a new head office next to Euston Station to accommodate them built in the depths of the inter-wars Depression, an early fondness for consultants, etc., and also sorts of plans and policies on paper but a huge backlog in execution. Translated to a university, this manifests itself in a plague-like proliferation of deputy and assistant vicechancellors, vice-principals (with more vices than principles), verbal inflation of administrative titles (in line with the inflation of degree grades and salaries),20 but a severe reluctance 18  Though Melbourne is keen to recruit ‘internationally’, using expensive head-hunters where it deems necessary (and despite spouting the fustian of multi-culturalism, it had no provision for those staff newly arrived in Australia who find it ‘a strange place’), it is utterly unwilling to make use of the ‘international’ experience of those so recruited, thus it dooms itself to repeat mistakes far beyond the fiasco of ranking journals. 19  Townsend 1984 made the suggestion: ‘fire the whole personnel department’ (p. 172) – better to dismember it, literally. For the pernicious stupidity of Personnel, now under the inhuman title ‘HR’ since ‘people came to be considered as a metabolising, respiring form of mineral ore’ (Myers 2020, viii), and a greater blight to employers and employees than an outbreak of bubonic plague, see below. In their Chapter 7, Cain and Hewitt (2004) examine the sale of 85% of Melbourne IT at the end of 1999 – at a poor price and with various potential conflicts of interest. Of course, many businesses behave in un-business-like ways: one certain sign of trouble ahead is heavy expenditure on award-winning but impracticable new buildings (see below). Kevin Donnelly, an experienced educationalist, wrote: ‘Those in charge must be held accountable. Given their dismal performance, if those responsible for Australia’s school education system managed a business or corporation it would be bankrupt and they likely to be hauled before the ACCC for misleading advertising and causing substantial detriment. So dismal has been the performance there would be grounds for a royal commission’ (Quadrant Online, 1 October 2019). 20  Frank Spooner, my old economic history professor, used to shake his head at each new fancy (or fancily rechristened) administrative title, then murmur ‘enhanced emoluments’. Josiah Stamp, a noted economist, was not notably economical with his own emoluments at the LMS (Chairman and President of the Executive), dismissing them loftily as equivalent to ‘the price of a ham sandwich’ from each shareholder (his team of vice presidents presumably cost a cheese sandwich apiece). His helpful involvement in renegotiating German reparations was rewarded by his being blown to pieces in an air raid in 1941. ‘Professor Doom’ (the late Richard Moscatello of Louisiana State University) (http://professorconfess.blogspot.co.uk/) has the useful advice: ‘for restoring sanity to our campuses: simply eliminate all positions whose titles are more than twice as long as the holder’s name’. At Melbourne, this would include most of the politburo: the Deputy ViceChancellor (Academic and Undergraduate) and Deputy Provost, who previously, bearing another long job title, put his name to the smoking ban (below); the Deputy Vice-Chancellor (Graduate) and Deputy Provost; the Vice Principal (Policy and Projects), ditto (Advancement), ditto (Administration and Finance), ditto (Enterprise); the Head of University Services; etc. All have extensive entourages. Thirty years ago, much of

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to take decisions or responsibility (a ‘responsibility deficit’: you can’t be held to account for making no decision, but you can if you do); and the dead weight of pointless meetings (the semi-literate papers for which seemed always to be circulated too late for proper consideration), bogus consultation exercises, compulsory time-wasting (forcing experienced supervisors on to courses that purport to teach them how to supervise, delivered by persons of limited actual experience),21 asinine computer tests begotten of ‘diversity awareness training’, and all the other modish dross attending the transient fads of managerialism in the corporate world of today. Better than world class in spirit-sapping hokum, a dysentery of maladroit and malodourous policies flowing from its every orifice, with its corporate head buried deep and admiring the view.22 A middling good university ruined by believing its own advertising (‘Growing Esteem’, its own monstrously overgrown),23 the delusion being most evident in its ‘Human Resources’ directorate, which treats the humans as cattle and, borrowing again from the late government of Greater Germany, possesses a Chancellery (which it can seldom spell) – perhaps even a bunker.24 The managerialist bacillus renders orderly administration impossible: an addiction to sloughing off decision-taking and responsibility to consultants wastes millions of dollars (the modern versions of ‘never commit yourself, committee yourself’).25 Managers are seldom much good at managing: ‘What the work would have been done by a Chief Clerk, a Registrar and a Treasurer. The average salary of an Australian vice-chancellor in 2017 was AU $860,000 (Melbourne’s was far in excess); the Canadian equivalent was AU $300,000: Beach and Milne 2019, 202. See also Ginsberg 2011, echoing Sloan, for the rising number of administrators in the USA. 21  Supervision is a disaster because there are now so many hurdles for research students to jump, wasting their time, that of supervisors, and that of others dragged into unnecessary meetings to monitor progress in a system that actively inhibits progress. Without much thought, the American PhD model has been adopted, requiring students to attend taught courses in their first year – but not ‘advanced’ course, nor even relevant courses. Thus, an ancient historian wanting to expand his foreign languages could not take language classes (except as a spare-time exercise), but instead had to sit through a course on modern historical methods (definitely not Anglo-Saxon empiricism), with a strange focus on the development of Melbourne’s coffeehouse culture. More useful things might have been learnt by spending this time in a Melbourne coffeehouse. 22  Some years ago, unblushingly, it became a ‘smoke free’ or ‘tobacco free’ (the two concepts naively believed to be the same) campus (with smoking shelters). Its (inevitably) contradictory policies, if capable of being put into effect, would have prevented people from smoking within a certain (actually uncertain) distance of the entrances to buildings – but many of its buildings debouch straight on to the street… ‘Virtuesignalling’ at its most crass. The policy was ‘in keeping with the trend in the Australian tertiary education sector’ (consider what might have been ‘in keeping with the trend in the German tertiary education sector…’ ca. 1933). As yet, no intimate body searches in pursuit of snuff. 23  ‘Virtue-signalling’ reached its apogee when the university jumped on the band wagon of apologising to the Aborigines (‘looks good, feels good and, by golly, it does you good’, to misquote an old advertising slogan for Mackeson stout), without saying what precisely it was apologising for (none of which, in any case, had been the result of the actions of any current member of the university). An anonymous samizdat circulating early in the Davis era lampooned ‘Growing Esteem’ etc., ‘coming soon to 168 giant plasma TV screens near you’: ‘Has your esteem grown….? Never stop growing in your own esteem…’, culminating in a cartoon, with the speech-bubbles combining as ‘Whatever it is … it’s probably innovative, achieving excellence, researchled, globally competitive, or belching forth noxious clouds of managerial cliché’. A charlatan faux-Aborigine has since been appointed Melbourne Enterprise Professor in Indigenous Agriculture (something that never existed). 24  The sort of people who might have worked happily for Fritz Sauckel, pioneer of Human Resources management. They excuse their actions, without a smidgen of introspection, by using the ‘Nuremberg defence’; instil fear into the populace; and, devoid of irony, administer complaints about bullying – their belief in their own infallibility, outshining that of any Roman pontiff 25  One vice-chancellor (discipline politics, sometime superior special adviser and arm-twister for a ‘Mangoland’ state government, later of Ross Fitzgerald’s university) was so annoyed when news leaked to the press of professors having got together to denounce a recently appointed dean who had been bankrupting the

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are people who look good on paper actually good at?’ The university offers degrees and courses that purport to teach management, ethics, governance, etc. Is it in its current state because staff have not taken these courses, or because they have? And what is governance but replacing things that work in practice with those that work on paper (reams of it)? We have ‘managers’ creating highly paid work for themselves via an expanding set of requirements of purposeless bustle (which they then police), diverting academics from actual academic activity. ‘When you reorganise, you bleed’ – words quoted approvingly by a railway manager (not from the LMS).26 At Melbourne the amalgamations and reorganisations are fitful and, presumably, unsuccessful – hence their frequency. In History the most senior people of any distinction jumped ship or retired (too expensive to keep) in the 2000s, leaving too few staff to offer a sufficiently broad, coherent and attractive range of subjects to obtain enrolments (notwithstanding which, promotions to professor have continued apace, especially among those it had trained itself, for it continues to recruit from its own declining gene pool (Habsburg jaw-like), giving it, in 2016, 10 out of 14 professors in the School and a professoriate easily outnumbering the other three levels of permanent academic staff in the discipline; a few scholars of distinction, others of renowned obscurity).27 The creation of the School of Historical Studies (since supplanted) to include Classics and Archaeology and various other elements revealed no fondness for federalism among historians in a country with, on paper, one of the finest set of federal arrangements in the world (though badly transformed and perverted by judicial activism).28 Although History continues to be ranked highly, it had long lived on its reputation (and laurels) – the ancient historian felt unwanted since he was told his subject did not exist (by his ‘line manager’29). Meanwhile, in 2014 the School moved temporarily Faculty by paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to ‘consultants’ and promoting ancillary staff to absurdly high grades (with absurdly high salaries), that he summoned them to the presence and declared that the person responsible for the leak should be ‘garrotted’ – his actual words (presumably a standard disciplinary tool of the ‘Mangoland’ public service). He proceeded to lecture them as if they were naughty boys caught smoking behind the bike shed: ‘What are people who get to the top actually good at? ... getting to the top.’ 26  Fiennes 2016, 161. 27  The Melbourne Law School was criticised in the 1980s for recruiting its own (see Chapters 5 and 6 of Waugh 2007), thus the weakness is broad and deep. One under-promoted outsider did offer well-subscribe courses on 20th-century Germany, hence my choice of analogies. Promotion to professor is on the basis of ‘service to the university’, not of academic achievement! Hence members of the kissing ring advance. Several new appointments have since been made with external funding; many are people with some previous connexion to Melbourne or to the Centre for the History of Emotions it houses (branded CHE, which I thought was either the Campaign for Homosexual Equality or a dismal long-dead Cuban agitator). Few fill the gaps in what one would expect at the core of a history department, whatever merit there might be in, for example, specialising in ballads of death, global fishery policy or the history of menstruation (in which period, I wonder?). These appointments have been trumpeted as ‘stellar’. The newest professor in the History and Philosophy of Science offers Gender (Social psychological processes; neuroscience) and Neuroethics (Feminist neuroscience). In theory, ‘A Level E Academic [i.e. professor] will have attained recognition as an eminent authority in their discipline, will have achieved distinction at the national level and may be required to have achieved distinction at the international level’ (thanks to Tony Thomas for unearthing Melbourne’s ‘enterprise bargaining agreement’). The international (an over- and misused word) reputations of some would not cross the Tasman. 28  See, for example, Allan and Aroney 2008. Bizarre judgments on constitutional matters continue – interpretation of s. 44 since the late 1990s, interventions into laws made touching electoral registration (Rowe v Electoral Commissioner 2010, etc.) – balanced by good sense in criminal cases (Cardinal Pell’s appeal, for example). 29  Used with no sense of irony. Having done his job, he too was chewed up and spat out.

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into another building, so that the accommodation rebuilt for it to move into in 2011 could be rebuilt again – for it to move back into in 2016. Businesslike behaviour? Certainly more spruiking of a building that is unfit for purpose: staff were told to take their books home or give them away because there would be no space in new offices resembling large glassfronted shower cubicles (the pigeon coops of the new ‘battery-farm’ university); four extensive departmental libraries are in store or have been dispersed.30 Here is a university that embraces the future by discarding any serious pretence or pretension to scholarship, and cannot be bothered to remember properly its own past.31 How to describe the modern university apparat (apart from ‘[Our] name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on [our] works, ye Mighty, and despair!’?): a shambolic, repressive regime run by a circus troupe of … illiterate, self-important, solipsistic, pompous, puffed-up popinjays; a combination of the Keystone Cops and the Gestapo, balancing the competence of the former with the sympathetic approach of the latter; thickets of Kafkaesque disingenuous obscurantism, carefully contrived delay and obfuscation practised by a pack of prickly rent-seekers? A dose of tertiary education seems more harmful and less intellectually stimulating than one of tertiary syphilis. Such institutions make no contribution to knowledge and, to misquote Maurice Bowra slightly, ‘they do not even make a contribution to ignorance’ (and see n. 5). * * * Mired in such an institutional setting, it is little surprise that Gocha chose to walk (fly) away.32 He is not, I was told by one of his late colleagues, a proper field archaeologist(!) – an opinion definitely not shared by the team members I have met (or see the recollections of Simon Young, above); it was more applicable, in fact, to the malignant individual who made and spread the remark. As another contributor to this volume has remarked: ‘I don’t think that anyone in his right mind and with a scientific interest would decide to remain within the Australian university system if he can find a way out!’ (the writer had already escaped). It is a wonder that so much was achieved at Pessinus. But it has been, as the published papers and volumes reveal.33 I am aware of how much effort Gocha put into the project, not just in the field but in planning, preparation, building up working relationships with Turkish officials (everywhere from the Consulate in St Kilda Road to the Ministry in 30  To quote a retired Melbourne Classicist who had given hundreds of volumes to Sydney university: ‘I think they despise books at Melbourne…’ Much of the main library is given over to computer rooms and soft furnishings, though designed to have several extra storeys and bear heavy loads, not for above-ground ducted cables everywhere. The extremely helpful specialist librarians found even a decade ago have disappeared; so too have many of the books into distant store. But since then in Sydney ‘because of a new room-rent tax … I was told that I needed to move to a smaller office, thus disposing of much of my library’. 31  One that starts laying commemorative paving slabs to the former great and good of the institution on a whim, without involving its own archive and library people or its History of the University Unit, all of whom first discover this project by tumbling over it outside the library. Having pointed out various errors, they then watch several of the slabs being removed within weeks and replaced by corrected versions. 32  Another outsider had preferred a move to a temporary position at a different university to continuing with a permanent position in Melbourne. The toxic state of the Faculty of Arts in the recent past (since improved, though the general trajectory of the entire system continues downward) was accurately recorded in The Age of October 27 2019. 33  See Gocha’s bibliography in the front matter of this volume.

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Ankara) and with Australian diplomats, etc. – unseen, unappreciated and, to the uncomprehending functionaries, of no value because it cannot be measured. Do not give money to universities: it will be wasted, or the purposes for which it was given will be perverted. Even the Rhodes Trust exhibits such failings.34 Those still beholden to the system are cowed and dare not speak out (students seem more robust than staff, particularly locals who have been used to nothing better for 30 years).35 Only after people have escaped can they apply themselves to serious scholarship, for scholarship is not what a modern university is about;36 indeed, it is seldom mentioned and seldom recognised in a culture that is driven by empty slogans and production targets, much like the dictatorships of the recent past (in which many university administrators would have found a comfortable berth). Not all escapees can manage this: many are constrained by settlement swathed in gagging clauses and the like (just as common in Britain as Australia, at least from the number of the gagged among my acquaintance).37 34  Since revived under the short but excellent Wardenship of Don Markwell. A particularly pungent account of waywardness over the previous two decades in Johnson 2015, 221–42 (the use of Rhodes House itself, the Rhodes European Scholarships – facile Europhilia at its worst – and the Mandela-Rhodes Foundation). Official histories of the Trust are rather bland on these matters, unsurprisingly. In Oxford, contemplate the fate, physical and otherwise, of Queen Elizabeth House (founded largely on Oppenheimer money). (Some of Johnson’s experiences at Magdalen College, Oxford, will also resonate with folk peeping under the skirts of the Old Lady of Parkville.) 35  C. Brandist, in ‘A very Stalinist management model’ (THES, 29 May 2014), noted that academics in the UK, unlike those in the Soviet Union of the 1930s, do not face routine censorship and repression for voicing, as he had, critical views. Days later, he received a formal letter from ‘Human Resources’ suggesting that he desist from publishing such material and instead raise concerns internally. (‘The irony was evidently lost on HR, but these people generally don’t do irony.’) It took months of struggle to ensure that no action would be taken against him. When the vice-chancellor learned what had happened, he apologised, but, as Brandist remarked, ‘it is far from certain that all vice-chancellors would have taken this view’. Quite. In Australia, if one can battle through the layers of speech-writers, food-tasters and others to reach a vicechancellor’s outer presence chamber, certainly not the bed chamber (too often the resemblance to the court at Versailles ca. 1787 is inescapable – effete, worthless, financially incompetent), one will be spurned because one is under investigation by ‘HR’, home to a large collection of ambulant personality disorders, for not declaring a cream Lamington for Fringe Benefit Tax. ‘HR’, in its semiliterate communications, mixing threat and faux politesse, thanks those obliged to enrol on all manner of pointless (but compulsory) on-line ‘training’ courses (where the [politically] ‘correct’ answers and reality rapidly part company) for their co-operation. A good use of grant money would have been to pay a student to waste his time, not one’s own, dealing with this Frankfurt School twaddle. 36  Those within feel constrained in what they commit to or receive by e-mail lest Big Brother be watching. 37  Gagged by Birmingham and Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to name two British examples of which I should know nothing (because the gag includes mention of its own existence). The Frijters case in Queensland (see Melleuish 2018) is just one example that has become public of someone who would not comply: Frijters has departed. I assume that Spurr was subject to something similar in his scandalous mistreatment by Sydney in 2014. James Cook university, also in Queensland, has ‘form’ in trying to silence people: Prof. R.M. Carter was axed from ‘emeritus’ status in 2013, but the institution issued a fulsome tribute upon his death in 2016 (crocodile tears in crocodile country); it was since involved in an attempt to silence Prof. Peter Ridd (who suggested that some scientific emperors were short of apparel). He took the institution to court, ‘crowdfunding’ his defence, won on all of what had grown into 28 counts (eight of them ‘gagging’, one being to prevent satire!), but has since lost on appeal; a further appeal is in progress. The academic ‘field’ of the vice-chancellor there is in Human Resource Management(!). The university was $630,000 down on legal costs and with an award of $1.2 million against it; its successful appeal employed some of the most expensive lawyers to be had in Australia (it was not awarded costs: it is only public money after all). The next stage, in the High Court in Canberra, will be even more costly to all parties. Like Brandist (above), one of Ridd’s supposed offences was to have gone public. It was allegedly further misconduct to have talked to the media about the disciplinary action being taken against him, then still further misconduct to have told anyone (a former vice-chancellor whose advice he sought, and his own wife) of this last addition to the charge sheet

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1499

[Australian] universities are among the worst examples. Captured by self-righteous, platitudinous, levelling bureaucracies, … [they] have become infested by humourlessness, intellectual conformism, and a fatal lack of curiosity. Having done its most to expel wryness and its twin, invention, Australia’s tertiary education sector today is obsessed with overbearing administrative processes and their appalling anodyne language.38 From Great Britain: Universities are increasingly run by a small and extractive elite who think of themselves as managers rather than senior academics, commissioning external consultants and paying themselves salaries akin to business chiefs. They control their own recruitment, appointment and remuneration processes, rather than being elected from within the university body. Having long since renounced either teaching or research, they only enter lecture theatres or seminar rooms for cocktail parties. They circulate horizontally across different institutions rather than being vertically integrated and embedded into their institutions, ruling their organisations through constant bureaucratic churn and turmoil rather than trying to conserve institutions and education. The refrains of university management are the same as the moronic buzzwords of management consultancy.39 From the United States: … administrators are typically people who spend 5 years or less at each place they go, plundering and looting as best they can before moving on and up in the system. ‘Must have spent at least a decade here’ should be a requirement for hiring into an administrative position at a school; if we used that as a requirement today, we’d lose some 95% of our administrators on campus (and, truth be told, if we did …, our institutions would probably run just as well).40 But when freed from the administrators, then what? As Dr David Starkey has remarked in a recent interview (July 2020): … the English faculty at Cambridge is not about academic freedom. There is no academic content in it whatever. What it is about is indoctrination. It is a programme (the ‘HR’ mentality again) (see Begg 2020). This has echoes of some events in Melbourne, where Kafka must have written an instruction manual for deranged personnel clerks. The charge was ‘signed off’, of course without (proof-)reading (indicted for indicated), by a Miss Medusa Long-Fancy-Job-Title, who could cite nothing accurately, misunderstood the nature of the dispute, and got the cart firmly before the horse – a person ‘in the global hierarchy of intelligence, directly between one of those yoghurts people eat to relieve constipation and some moss’ (a felicitous phrase borrowed from the journalist Rod Liddle). In passing, it accused one of the contributors to the present volume of plagiarism in relation to his publication of results of his own excavation! The university’s bouffant ‘investigator’ was all pomp, no circumstance, and little understanding. 38  P. Murphy at Quadrant Online (https://quadrant.org.au/magazine/2017/12/triumph-australias-golden-cities/), reviewing a book launched by the Vice-Chancellor of Melbourne (consulted 24 December 2017). 39  P. Cunliffe at https://www.spiked-online.com/2019/12/03/why-university-staff-are-right-to-strike/. 40  ‘Professor Doom’, see n. 20. Echoing James Allan’s view that a numerate school-leaver could run an Australian university for a couple of years without anyone noticing.

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of Marxist indoctrination dressed up in this preposterous … Franco-American language of critical theory. It is the worst form of perverse verbiage. Ubi solitudinem faciunt, educationem appellant – to paraphrase. Back to Ibis: ‘May a horse with cruel teeth feed on their entrails.’

BIBLIOGRAPHY Allan, J. 2014: ‘Australian Universities Are Just Not Good Enough’. Quadrant 58.3, 44–49. —. 2016: ‘The State of our Universities’. In Allan, J. (ed.), Making Australia Right (Redland Bay, Qld), 117–29. —. 2019: ‘The Administration of Australian Universities: A National Scandal? Or Amiss in Funderland?’. In Coleman 2019b, 23–42. Allan, J. and Aroney, N. 2008: ‘An Uncommon Court: How the High Court of Australia has undermined Australian Federalism’. Sydney Law Review 30, 245–94. Anderson, F. and Macintyre, S.F. 2006: The Life of the Past: The Discipline of History at the University of Melbourne (Melbourne). Beach, C.V.M. and Milne, F. 2019: ‘A Canadian Perspective on Higher Education in Australia’. In Coleman 2019b, 173–205. Begg, M. 2020: ‘Reef Heresy?: The Legal Saga’. In Ridd, P.V., Reef Heresy?: Science, Research and the Great Barrier Reef (Redland Bay, Qld), 230–53. Cain, J. and Hewitt, J. 2004: Off Course: From Public Place to Marketplace at Melbourne University (Melbourne). Coady, C.A.J. 1999: Why Universities Matter: Conversation about Values, Meanings and Directions (Sydney). Coleman, W.O. 2019a: ‘Fear and Loathing in Aus U’. In Coleman 2019b, 1–22. —. (ed.) 2019b: Campus Meltdown: The Deepening Crisis in Australian Universities (Redland Bay, Qld). Elgar, M.A. and Crespi, B.J. 1992: Cannibalism: Ecology and Evolution among Diverse Taxa (Oxford). Fiennes, G.F.G. [Twistleton-Wykeham-] 2016: I Tried to Run a Railway, new ed. (London). Gava, J. 2014: ‘Our Flawed and Failing Universities’. Quadrant Online (http://quadrant.org.au/ opinion/qed/2014/03/flawed-failing-universities/) (consulted 15 February 2018). Ginsberg, B. 2011: ‘Administrators Ate My Tuition’. Washington Monthly (September/October) (https://washingtonmonthly.com/magazine/septoct-2011/administrators-ate-my-tuition/) (consulted 15 February 2018). Hil, R. 2012: Whackademia: An Insider’s Account of the Troubled University (Sydney). Johnson, R.W. 2015: Look Back in Laughter (Newbury). Kramer, L.J. 2012: Broomstick: Personal Reflections of Leonie Kramer (Melbourne). Macintyre, S.F. and Selleck, R.J.W. 2003: A Short History of the University of Melbourne (Melbourne). McPhee, P. 1999: ‘Pansy’: A Life of Roy Douglas Wright (Melbourne). Melleuish, G. 2017: ‘Howard Haters and the History Wars’. Quadrant 61.4, 40–42. —. 2018: ‘The Machiavellians in Our Universities’. Quadrant Online (https://quadrant.org.au/ magazine/2018/01-02/machiavellian-takeover-australian-universities/) (consulted 15 February 2018). Myers, K. 2020: Burning Heresies: A Memoir of a Life in Conflict, 1979–2020 (Newbridge). Spurr, B. 2017: ‘Reclaiming the University’. SydneyTrads – Weblog of the Sydney Traditionalist Forum (sydneytrads.com/2017/12/24/symposium-ii-barry-spurr) (consulted 15 February 2018). —. 2019: ‘“And Gladly Teach”: The Destruction of the University Teaching Culture on the Contemporary Australian Campus’. In Coleman 2019b, 99–120. Stove, D.C. 1986: ‘A Farewell to Arts: Marxism, Semiotics and Feminism’. Quadrant 30.5, 8–11 (= Cricket versus Republicanism and other Essays [Sydney 1995], 14–24). Townsend, R. 1984: Further Up The Organisation (London). Waugh, J. 2007: First Principles: The Melbourne Law School 1857–2007 (Melbourne).

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Kazim ABDULLAEV Istanbul University [email protected]

Dorel BONDOC Museum of Oltenia, Craiova [email protected]

Sümer ATASOY Istanbul [email protected]

Larissa BONFANTE (†) New York University

Eka AVALIANI International Black Sea University, Tbilisi [email protected]; [email protected] Alexandru AVRAM (†) University of Le Mans Staša BABIĆ University of Belgrade [email protected] Luis BALLESTEROS PASTOR University of Seville [email protected] Maria BĂRBULESCU (†) Museum of National History and Archaeology, Constanţa Alexey BELOUSOV Moscow Lomonosov State University/ Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow [email protected]

Osmund BOPEARACHCHI University of California, Berkeley/CNRS Paris [email protected]; [email protected] Valentin BOTTEZ University of Bucharest [email protected] Jan BOUZEK (†) Charles University, Prague Michael BRENNAN Brennan Exploration, Jacksonville, Florida [email protected] Hadrien BRU University of Franche-Comté, Besançon [email protected] Stanley BURSTEIN California State University, Los Angeles [email protected] Alexander BUTYAGIN State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg [email protected]

Lucrețiu MIHAILESCU-BÎRLIBA Alexandru Ioan Cuza University of Iași [email protected]

Janet BUXTON Brighton, Victoria [email protected]

John BOARDMAN Beazley Archive, Oxford [email protected]

Livia BUZOIANU Museum of National History and Archaeology, Constanţa [email protected]

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Dmitry CHISTOV State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg [email protected]

Adolfo J. DOMÍNGUEZ Autonomous University of Madrid [email protected]

Altay COŞKUN University of Waterloo, Ontario [email protected]; [email protected]

E. Emine NAZA-DÖNMEZ Istanbul University [email protected]

Margarit DAMYANOV National Archaeological Institute with Museum, Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, Sofia [email protected] Dan DANA CNRS – ANHIMA, Paris [email protected] Madalina DANA Jean Moulin Lyon 3 University, Lyons [email protected] Edward DANDROW University of Central Florida, Orlando [email protected] Dan DAVIS Luther College, Decorah, Iowa [email protected] Jan DE BOER Ghent University [email protected] María-Paz DE HOZ Complutense University of Madrid [email protected]

Şevket DÖNMEZ Istanbul University [email protected] Sergey DUDAREV Armavir State Pedagogical University [email protected] Pierre DUPONT CNRS – Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée, Lyons [email protected]; [email protected] Paul EVERILL University of Winchester [email protected] Alexander FANTALKIN Tel Aviv University [email protected] Gabriela FILIP Museum of Oltenia, Craiova [email protected] Flavia FRISONE University of Salento, Lecce [email protected]

Irina DEMETRADZE-RENZ Ilia State University, Tbilisi [email protected]

Oleg GABELKO Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow [email protected]

Mario DENTI Rennes 2 University [email protected]

Iulon GAGOSHIDZE Georgian National State Museum, Tbilisi [email protected]

Jean-Paul DESCŒUDRES University of Geneva [email protected]

Verena GASSNER University of Vienna [email protected]

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Nadezhda GAVRYLYUK Institute of Archaeology, National Academy of Sciences of the Ukraine, Kiev [email protected] Vladimir GORONCHAROVSKY Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg [email protected] Cecily GRACE Golden Square, Bendigo, Victoria [email protected] Leonardo GREGORATTI University of Durham [email protected] Yervand GREKYAN Institute of Oriental Studies, National Academy of Sciences of Armenia, Erevan [email protected] James HARGRAVE Llandrindod Wells, Radnorshire [email protected] Louise HITCHCOCK University of Melbourne, Parkville, Victoria [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] Heather JACKSON University of Melbourne, Parkville, Victoria [email protected]; [email protected] Amiran KAKHIDZE Batumi Archaeological Museum [email protected] Emzar KAKHIDZE Batumi Shota Rustaveli State University [email protected]

1503

Michel KAZANSKI Collège de France/CNRS, Paris [email protected] Viktor KOPYLOV (†) Southern Federal University, Rostov-on-Don Sergei KOVALENKO Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow [email protected] Vladimir KUZNETSOV Institute of Archaeology, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow [email protected] Paweł LECH University of Warsaw [email protected] Maria Costanza LENTINI Archaeological Park of Naxos, Giardini, Sicily [email protected] Vasilica LUNGU Institute for South East European Studies, Roumanian Academy, Bucharest [email protected] Andrew MADDEN Cardiff, NSW [email protected] Aren M. MAEIR Bar-Ilan University, Ramat-Gan, Tel Aviv [email protected] Shota MAMULADZE Batumi Shota Rustaveli State University [email protected] Manolis MANOLEDAKIS International Hellenic University, Thessalonica [email protected]

1504

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Paolo MARANZANA Boğaziçi University, Istanbul [email protected]; [email protected]

Alexander PODOSSINOV Institute for World History, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow [email protected]

Marcin MATERA University of Warsaw [email protected]

Richard POSAMENTIR Eberhard Karl University of Tübingen [email protected]

Andreas MEHL Martin Luther University, Halle-Wittenberg [email protected]

Robert ROLLINGER University of Innsbruck [email protected]

Fergus MILLAR (†) Brasenose College, Oxford

Peter ROTHENHOEFER Sun Yat-Sen University, Canton [email protected]

Oswyn MURRAY Balliol College, Oxford [email protected] Dmytro NYKONENKO Department of Heritage Protection, Khortytsia National Reserve, Ukraine [email protected] Marta OLLER GUZMÁN Autonomous University of Barcelona [email protected]; [email protected] Andrei OPAIŢ North York, Toronto, Ontario [email protected] Jari PAKKANEN Royal Holloway and Bedford New College, University of London, Egham [email protected] Krastina PANAYOTOVA National Archaeological Institute with Museum, Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, Sofia [email protected] Laura PISANU University of Melbourne, Parkville, Victoria [email protected]

Oksana RUCHYNSKA V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University, Kharkov [email protected] Ligia RUSCU Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca/Kolozsvár [email protected] Frank SEAR University of Melbourne, Parkville, Victoria [email protected] Iryna SHRAMKO V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University, Kharkov [email protected] Zsolt SIMON Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich [email protected] Tyler Jo SMITH University of Virginia, Charlottesville [email protected] Květa SMOLÁRIKOVÁ Charles University, Prague [email protected]

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

1505

Oren TAL Tel Aviv University [email protected]

Barbora WEISSOVA Ruhr University, Bochum [email protected]

Nikola THEODOSSIEV Sofia University St Kliment Ohridksi [email protected]

Everett WHEELER Duke University, Durham, North Carolina [email protected]

Mikhail TREISTER German Archaeological Institute, Berlin [email protected]

Anne-Maria WITTKE Eberhard Karl University of Tübingen [email protected]

Christoph ULF University of Innsbruck [email protected]

Ioannis XYDOPOULOS Aristotle University of Thessalonica [email protected]; [email protected]

Marina VAKHTINA Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg [email protected] Maya VASSILEVA New Bulgarian University, Sofia [email protected] José VELA TEJADA University of Zaragoza [email protected] Yurii VINOGRADOV Institute for the History of Material Culture, Russian Academy of Sciences, St Petersburg [email protected]

Şahin YILDIRIM Bartin University [email protected] Simon YOUNG LithodomosVR, Prahran, Victoria [email protected]; [email protected] Stanislav ZADNIKOV V.N. Karazin Kharkiv National University, Kharkov [email protected] Angelina ZEDGENIDZE National Research University ‘Higher School of Economics’, Moscow [email protected]

INDEX A note of caution. The succession of various (client) kings is sometimes unclear, as is the location/ identification of places. Indeed, these matters form part of the debate in the chapters by Coşkun and Wheeler. Which (actual or mythical) Araxes river is meant in stories about Heracles, for instance? ‘Abd el Nabi/Meẓad HaYarqon 1058–60 Abdera 306, 521, 523–26, 544 Abkhazia 467, 491, 494, 502, 561, 798, 807 Acampsis 241, 243, 246–48, 251, 253, 254, 257, 795, 803, 807 Achaea/Achaia 213, 326, 585, 817, 819, 820, 1262 Achaemenids 75–102 passim, 125, 126, 185, 219, 232, 271, 351, 409–13, 415, 416, 448, 450, 521, 524, 544, 547, 578, 597, 695, 820, 922, 924, 1239, 1241, 1246, 1321 Achillodoros 294, 299 acculturation 955–59 Adada 177, 180, 181 Adana 839, 846 Adiabene 1115 Āditya 941, 943, 946 Admetus 1038, 1039, 1042 Adriatic 355 Adzhiyska Vodenitsa See Pistiros Aeetes 125, 249 Aegina 1038, 1074 Aegyssus 211–13 Aelian 269, 767 Aelius Aristides 580, 586, 589, 1038 Aeneas Tacticus 281 Aeneolithic See Chalcolithic Aeschylus 713, 715, 804, 1239 Afyon 846 Agade 1311, 1314, 1315 Agara 465 Agariste of Sikyon 1030, 1032, 1035–37, 1047 Agathe/Agde 299 Agathias 387 Agesilaus 1434, 1439, 1440, 1443–47, 1449 Agighol 308 Agrigento 978 (Marcus Vipsanius) Agrippa 256, 1345 (baths) Agrippa I 805 Agrippa II 792, 812, 813 Ahura-Mazda 124 Ai Khanoum 913, 924 Aia 247–49 Ainos 117 Aizanoi 176, 179, 370 Ajara 463–70, 472 Akhalsopeli See Avgia

Akkad(ian) 85, 1130, 1131, 1137, 1237, 1238, 1242, 1245, 1309, 1312, 1314 Akrotiri 1150, 1151 alabastrons 196, 452, 651, 653, 713, 1151 Alalia 1105 Alani 71, 72, 436, 791–830 Albania See Epirus Albania/Azerbaijan 71, 127, 795, 798, 799, 806, 807, 821–26, 828, 829 Alburnus Maior 151 Alcetus 1045, 1046 Alexander the Great 127, 128, 185–90, 282, 370, 387, 397, 1085, 1239, 1321 Alexander Jannaeus 1055–68 Alexandria 326, 371, 687, 1209, 1299 Alicante 985 altars/shrines/sanctuaries 81, 146, 149–53, 167– 71, 220, 221, 263, 269, 271, 282, 322, 323, 325, 327, 343, 355, 356, 376, 410, 531, 532, 535–37, 685, 760, 901, 971–1006 passim, 1026, 1029, 1031, 1086, 1095–1107 passim, 1166, 1263, 1264, 1266, 1267, 1274, 1367, 1372 Altintepe 411, 839 Alxenor of Naxos 676–78 Amanische Pforte 839, 846 Amasis (Egyptian general) 1355–60 Amastris 314, 317, 319, 321, 513, 516 Amasya 129, 409, 412, 413 Amazasp (Hamazasp) III 72 Amazons 127, 128 amber 350, 354, 358, 935, 938, 939 Ambracia 1031, 1035, 1037, 1043, 1044, 1047 Amisos 187, 192, 344, 467, 804, 870 Ammianus Marcellinus 597, 1299, 1350 Amorium 370, 375, 376, 377, 380, 593–95, 597, 599, 601–05, 607 Amphictyonic Council 1437, 1454 Amphipolis 730 amphorae (and stamps) 157–63 (stamps), 196, 198, 199, 279, 281, 342, 345–48, 352–54, 505–07, 526, 533, 542, 545, 547, 554–59, 568, 570, 573, 615, 633–43, 651, 687, 706, 714, 751, 865, 877–79, 881, 883, 884, 887– 89, 955, 956, 958, 981, 1059, 1102, 1165, 1171–74, 1181–93 (stamps), 1212, 1273 – Great Dipylon 956

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INDEX

amphoriskoi 196, 197, 648 Amu-Daria 84, 94 Amyntas 942, 943, 946, 949 Anacharsis 301–03 Anahita 126 Anaitis (god) 603 Anapa See Gorgippia Anatolia 75, 123, 124, 126, 173, 179, 181, 185, 187, 189–91, 369–84, 409–11, 458, 593–607, 696, 779–88, 861, 867, 868, 956, 1090, 1130, 1151, 1154, 1275, 1315 Anaxandridas (of Sparta) 1428, 1429 Anaxandridès 306 Anaximander 269 Anaxippus 1083 Anchialo 268, 269, 274, 279, 284, 343, 353, 354 Ancyra/Ankara 178, 370, 384, 593, 595, 597– 99, 601–03, 605–07, 843, 846, 848–50 Andocides/Ps.- 1044 Anglo-Georgian relations 1467–72 Anicetus (and revolt) 796, 805, 808–10, 812–14, 819, 820 Animal Style 441, 449, 704, 881, 919 Antalcidas (peace) 1434, 1440–42, 1446, 1448, 1450 Antigonus the One Eyed/Antigonids 129, 191, 1084, 1088 (Nuraghe) Antigori 1152, 1153 Antinous 313, 315, 325–28, 337, 338 Antioch (Pisidian) 173–79, 370, 373, 375, 376, 378, 380, 606, 792 Antiochus I Soter 930, 1086, 1241–44 Antiochus II 283, 284, 1244 Antiochus III (the Great) 129, 911, 1173, 1238, 1241, 1244, 1453, 1458 Antiochus XII Dionysus 1055, 1057, 1058 Antipater 191, 1082 Antoninus Pius 798, 802, 808, 809, 822, 823 Aorsi (Sarmatians) 816, 817 Aosta Valley 355 Apamea 173, 175, 177, 178, 370, 372, 384 Aphek-Antipatris 1066 Aphrodisias 370, 604, 606 Aphrodite 220, 221, 304, 525, 547, 910, 914– 16, 925–30, 978, 1292, 1300, 1301 Apollo 302, 459, 650, 677, 6