Data Science, Human Science, and Ancient Gods: Conversations in Theory & Method [3] 9781948488518, 9781948488525

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Data Science, Human Science, and Ancient Gods Conversations in Theory and Method

http://dx.doi.org/10.5913/2023518.00 本书版权归ISD Global所有

Studies in Ancient Mediterranean Religions

Sandra Blakely, Series Editor

Number Three Data Science, Human Science, and Ancient Gods

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Data Science, Human Science, and Ancient Gods Conversations in Theory and Method

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Edited by

Sandra Blakely and Megan Daniels

LOCKWOOD PRESS Columbus, GA 2023

Data Science, Human Science, and Ancient Gods Copyright © 2023 by Lockwood Press All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by means of any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed in writing to Lockwood Press, PO Box 1080, Columbus, GA 31901 USA. ISBN: 978-1-948488-51-8 Cover design by Susanne Wilhelm. Cover image: Image from Lindsey A. Mazurek, Kathryn A. Langenfeld, and R. Benjamin Gorham, figure 7.5. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Blakely, Sandra, 1959- editor. | Daniels, Megan, editor. Title: Data science, human science, and ancient gods : conversations in theory and method / edited by Sandra Blakely and Megan Daniels. Description: Columbus, GA : Lockwood Press, 2023. | Series: Studies in Ancient Mediterranean religions ; 3 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022057575 (print) | LCCN 2022057576 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948488518 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781948488525 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Greece—Religion. | Rome—Religion. | Mythology, Classical. | Science. Classification: LCC BL790 .D383 2023 (print) | LCC BL790 (ebook) | DDC 292.001/5— dc23/eng20230328 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022057575 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022057576

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Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.

Contents

Contributors vii Abbreviations

x

Introduction. New Sciences and Old Gods: A Brief History of the Human Sciences and Ancient Religion Megan Daniels and Sandra Blakely

1

Human Science: Feasting, Cognition, Memory, and Performance Ritualizing Relations in Early Iron Age Greece: Feasting in Extraurban Sanctuaries Megan Daniels

31

Harnessing the Gods: Big Gods Theory and Moral Supervision in the Greek World Jennifer Larson

71

Festival Souvenirs from Roman Cologne: Connectivity, Memory, and Conceptions of Time Maggie Popkin

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Roman Strategies of Ritualization and the Performance of the Pompa Circensis Jacob Latham

117

Network Models: Material and Social Nearness and Experience in a Network of Roman Amphitheaters Sebastian Heath

135

Reflexivity and Digital Praxis: Reconstructing Ostia’s Social Networks Lindsey A. Mazurek, Kathryn A. Langenfeld, and R. Benjamin Gorham

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Data Driven Approaches: Quantifying, Digitizing, and Describing The Landscape of Early Greek Religion: GIS , Big Data, and the Complexity of the Archaeological Record Sarah Murray

205

Quantifying Thick Descriptions with the Database of Religious History M. Willis Monroe

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The Reign of Janus: Signs, Data Science, and Image Worlds in ThirdCentury BCE Italy Dan-el Padilla Peralta

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Agency, Affect, Games, and Gods: Archaeogaming and the Archaeology of Religion Sandra Blakely

283

Epilogue. Ancient Religion and Modern Science: A Coevolution Ian Rutherford

321

Subject Index

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Index of Ancient Sources

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Contributors Sandra Blakely is associate professor of Classics at Emory University. Her research foci include religion and magic in the Greek and Roman worlds, digital humanities, maritime mobility, archaeometallurgy, and anthropological and comparative approaches to the ancient Mediterranean. Her current project explores the pragmatic realization of the promises of safe sailing associated with initiation into the mysteries of the Great Gods of Samothrace, positioning epigraphic, legendary, and literary data in social networks and ancient geospaces. Megan Daniels is assistant professor of ancient Greek material culture at the University of British Columbia. Her interests revolve around several areas, including data science and social sciences approaches to ancient Mediterranean religions, the study of migration and mobility in antiquity, and the shared ideologies of divine kingship between Greece and the Near East. She is currently working on a monograph on this latter topic, and has edited a volume of papers on interdisciplinary approaches to ancient migration, which came out in 2022. R. Benjamin Gorham is the research data specialist in the Kelvin Smith Library at Case Western Reserve University and the technical director of the Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative. He received his PhD in art history from the University of Virginia, where he was a Mr. and Mrs. John H. Birdsall III fellow. His work focuses on geospatial information recording, network analysis, and digital modeling of Italian sites, including photogrammetric recording. He contributed to the Via Consolare Project at Pompeii, served as the supervisor of geospatial studies at the American excavations at Morgantina: Contrada Agnese Project and provided technical consulting to Archimedes Digital. Sebastian Heath is clinical associate professor of Roman Archaeology and Computational Humanities at the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, New York University. His research and field work employ a variety of digital approaches, including data modeling, linked open data, and methods for the virtual recreation of ancient objects, spaces, and experiences. Kathryn A. Langenfeld is an assistant professor in the Department of History and Geography at Clemson University. She received her PhD in classical studies from Duke University and later held an Andrew W. Mellon postdoctoral fellowship at Rice University. Her research uses history, epigraphy, and archae-

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ology to investigate issues concerning political disillusionment, forgery, censorship, and espionage in the Late Roman Empire. Her work has appeared in Studies in Late Antiquity, as well as the volume Beyond Deceit: Valuing Forgery and Longing for Antiquity (Oxford University Press, 2023). Further epigraphic work on Ostia’s Caserma dei Vigili will feature in an upcoming volume of Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy. Jennifer Larson is professor of Classics at Kent State University. Her research interests span the fields of ancient Mediterranean religions, Greek poetry, ancient sexualities, and the cognitive science of religion. She is the author of Understanding Greek Religion: A Cognitive Approach (Routledge, 2016), Ancient Greek Cults: A Guide (Routledge, 2007), Greek Nymphs: Myth, Cult, Lore (Oxford, 2001) and other books, journal articles, and chapters. She is a research affiliate of Oxford University’s School of Anthropology and Museum Ethnography and a member of the board of Seshat: Global History Databank. Jacob Latham is associate professor of history at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. He is the author of Performance, Memory, and Processions in Ancient Rome: The Pompa Circensis from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity (Cambridge University Press, 2016) as well as articles in Church History, History of Religions, Journal of Late Antiquity, Journal of Religion, Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, and a number of edited volumes. Lindsey A. Mazurek is assistant professor in the Department of Classical Studies at Indiana University, Bloomington and codirector of the Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative. She received her PhD in art history from Duke University. Her work focuses on connectivity, transcultural exchange, and mobility in the Roman Mediterranean. Her first book, Isis in a Global Empire: Greek Identity through Egyptian Religion in Roman Greece, was published with Cambridge University Press in 2022. Together with Cavan Concannon, she edited Across the Corrupting Sea: Post-Braudelian Approaches to the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean (Routledge, 2016). Other work has appeared in Hesperia, American Journal of Archaeology, Journal of Roman Archaeology, and Classical Review, and has been supported by the Loeb Classical Library, the Archaeological Institute of America, the International Catacomb Society, and the National Endowment for the Humanities. M. Willis Monroe is a research associate in the Department of Philosophy at the University of British Columbia and the Associate Director of the Database of Religious History. He received his PhD in Assyriology from Brown University. His work focuses on the history and transmission of science and religion in ancient contexts, with a focus on the Mesopotamian and cuneiform worlds.

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In his role as associate director of the DRH he has written extensively on the difficult work of coding historical pasts for quantitative analysis. Sarah Murray is assistant professor of Classics at the University of Toronto. Her research concerns the archaeology and economy of the Aegean Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages. She has published two books, The Collapse of the Mycenaean Economy: Trade, Imports, and Institutions 1300–700 BCE (Cambridge, 2017) and Male Nudity in the Greek Iron Age: Representation and Ritual Context in Aegean Societies (Cambridge, 2022), and coedited a third, The Cultural History of Augustan Rome: Texts, Monuments, and Topography (Cambridge, 2019). She has also authored or coauthored articles on various topics related to Aegean prehistoric archeology or archaeological methods in journals including the Journal of Archaeological Research, American Journal of Archaeology, Journal of Field Archaeology, Hesperia, and Mouseion. She presently codirects a survey based in Porto Rafti, Greece. Dan-el Padilla Peralta is associate professor of Classics, and associated faculty in African American Studies, at Princeton University. He is the author of Undocumented: A Dominican Boy’s Odyssey from a Homeless Shelter to the Ivy League (Penguin, 2015) and Divine Institutions: Religions and Community in the Middle Roman Republic (Princeton, 2020); and he has coedited Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation (Cambridge, 2017). His main lines of research are Roman Republican religious and cultural history, the history of slavery, and classicisms in the Afro-Atlantic diaspora. Maggie L. Popkin is the Robson Junior Professor in the Humanities and associate professor of art history at Case Western Reserve University. She is the author of The Architecture of the Roman Triumph: Monuments, Memory, and Identity (Cambridge, 2016), Souvenirs and the Experience of Empire in Ancient Rome (Cambridge, 2022), and numerous articles on Greek and Roman art and architecture, and coeditor of Future Thinking in Roman Culture: New Approaches to History, Memory, and Cognition (Routledge, 2022). Ian Rutherford is professor of Classics at the University of Reading, UK. His research tends to focus on Greek poetry, on ancient religions and on interactions between the Greek world and other cultures, especially those of Anatolia and Egypt. His most recent book is Hittite Texts and Greek Religion: Contact, Interaction and Comparison (Oxford, 2020).

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Abbreviations AA Archäeologischer Anzeiger ΑΔ Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον Adv. nat. Arnobius, Adversus nationes Aem. Plutarch, Aemilius Paulus Aen. Aeneid Aesch. Aeschylus Agr. Cato, De agricultura AJA American Journal of Archaeology AJN American Journal of Numismatics AJP American Journal of Philology AJS American Journal of Sociology An. Xenophon, Anabasis Ann. Tacitus, Annales; Ennius, Annales Ant. Sophocles, Antigone Ant. Rom. Dionysius of Hallicarnassus, Antiquitates Romanae AP Anthologia Palatina App. Appian Ap. Rhod. Apollonius Rhodius Apollod. Apollodorus mythographus Ar. Aristophanes AR Archiv für Religionsgeschichte Archil. Archilochus ARD Varro, Antiquitates rerum divinarum Argon Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica Arn. Arnobius Aug. Suetonius, Divus Augustus August. Augustine BARIS BAR International Series BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research BCH Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique B. Civ. Appian, Bella civilia Bibl. Apollodorus, Bibliotheca BICS Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies BICSSup Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Supplement BSA Annual of the British School at Athens BSAS British School at Athens Studies

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Abbreviations

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BSASup British School at Athens Supplementary Volume BzA Beiträge zur Altertumskunde CA Current Anthropology Caes. Plutarch, Caesar CAH Cambridge Ancient History Calig. Suetonius, Gaius Caligula CÉFR Collection de l’École française de Rome CGRN Collection of Greek Ritual Norms. http://cgrn.ulg.ac.be/. ch(s). chapter(s) Cic. Cicero CIL Coprus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin, 1862–. ClAnt Classical Antiquity Claud. Claudianus Clem. Seneca, De clementia Comp. hist. Historiarum Compendium Coriol. Plutarch, Coriolanus CP Classical Philology CSR cognitive science of religion De civ. D. Augustine, De civitate Dei Dem. Demosthenes De spect. Terullian, De spectaculis DHA Dialogues d’histoire ancienne Dio Cass. Dio Cassius Dion. Hal. Dionysus of Halicarnassus Div. Cicero, De divinatione Div. inst. Lactantius, Divinae institutiones DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers Ep. Horace, Epodi; Seneca, Epistulae EPRO Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’empire romain ESR evolutionary science of religion ETCSL Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature. http://etcsl. orinst.ox.ac.uk Eum. Aeschylus, Eumenides Eur. Euripides Fast. Ovid, Fasti Fest. Sextus Pompeius Festus FGH Jacoby, Felix. Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Berlin: Weidmann; Leiden: Brill, 1923–1959. frag(s). fragment(s) FRHist Cornell, Timothy J., ed. Fragments of the Roman Historians. 3 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. GRF Grammaticae Romanae fragmenta

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xii

HCS HdO Hdt. Heliogab. Hipp. Hist. eccl. HN HN3

Abbreviations

Hellenistic Culture and Society Handbuch der Orientalistik Herodotus Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Heliogabalus Euripides, Hippolytus Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica Pliny, Naturalis historia Rutter, Keith, et al. Historia Numorum. 3rd ed. London: British Museum Press, 2001–. Hom. Homer HTR Harvard Theological Review Hymn. Hom. Ap. Phokis, Homeric Hymn to Apollo IG Inscriptiones Graecae. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1924–. Il. Homer, Iliad ILLRP Degrassi, Attilio, ed. Inscriptiones Latinae Liberae Rei Republicae. 2 vols. Rome: La Nuova Italia, 1963, 1965. Iul. Suetonius, Divus Iulius JAAR Journal of the American Academy of Religion JAJ Journal of Ancient Judaism JAR Journal of Archaeological Research JArS Journal of Archaeological Science JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JFA Journal of Field Archaeology JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies JMA Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology JNG Jahrbuch für Numismatik und Geldgeschichte JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology JRASup Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series JRS Journal of Roman Studies Lactant. Lactantius LCL Loeb Classical Library Leg. Plato, Leges LH Late Helladic LIMC Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae. Düsseldorf: Artemis, 1981–. Ling. Varro, De lingua Latina LTUR Steinby, Margareta, ed. Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae. 6 vols. Rome: Quasar, 1993–2000. Lyc. Plutarch, Lycurgus Lys. Lysias MAAR Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome Macrob. Macrobius Marc. Plutarch, Marcellus

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Mart. Med. MEFR Mem. Merc. Min. Fel MnSup Mor. MTSR Nat. D. NC Nic. Dam. NS NSA Num. Oct. Od. OGR Ol. Op. Ov. Pan. Ter. Hon. Paus. PBSR PCPS Petron. PG Phil. Planc. Plin. Plut. PNAS Poen. Pol. Ran. REL Resp. RG RGRW RIC RIDA Rom.

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Abbreviations

xiii

Martial Euripides, Medea Mélanges de l’École française de Rome Xenophon, Memorabilia Plautus, Mercator Minucius Felix Mnemosyne Supplements Plutarch, Moralia Method & Theory in the Study of Religion Cicero, De natura deorum Numismatic Chronicle Nicolaus of Damascus new series Notizie degli Scavi di antichità Plutarch, Numa Minucius Felix, Octavius Homer, Odyssey Origo Gentis Romanae Pindar, Olympian Ode Hesiod, Opera et dies Ovid Claudianus, Panegyricus de Tertio Consulatu Honorii Augusti Pausanius Papers of the British School at Rome Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society Petronius Protogeometric Sophocles, Philoctetes Cicero, Pro Plancio Pliny (the Elder) Plutarch Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences Plautus, Poenulus Aristotle, Politica Aristophanes, Ranae Revue des études latines Plato, Respublica Augustus, Res Gestae Divi Augusti Religions in the Graeco-Roman World Sutherland, Carol H. V., and R. A. G. Carson. Roman Imperial Coinage. Rev. ed. London: Spink & Son, 1984. Revue Internationale des Droits de l’Antiquité Plutarch, Romulus

xiv

RRC Rust. Sat. ScAnt SCI SCJud SEG Sen. Serv. SHA SNG Soph. De spect. Suet. Supp. Tab. Her. Tac. TAPA Ti. Gracch. Thgn. Theog. Thuc. trans. UET Val. Max. Varr. Vesp. WAW WGRWSup YCS Xen. ZPE

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Abbreviations

Crawford, Michael H. Roman Republican Coinage. 2 vols. London: Cambridge University Press, 1974. Columella, De re rustica Macrobius, Saturnalia; Petronius, Satyrica; Horace, Satirae; Juvenal, Satirae Scienze dell’Antichità Scripta Classica Israelica Studies in Christianity and Judaism Supplementum epigraphicum graecum Seneca Servius Scriptores Historiae Augustae Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum Sophocles Tertullian, De spectaculis Suetonius Aeschylus, Supplices Tabula Heracleensis Tacitus Transactions of the American Philological Association Plutarch, Tiberius Gracchus Theognis Theogonia Thucydides translator Ur Excavations: Texts Valerius Maximus Varro Suetonius, Divus Vespasianus Writings of the Ancient World Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplement Yale Classical Studies Xenophon Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

INTRODUCTION New Sciences and Old Gods: A Brief History of the Human Sciences and Ancient Religion Sandra Blakely and Megan Daniels

T

he studies in this volume share a focus on religion in the ancient Mediterranean world: how ritual, myth, spectatorship, and travel reflect the continual interaction of human beings with the richly fictive beings who defined the boundaries of groups, access to the past, and mobility across land and seascapes. They share as well the methodological exploration of the intersection between human sciences—the integration of numerous disciplines around the study of all aspects of human life from the biological to the cultural—and the study of the past. This conversation has a long history, stretching back to the eighteenth century, and is far from concluded in the twenty-first. This dialogue engages with critical models derived from specializations within history, philology, archaeology, sociology, and anthropology, and addresses, increasingly, the potentialities and pitfalls of quantitative and digital analyses. It has been characterized from its inception by a combination of ambivalence and ambition, critical responses and generative energy, focused as much on the evolution of method and theory as on the cultural specifics of individual case studies. Many of the threads in that long conversation inform these chapters: the comparative project, human social evolution, disciplinary reflexivity, religion as an embedded, functional, and structural system, and the role for agency, networks, and materiality. This introduction begins with a short account of the history of these disciplinary interactions, in the hopes of offering support for this particular reflexive moment, at the digital and interdisciplinary frontiers of the twenty-first century, at which the study of ancient religions is positioned. A brief overview of the individual chapters follows. 1.1. Evolution, Ethnography, and Quantification: Common Ground and Separate Paths

A common imperative, one as evolutionary as it was moral, linked anthropology and the study of the past in the late nineteenth century. Edward B. Tylor, writing in 1896, asserted for anthropology what David Hume had declared for history 150 years before.1 Both disciplines should cast light on the evolutionary

1. Hume, “Of the Study of History” (1741): knowledge of history helped one “to remark the rise, progress, declension, and final extinction of the most flourishing empires: the virtues which contributed to their greatness, and the vices, which drew on their ruin.” (1987, 566). To Hume (1987,

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trajectory of nations, whose ethical development would shape their capacity for survival. The evolutionary proposal crossed the boundaries between the scientific and the historical, triangulating modern nations with Darwinian approaches and rampant comparativism. While Iroquois confederacies, Scottish clans, and ancient Athenians could all be compared, the ancient literate cultures of Greece and Rome occupied a particular place in these efforts, as both comparanda and models of the investigators’ own intellectual and cultural identities.2 As Emily Varto has written, No other “other” was so well studied and documented; the classical civilizations were a useful, even natural, source for comparanda and heuristic tools in cross-cultural ethnological projects. The classics, however, had also been adopted as Europe’s history, part of its development. The classics merged both self and “other”; they represented a European past and an ethnographic “other.” (2018a, 5)

Common methodological and topical grounds further united classics and anthropology in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, particularly the work of the Cambridge ritualists and early anthropologists like James Frazer (1922) and Marcel Mauss (1923–1924).3 Philological approaches informed comparative linguistics: religious experience, including feasting, the giving of gifts, and the conceptions of the divine, were the objects of research in both fields. Even fieldwork in some cases encouraged points of fusion between these disciplines, notably the work of Milman Parry and Albert Lord (Varto 2018a, 9–10; de Vet 2018; see Solez 2018 on missionary “fieldwork”). These commonalities did not, however, inevitably generate a cross-disciplinary openness. Classicists were often suspicious of a field increasingly based on ethnographic participant observation and attracted to the irrational, the sensual, and the subjective. The proposal that non-Greco-Roman cultures could cast light on antiquity could seem an affront to the canon of “western civilization”; equally unwelcome was the idea that Greeks and Romans could be “primitive.”4

56; Kumar 2012), it was “an unpardonable ignorance in persons of whatever sex or condition, not to be acquainted with the history of their own country, together with the histories of ancient Greece and Rome.” In Tylor’s (1896, vi) view, anthropological research aided “the great modern nations to understand themselves, to weigh in a just balance their own merits and defects and even in some measure to forecast from their own development the possibilities of the future.” 2. See Lewis Henry Morgan’s 1877 work, Ancient Society, for these comparanda. On the use of classical comparanda in comparative evolutionary schemes in nineteenth-century ethnology undertaken by Mogan, Maine, and Fustel de Coulanges, see Varto 2014. James Frazer also placed all human societies on an evolutionary line, from magic to religion to science (Borofsky 2019). Note that Tylor did press for more rigor in setting up anthropological lines of inquiry; see Hammel 1980. 3. Frazer, 1st ed., 1890, 2 vols.; 2nd ed., 1900, 3 volumes; 3rd ed. 1911–1915, 12 vols.; abridged version 1922. 4. Ackerman 2008, 149–55; Varto 2018a, 13. E.g., see the Archaeological Institute of America Annual Report 1880, 18–21. See also Gagné 2019.

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Within anthropology, as resistance to the comparative project emerged, classics and its source material became less and less suited to its mission. Criticisms arose against approaches more generalized than contextualized, a priori adherence to unilinear evolutionism, and the use of ethnography to fill in the missing bits of antiquity. Such charges, voiced largely by such notable anthropologists as Franz Boas (1896) and Bronisław Malinowski (1926; Tobin 1990; Morris 2013, 8–9), had lasting impact.5 For classicists, the finely read analyses and minute consideration of authorial, historical, and linguistic nuance had little to gain from comparison with cultures approached through nonliterary means, while for anthropologists, historical particularism and a preference for contextualized ethnographic analysis over comparative evolutionary ethnology resulted in a retreat from Greco-Roman antiquity, and indeed from most “armchair” comparisons, as a source of knowledge (Varto 2018a, 20). This distance between the classical and the anthropological was furthered in the mid-twentieth century, as evolutionary models transitioned into a second phase.6 The Human Relations Area Files were founded in 1949, an organization based at Yale University that collects, indexes, and distributes ethnographic data to enable systematic and cross-cultural comparison of human societies. Vere Gordon Childe, Leslie White, and Talcott Parsons responded to the Boasnian critique of evolution with studies that integrated evolutionary paradigms with Marxist, technological, and economic approaches (Orenstein 1954; Toby 1972; Barrett 1989). This renewed interest in evolutionism was combined with a desire to make arguments about social development explicit through quantification (Morris 2013, 12). This was a science of humankind. Processual or “New Archaeology,” rooted in American fieldwork, insisted that archaeology was to be anthropology, or it was nothing (Willey and Phillips 1958, 2). These innovations largely bypassed the archaeology of the Greco-Roman worlds, termed by Colin Renfrew the “Great Tradition,” which remained rooted in culture-historical paradigms. Renfrew articulated this divide, writing in 1980: “it is not primarily in the application of new scientific techniques in archaeology that the Great Tradition is falling behind, but rather in the development of new ideas and in the acute awareness of the need for coherent and explicit theory which is the most positive and characteristic feature of the New Archaeology” (1980, 292, emphasis original). His conclusion ventriloquizes Hume and Tylor: “The ultimate purpose of archaeology, after all, is an intellectual one, to illuminate our understanding of the past of man [sic], and hence of the very nature of man himself [sic]” (1980, 292–93). Renfrew lamented the 5. But, as Robert Borofsky (2019) notes, comparison never completely died out in the first half of the twentieth century: Margaret Mead’s Coming of Age in Samoa was published in 1928, for instance, and Ruth Benedict’s Patterns of Culture was published in 1934. 6. On the separation between classical and anthropological archaeology, which had much deeper roots, see Renfrew 1980; Dyson 1981; Snodgrass 1985.

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slowness of classical archaeology to contribute to questions of human development—a self-reflexivity about the field that recognized the constraints of its past and the complexity of its unfolding development. Indeed, the disciplines of anthropology, archaeology, and classics did not unfold in neat Kuhnian-style paradigms. Central to their emergence were dense networks of interactions among individual scholars, characterized by debates and competition as well as collaborations, carried out through the disruptions of two world wars (Gagné 2019, 37). Those who built on the foundations of notables like Émile Durkheim, Max Weber, and Malinowski produced a series of possible futures, overlapping and conflicting: the monolithic early confidence in the purpose of the human sciences gave way to what Renaud Gagné (2019) characterizes as a messy landscape, whose schisms are “cracked wide open” when one takes up the study of disciplinary history. The comparative project, like the evolutionary, generated more separation than common ground between anthropology and classics over the course of the twentieth century. While both fields embraced the value of primary data and interpretive paradigms derived from fieldwork, classical scholars drew fire for failing to keep pace with changes in theory and method from the social sciences.7 Uncritical use of outdated models, the decontextualization of the data on which arguments are built, and approaches to modern Mediterranean cultural groups as “descendants” of antiquity have been key complaints. The postmodern critique of evolution, functionalism, and other sweeping explanatory narratives further problematized the comparative approach. Clifford Geertz (1973) in particular emphasized the turn toward “thick description” as the only proper mode of anthropology, relegating comparitivism largely obsolete as a viable methodology. The elevation of heterogeneity and local determinism in this period by Geertz and others (e.g., Lyotard 1984, xxiv; Gerholm 1988) thus made ancient analogues for ethnographic foci less compelling, and further reduced the perceived value of classics for anthropological endeavors.8 Thus Varto (2018a, 24) notes that classical prototypes, concepts, and examples as used by researchers in the social sciences seem to be “stuck in early twentieth-century scholarship.” While calls for inter-, multi- and transdisciplinary projects have grown, those calls do not mitigate the challenges of being up to date on two separate bodies of theory and method. 7. King 2015; Cartledge 1995; See also Geertz 2005. For a more positive view of anthropology showing an interest in classics, see Harkin 2010; Knapp 1992. Sally Humphreys in the 1970s sought to argue for what classics can do for anthropology; see Humphreys 1978; Redfield 1991; Kindt 2009a; Lambert 2021. 8. Slingerland and Sullivan 2017, 314. See, e.g., the bar graph from HRAF’s Explaining Human Culture database showing trends in the number of cross-cultural studies from the mid-twentieth century to the present: https://hraf.yale.edu/the-return-of-the-comparative-method-in-anthropology/. There is a clear rise in comparative studies from the 1950s to late 1970s, a decline throughout the 1980s and 1990s, and a steady climb once again in the twenty-first century.

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With the emergence of data science in the late twentieth and twenty-first centuries, the grand themes of evolution and comparativism entered a new era. The digital means to assemble, store, query, and model vast quantities of data has connected the ethnographic with the quantitative, inspiring utopian hopes as well as heated debates (Atkinson and Whitehouse 2011; Slingerland and Sullivan 2017; Human Relations Area Files 2019; Blakely 2017). The perceived threat that quantitative and digital techniques will flatten out distinctions and dehumanize the past resonates, on the one hand, with concerns about the universalizing tendencies of nineteenth-century evolutionary models, and the risk of hasty generalizations based on unnuanced comparative projects.9 Such concerns have, however, been answered by an array of critical approaches that have emphasized agency, affect, embodiment, and the individual. As well, humanities scholars increasingly have become involved in the creation and direction of large, quantitative projects that analyze religious patterning in human history, in particular the Database of Religious History (see below). Many of the anticipated benefits also resonate with the promises of early anthropology: the meaningful integration of fresh material, purposeful reflections on methodology, and the identification of questions as responsive to the worlds of their investigators as to the objects of investigation. 1.2. God the Anthropologist: Embedded, Networked, and Material Religions How has religion fared in the evolving relationship between these disciplines, and in response to data science? Religious studies shared in the emerging evolutionary and comparativist theories of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and used them as frameworks to pursue two hypotheses: that religion was embedded within deeper institutional forces, or was the fount from which all other human developments emerged (Morris 1993).10 Ritual—as a blend of narrative and performance—emerged as the lynchpin in these arguments, from William Robertson Smith’s Religion of the Semites (1889) to the myth and ritual school of the early twentieth century, which delved into the question of the religious origins of society using sociological, psychological, and anthropological models (Segal 1998; Meletinskiĭ 2000; Ackerman 2002).11 The myth and ritual school 9. Kim and Stommel 2018; Poole 2017; Scheuermann and Kroeze 2017; Van Eijnatten, Pieters, and Verheul 2013; Gold 2012. 10. Tylor and Andrew Lang, e.g., proposed uniformity within the human psyche that led to linear and progressive cultural evolution (Ackerman 2002, 33–39), with religion regarded as a survival from a much earlier evolutionary stage of human societies. 11. Weber, Durkheim’s contemporary and another great innovator in understanding religion’s role in society, placed much greater emphasis on understanding the motives of individual actors from a subjective point of view in order to understand broader social phenomena. Weber also advocated a much stronger historicist approach to religion and society. As Parsons (1963, xxvii) notes in his introduction to Weber’s The Sociology of Religion (1922), however, Weber and Durkheim shared notable similarities, particularly their tendency to characterize religious development in evolution-

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equally exemplified the macroscopic tendencies of the earliest anthropological years, a scale that inspired the emergence of structural functionalism (Versnel 1990; Morris 1993, 22; Segal 1998; Ackerman 2002).12 Clyde Kluckhohn (1942, 46) complained that structural functionalists focused too much on “pan-human symbolic meanings,” with no attempt “to discover the practical function of mythology in the daily behaviors of the members of a society nor to demonstrate specific interactions of mythology and ceremonials.” Kluckhohn’s approach to functionalism built largely on Malinowski, who wrote in 1926 (34–35) that “It is easier to write down the story than to observe the diffuse, complex ways in which it enters into life, or to study its function by the observation of the vast social and cultural realities into which it enters.”13 The challenges of structural-functionalists would resurrect the tensions that informed the evolutionary and comparativist schemes of earlier generations. Focused on a reified structural system, structural functionalist scholars threatened to lose sight of the essence of myth itself as they focused on the potential of rituals—in which myth played a role—to maintain traditions, codify thought, reinforce customs, sanction rituals, regulate behavior and rationalize the social order (e.g., Malinowski 1926, 34–35; Radcliffe-Brown 1933, 405). JeanPierre Vernant took up the question in 1988, writing from the perspective of the “Paris School,” which exemplifies the complex blend of social science perspectives in the second half of the twentieth century. Vernant’s own intellectual progenitors include Durkheim (1912), Marcel Mauss (1908), Georges Dumézil, Claude Lévi-Strauss (1955), and Louis Gernet (1968; Vernant 1988, 242–46; Littleton 1996, 183; Humphreys 2009).14 Of the functionalists he wrote that they do indeed seek to discover the system that makes the myth intelligible, but instead of seeking it in the visible or hidden structure of the text, that is, in the myth itself, they find it elsewhere, in the sociocultural context that

ary terms. Robert Bellah (1959, 461 n. 70) also notes the emphasis that both theorists placed on the importance of history and social change as a basis for sociological research, although the ambiguity toward historical contingency in Durkheim’s work is perhaps more apparent (Ramp 2014). 12. The origins of a functional analysis of religion and society stretch back to the French philosopher and social scientist Auguste Comte, who asserted that “there can be no scientific study of society, either in its conditions or its movements, if it is separated into portions, and its divisions are studied apart” (Comte [1855] 2009, 462). Slingerland and Sullivan (2017, 314), however, note that functionalist models go back to the fourth-century BCE Confucian thinker Xunzi. 13. Kluckhohn (1942, 54) writes, “the whole question of the primacy of ceremonial or mythology is as meaningless as all the questions of ‘the hen or the egg’ form. What is really important, as Malinowski has so brilliantly shown, is the intricate interdependence of myth … with ritual and many other forms of behavior.” 14. Influenced by these thinkers, Vernant along with Marcel Detienne and Pierre Vidal-Naquet wed rigorous sociological analyses with classics, and their work continues to be prominent. Outside of France, Walter Burkert adapted the structuralist model in Structure and History in Greek Mythology and Ritual, arguing that “Myth is a traditional tale with secondary, partial reference to something of collective importance.” (1979, 23)

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provides the framework to the stories, in other words in the ways in which the myth is embedded in social life. Thus, the specific nature of myth and its own particular significance are lost on the functionalist. For them, myth can tell us no more than social life itself does; and so, in their view, there is nothing more to be said about it except that, like every other element in the social system, it makes it possible for the life of the group to function. (1988, 240–41)

Despite these critiques, the desire to trace an embedded religion has persisted, taking on particular clarity in the so-called polis model (Kindt 2009b, 2012). This model integrates structural functionalism with the sociology of Karl Polanyi and Moses Finley: both religion and economy become comprehensible only when conceptualized in terms of their social presence, integrated through institutions and activities into the broader fabric of their cultures (Eidinow 2015).15 In Jan Bremmer’s (1994, 2) words, “In ancient Greece … religion was totally embedded in society—no sphere of life lacked a religious aspect.” The concept of embeddedness redrew the boundaries between “sacred” and “profane,” yet it threatened to marginalize forms of religion operating at levels below or beyond the polis (Beard et al. 1998, 43; Bremmer 1994; Parker 1986, 265–66; Sourvinou-Inwood 2000a, 2000b). And the polis model came to exemplify, for some, a term misleadingly etic for the ancient context to which it was applied (Smith 1987, xi; Asad 1993; Nongbri 2008, 2013). These criticisms have led to more nuanced models of the ancient city, attentive to multiple levels, realities, and experiences.16 Three specific critiques of the polis model—focused on agency, networks, and materiality—index its productivity for the study of ancient religions. Anna Collar (2013, 2022) and Esther Eidinow (2015, 63) have highlighted the productivity of network models as articulations of the inherently relational dynamics of religious belief and practice; these offer frameworks for the attention to individual agency within larger structures proposed by Mark Granovetter (1983, 1985) and Anthony Giddens (1984). Others have used cognitive science to explain the workings of ancient religion (Larson 2016). Intersecting with these developments are further foci on the nonhuman agents that shape cognition and relations, often referred to as the “material” or “ontological turn” (Latour 2005; Knappett 2011; Hodder 2012; Witmore 2014).17

15. On Polanyi’s use of functionalism in his theories see Hann 1992. Polanyi and Finley were likewise deeply influenced by the sociology of Max Weber. For the eagerness to use these models to free Greek and Roman religions from the post-Enlightenment conceptualizations that separated them from other spheres of life, see Insoll 2004, 17; Nongbri 2008. 16. Eidinow 2011, 2015; Kindt 2009b; 2012, 16–19; Nongbri 2008, 2013; Rüpke 2016; Scott 2017; Vlassopoulos 2007. 17. Julian Droogan (2013, 150), e.g., channeling the works of Giddens (1984), Bourdieu (1977), and Gell (1998), summarizes the active role of material culture in “forming an important medium

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None of these developments completely erased the interest in large-scale models and comparisons in religious studies, however. Wendy Doniger, Bruce Lincoln, and Jonathan Z. Smith encouraged comparative, cross-disciplinary approaches, even while acknowledging the risk of hegemonic, constructivist perspectives.18 These studies also emphasized the role of historical developments, ideology, and politics in the emergence and evolution of religious practice.19 The interests in large-scale, interdisciplinary comparisons have continued into the twenty-first century, particularly with the rise of fields such as the cognitive science of religion (CSR; Slingerland 2015).20 The resurgence of interest in socio-cultural evolution in the social sciences in recent decades has indeed prompted some researchers to advocate a return to functionalist and comparative models of society, this time with better data (Atkinson and Whitehouse 2011; Abrutyn 2016; Slingerland and Sullivan 2017).21 Religion, as a significant mechanism in cultural evolution, acts within the cognitive and social arenas at both the individual and group levels to engender traits that increase group survival, such as cooperation, trust, coordination, cohesion, morality, and overall prosociality.22 The return to large-scale explanations has prompted new interests by sociologists like the late Robert Bellah, who posited religion as one of the key drivers of human cognitive and cultural development since the Palaeolithic (Bellah 2011), although these interests were certainly alive in earlier decades (e.g., Eisenstadt 1982, 1987). These theoretical turns are paired with new methodologies arising from what Kristian Kristiansen (2014) deems the third science revolution. The first science revolution came in the first half of the nineteenth century, with the discovery of deep time and evolutionism; late nineteenth-century Darwinism in through which this reflexive interaction between individual agency and mass social systems occurs.” 18. Lincoln 1991, 244; Smith 1990, 51; 2009, 19; Doniger 2000, 66–67; Geertz 2014a, 259; Slingerland and Sullivan 2017, 319–20; see discussion in Urban 2004. 19. Clifford Geertz (1973, 30) emphasizes the need to combine these with embedded perspectives, an attention to “the hard surfaces of life … the political, economic, stratificatory realities within which men [sic] are everywhere contained—and the biological and physical necessities on which those surfaces rest.” 20. E.g., Guthrie 1980. For the application of cognitive sciences to Greek religion, see Larson 2016. 21. E.g., in Darwin’s Cathedral, David Sloan Wilson (2002) argues for the revival of group-level functionalism in the social sciences alongside group-level selection theories in the biological sciences. While both the application of functionalism and evolutionary adaptation had, since the 1960s, become restricted to the level of individuals, more recent multilevel selection theories and the emphasis on the role of cultural evolution in particular have given space to the consideration of groups as adaptive units, and also to the consideration of culture as acting on the parameters of a more global evolutionary process (Richerson and Boyd 1985, 2005; Boehm 1999; Wilson and Kniffin 1999; Wilson 2002). 22. Norenzayan 2010, 2013; Norenzayan, Henrich, and Slingerland 2013; Norenzayan et al. 2016; Norenzayan and Gervais 2012; Shariff, Norenzayan, and Henrich 2009.

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the social sciences was one outcome of these shifts. The second science revolution, in the post-WWII years, brought advances in scientific dating and statistics, which freed up archaeologists and historians to posit new questions about social organization and development, and gave rise to the discipline of sociobiology (Kristiansen 2014, 2022). The current revolution involves the advent of big data, such as the ability to sequence whole human genomes from archaeological remains (Daniels 2022). All of these revolutions manifest ripple effects, as innovations in the sciences open new horizons in humanistic disciplines. In the study of religion, the effects of the third science revolution are visible in inter- and multidisciplinary efforts in which new methodologies enable the pursuit of new questions regarding religion’s social, cognitive, cultural, and economic roles. The Database of Religious History (see Monroe, ch. 9 in this volume) is one such project. Religion thus need no longer be seen either as a discrete category, separate from its cultural and historical settings, nor as completely lost in a reified social system, but as one of the key cognitive and cultural factors that has structured social complexity. Cognitive science of religion approaches have largely bypassed interminable debates in religious studies, which tended to stall around the question of how to define “religion” as a classic Aristotelian category. These new approaches treat religion as a radial category, in which a range of concepts are organized around prototypical cases but without rigid boundaries (Lakoff 1987). At the same time, despite the promises of new methodologies and interdisciplinary research, many caveats remain, and scholars in humanities-based fields like history and classics have been slow to engage in these debates. In a critique of Ara Norenzayan’s monograph, Big Gods, Michael Stausberg (2014, 604) notes that “historically minded scholars are not willing to subsume their evidence under potential macro-schemes, which threaten to hand evolutionary theory back to models of evolutionism.” Yet, he also notes that “there is a methodological abyss dividing historical and experimental work [e.g., CSR]” (2014, 604), hearkening back to Renfrew’s concepts of the Great Tradition and the Great Divide. Addressing this acknowledgement, Edward Slingerland (2015, 594) argues that “historians have yet to develop rigorous methods for substantiating generalizations about the historical record.” Slingerland advocates integrating these emerging quantitative, digital, and science-based approaches with the strengths of the humanities—training “in deep, textured qualitative readings of historical sources”—and “get back in the big-picture explanation game, not … simply dismiss it” (594, 599). Armin Geertz (2014b, 610) likewise notes that CSR “has made it possible to address once again the big questions that had been abandoned by frustrated scholars of religion 100 years ago.”23

23. See also Walsh 2020 on the relationships between digital pedagogy and Classics and the need to build more scaffolding between these two areas.

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The CSR-humanities standoff seems to replay the standoff between processualists and postprocessualists; at the same time it highlights the potential to integrate these different methodologies. Interdisciplinary research agendas that integrate models from the social and data sciences with humanistic analyses and interpretations hold great promise in this respect. John Bintliff, for instance, has explored the applicability of models drawn from the natural sciences, such as punctuated equilibrium and chaos-complexity theory, to the disciplines of history and archaeology, models that, in his words, “nullify the supposed incompatibility of processual and post-processual approaches” (2006, 187). The resulting integrated models are neither unilinear, mechanistic, nor teleological. They can account for both unpredictable, nondeterminative, and nonlinear complex systems—including individual agency within those systems—and the undeniable adaptive pressures to create and follow enduring structures and networks. Social scientists might call these “path dependency,” mathematicians “attractors,” and historians and archaeologists the moyenne and longue durée (Bintliff 2006, 186–87). Scholars from multiple fields are thus pushing the envelope on what we can say about religion as a fundamental human tendency within these complex systems, and attempting to locate religion’s role in broader historical narratives about human development. The studies in this volume are the newest chapter in this long conversation about two intersections—the social sciences and the study of the Mediterranean past, and human beings and their gods. They suggest that the study of Greco-Roman religions is no longer neatly concealed in the Great Tradition, the chasm that Renfrew saw separating classics and classical archaeology from the dynamism of anthropological archaeology. Nor is it sequestered from these wider developments in the social and data sciences. The abyss, while not completely filled in, has much more scaffolding than it did in the 1970s, and the arena of ancient religions in particular has much to offer to these broader conversations. 1.3. Ten Case Studies The ten chapters in this volume foreground the subdisciplinary boundarycrossing that has long characterized the study of Mediterranean religion, as textual and material analyses are combined.24 This means that social science and data science approaches engage here with the philological analysis of ancient texts, the historian’s concern for chronologies, politics, military events and still—no matter how profound the historiographic impact of Braudel, Horden, and Purcell—a focus on exceptional individuals, in the form of political 24. For discussion of literary/material evidence, see part II, dedicated to different types of evidence for religion (visual, literary, poetic, epigraphic, material, and papyrological), in Eidinow and Kindt 2015.

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leaders, military victors, and literary voices. There is a particular place, however, in the history of religions for the recovery of nonelite voices, a methodological challenge in which the risk of projecting the investigator’s subjectivity into the past is never far away—and it is a risk acknowledged by both quantitative and ethnographic researchers. The pursuit of religion joins all of these foci to the debates about definitions—of ritual activity, of sacred spaces, and of cultural conceptions of the gods. Each of these ten chapters represents a case study, meant to test the productivity of data sciences, anthropological models, or, in many cases, a combination of the two. The test is measured via insight offered into the dynamics of ritual practice, conceptions of the divine, communication of the numinous or the performance of the self in a world saturated with gods. In chronology the studies reach from the Late Bronze Age/Iron Age interface of Greece to the Roman Imperial period; primary sources include epigraphy, coins, small finds, monumental structures, and the literary canon. Diverse as the case studies and primary materials are, a number of themes emerge that tie the discussions together, including cognitive and evolutionary models for religion, agency, materiality, and spatial analysis. In method, the studies intersect in a concern for multiscalar approaches, the integration of qualitative and quantitative analyses, and self-reflective caveats regarding the boundaries of our reconstructions. The question, briefly stated, is whether the very tools that distinguish us from our ancient counterparts can help us explore them. Can models drawn from living cultures, quantitative, spatial, and social network analyses provide meaningful access to the conception, experience, and social impact of religion in an ancient world? The chapters are presented in three sections organized by connections in theoretical and methodological approach. The first section collects four studies centered on human science in the form of feasting, cognition, memory, and performance; the second comprises two approaches to network analysis; the third offers four studies focused on the heuristic potential for quantification and digital technologies. The looseness of these groupings arises from the themes, noted above, that recur in more than one chapter, and suggest (optimistically) a coherence in these ongoing debates. The first two studies engage with paradigms from the cognitive science of religion and evolutionary science of religion (CSR/ESR), a combination of paradigms that has drawn energetic discussion, as noted above.25 Key among these is the hypothesis for the prosocial impact of belief in supernatural agents: fear of punishment stimulates interpersonal trust, even between strangers, resulting in large-scale cooperation and the emergence of more complex social institutions. This hypothesis has engaged scholars across the boundaries of social 25. Norenzayan 2010, 2013; Norenzayan and Gervais 2012; Norenzayan, Henrich, and Slingerland 2013; Norenzayan et al. 2016; Shariff, Norenzayan, and Henrich 2009.

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psychology and religion, philology, history, and anthropology, drawing praise for its accessibility, challenges to convention, clarity, and the importance of its questions. Criticisms have focused on an inadequate attention to historical context, and the methodology of data collection and analysis—to some extent a repetition of the critiques against early anthropological approaches.26 Two chapters bring these debates to the ancient Greek world. As is appropriate for a volume devoted to discussion, they reach very different conclusions on the productivity of these frameworks for ancient Greek contexts. Megan Daniels takes up the role of ritual practice in social and economic evolution with a case study from Early Iron Age Greece. The Early Iron Age offers a natural setting for exploring the evolutionary force of religion vis-à-vis social regulation from a ground-up scenario, as the centralized authority of the Bronze Age palaces had vanished, but remained, arguably, within retrievable cultural memory. Daniels specifies case studies at two famous sanctuaries, Olympia and Kalapodi, and focuses on the archaeological evidence for ritual feasts. Anthropological models frame feasting as a social praxis that transforms biological need into social messaging, supportive of group cohesion, drawing on memories of the past, and providing a theater for the performance of emerging formations for production, exchange, and the communication of political power. Feasts in sanctuaries place these events of generative commensality under the aegis of the gods and into long-term socio-political evolution. This spanning of ontological and chronological scales echoes in the geospatial mobility represented by bronze workshops in the sanctuaries, working copper and tin brought over long-distance routes from Cyprus and points further east. These objects became part of the deliberate deposition in the form of votives that, along with the detritus of dining, offer archaeological indices of new socioeconomic realities over the course of the Iron Age. Daniels foregrounds, in a way that would help satisfy the critics of ESR, the boundaries of the archaeological datasets in terms of human agency. Yet she also demonstrates how a model of prosocial, morality-enforcing practices offers a coherent narrative for the shifts in both feasting and votives as Iron Age societies evolved toward the political structures of the Greek poleis, a question Jennifer Larson takes up in her chapter. Larson engages the question of deities, their moral supervision, and the evolution of complex societies in the context of the Greek city states; her sources are the literary canon, from Homer and Hesiod onward. These highlight the

26. Skjoldli 2015; Rüpke (2014) writes that Ara Norenzayan’s (2013) monograph, Big Gods, is badly researched but well written. Martin (2014) faults his neglect of history, while Thomassen (2014) notes that none of his examples are acceptable (see Slingerland 2015 for commentary on these responses). See also the papers in Religion, Brain and Behavior 5.4: Atkinson, Latham, and Watts. 2015; Barrett and Greenway 2015; Baumard and Boyer 2015; Fuentes 2015; Johnson 2015, among others.

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insufficiency of the model of prosocial evolutionary impact of gods as imagined agents in the Greek poleis. While Hesiod writes of gods compelled to punish amorality, and offers models of generalized wicked deeds, Homeric literature does not. The Zeus of the epics punishes only a limited range of offenses, and focuses his attention only on elite males. From the Archaic through the Classical period, moreover, the offenses that stir the gods to intervention are few. The Greek gods lack the omniscient, interventionary compulsions of the Judaic, Islamic, or Christian god; they are disposed neither to read the minds of their mortals, nor to unleash retribution for what they find. Larson is consonant in her criticisms with those leveled by Norenzayan’s reviewers who write from the perspective of Roman religion—and indeed with the criticisms of big models which fall short of the data from the ancient world. She offers a hypothesis, however, which confirms the value of an ESR framework, and the force of cognition that underlies CSR. While big gods, as omniscient enforcers driving cultural evolution, fail to materialize in ancient written sources, the cultural mechanisms that seek to harness them do. Focused on the moral domain of interactions between strangers, these norms act as powerful prosocial institutions between and beyond poleis. Xenia, hiketeia, oral prayers, oaths, curses, truces, asylia, manumission, and confession inscriptions are among them: these manifest the regularization and culture-wide spread of justice that will be delivered, morality that will be enforced, and punishments that should be feared. That fear engages with CSR/ESR models to the extent that the role of perception, emotion, and anticipation at the individual level shapes the institutions of the polis. These institutions offer counterparts to the boundary-crossing effectiveness of the feasting and the long-distance trading Daniels highlights for Early Iron Age sites. All of these developments thus enable the evolution toward the settled realities of the Greek poleis, as attentive to the forces beyond their walls as to the sentient social actors within them. The next two chapters continue the turn to social institutions, in the form of festivals from the Roman world. Maggie Popkin bridges cognitive studies with models of social memory, materiality, and agency in her analysis of souvenir figurines from Roman Cologne. Held in the hand, marked by the manufacturer, and stamped with dates for the Roman festival calendar, the mold-made terracotta figurines of Cologne functioned as agents of memory, connecting the owner to the festival, the provincial capital to the imperial center, and closing the social distances between the common people who used these tokens and the most powerful individuals of the Roman world. For the individuals of the province, for whom a trip to the big city was rare and thus memorable, the journey was an opportunity to connect an individual life event with the imperial family and the gods they sponsored, as well as the local divinities also attested in the preserved terracottas. The episodic memory of a single private event is blended with the semantic memory of a regularly repeating, culturally shared phenomenon. The souvenirs become agents of that semantic memory,

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and by their dispersal in the Cologne and Rhine Valley helped construct the prospective memory of an anniversary mentality, shaping intentionality about the future, and informing group identity. The souvenirs are similarly imbricated in multiple locations, drawing networks between the location of the festival, the homes to which they traveled, and the utopian locus of Rome, the referent for the festivals whose timing corresponded to the Roman festival calendar, thus positioning religious objects as resolving certain challenges of empire. Jacob Latham’s chapter resonates with these themes of cultural memory and civic institutions, whose proper execution was a matter of fear and vigilance, as per the models of prosocial “big gods.” Latham uses Roy Rappaport’s anthropology to break through the paradox in the Roman pompa circensis, which balanced a concern for tradition, rule-boundedness, and ritual fault with an appetite for the spectacular. The pompa circensis answers the categories of ritual—regulated, encoded by others, more or less invariant, and involving a performance—as articulated by Catherine Bell and Rappaport. The Roman past looms large in the pompa circensis. Curated cultural memory becomes operational in the regulations concerning ritual fault: the case of a lead dancer in the early republic, whose deviation from established norms led to divine retribution and a repetition of the games, was an oft-repeated tale, known to authors from Cicero to Macrobius. The pompa was further set apart, as per Bell’s definitions of ritual, from daily life by the imposition of momentary ritual “order” in the seething havoc of Rome’s busy streets. It is in performance that the “more or less” principle of Rappaport’s definition comes to the fore. Here the performance of the social self—one aiming at creating memorable events for their individual splendor, as well as for their comportment with the semantic memory of the procession—spurred a continual inflation of the spectacular. The Roman habitus of social performance was molded by mandates beyond the individual actor, in Pierre Bourdieu’s theorization, just as ritual was for Rappaport. It is this habitus, deeply rooted but not self-conscious, that dictated this elevation in spectacle. The social success of the ritual, in the end, is shaped in the intersection of the ritual actor’s innovation and his audience’s response—and this success demanded evolution over time even as it dictated adherence to the past. The second group of studies foregrounds data-driven, quantitative analyses that have informed social network analysis in ancient contexts.27 Sebastian Heath offers a spatial, networked, and embodied analysis of Roman amphitheaters; Lindsey Mazurek, Kathryn Langenfeld, and Benjamin Gorham explore Ostia’s social networks vis-à-vis the cults of Cybele, Mithras, and Egyptian gods. Both chapters prudently engage with many of the criticisms leveled against digital projects, providing detailed discussion of the methodologies behind data collection, categorization, and analysis; both pair the quantitative 27. For surveys, see Knappett 2011; Brughmans, Collar, and Coward 2016; Collar 2022; Leidwanger et al. 2014; Malkin 2011.

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analyses with close read “biographies,” taking the scale of their analyses from the macro to the micro to consider the cognitive and psychological impact of activities reconstructed from literary and iconographic sources. They position these in turn in the mesoscale realities of political and social interactions. Sebastian Heath sets up a quantitative, geospatial and ultimately computational approach to the Roman amphitheaters as a response to a longstanding scholarly argument that these structures helped render the audience “more Roman” via the psychological impact of violence, divine presence, and dominating authority. Sacrifices at the amphitheaters, combined with depictions of Hercules, Icarus, Actaeon, Centauromachies, and the gods themselves, transformed the episodic memory of a day at the amphitheater into semantic memories with culture-wide relevance; they reflect the cognitive dynamism potential in the kinds of texts Larson uses for her analyses, and they index the prosocial function of gods whose punishments on malefactors the games provided. The analysis is restricted to 246 amphitheaters operating in the second century CE. The data used to determine the inclusion of structures and their dates is available for download on GitHub, as is the Python code used to generate maps— consonant with the principle of not merely transparency, but of reproducible research, in digital approaches to the past. The computational analysis builds on historical evidence that the experience of the spectacles was significantly shaped by the civic rivalries the crowds brought with them to the events. The comparative nearness of other amphitheaters, and the size of the crowds they would incorporate, are thus significant factors in gauging the experiences of individual attendees, which would be shaped by their degree of prior experience, their familiarity with the notion of how to behave, and the audience expertise of those around them. The outcome of the social network analysis performed in this chapter is that amphitheater attendants in central Italy and Africa Proconsularis were most likely to interact with others who had seen similar events in relatively nearby structures—their experience of the games, and their prosocial impacts, would have been measurably different from those in the furthest edges of the Roman world. Heath’s analysis offers a significant qualification to the coarser-grained model of amphitheaters as mechanisms of social hierarchy and stability and moves in scale from the geospatial reach of the entire empire to the people sitting next to one another in the amphitheater, considering how their memories and their expectations reflected the social coding they had absorbed. Lindsey Mazurek, Kathryn Langenfeld, and Benjamin Gorham present a project entitled the Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative, foregrounding the subjectivity of data and process in their network analyses of eastern gods and funerary inscriptions within a single but complex urban site, Roman Ostia. The data derive from the corpora of published inscriptions, which are as comparatively abundant as they are inherently partial. The stones are physically damaged, fail to record the experience of women, enslaved peoples, and the

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poor, and are difficult to date with any accuracy; the scholars who digitize, organize, and create visualizations of these ancient acts of memory add another layer of distance from ancient experience. Taken together, the authors recommend the term “capta” rather than “data” as more reflective of the agency of the research designers and the accidents of history.28 The readers, moreover, are encouraged to approach the graphs as maps of historical acts of memorialization rather than religious experience pure and simple, raising to the fore the reflective intentionality that distinguish inscriptions from preserved festival wares or faunal remains. For those in the ancient Mediterranean, the inscriptions manifest the force of prospective memory, as Popkin notes of the Cologne terracottas, because they would work to keep active the social networks whose relevance exceeded the lifespan of any individuals involved in their creation. The distinction between the commissioning and engraving, and the ultimate positioning of the inscriptions, recommends investigations that explore these steps as discrete stages in the life history of inscriptions, the first focused on the groups united under the aegis of the cult, the second on the civic community of which they were a part. The outcomes, more essentially, emphasize that data-generated visualizations are a step on the research path, but not the final goal. The third group of chapters turns to four different categories of digital case studies, with studies focused on GIS, a religious database, numismatics, and a digital game. Sarah Murray continues the discussion of the contingency, complexity, and the necessary caveats of digital approaches, with a case study that takes up ritual practices across the Bronze Age–Iron Age transition in mainland Greece and Crete. Murray uses GIS and a comprehensive geodatabase of archaeological sites to query the hypotheses of continuity between Late Bronze Age Crete and Early Iron Age ritual sites in mainland Greece. The prevalence of sanctuaries sited in marginal locations on the mainland represents a departure from Mycenaean practice, and raises the question of influence from Minoan Crete, where ritual sites include significant proportions of rural and rugged locations. Yet these GIS-generated relationships reflect more the history of scholarship—with island of Crete heavily surveyed while Bronze Age rural sites on the mainland remain understudied—rather than a past reality. Murray concludes with two reflections on the dynamics of big data approaches in the academy. The first is a matter of origins: the turn to big data manifests the influence of cultural trends beyond the academy. The second is a matter of response: the turn to object-centered approaches in archaeological research reflects a reaction to the methodological challenges of such projects, and a rejection of big data approaches, based on the perception that such endeavors reduce the qualitative complexity of the human experience to quantitative views from a

28. As per discussion in Drucker 2011.

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distance. These reflections recommend caution in our approach to the organization and evaluation of great quantities of data. If such debates can engage us with the Forschungsgeschichte, however, then they are ultimately productive. Willis Monroe introduces the Database of Religious History (DRH), an international digital humanities project offering an articulated methodological response to the integration of qualitative and quantitative data. Monroe confirms that the tension between objectivity and subjectivity has always been central to the historical project. The past is imperfectly preserved, and historical writing is inherently reductive, an inevitable manifestation of the research agendas, cultural contexts, and disciplinary categories of its researchers. The DRH responds to this reality with a compilation based on surveys of specialists across the studies of religion. Central to the project is the creation of quantifiable information for the testing of hypotheses: these specialists enable the translation of qualitative into quantitative data, as they mediate the information from their area studies with the architecture of the database. The DRH responds to one of the longest-standing debates in the anthropological approaches to ancient religions, namely the drive for comparative studies, which both energized and exorcised scholars from the sixteenth century onward. Additionally, the surveys through which data are gathered reflect the designers’ engagement with cognitive and evolutionary studies of religion, and a concern to provide a source for modeling the prosocial impact of religious practice in cultural evolution. Monroe’s chapter is a clear and self-critical positioning of the project with respect to the history of the discipline, and how it shapes the architecture of the databases and the pathways of its users. The subjectivities of the modern researchers who supply the historical and ethnographic responses, in addition, are foregrounded: the recognition that the data is a reflection of their investigator’s judgment translates into space for the qualitative commentary of its contributors. Dan-el Padilla Peralta frames the Roman god Janus in a combination of quantitative and qualitative analyses. A well-established historical problem is the disjuncture between the god’s abundant representation on coins, but slender attestation elsewhere in the Roman cultural landscape. He emerges as a significant figure in sixty-nine hoards, some seven thousand coins in total, from 300 to 212 BCE Italian contexts. The effectiveness of semiotic domination in imperial advance recommends an approach to these data as “image worlds” in which the juxtaposition, recombination, and multimedia deployment of images are read as responses to evolving personal, regional, and imperial circumstances. These image worlds were shaped by habitus as defined by Bourdieu, an unself-conscious deployment of cultural symbols. Padilla Peralta proposes identifying this habitus with the hyperreal, as a category beyond the critical capacity of any one user. Padilla Peralta emphasizes the epistemological limitations of etic investigators, echoing the insights of Mazurek, Murray, and Heath. While we are necessarily cautious about the de-

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gree to which those who held these coins in their hands engaged with the images, we can be more confident in the intentionality of the powerful Romans who directed their minting. Their commissions confirm an ancient awareness of the power of coins, as highly mobile units of first order exchanges, to take on the second order, symbolic functions. The scale of investigation thus moves from the cognitive apprehension of tiny images, held in the hand, to the imperial reach of an expanding Rome. In taking up the traditional historical chestnut, and offering this scale, this resonates with Heath’s querying of the old chestnut of “Romanization” behind the spread of amphitheaters; the coins’ ability to blend episodic and prospective memories is reminiscent of the hand-held figures of Popkin’s study. In the final study of the volume, Sandra Blakely addresses the heuristic value of the subjectivities that distinguish the researcher from the ancient subject with two archaeogames focused on religion in ancient contexts: the Maya site of Palenque, and the social networks generated by participation in the mystery cult of the Great Gods of Samothrace. That heuristic value is a core principle of serious games, which offer a chance to test hypotheses about movement and cognition in ancient spaces. This contributes to the discussion, in this volume, about the self-reflexivity that is a necessary component of assemblages of data. Serious games add, to the inherent partiality of the ancient record, the subjectivities of the game designers, the players and their historical situation, and the inevitable limitations of digital worlds. Agency theory offers a productive response to these multiple subjectivities, and bridges the scholarly worlds of archaeology and virtual heritage sites. Agency translates in game-worlds into presence, an embeddedness in game play shaped by affective intensity as well as player skill. This affective force offers a counter to the risks of the hyperreal, whereby the engagement with the rule structure of the digital world and its procedural rhetoric overtakes the impact of the historical and archaeological situations they model. The digitally experienced ancient spaces of these two games take up a range of routes to elevate this subjective, personal, emotional component to underscore lived experiences and highlight ancient voices, particularly the symbolic expressions of Maya cosmologies and the epic, hymnic, and lyric Greek traditions. These ancient voices are meant to engage player emotions, from fear to triumph to negotiation with the divine; they also offer a bridge between the player and the ancient other, bringing into the game an awareness of the interpersonal, which resonates with the social networks that shape the game’s algorithms. Both games, in the end, seek to render the players conscious of interactions that were as unreflexive as they were ubiquitous in ancient worlds. The data gleaned are thus analogous to the observations of fieldworkers, foreign to the culture they study, resonating with the long history of social science approaches to the religious “other” (Varto 2018a, 2018b).

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1.4. Looking for the Gods: Paradigms, Promises, and Self-Reflexivity The divine in each of these studies is measured, mediated, and recognized through human social actions—as the numinous authority behind processions, inscriptions, and spectacles; the focus of feasts, dedications, and sacred spaces; pressed into coins; and imbricated in person-to-person network interactions or the social institutions of the Greek city states. This is a natural thread in a collection of studies approached through the human sciences, and constitutes a coherence among them. The various paradigms that run through these diverse chapters—cognitive and evolutionary sciences, memory studies, agency, multiscalar analysis, and methodological reflexivity—suggest some emergent patterns in the intersection of human sciences, data sciences, and studies of ancient religion in the contemporary scholarly landscape. A concern for evolutionary and cognitive paradigms indexes a conviction of the productivity of models on par with some of the biggest human questions that drew the first, however problematic, attempts to unite the human sciences with the study of antiquity. Among the outcomes of these studies is the capacity to refine longestablished historical questions: The “Romanization” achieved through amphitheaters (Heath) is demonstrated to be least effective in the furthest reaches of the empire—the places most imagined to stand in need of that effect. The cults distinguished as “foreign” in a bustling Roman port emerge as mediators of social well-being through quintessentially Roman activities (Mazurek, Langenfeld, and Gorham). Several studies pursue the promise of information discovery from big data, as represented by the thousands of coins (Padilla Peralta) and inscriptions (Mazurek, Langenfeld, and Gorham), dozens of archaeological sites (Murray), or the data that can be generated from interactions in digitized ancient worlds (Heath, Blakely). The revelation of what is otherwise hidden in these mounds of materials puts these studies in conversation with big data analyses across the disciplinary spectrum.29 Such analyses engage with the cognitive gap between the computer and its creator: while human engineering can create the technologies to gather thousands of data points, human minds are not designed to comprehend that quantity of material. Visualization, statistical analyses, and transdisciplinary efforts, relying on teams of investigators, offer bridges between the stacks of data and the human activities that created these data trails. The stories behind those activities emerge first at thirty thousand feet—broad patterns of trends or aggregates. These figure prominently in the digitally and computationally aided studies that have been faulted for their distance from the nuanced, subjective, closely read approaches that are at the core of the humanist tradition (Hall 2013; van Es, Coombs, and Boeschoten 2017; cf. Davies 2015). 29. Garfield 1963, 201, as cited in Ekbia et al. 2015, 1527. See also Ophir 2016; Van Eijnatten, Pieters, and Verheul 2013.

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The macroscopic view, however, is part of the tradition of periodization and the search for change over time that are the particular remit of the historian and the archaeologist, and thus appropriate for the cultural foci of these chapters in the ancient Mediterranean. The overwhelming consensus among these studies, moreover, is the integration of the closely read individual object or text with the big picture, a “toggling” between the micro and the macro that Karen van Es, Nicolás López Coombs, and Thomas Boeschoten (2017, 173) identify as an emergent norm in the era of digital humanities. Caution about our ability to confirm the cognitive engagement of the ancient individuals is paired with a focus on affect, on memory, and on habitus. Affect, as personal subjective emotional engagement, is recognized as a driver of social choices in a digitized game, in the emergence of social networks in Ostia, and the experience of the ancient amphitheater. Memory studies offer paradigms useful throughout this volume, as a factor shaping cultural performance in Iron Age feasting and the pompa circensus, Roman behavior at the amphitheater, and as materialized in terracottas, coins, inscriptions, and votives. These objects, as they are moved, exchanged, and displayed, manifest agency as archaeologically modeled in multiple contexts, triggering memories of the past or invocations of future, culturally cyclic events. Each of these theoretical paradigms offer distinct pathways toward a shared goal—an open-ended, ongoing modeling of the most likely subjective reality for peoples of the ancient Mediterranean using divine symbols toward social, economic, and political goals. These models are characterized by exceptional levels of self-reflexivity when it comes to theory and method, a stance in the field that emerges as one of the strongest messages from this collection of studies. Authors foreground the partiality of the data, the purposes of their proposals, the boundaries of technological capabilities, and indeed transparency to the point of granting open access to the entire database of their ongoing projects. The subjectivities of researchers, which leads to the term “capta” rather than “data” for Mazurek, Langenfeld, and Gorham, are identified and problematized in Murray on the one hand, and are analyzed for insight in Monroe and Blakely. These conversations resonate with the the emic-etic divide, which is both the classic anthropological problem, and its opportunity. It is where the field begins, and has tugged at the edges of ancient Mediterranean investigations ever since the Renaissance placed Greece, Rome, its poets, artists, and philosophers at the heart of European and investigative identities. The paradox of anthropology is the proposal that the distance from our objects of study should be precisely the pathway for us to understand them more clearly—because, among other reasons, it foregrounds our own assumptions, demands a clarity about our methodologies, and connects us not only to the ancient objects of our investigation, but to the long arc of scholars who have wrestled with the same distance. The divide, while clearly drawn in the current scholarly landscape, has analogy to

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the responses to the processual archaeologies of the mid-twentieth century, which declared the feasibility of an unimpeachable scientific accuracy in reconstructing antiquity. The result was a past whose populations were silenced, and was followed by a flurry of polyvocal, postprocessual models (Daniels 2022). The chapters in this volume suggest an analogous energy in theory and method, but more integrative than reactive, dedicated to a transparency and self-reflexivity regarding method, and a critical evaluation of theories. They represent, however, a conversation rather than a chorus: the roads ahead are more branching than convergent, as the postprocessual heritage would lead us to expect. References Abrutyn, Seth. 2016. “Why Groups Matter to Sociocultural Evolution: How Religio– Cultural Entrepreneurship Drove Political and Religious Evolution in Ancient Israel.” Comparative Sociology 15.3:324–53. https://doi.org/10.14288/1.0368865. Ackerman, Robert. 2002. The Myth and Ritual School: J. G. Frazer and the Cambridge Ritualists. New York: Routledge. ———. 2008. “Anthropology and the Classics.” Pages 143–57 in A New History of Anthropology. Edited by Henrika Kuklick. Oxford: Blackwell. Archaeological Institute of America. 1880. First Annual Report of the Executive Committee, 1879–1880. Cambridge: Wilson & Son. Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Atkinson, Quentin D., Andrew J. Latham, and Joseph Watts. 2015. “Are Big Gods a Big Deal in the Emergence of Big Groups?” Religion, Brain and Behavior 5.4:266–74. https://doi.org/10.1080/2153599X.2014.928351. Atkinson, Quentin D., and Harvey Whitehouse. 2011. “The Cultural Morphospace of Ritual Form: Examining Modes of Religiosity Cross-Culturally.” Evolution and Human Behavior 321:50–62. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.evolhumbehav.2010.09.002. Barrett, Justin L., and Tyler S. Greenway. 2015. “Big Gods Can Get in Your Head.” Religion, Brain and Behavior 5.4:274–79. https://doi.org/10.1080/2153599X.2014.928353. Barrett, Richard A. 1989. “The Paradoxical Anthropology of Leslie White.” American Anthropologist 91:986–99. https://doi.org/10.1525/aa.1989.91.4.02a00100. Baumard, Nicolas, and Pascal Boyer. 2015. “Empirical Problem with the Notion of ‘Big Gods.’” Religion, Brain and Behavior 5.4:279–83. https://doi.org/10.1080/215359 9X.2014.928349. Beard, Mary, John North, and Simon R. F. Price. 1998. Religions of Rome. Vol. 1: History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bellah, Robert N. 1959. “Durkheim and History.” American Sociological Review 24:447– 61. https://doi.org/10.2307/2089531. ———. 2011. Religion in Human Evolution: From the Paleolithic to the Axial Age. Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Benedict, Ruth. 1934. Patterns of Culture: An Analysis of Our Social Structure as Related to Primitive Civilizations. New York: Houghton Mifflin. Bintliff, John. 2006. “Time, Structure, and Agency: The Annales, Emergent Complexity,

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Durkheim, Émile. 1912. Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Dyson, Stephen L. 1981. “A Classical Archaeologist’s Response to the ‘New Archaeology.’” BASOR 242:7–13. https://doi.org/10.2307/1356543. Eidinow, Esther. 2011. “Networks and Narratives: A Model for Ancient Greek Religion.” Kernos 24:9–38. https://doi.org/10.4000/kernos.1925. ———. 2015. “Ancient Greek Religion: ‘Embedded’… and Embodied.” Pages 54–79 in Communities and Networks in the Ancient Greek World. Edited by Claire Taylor and Kostas Vlassopoulos. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/ac prof:oso/9780198726494.003.0003. Eidinow, Esther, and Julia Kindt, eds. 2015. The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eisenstadt, Shmuel N. 1982. “The Axial Age: The Emergence of Transcendental Visions and the Rise of Clerics.” European Journal of Sociology 23:294–314. https://doi. org/10.1017/S0003975600003908. ———. 1987. Kulturen der Achsenzeit: Ihre Ursprünge und ihre Vielfalt. 2 vols. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Ekbia, Hamid, Michael Mattioli, Inna Kouper, G. Arave, Ali Ghazinejad, Timothy Bowman, Venkata Ratandeep Suri, Andrew Tsou, Scott Weingart, Cassidy R. Sugimoto. 2015. “Big Data, Bigger Dilemmas: A Critical Review.” Journal of the Association for Information Science and Technology 66.8:1523–45. https://doi.org/10.1002/ asi.23294. van Es, Karen, Nicolás López Coombs, and Thomas Boeschoten. 2017. “Towards a Reflexive Digital Data Analysis.” Pages 171–80 in The Datified Society: Studying Culture through Data. Edited by Karen van Es and Mirko Tobias Shäfer. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. https://doi.org/10.1515/9789048531011-015. Frazer, James G. 1922. The Golden Bough: A Study of Magic and Religion, Abridged Edition. New York: Macmillan. Fuentes, Augistin. 2015. “Hyper–Cooperation Is Deep in Our Evolutionary History and Individual Perception of Belief Matters.” Religion, Brain and Behavior 5.4:284–90. https://doi.org/10.1080/2153599X.2014.928350. Gagné, Renaud. 2019. “The Battle for the Irrational: Greek Religion 1920–50.” Pages 36–87 in Rediscovering E. R. Dodds: Scholarship, Education, Poetry, and the Paranormal. Edited by Christopher Stray, Christopher Pelling, and Stephen Harrison. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198777366.003.0003. Garfield, E. 1963. “New Factors in the Evaluation of Scientific Literature through Citation Indexing.” American Documentation 14: 195–201. https://doi.org/10.1002/ asi.5090140304. Geertz, Armin W. 2014a. “Long-Lost Brothers: On the Co-Histories and Interactions between the Comparative Science of Religion and the Anthropology of Religion.” Numen 61:255–80. https://doi.org/10.1163/15685276-12341319. ———. 2014b. “Do Big Gods Cause Anything?” Religion 44:609–13. http://doi.org/10.1080 /0048721x.2014.937052. Geertz, Clifford. 1973. The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic Books. ———. 2005. “Shifting Aims, Moving Targets: On the Anthropology of Religion.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 11.1:1–15. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.14679655.2005.00223.x.

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Meletinskiĭ, E. M. 1998. The Poetics of Myth. Translated by Guy Lanoue and Aleksandr Sadetsky. London: Routledge. Morgan, Lewis Henry. 1877. Ancient Society, or Researches in the Lines of Human Progress from Savagery through Barbarism to Civilization. New York: Holt & Co. Morris, Ian. 1993. “Poetics of Power: The Interpretation of Ritual Action in Archaic Greece.” Pages 15–45 in Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics. Edited by Carol Dougherty and Leslie Kurke. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2013. The Measure of Civilization: How Social Development Decides the Fate of Nations. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Nongbri, Brent. 2008. “Dislodging ‘Embedded’ Religion: A Brief Note on a Scholarly Trope.” Numen 55:440–60. https://doi.org/10.1163/156852708X310527. ———. 2013. Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept. New Haven: Yale University Press. Norenzayan, Ara. 2010. “Why We Believe: Religion as a Human Universal.” Pages 58–71 in Human Morality and Sociality: Evolutionary and Comparative Perspectives. Edited by Henrik Høgh Olesen. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2013. Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Norenzayan, Ara, Azim F. Shariff, Will M. Gervais, Aiyana K. Willard, Rita A. McNamara, Edward Slingerland, and Joseph Henrich 2016. “The Cultural Evolution of Prosocial Religions.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 39.E1:1–65. https://doi. org/10.1017/S0140525X14001356. Norenzayan, Ara, Joseph Henrich, and Edward Slingerland. 2013. “Religious Prosociality: A Synthesis.” Pages 365–79 in Cultural Evolution: Society, Technology, Language, and Religion. Edited by Peter J. Richerson and Morton H. Christiansen. Cambridge: MIT Press. https://doi.org/10.7551/mitpress/9780262019750.003.0019. Norenzayan, Ara, and Will M. Gervais. 2012. “The Cultural Evolution of Religion.” Pages 243–65 in Creating Consilience: Integrating Science and the Humanities. Edited by Edward Slingerland and Mark Collard. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https:// doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199794393.003.0014. Ophir, Shai. 2016. “Big Data for the Humanities Using Google Ngrams: Discovering Hidden Patterns of Conceptual Trends.” First Monday 21.7. https://doi.org/10.5210/ fm.v21i7.5567. Orenstein, Henry. 1954. “The Evolutionary Theory of V. Gordon Childe.” Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 10:200–214. https://doi.org/10.1086/soutjanth.10.2.3628826. Parker, Robert. 1986. “Greek Religion.” Pages 254–74 in The Oxford History of the Classical World. Edited by John Boardman, Jasper Griffin, and Oswyn Murray. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parsons, Talcott. 1963. “Introduction.” Pages xix–lxvii in The Sociology of Religion. By Max Weber. Translated by Ephraim Fischoff. Boston: Beacon. Poole, Alex H. 2017. “The Conceptual Ecology of Digital Humanities.” Journal of Documentation 73:91–122. https://doi.org/10.1108/JD-05-2016-0065. Radcliffe-Brown, A. R. 1933. The Andaman Islanders. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ramp, William. 2014. “The Elementary Forms as Political (A)theology.” Canadian Journal of Sociology 39:595–618.

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Rappaport, Roy A. 1999. Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Redfield, James. 1991. “Classics and Anthropology.” Arion 1.2:5–23. Renfrew, Colin. 1980. “The Great Tradition versus the Great Divide: Archaeology as Anthropology?” AJA 84:287–98. https://doi.org/10.2307/504703. Richerson, Peter J., and Robert Boyd. 1985. Culture and the Evolutionary Process. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2005. Not by Genes Alone: How Culture Transformed Human Evolution. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rüpke, Jörg. 2014. “Is History Important for a Historical Argument in Religious Studies?” Religion 44:645–48. https://doi.org/10.1080/0048721X.2014.939363. ———. 2016. On Roman Religion: Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome. Cornell Studies in Classical Philology. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Scheuermann, Leif, and Jan H. Kroeze. 2017 “Digital Humanities and Information Systems: Innovating Two Research Traditions.” Americas Conference on Information Systems 2017 Proceedings. https://aisel.aisnet.org/amcis2017/PhilosophyIS/Presentations/3. Scott, Michael. 2017. “Mapping the Religious Landscape: The Case of Pan in Athens.” Pages 212–29 in Theoretical Approaches to the Archaeology of Ancient Greece: Manipulating Material Culture. Edited by Lisa Nevett. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Segal, Robert A. 1998. The Myth and Ritual Theory: An Anthology. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Shariff, Azim F., Ara Norenzayan, and Joseph Henrich. 2009. “The Birth of High Gods: How the Cultural Evolution of Supernatural Policing Influenced the Emergence of Complex, Cooperative Human Societies, Paving the Way for Civilization.” Pages 119–36 in Evolution, Culture, and the Human Mind, edited by Mark Schaller, Ara Norenzayan, Steven J. Heine, Toshio Yamagishi, and Tatsuya Kameda. New York: Psychology Press. Skjoldli, Jane. 2015. “The Backwash of Norenzayan’s Big Gods: A Post–Review Essay.” Numen 62:639–60. https://doi.org/10.1163/15685276-12341397. Slingerland, Edward. 2015. “Big Gods, Historical Explanation, and the Value of Integrating the History of Religion into the Broader Academy.” Religion 45:585–602. https://doi.org/10.1080/0048721X.2015.1073487. Slingerland, Edward, and Brenton Sullivan. 2017. “Durkheim with Data: The Database of Religious History.” JAAR 85.2:312–47. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfw012. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1987. To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1990. Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity. London: School of Oriental and African Studies; Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2009. “Religion and Bible.” JBL 128:5–27. Smith, W. Robertson. 1889. Lectures on the Religion of the Semites, First Series: The Fundamental Institutions. New York: Appleton & Co. Snodgrass, A. M. 1985. “The New Archaeology and the Classical Archaeologist.” AJA 89:31–37. https://doi.org/10.2307/504768. Solez, Kevin. 2018. “The Feast and Commensal Politics: Ancient Greek Prefigurations of Anthropological Concerns.” Pages 185–203 in Brill’s Companion to Clas-

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sics and Early Anthropology. Edited by Emily Varto. Leiden: Brill. https://doi. org/10.1163/9789004365001_008. Sourvinou–Inwood, Christiane. 2000a. “What Is Polis Religion?” Pages 13–37 in Oxford Readings in Greek Religion. Edited by R. Buxton. Oxford: Oxford University Press. [Originally published as pages 295–322 in The Greek City from Homer to Alexander. Edited by Oswyn Murray and Simon Price. Oxford University Press, Oxford.] Sourvinou–Inwood, C. 2000b. “Further Aspects of Polis Religion.” Pages 38–55 in Oxford Readings in Greek Religion. Edited by Richard Buxton. Oxford: Oxford University Press. [Originally published in 1988. Annali dell’Istituto universitario orientali di Napoli, Sezione di Archeologia e Storia Antica 10:259–74.] Stausberg, Michael. 2014. “Big Gods in Review: Introducing Ara Norenzayan and His Critics.” Religion 44:592–608. http://doi.org/10.1080/0048721x.2014.954353. Thomassen, Elnar. 2014. “Are Gods Really Moral Monitors? Some Comments on Ara Norenzayan’s Big Gods by a Historian of Religions.” Religion 44: 667–73. https:// doi.org/10.1080/0048721X.2014.937074. Tobin, Joseph. 1990. “The HRAF as Radical Text?” CA 5:473–87. Toby, Jackson. 1972. “Review: Parson’s Theory of Social Evolution.” Contemporary Sociology 1:395–401. https://doi.org/10.2307/2062287. Tylor, Edward B. 1896. “Introduction.” In The History of Mankind. By Friedrich Ratzel. Translated by A. J. Butler. 3 vols. London: Macmillan & Co. Urban, Hugh B. 2004. “Power Still Dwells: The Ethics and Politics of Comparison in A Magic Still Dwells.” MTSR 16:24–35. https://doi.org/10.1163/157006804323055182. Van Eijnatten, Joris, Toine Pieters, and Jaap Verheul. 2013. “Big Data for Global History: The Transformative Promise of Digital Humanities.” Low Countries Historical Review 128.4:55–77. https://doi.org/10.18352/bmgn-lchr.9350. Varto, Emily 2014. “From Kinship to State: The Family and the Ancient City in Nineteenth-Century Ethnology.” Pages 500–523 in Urban Dreams and Realities: Remains and Representations of the Ancient City. Edited by Adam Kemezis. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004283893_021. ———. 2018a. “Introduction to The Classics and Early Anthropology.” Pages 1–29 in Brill’s Companion to Classics and Early Anthropology. Edited by Emily Varto. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004365001_002 ———, ed. 2018b. Brill’s Companion to Classics and Early Anthropology. Leiden: Brill. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1988. Myth and Society in Ancient Greece. Translated by Janet Lloyd. New York: Zone Books. Versnel, Henk S. 1990. Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion. Vol. 2: Transition and Reversal in Myth and Ritual. Leiden: Brill. de Vet, Thérèse A. 2018. “Marcel Mauss, the Gift, and the Oral Theory.” Pages 301–25 in Brill’s Companion to Classics and Early Anthropology. Edited by Emily Varto. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004365001_013. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. 2007. Unthinking the Greek Polis: Ancient Greek History Beyond Eurocentrism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walsh, Lisl. 2020. “Futures of Classics: Obsolescence and Digital Pedagory.” Pages 17–29 in Datam: Digital Approaches to Teaching the Ancient Mediterranean. Edited by Sebastian Heath. Grand Forks: The Digital Press at the University of North Dakota. Weber, Max. 1922. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie. 3 vols. Tübingen: Mohr.

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Willey, Gordon Randolph, and Philip Phillips. 1958. Method and Theory in American Archaeology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wilson, David Sloan. 2002. Darwin’s Cathedral: Evolution, Religion, and the Nature of Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wilson, David Sloan, and K. M. Kniffin. 1999. “Multilevel Selection and the Social Transmission of Behavior.” Human Nature 10:291–310. http://doi.org/10.1007/s12110999-1005-x. Witmore, Christopher L. 2014. “Archaeology and the New Materialisms.” Journal of Contemporary Archaeology 1.2:203–46. https://doi.org/10.1558/jca.v1i2.16661.

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Ritualizing Relations in Early Iron Age Greece: Feasting in Extraurban Sanctuaries Megan Daniels This chapter explores the role of religion and ritual in the dramatic political and economic changes that characterized the Early Iron Age in the Mediterranean (ca. 1200–700 BCE) through the emergence of several extraurban sanctuaries in the eleventh century and their associated feasting activities. It adopts anthropological models of feasting that posit this ritual as a major means of political and socioeconomic organization in the absence of statelevel institutions and centralized authority, arguing that such models can reorient our understandings of how religious spaces functioned as hubs for political reorganization and economic activity during these early postBronze Age periods. Case studies on some of the earliest ritual deposits at Olympia and Kalapodi are examined alongside the regional socio-political landscapes surrounding these sanctuaries, followed by a discussion of some of the major political and economic activities—centralized leadership, agricultural production and storage, long-distance trade, and communal wealth accumulation—that emerge in association with feasting rituals. Keywords: Iron Age; religion; ritual; feasting; sanctuaries; extraurban; political economy

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n a well-known 1993 article, Susan and Andrew Sherratt summarized some of the major economic shifts in the Mediterranean world of the first millennium BCE: In place of the bureaucratic and palace-centred diplomatic and trading Bronze Age internationalism, mercantile city-states became the building blocks in a new economic framework. Temples, rather than palaces, became the symbols of communal consciousness and economic success; merchant enterprise, rather than state-controlled exchange, became the dominant mode of trading activity. (Sherratt and Sherratt 1993, 361–62; see, more recently, Sherratt 2016)

While this article is approaching thirty years old, many of the broad-brush stroke approaches presented in this piece remain true, although the finergrained social mechanisms of how and why these changes took place still warrant exploration. In particular, the vast religious shifts, from monumental Mycenaean citadels on mainland Greece in the Late Bronze Age to monumental sanctuaries, characterize these far-reaching transformations in the Iron Age, even if the data remain problematic (Morgan 1996; Eder 2019; Eder and Lemos 2019; see Murray, ch. 8 in this volume). François de Polignac (2009) called the Archaic period in Greece the “age of sanctuaries” because of the unprecedented http://dx.doi.org/10.5913/2023518.02 本书版权归ISD Global所有

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emergence of visible and prodigious areas of religious activity, and stressed in his earlier seminal work how religion acted as an inroad to a new kind of social body founded upon common religious territory, namely, the polis community (1995, 152; also 2019). These arguments suggest that many aspects of what we often term “Greek religion” emerged prior to many of the other institutional characteristics that we associate with the Greek world of the first millennium BCE. My aim in this chapter is to explore some finer details of religion’s role in the geo-political and economic transformations that characterized the Early Iron Age. Going back to Sherratt’s and Sherratt’s statement above, the emergence of monumental religious sites occurred in tandem with new types of political organization and economic expansion, but these shifts are often characterized apart from religious and ritual activity. I propose that recent anthropological and ethnographic research on feasting can more clearly orient our questions about how these activities worked across the Early Iron Age to foster regional and interregional cooperation and coordination in the absence of the preceding Late Bronze Age bureaucracies. I will first briefly characterize the nature of these Iron Age transformations, before turning to theoretical outlooks on the prosocial roles of religion and ritual, and the political, social, and economic ramifications of these prosocial aspects. I will then focus on Early Iron Age extraurban sanctuaries and particularly on the role of feasting—public ritual activities centered on the consumption of food and drink (Dietler 1996, 89; 2001, 67; Dietler and Hayden 2001, 3).1 Utilizing anthropological models of feasting, I argue for ritual consumption in extraurban sanctuaries in the Iron Age Greek world as a major means of economic and political organization following the dissolutions at the end of the Bronze Age, the true significance of which can be elucidated by interdisciplinary analyses. 2.1. Iron Age Transformations Since the 1990s, networks, exchange, decentralization, and interconnectivity have come to be seen as defining features that shaped the Mediterranean.2 These developments were spurred largely by the interest in modern globalization and the use of the globalization paradigm as an explanatory concept for the ancient Mediterranean (Morris 2003; Sherratt 2017; Hodos 2017; 2020, 25–34). Iron Age Greece is a fascinating era in particular to study such phenomena, marked at one end by depopulation and cultural decline in the LH IIIC and, at its latter

1. Both Andrew and Susan Sherratt have published on the role of feasting in early Mediterranean societies: e.g., Sherratt 2004; Hamilakis and Sherratt 2012. See Hamilakis 2009 for more bibliography. 2. Horden and Purcell 2000; Morris 2003; Broodbank 2013; Concannon and Mazurek 2016; Manning 2018; Knappett and Leidwanger 2018; Hodos 2020.

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end, by vibrant and far-reaching socioeconomic regeneration and a marked intensification of geographic mobility (Murray 2017, 10–11; Broodbank 2013, 460; Morris 2006, 72–73). While “transformation” is an apt term for this period, these developments grew out of earlier patterns and processes established in the Late Bronze Age, a historical trajectory receiving increasing attention.3 Additional scholarly developments in the last twenty or so years have elaborated on the outcomes of these Iron Age shifts, primarily for the Greek world. Scholars have stressed, in particular, the performance of the ancient Greek economy between 800 and 300 BCE, arguing for a startling rate of growth by premodern standards (Morris 2004; Ober 2010, 2015). The Iron Age thus heralded one of the most significant premodern economic efflorescences, where sustained demographic rises and per capita and aggregate growth coincided with high levels of cultural production, resulting in a flourishing “ecology of city-states” into the early Hellenistic period (Goldstone 2002; Ober 2015). These developments set in motion a broader series of state apparatuses that allowed for new types of economic expansion under the Roman Empire (Terpstra 2019). Yet, the finer grained mechanisms of these processes are poorly understood, particularly for the formative Early Iron Age (ca. 1200–700 BCE), when centralized authority and institutions weakened or largely dissolved.4 This chapter elucidates some of these processes by which Early Iron Age society and economy were formed through a close examination of ritual feasting at sanctuaries and the broader socioeconomic processes that these activities structured. In a seminal 2001 volume on feasting, Michael Dietler articulated the need to link human agency with these broader processes of change: Discussions of the transformation of political systems … have tended rather crudely to link broad evolutionary processes to general structural typologies without considering the intervening kinds of social practices by which people actually negotiate relationships, pursue economic and political goals, compete for power, and reproduce and contest ideological representations of social order and authority.5

3. Dickinson 2006, 8. See, e.g., Morris 1992; Prent 2005; Dickinson 2006; Papadopoulos 2014; Murray 2017; Lemos and Kotsonas 2019; Middleton 2020. See Murray 2017, 3 n. 2 for more bibliography. 4. By the LH IIIC, there is clear evidence of demographic and economic decline (Murray 2017, 241) and traces of centralized and standardized institutions are scarce (Murray 2017, 6–7; Bintliff 2020, 309–10; Knodell 2021, 117–20). Sites beyond the Bronze Age palaces emerge as possible regional centers with central apsidal buildings that may indicate local leadership, including Unit-IV at Nichoria, House G at Asine, and Megaron B at Thermos (Mazarakis Ainian 1997; McDonald, Coulson, and Rosser 1983; Wells 1983; Papapostolou 2012), but these buildings are small, and generally built using ephemeral materials. 5. Dietler 2001, 65–66; cf. Hamilakis 2009, 3–4. On this problem more generally in studies of state formation, see Bouchard 2011; on the lack of a theoretical foundation for Early Iron Age economic development, see Gimatzidis 2021.

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Ritual feasting is one inroad to investigating how economies and politics were organized from the ground up in periods of weakened institutions, and, subsequently, how emerging political and economic formations evolved into more complex entities. Much of the anthropological literature on feasting has focused on nonstate-level societies, although feasting was undoubtedly a vital social practice in state-level societies, including the preceding Late Helladic period (Wright 2004). The Linear B tablets in particular demonstrate the existence of largescale feasts sponsored by the “palaces” and associated with religious sacrifice both within these palaces and at extrapalatial sanctuaries (Palaima 2004; Killen 2004). These texts also indicate a large repertoire of specialized equipment and personnel for dining activities (Hruby 2008, 155–56). Studies of animal bone deposits, particularly in LH IIIB contexts at Pylos, were estimated to feed several thousand guests, and the excavators suggest that these large-scale feasts were organized within clear social hierarchies (Stocker and Davis 2004, 191–92; Halstead and Isaakidou 2004; cf. Rutter 2004, 72). J. T. Killen (1994, 70) went as far to argue that feasting was responsible for “holding together the fabric of society,” as one of the necessities of rulership used to preserve good will among other elites as well as a system of reciprocity with the broader populace. Feasts took many forms in Mycenaean societies, but its visible presence as feasting equipment in graves, in writing, and in art speaks to practices heavily bound up with elite identity and palatial hierarchies by the LH III period, when a standardized drinking assemblage appeared in elite tombs.6 The evidence for ritual consumption in megaron areas of palaces suggests an exclusive social order centered on the wanax, and reinforced by such activities.7 Feasting has been shown to play especially integral roles in nonstate-level societies when it comes to social, political, and economic organization (Dietler and Hayden 2001), making this analysis a fruitful one for explaining developments in the Early Iron Age. Certainly, anthropological models have been suggested as heuristic means of characterizing Early Iron Age social configuration, namely James Whitley’s usage of Nuristani “big men” societies to understand Geometric-period Athens, where leadership is not based on formal (heredi-

6. Wright 2004, 167, 170; as opposed to activities on Crete; see Borgna 2004. Dietler (1990, 370) argues that drinking plays a prominent institutional role in societies with centralized political structure through reinforcing hierarchical structures. For feasting in the Linear B tablets, see Palaima 2004; McInerney 2010; Nakassis 2012. 7. Wright 2004; Borgna 2004; Marakas 2010, 117–18; Eder 2019, 28; cf. Bendall 2004; Borgna 2012; van den Eijnde 2018b, 66. As Eder (2019, 28) notes, the megaron at Mycenae shows evidence of feasting through its hearth and specific types of pottery, while the cult center at Mycenae revealed a small portion of finds related to food and drink consumption (Marakas 2010, 132–34). See Albers 2001 on the distinction between rituals in megara and rituals outside the palace in the Mycenaean world. See also Bendall 2001 on the association between political and religious spheres in Mycenaean Greece; and Eder 2019 who surveys extrapalatial cult sites.

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tary) authority; rather, a leader’s position is won by prestige and influence in a society, based upon their ability to secure reciprocity alliances and provide for their own community (including through feasting). Other terms for these types of societies include “transegalitarian” societies (Hayden 2001) and stateless societies, that is, societies with no centralized and institutionalized authority that nonetheless organized effectively to complete complex tasks like the construction of monuments and the creation of flourishing exchange systems (Stanish 2017, x). As Whitley and others recognize, however (e.g., Davies 2018, 56), no one model can encapsulate the diversity of social processes across the Greek world, but can only throw some “oblique light on some of the material peculiarities of the local societies of Dark Age Greece” (Whitley 1991, 362; see also Prent 2005, 120–21 and Funke 1993, esp. 45–48). Despite this social diversity, there are some major regional trends for mainland Greece in the postpalatial period, namely the emergence of ritual feasting at numerous extraurban locales in regions often far removed from the Bronze Age palatial sites. These trends are key indicators of new socio-political formations in the Early Iron Age that emerged in the post-Late Bronze Age power vacuum.8 The shift away from palatial sites to extraurban sanctuaries as a venue for communal eating and drinking suggests the creation of locales where people gathered from large catchment areas to engage in intertwined activities including ritual feasting, specialized craft production, surplus organization, and trade in a time of weakened political structures. This trend has been emphasized in previous publications (Morgan 1996, 2009; Eder 2019; Eder and Lemos 2019). Birgitta Eder (2019, 41) has argued for these extraurban locations as being “at the heart of the development of regional and even supraregional group identities in the Early Iron Age, whether they turned into poleis or ethne.” I suggest that these processes were not just significant for bolstering regional identities; rather they formed the very basis for political reorganization in the Early Iron Age, particularly (but not only) in regions that lacked palatial citadels. The perspectives presented in this chapter will focus on Early Iron Age ritual practices as a means of coordinating smaller, dispersed household economies into more coordinated political and economic systems centered on extraurban sanctuaries. A larger offshoot of this argument—to be discussed briefly at the end of this chapter—is to consider the heart of the flourishing and decentralized Iron Age economy described by Sherratt and Sherratt as rooted in the ritualized practices at these sanctuaries, although this suggestion must inevitably be the topic of further study. I now turn to perspectives from the 8. Morgan 1996; 2009, 52–53; van den Eijnde 2018a, 3; Knodell 2021, 120. There are some examples of limited rehabitation of palatial sites—namely Tiryns and Mycenae. The Amyklaion is close to the Menelaion, although whether the latter was a palace or not remains obscure (Morgan 1996, 57). Eleusis, with the possible sanctification of the Megaron B complex in the Iron Age, may be another exception (see Cosmopoulos 2015).

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social sciences that articulate the socioeconomic roles of religion, ritual, and feasting in early complex societies before looking closely at some case studies from Greece. 2.2. Religion, Ritual, and the Economy 2.2.1. The Practicalities of Religion Ethnographic and anthropological research have demonstrated that certain human activities do indeed have universal qualities about them, and theoretically informed debates and constantly tested assumptions and arguments can articulate these qualities. Religion and ritual—two overlapping spheres of human activity, which undergird the practice of feasting—have been shown to play a number of complex social roles in societies to facilitate social, economic, and political organization and functioning. The resurgent interest in religion in the cognitive and behavioral sciences in the past few decades in particular has led to new articulations of how religion operates as an adaptation to facilitate social processes (Norenzayan and Gervais 2012). These new frameworks have come about largely through empirical findings demonstrating the evolutionary origins of religion as a result of learning processes constrained by psychological and social tendencies (Norenzayan and Gervais 2012, 243–44). These tendencies cross numerous historical, cultural, religious, and socioeconomic groups, as demonstrated by findings from the Evolution of Religion and Morality Project (Purzycki et al. 2016, 2017; Monroe, ch. 9 in this volume). Recent studies in particular posit specific aspects of religion as playing a significant role in burgeoning societies through promoting prosocial behavior, or behavior that engenders social cohesion and cooperation (Martin and Wiebe 2014; Norenzayan, Henrich, and Slingerland 2013; cf. Galen 2012).9 What aspects of religion promote prosociality? Some researchers have argued for centralizing beliefs as fundamental to this process, positing moralizing and omniscient gods as adaptive mechanisms for expanding communities that act as policing mechanisms, reducing social defection and enabling reliability and cooperation (Norenzayan 2010, 2013).10 Other research has suggested that large-scale codified rituals precede and enable large-scale social coordination through standardizing codes of conduct within large groups. Charles Stanish (2017) has adopted anthropological and evolutionary models to explain the

9. Another school of thought sees religion as a by-product of evolutionary processes (Boyer 2001; Kirkpatrick 2005), although Pascal Boyer (2001) stresses the transmissibility of these traits as directed by social needs. See Purzycki et al. (2017, 103) for a brief overview of different evolutionary approaches to religion and further bibliography. 10. On moralizing gods in the ancient world, see Petrovic and Petrovic 2016; but see Larson, ch. 3 in this volume, on the limitations of arguments positioning gods as policing mechanisms for the Greek world.

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functioning of ritual in enabling the rise of complex stateless societies. In the absence of coercive state structures, people in such societies are able to solve significant collective action problems by ritualizing vital economic and social behaviors, backed up by taboo and reward—thus ensuring conditional cooperation. This notion of “ritualizing economy and society” to facilitate all sorts of transactions that serve to produce, manage, and distribute resources is significant for understanding the religious structures of the Early Iron Age economy. The integration of religion and ritual with economic activities deserves some brief discussion about how we understand these concepts as they operated in ancient societies. There is ongoing debate within and beyond the field of Mediterranean archaeology about how to define and characterize ritual, especially in relation to religion, whether to see ritual as a form of behavior that extends beyond the bounds of religion (Renfrew 1985, 2007) or rather as a form of human behavior wholly subsumed under the umbrella of religion (Haysom 2019).11 Many of these definitions hinge on distinctions in the archaeological record between sacred and profane, the transcendent and the quotidian, which are not always identifiable (Kryiakidis 2007; Haysom 2019, 56–57). This difficulty is particularly pertinent when it comes to feasting in sanctuaries, which involves quotidian activities (eating and drinking) in a ritualized manner in a religious setting (see Ekroth 2021; Rivière 2021). Yet the integration of the quotidian, the ritual, and the religious in these activities underscores the danger of excluding any of these categories from one another. Stanish (2017, 81) argues that “Ritual is not necessarily religious. Rather, ‘ritualized’ refers to the degree to which abstract norms of proper behavior are encoded and signaled in societies.” Stanish’s stance on ritual, however, unintentionally underscores a similar point I would like to highlight about religion: that religion, like ritual, is not necessarily only “religious.” The cognitive and evolutionary studies cited above have demonstrated the numerous other roles religious activities play in human societies beyond communication with transcendent beings or explaining the cosmological order. There are many socioeconomic effects of both ritual and religion that extend into the spheres of human cooperation and cohesion in the “secular” realm, which structured economic processes such as trade, surplus production, consumption, and distribution. Furthermore, that the ritualized activity under scrutiny in this chapter—feasting—took place in sanctuary and funerary contexts in Early Iron Age Greece necessitates that we do envision some blending of religious, ritual, political, and economic activities in these contexts (cf. van den Eijnde 2018a, 11). Certainly, the ritual consumption of food and drink at sanctuaries was frequently—although not always—combined with the practice of animal sacrifices 11. Another area of inquiry is the extent to which ritual is embedded in daily life or differentiated from everyday activities (Nongbri 2008; Dietler 2001, 67).

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to the gods from the Late Bronze Age onward, lending a significant religious element to this ritual act.12 Group participation in animal sacrifice has been singled out as invoking deep emotions and memories that solidify group identity (Hamilakis 2009; cf. van den Eijnde 2018a, 6), which necessarily extended well beyond the religious sphere. 2.2.2. Ritual Feasting and Economic Processes A broadened, prosocial view of both ritual and religion is illustrated by archaeological and anthropological accounts of feasting, which have gained increasing salience in scholarship since the 1990s. Research in the area of feasting has grown rapidly since the 1990s, with a seminal volume by Michael Dietler and Brian Hayden in 2001 and many further studies.13 Dietler (2001, 68–69) has highlighted the structural roles of feasting in political economies, facilitating social relationships that bound people together into multiscalar groups. While feasts are often recognized as mechanisms to confer status and prestige on leaders (Hayden 2001; Dietler 1990, 362; van den Eijnde 2018a, 8), they fulfilled much deeper social, economic, and political functions as integrative events, nourishing regional exchange systems through hospitality norms, alliances, and prosocial settings that facilitated economic transactions. Feasts served to mobilize labor parties for communal building projects through work-party arrangements, particularly in societies where labor was not a marketable commodity (Dietler 1990, 365; 2001, 69).14 Ritualized activities like feasting also supported economies of scale, whereby autonomous households work together as units via mutually beneficial obligations to cooperate and coordinate large amounts of resources (Stanish 2017, 111; Stanish, Tantaleán, and Knudson 2018, 716; Wright 2004, 172). The organization and execution of the feast itself required sizeable labor forces and agricultural surplus, and leaders presiding over these events had to be effective managers and facilitators. Finally, feasts were highly punctuated, time-sensitive events, linked to but apart from everyday life, and thus acted as highly emotional and mnemonic events that reproduced communal identities (Hamilakis 2009). Furthermore, the potential for increased social credit and political and economic power through sponsoring feasts is a constant feature of these so-called ritual dramas—what Dietler terms “empowering feasts”—across human societies, advertising the political support of leaders and turning valuable (and perishable) agricultural commodities into symbolic capital (Dietler 2001, 81). This 12. Palaima 2004; Stocker and Davis 2004; Marakas 2010, 118; McInerney 2010, 12–13, 35; van den Eijnde 2018a, 11; cf. Gimatzidis 2011, 79; Hom. Od. 20.275–280. 13. E.g., Bray 2003; Dietler 2011; Blake 2005, 106–7; Hamilakis 2009; McInerney 2010, esp. 60– 63; Fox 2012; Pollock 2015; Hayden 2014a, 2014b; van den Eijnde 2018a. 14. Also noted in Dietler’s (1990, 367; 2001, 79–80) research is the extent to which the workparty feast has the potential to be employed as a form of exploitation, ranking individuals in terms of what they produce and precipitating relations of economic inequality.

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is essentially Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of “social alchemy” at work: the distribution of gifts and commodities that transfigured economic capital into symbolic capital, with overt domination translated into “misrecognized, ‘socially recognized’ domination, in other words, legitimate authority” (1997, 192, emphasis original). The potential for the intensification of social inequalities and increased stratification is a major feature of many feasting traditions. Hayden emphasizes rational self-interest by aggressive and accumulative “aggrandizers” as the driving factor in social, cultural, political, and economic complexity through these types of activities, which allowed aggrandizers to emerge and create socio-political hierarchies (2001, 30–31; 33; 2014a, 17; Wiessner 2002, 234). Stanish’s research into the ritualized basis of stateless economies finds a much different basis for feasting’s link to social, economic, and political complexity. The shift from complex stateless societies (or “transegalitarian societies”) to state-level societies involves a shift from noncoercive to coercive means of leadership (Stanish 2017, 77). Coercion is largely unviable in stateless societies. In the absence of coercion, leaders in stateless societies must find ways to achieve collective action while reducing the risk of free-riders and defectors. Feasting as a form of reward (alongside taboos as forms of punishment) encodes social norms and coordinates activities among autonomous households: political and economic organization in stateless societies is therefore best seen as a “ritualized” one, “a means by which social norms of co-operation can be understood and sanctioned in a society without formal codes of behavior” (Stanish 2017, 10). Ritualizing behaviors like feasting provide the rules and norms that sustain cooperative economic relations in societies with weak institutional structures, but are nonetheless sufficiently demographically dense to necessitate complex organization. Aggrandizers do exist in these societies, but they need to deal with the problem of ensuring cooperation and guarding against free-riders and defectors. They are “managers, not tyrants” (Stanish 2017, 73) who deal with more free-floating power as opposed to fixed, institutionalized hierarchies (Dietler 1990, 371). To summarize: anthropological research has demonstrated feasting as one of the primary means for encoding social norms, organizing the use of human labor, and the creation, pooling, and distribution of surpluses through economies of scale and avoiding the problem of free-riders and defectors. Feasting is also connected to the expression of political power, but in complex stateless societies, aggrandizers are much more limited by the need to use feasting to ensure widespread cooperation in order to organize labor and resources, which detracts from any tendency to use feasting solely to bolster one’s authority and status. Finally, a major point highlighted by Stanish, which pertains very clearly to Early Iron Age Greece, is the locations of feasting in complex stateless societies, namely that these activities often took place at central meeting places away from settlements:

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Megan Daniels The empirical record is quite clear on the fact that the construction of ritual and/or ceremonial places is the first indication of complexity. The origins of complex society begin with modest settlements that attract people from afar for some kind of ritual activity that we are just beginning to understand. We also see in the empirical record that parallel to these rituals, people engaged in increased economic specialization and craft production, trade, and feasting. (Stanish 2017, 266)

The landscape of Early Iron Age Greece suggests that extraurban sanctuaries indeed served as meeting places in many different regions, facilitating economic processes from the coordination and storage of agricultural goods to long-distance exchange of raw materials and luxury products. These regions only later, in the seventh and sixth centuries, came under the control of specific poleis or ethne to consolidate a polity’s control within an increasingly politicized landscape (de Polignac 2019). 2.3. Case Studies of Feasting in Early Iron Age Greece As discussed above, feasting, by the LH IIIB period in mainland Greece, was a prominent ritual activity within palatial society. With the decline of the centralized rule in the LH IIIC, a number of extraurban sites inherited the feasting equipment and evidence for animal sacrifice once concentrated largely within palatial settlements, whether they originated as Late Bronze Age sites or were new creations in the Early Iron Age (Marakas 2010, 125). This dispersal no doubt reflected the smaller, more regional, and flatter hierarchies of the postpalatial period (Eder 2019).15 Some sites like Mount Lykaion in Arcadia show continuous usage from the Middle Helladic period down to Roman times, including a sequence of Mycenaean and Sub-Mycenaean drinking and geomorphological evidence of ritual burning that seem to continue with little break (Mentzer, Romano, and Voyatzis 2015; Voyatzis 2019, 137; Romano and Voyatsis 2021). Other extrapalatial shrines established in the Mycenaean period see a resurgence of visible ritual activity in the LH IIIC and Protogeometric periods, often quite different in character from Bronze Age activities, including an increased focus on feasting (de Polignac 2009, 428). These include Amyklai (Vlachou 2018), Kalapodi (Felsch 1996, 2007), and Mount Hymettus (van den Eijnde 2018b). Further areas, like Olympia and Isthmia, are new foundations in the eleventh century,

15. Reuse of some palatial structures continued, e.g., the LH IIIC megaron at Tiryns (Building T), which seemed to serve as a hall for gatherings and communal meals (Maran 2001, 2012). The shift of the hearth from inside to outside the building may point to a larger communal participation in the ritual (Vetters 2015). The Tiryns Treasure, associated with Megaron W in the southeastern area of the Lower Town, contained bronze ceremonial feasting equipment that included a tripod cauldron, basin, and stand, suggesting a continuance of earlier palatial traditions, which emphasized metal feasting equipment (Eder 2019, 33; Wright 2004).

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and research has demonstrated a substantial proportion of feasting vessels in the earliest archaeological layers at these sites. Before turning to some of these extraurban sites in detail, it should be noted that they are not the only venues for feasting. Clay and stone platforms with remains of animals and open vessels (especially kraters) associated with drink consumption occur at many sites. Examples from the mortuary sphere include the Toumba building at Lefkandi (Lemos 2019, 80), Asine (Hägg 1983) and the burial plot at Metropolis on Naxos (Lambrinoudakis 1988; Antonaccio 1995, 201–3; Kaklamani 2017, 206). Similar structures were located close to Late Bronze Age remains, including Mycenaean tombs, suggesting the creation of links to venerated ancestors (Antonaccio 1994, 1995). Domestic contexts also contained these installations, such as Unit IV-I at Nichoria, possibly connected to a local leader (McDonald, Coulson, and Rosser 1983, 29–30; Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 75–76).16 Thus, feasting emerged in the Early Iron Age as a widespread activity across a number of contexts, but it is the extraurban sanctuaries that demonstrate most clearly the integration of ritual, religious, and economic processes.17 I turn now to examine the evidence for ritual food and drink consumption amidst the wider socio-political landscapes of two Early Iron Age sanctuaries, before offering a broader discussion on the ritualization of the Early Iron Age political economy through these activities. 2.3.1. Olympia The earliest evidence for cult activity at Olympia begins in the early eleventh century, although there is evidence of continued Mycenaean practices, particularly through the use of valuable bronze tripods with ring handles used in feasts (fig. 2.1).18 The newer excavations of the site under Helmut Kyrieleis (2006) allowed for a more careful examination of the ash layer (schwarzen Schicht) that supposedly represented the remains of the famous ash altar of Zeus described by Pausanias (5.13.8–14.3). This ash layer had no stratified deposits, but rather represented the accumulated remains of a votive dump resulting from leveling in the area around the Pelopion in the seventh century BCE (Kyrieleis 2006, 22–25; Eder 2001, 203–4; 2006, 197–99; 2011, 61). Eder (2006, 196) completed a

16. Univ IV-I also contained a hearth, possibly for purposes of a ritual banquet following a sacrifice (Mazarakis Ainian 1997, 291). 17. Many sites that would develop into extraurban sanctuaries also show evidence of platforms associated with animal bones, open vases, and plant remains, including Kalapodi and Thermos in Aetolia (see survey in Lemos 2019, esp. 82–83). 18. Previous studies using hoards and grave contexts link the earliest tripod examples from Olympia with the latest series from the Late Bronze Age (Kiderlen 2010, 98–99; Eder 2015, 118–21; 2019, 40; Kiderlen et al. 2016, 304). On the history of research at Olympia, see Eder 2001, 201–3; 2003, 101–3; Kyrieleis 2006, 27–55). There was likely some kind of Mycenaean occupation in the area of the Kronos Hill, where a few Mycenaean sherds were uncovered (Romano and Voyatzis 2021, 15; Eder 2001, 202).

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Figure 2.1. Map of Olympia and surrounding sites mentioned in the text (created in Palladio).

stylistic study of the pottery from these excavations of the ash layer in 2006, showing that the pottery sequence stretched from the Sub-Mycenaean to the Late Geometric/Early Archaic periods (ca. 1070 to the first half of the seventh century BCE). Some of the earliest specimens include the bowls of two large kylikes dated to the Sub-Mycenaean period, with diameters of about 25 cm, and which descended from the popular Mycenean ritual drinking vessels, which are found in funerary, palatial, and sanctuary contexts (Eder 2001, 206; 2003, 105; 2006, 206–10). A number of smaller kylikes with ribbed stems from the Olympia ash layer deposit also demonstrate the continuity of this Mycenaean vessel type and regional links to other areas of western Greece, in particular the Polis cave on Ithaka but also as far afield as Cyprus. The largest number of fragments (around 60 percent) from this layer belonged to open shapes such as mugs, cups, and skyphoi, with a smaller percentage of kraters and closed vessels (e.g., jugs and amphorae).19 This assemblage suggests convivial and other ceremonial activities in Early Iron Age Olympia. There are few large published Early Iron Age assemblages to compare types 19. Eder 2006, 201–3; but see 200–201 on the difficulties of statistical analysis in the case of Olympia. Coarseware vessels are rare, suggesting the absence of cooked food, although this is far from certain (Eder 2011, 62).

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and ratios to determine whether sanctuary assemblages differ greatly from domestic assemblages. Even patterns between sanctuaries likely differed, although Olympia does compare closely with other regional Early Iron Age sanctuaries like Kalapodi and Isthmia (see below).20 In addition to a large proportion of drinking vessels, clay and bronze figurines of cattle, horses, and chariots evoke the status of those who met at Olympia, emphasizing wealth in livestock, military prowess, and high rank. The mass amount of bronze tripod fragments from the eleventh century to around 700 BCE (over one thousand) specifically speaks to the elite ability to sponsor feasts (Morgan 1990, 29; Eder 2003, 108–9; 2019, 40). The wider catchment area of the sanctuary illustrates the socio-political structures at play at Olympia. There are only a few Early Iron Age sites known in the region, but similar Sub-Mycenaean to Geometric vases have been found at Salmone, Lasteïka, Gryllos, Samikon, and Trypiti, suggesting Olympia was a meeting place for scattered Iron Age settlements (Eder 2001, 205; 2003, 110–11; 2006, 211). Within the urban area of Elis, Early Iron Age graves were quite dispersed, ranging from the western part of the later Hellenistic theatre and the northeast area of the city, and likely from many other regions due to the location of stray finds (Eder 2003, 100–101). A number of so-called warrior burials are known in the region of Elis and especially neighboring Achaea (Deger-Jalkotzy 2006; Arena 2020), and hint at loose social hierarchies.21 Two graves from below the Hellenistic theatre at Elis contained Mycenaean Type F (grave 1963, 1) and Type G (grave 1963, 4) swords, more ancient than the Naue II swords that were in use in these regions by the LH IIIC periods. These finds point to the use of heirlooms to reflect the high status of the deceased and an association with the Mycenaean past to establish legitimacy, and have parallels throughout western Greece (Eder 1999, 444–45; 2003, 98–99). By the tenth century BCE, warrior burials had diminished in number, although they did not completely disappear (Eder 2003, 99). This overall arrangement, of loosely organized settlements with intramural burials, suggests many small family plots and hamlets (Philippa-Touchais 2011), but the few warrior burials also hint at some semblance of social hierarchy in the LH IIIC–Protogeometric periods, and their distribution indicates socio-political networks in western Greece. 20. E.g., the Early Iron Age assemblage at Kalapodi, like Olympia, contained mainly cups and skyphoi, as well as some jugs, amphorae, and kraters, but it also contained handmade vessels (saucepans, amphorae, and pithoi). The funerary assemblage from the Toumba building at Lefkandi, on the other hand, contains higher amounts of closed vessels (Eder 2001, 205; 2006, 204). 21. See Arena 2020 for further discussion, though: these burials did not necessarily indicate that the deceased was an actual warrior, nor did they replicate LH IIIA/B markers of social status. Margaretha Kramer-Hajos (2016, 100–105) suggests that, while early Mycenaean societies in the Peloponnese and central Greece in the LH II–LH IIIA1 periods did express a warrior status through grave goods, palatial society in the later Mycenaean period largely restricted ideological expressions of warrior identity in favor of more civic displays of status.

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Based on the finds from the ash layer, Olympia emerged as a center for feasting and other types of cult practice for scattered communities with limited hierarchies by the eleventh century BCE, with links to western Greece and Arcadia in its earliest phases. Mary Voyatzis and David Romano have recently suggested that the creation of a cult site at Olympia with its ash altar deliberately evoked the landscape and the Mycenaean past of Mt. Lykaion, suggesting close connections in terms of social memory along the Alpheios River region (Voyatzis 2019; Romano and Voyatzis 2021).22 The ceramic repertoire at Olympia shows links to the wider western Greek world primarily (the western Greek koine), including Elis, Achaea, Messenia, and the Ionian Islands. A larger variety of imported pottery does not appear until the seventh and sixth centuries, when Laconian, Corinthian, and Attic types dominate, reflecting the supraregional position of Olympia as the locale of the Olympic games (Gimatzidis 2011; Eder 2006, 214). Unfortunately, we know little from the faunal remains at this site, which were not recorded in earlier excavations. The short report by Norbert Benecke in Kyrieleis 2006 records a predominance of sheep and goat (55 percent of identifiable bones), followed by cattle (34 percent) and pigs (9 percent), and possibly a preference for subadult and adult animals.23 At Mt. Lykaion, frequently burnt faunal remains showed a very stark preference for the hind parts of sheep and goats across the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age (Starkovich 2014). These portions are good meat-bearing parts, and tend to indicate leftovers from meals consumed by participants (as opposed to altar sacrifices or local waste; Ekroth 2007, 258; 2016, 37). Such consistency at Lykaion suggests that certain ritual feasting practices sustained themselves across the Bronze–Iron Age transition (on which more below), although the limited evidence at Olympia makes it difficult to draw any real comparison with Lykaion via faunal remains. 2.3.2. Kalapodi The sanctuary of Apollo at Abai lies in northeastern Phokis, approximately one kilometer from Kalapodi, at a major crossroads between the upper Kephisos Valley and East Lokris (fig. 2.2). It was originally identified as a sanctuary to Artemis Elaphebolos by the original excavator, Rainer Felsch (1996, 2007), but is now considered to be an oracular sanctuary to Apollo (Niemeier 2009; 2016, 4). The site is focused around two temples, a North Temple, dated to the ninth 22. See Rolley 1992, on role of wealthy Argive metal dedications at Olympia, and the wider networks of power these might evoke between Argos and Olympia (cf. Morgan 1998, 88). 23. Animals that were older at death may indicate the keeping of flocks for secondary products, like wool and milk, but the limited evidence at Olympia precludes any real argument on the matter. The majority of specimens came from Late Geometric contexts in area P 16 under the Pelopion enclosure wall, where around eight hundred remains were recovered. These specimens are extremely fragmentary, and many show signs of burning. Less than a quarter of these remains were able to be identified, and it was not possible to detect traces of cutting or chopping (Benecke 2006, 247).

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Figure 2.2. Map of Kalapodi and surrounding sites mentioned in the text (created in Palladio).

century BCE, and a South Temple. The more recent excavations focused on the South Temple, which consists of at least ten successive structures, with the earliest dating back to the Middle Helladic period (Niemeier 2008, 100). The second temple (South Temple 2) was built in the LH IIIB, and possibly under the control of the palatial center of Orchomenos based on the distribution of seals between different habitation sites, including Elateia and Medeon (Eder 2007).24 With the widespread destructions around 1200 BCE, a new temple, South Temple 3, was built atop the old one, and seemed to be a centralized meeting place for much of central and northern Greece, referred to in modern scholarship as the “Euboean koine” (Niemeier 2016, 12, and see the helpful summary by Schachter 2019). Before the construction of the North Temple in the ninth century BCE, little investment was made at the Early Iron Age site in terms of structures or votive offerings, although postholes were observed in Protogeometric layers and extensive terracing operations were thought to facilitate social gatherings (Felsch 1987; 2001, 194). Finds associated with South Temple 3 certainly point to ritual activity, and include kraters and other open vases. There is some evidence for other ephemeral structures, perhaps for the storage of items, along with quern stones and pithoi (Felsch 2001, 194). Nonetheless, this was a sanctuary of regional importance, with ceramic stylistic affinities with the Aegean Islands and the Dodecanese dating back to the LH IIIC period and with Euboea, 24. The extent to which East Lokris and Phokis were dominated by Orchomenos in the Late Bronze Age is debated (Kramer-Hajos 2016; cf. Knodell 2021, 91). On the possibility of Gla being the successor to Orchomenos (which was declining by the advanced LH IIIB1), see Maggidis 2020.

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the Peloponnese, and Thessaly dating back to the tenth century (Jacob-Felsch 1996; Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011, 34; McInerney 2011). Later finds, including stamped Laconian roof tiles and inscriptions in dialects from Boeotia to Thessaly, emphasize Kalapodi’s central position in north and central Greece (Palme-Koufa 1996, 302–3). While the ceramics from more recent excavations are still under study, a 2010 report using material from one area of the South Temple excavations, dated from the LH IIIA2/B to the Late Geometric period, revealed some fascinating trends (Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011).25 Like Olympia, the large quantity of small open vessels in comparison to closed vessels and cooking pots stands out. In the LH IIIC, 77.4 percent of shapes were small open service vessels. This number dropped to 30.5 percent in the Protogeometric period with pithos and cooking pot fragments taking up some of this frequency, but open vessels rose to 65.5 percent in the Middle and Late Geometric period.26 Large open vessels (kraters) are rare, similar to Olympia, only making up about 0.4–3.0 percent of the total. Cooking pots make up somewhere between 20 percent and 30 percent, and these general ratios align with the earlier ceramic studies from Kalapodi (Jacob-Felsch 1996; Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011, 34–35). These ratios also suggest that feasting rituals remained focused on a mixture of food and drink consumption. Faunal remains include the bones of sheep, goat, cattle, horse, and pigs, as well as a small percentage of wild animals: deer, turtles, bear, boar, and lion (Stanzel 1991). The represented body parts are primarily vertebrae and fore and hind legs, primarily from young animals, once again suggesting the use of these meat-bearing parts as portions of ritual meals (Ekroth 2007, 258; 2016, 37; Felsch 2001, 196–97).27 A metacarpal bone and claw bone of a lion were found in Final Protogeometric layers around the altar (Felsch 2001, 195). Another lion bone from Archaic layers, a scapula, was found with evidence of butchering and burning, suggesting this animal may have been consumed at the sanctuary, possibly associated with elite hunting activities—Felsch (2001, 196) notes several images of lions at this sanctuary, primarily from the Geometric period.28 The earlier excavations also uncovered an oven-like structure on the eastern

25. Like the material at Olympia, these ceramic remnants were highly fragmentary, with no complete vessels. The corpus comprised 10,526 sherds, weighing 133.2 kg, with an average rim preservation of 6.7 percent (Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011, 32). Many vessels appear to be smashed intentionally after use (Jacob-Felsch 1996, 103). 26. Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011, 34. The authors of this study believe that the odd ratios in the Protogeometric period result from “chance deposition.” 27. Few sacra and caudal vertebrae are present in the deposit—these parts tend to be removed and burnt on the altar (Ekroth 2007, 262; Stanzel 1991, 162). Butchered equid bones are also suggestive of meal debris (Stanzel 1991, 154; Ekroth 2007, 260). 28. Stanzel 1991, 114. A lion humerus was discovered in the “Ritual Zone” at Lefkandi (Mulhall 2019; Lemos 2019, 79).

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slopes of the sanctuary, possibly associated with ritual cooking activities, along with around two hundred iron knives (Felsch 2001, 194–95). In the Geometric and Archaic periods, Kalapodi received thousands of metal dedications, including bronze tripods, the earliest of which date to around 850 BCE. The sanctuary also morphed into a regional metal production center of metal objects (on which more below). The regional landscape displays less variability in settlement hierarchy and social stratification than areas further south, closer to Orchomenos, but some differentiation is present, a trend that continues across the Late Bronze Age– Early Iron Age transition (Knodell 2021, 90–92; McInerney 2011). The chamber tomb cemetery at Elateia revealed a number of tombs in use from the LH IIIAI to the Protogeometric period suggesting some degree of social inequality. Excavations at the cemetery produced 121 Mycenaean seals, which aligned closely with those produced at nearby Medeon.29 The number of tombs increased in LH IIIC Middle, with burial offerings including pottery, bronze objects, and jewelry made of glass, faience, amber, gold, and semiprecious stones, suggesting contacts to the Aegean as well as north into the Adriatic and Baltic regions (Livieratou 2020, 101). Northeast of Kalapodi in East Lokris, the cemetery at Opous has yielded around forty-five graves with two sarcophagus burials that included jewelry, weapons, and a diadem (Dakaronia 1993, 2006). In Jeremy McInerney’s (2011, 100) assessment, East Lokris and western Phokis emerge “against a backdrop of regional rivalries, not the collapse of Mycenaean society.” De Polignac has also noted that the role of neighboring poleis seems limited for sanctuaries like that of Apollo at Kalapodi in the Early Iron Age, which functioned as central places for ritualized interactions of elites in larger interregional networks (de Polignac 2019; Livieratou 2011, 150; Knodell 2021, 134). Fragments of LH IIIC kraters from Kalapodi show maritime combat scenes, joining examples from Kynos (one of the main seaports of East Lokris), Lefkandi, and Thebes, that suggest a type of social power centering on raiding and other conflicts as well as maritime travel, differing markedly from earlier palatial figural imagery (Livieratou 2020, 102; Knodell 2021, 129–31). The region around Kalapodi, as at Olympia, appears to be one of small-scale leadership with some concentration at regional centers like Elateia. 2.4. Discussion: The Ritualized Political Economy In the above case studies, I reviewed both the evidence of food and drink consumption at regional sanctuaries that served as central meeting places amid surrounding socio-political landscapes. Many more cases could be included, particularly Isthmia, whose earliest evidence for cult activity was open vessels 29. Dakaronia, Deger-Jalkotsy, Sakellariou 1996; Eder 2007; Dakaronia 2009; Deger-Jalkotzy 2009; Knodell 2021, 91.

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signaling dining associated with animal sacrifice (Morgan 1998, 76–77; 1999). Modest votive offerings appeared by the Late Protogeometric period, which corresponds with a sharp rise in wealth in graves around Corinth, with weapons appearing in graves by the Early Geometric period, as well as growing contacts with other regions, particularly Phokis (Morgan 1998, 82–83; Balomenou 2020). Also important in these early periods are shrines closer to settlements like Mt. Parnes and Mt. Hymettus (van den Eijnde 2018b), and the sanctuary of Apollo at Amyklai (Vlachou 2018). There are similarities across these cases, including an early preponderance of small open vessels used for drink consumption amid landscapes of loose socio-political organization, yet with some semblance of social hierarchies through grave types. It remains to consider the other possible political agents and economic processes that emerge at these central places that brought social groups together in ritualized activities. Given the unevenness of publication at these sites, the evidence is quite variable, but some conclusions can be drawn concerning centralized leadership, long-distance trade, storage capacities, and industrial production related to feasting activities that communities at these sanctuaries were able to coordinate. 2.4.1. Political Agency: Feasting and the (Re)Emergence of Centralized Leadership? The question of agents behind these ritualized activities in the Early Iron Age is a difficult one. The early votives at Olympia, including the bronze tripods and clay and bronze figurines of cattle, horses, and chariots evoke elite values and activities, as does the possible lion consumption and leonine imagery at Kalapodi (although this latter example comes from the Geometric–Archaic periods). The regional landscapes around these sanctuaries suggest some semblance of social hierarchy, albeit largely diminished ones by the LH IIIC, with declines in organization, wealth, and especially population. The evidence for long-distance trade in copper through the analysis of the bronze tripods and their localized production at Olympia, as well as the large-scale storage capacities at Kalapodi (both discussed in the following section), suggest a significant degree of economic organization by local and regional leaders, whose spheres of influence perhaps integrated political and religious duties. The evidence for ritualized dining at Early Iron Age apsidal buildings in settlements—often identified as local petty rulers’ residences—also suggest that feasting was associated with both local leadership and industrial activity. The Late Geometric buildings underlying the later Archaic temple of Apollo Daphnephoros at Eretria, for instance, included pits with high quality dining utensils, and appear to have been the locale of aristocratic feasts as well as metalworking, indicating a close intertwinement of leadership, ritual, and industry (Verdan 2013)—but once again, this is Late Geometric, not LH IIIC/PG. Local leadership, even in the earliest periods of post-Bronze Age Greece, was not absent, but these were not the centralized aggrandizers that we witness in Mycenaean palatial society.

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An interesting point of comparison to Early Iron Age Greece might be research conducted on feasting, religion, and decentralized power in Jequetepeque, northern Peru, during the Late Moche period, a time of instability and fragmentation of authority in this region. Edward Swenson (2006, 134) demonstrates a proliferation of feasting platforms, away from central urban areas, arguing that these installations represented a vast recasting of power relations linking social groups within the landscape, as a greater number of actors sought to augment their political authority. He notes that most Jequetepeque settlements are situated close to canals and field systems, and suggests that ritual feasts within these settlements helped to materialize claims to resources and draw people across the landscape into cooperative labor projects (135). Above all, these new, decentralized settlements appropriated traditional feasting practices of the urban elites: “the symbolic capital that defined traditional Moche conceptions of status distinction, political centricity, and religious primacy was co-opted and consequently transformed by numerous communities in the Jequetepeque hinterland” (136). An analogous scenario might be proposed for Olympia, which served as a regional hub for communities and local leaders starting in the eleventh century, and where kylikes and metal tripods grew out of those used in more exclusive Late Bronze Age megaron feasts. Can we detect any organized, centralized authority emerging through feasting and its concomitant economic outgrowths? One possible way of estimating whether a central, top-down authority directed these practices (coordinating the associated foodstuffs and other paraphernalia for feasts) is to consider the extent to which food preparation and ritual feasting were standardized at any given time. Late Mycenaean states in southern Greece centralized a certain amount of production and distribution around palatial bureaucracy, and research into faunal remains from settlements from this period suggests more homogeneous food production systems in these areas, possibly due to elite control over aspects of agro-pastoralism (Dibble and Finné 2021). Certainly the Linear B texts reveal, through recording the hierarchy of contributors and participants of these feasts alongside personnel and paraphernalia, that ritualized drinking and dining were highly centrally organized (Dibble 2017; Nakassis 2012; Palaima 2004). In the Early Iron Age, food production systems became more heterogeneous, possibly due to political and economic dissolutions as well as climate shifts resulting in a drier climate, with preferences for goat over sheep in some Early Iron Age sites (Dibble and Finné 2021).30 Focusing on particular sites, however, reveals that feasting practices in some instances remained remarkably homogeneous over the Late Bronze Age–Early Iron Age transition. As 30. The zooarchaeological evidence for clear standardization in taxon preference, cuts of meat, and butchering styles is currently lacking for Early Iron Age sites (Dibble 2017, 228), particularly sanctuaries.

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discussed above, faunal analyses from the Upper Sanctuary at Mt. Lykaion demonstrated an unchanging preference for the hind parts of sheep and goats across all stratigraphic layers and across the site, found together with a variety of drinking vessels (Starkovich 2104, 647).31 It is possible that communal traditions were upheld through some type of leadership, but Mt. Lykaion may also be an indicator of the very evolutionary processes discussed above—namely the role of religious ritual itself in promoting prosocial behavior such as the organizing and pooling of vital resources, even in the absence of authoritative, institutionalized power. Likewise, the similar proportions of open and closed vessels across major LH IIIC/PG extraurban sanctuaries discussed above may also speak to authorities who coordinated these events, but they just as well might indicate the power of religious and ritual traditions to endure the erosion of political leadership into more heterarchical formations. Susan Lupak has insightfully demonstrated how much religious activity, even in the LH III periods, took place apart from palatial control. These activities built upon traditions (e.g., animal sacrifice, funerary cult) that very much predated the rise of the wanax, and continued long after the demise of palatial institutions (Lupack 2020). This scenario—of certain aspects of religion (including feasting) outliving the eroding centralized authorities of the Late Bronze Age—gives us further scope to envision how religious activities enabled cooperation and organization in a period of weakened political institutions in Early Iron Age Greece. Did religious feasting as witnessed in these extraurban sanctuaries enable new types of authority in the Early Iron Age, however? Might we see feasting as fostering the rise of aggrandizing individuals at some point? One of the main tenets of power in stateless (i.e. “big men”) societies is the ability to amass surplus and distribute this surplus to the community (Sahlins 1963, 296; cf. Roscoe 2012, 42–43). A large dietary study of an Early Iron Age population from the cemetery of Agios Dimitrios, Fthiotis, suggests a malnourished diet, likely lacking meat protein (Papathanasiou et al. 2013; Dibble 2017, 230), which may have made communal feasts at sanctuaries, where multiple households coordinated to contribute food and labor, all the more vital (although more studies of this sort are needed to arrive at concrete conclusions). Impoverished conditions in certain areas of Greece may, over time, have allowed some individuals and groups to garner increased political power through their ability to amass surplus and provide meat and drink for surrounding communities. These social norms—of empowered leaders who provide for their subjects, alongside the mutual obligation for each member to contribute their share—are reflected 31. Sheep and goat comprise 94–98 percent of the identifiable fraction of each basket in the 2007–2011 excavations. The overwhelming majority of most faunal specimens were burnt, with over 85 percent partially or completely calcined, making it difficult to assess patterns of butchery, which would also add to the question of standardization of feasting practices (Starkovich 2014, 645).

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in the Homeric epics, which feature both communal feasts where each participant contributes a portion, and feasts sponsored by a host for his companions (Sherratt 2004, 304). Graves goods also suggest that feasting was increasingly becoming a diacritical marker for elites throughout the Early Iron Age. Hoards of feasting equipment are increasingly present in elite or “princely” tombs, that seem, roughly, to spread from Cyprus to Italy and into Germany over the course of the Early Iron Age (Stary 1994; Nijboer 2013). One of the earliest examples is Tomb 49 at Palaeopaphos-Skales dated to the eleventh century, which contained three engraved iron spits (obeloi) along with a bronze tripod and strainer, bronze and ceramic bowls and cups, Canaanite jars, a knife, and spearhead (Karageorghis 1983, 370). Recently published evidence from Aetolia in northwest Greece of over six hundred Protogeometric tombs have revealed several “warrior” graves, with weapons as well as bronze cauldrons and iron spits (Christakopoulou 2018). Similar assemblages appear in the Toumba cemetery at Lefkandi and at Knossos by the tenth century, Kavousi and Argos by the eighth century, and Etruria by the seventh century.32 Tomb 79 at Salamis on Cyprus, dated to the eighth century, contained a horse skeleton, chariot, and wagon, inlaid furniture, twelve iron spits, two firedogs, a tripod, and a cauldron, resembling the equipment used in Homeric feasts (e.g., Il. 9.205–214; Murray 2017; Stary 1994, 608). The common elite culture that eventually emerged around feasting is evident through these rich tomb assemblages, developing the practice of ritualized feasting into a pan-Mediterranean phenomenon, that no doubt was intertwined with the trade in resources like copper and, increasingly, iron ore, which was abundant in areas such as the Euboean Gulf and Crete (Murray 2017, 271). The early kylikes with ribbed stems from Olympia, for example, resemble those from eleventh- and tenth-century Cyprus, suggesting early long-distance associations in the realm of feasting (Eder 2006, 212).33 As Sarah Murray (2017) cautions, the simplistic Homeric models of elites spreading wealth through guest friendship and gift-exchange fails to capture the complexity of the archaeological record. These apparent “aggrandizers” were likely eventually able to derive authority and legitimacy through the vital (nutritional) social customs of ritualized feasting as discussed above, and became instrumental in building shared ritual norms across cultural boundaries (Solez 2014). Their presence in the LH IIIC and Protogeometric periods in regions around Olympia and Kalapodi, however, is much murkier, and none of the wealthy tombs discussed above in these regions contain the wealth of feasting assemblages as seen, for 32. Lemos 1998, 286; Negbi 1992, 607; Courbin 1983; see also Nijboer 2013; Solez 2014; Mikrakis 2016; Murray 2017, 268–71. 33. See Węcowski 2017 on the intersections of conviviality and the emergence of the Greek alphabet.

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instance, at the Salamis tombs. What is apparent is the continuation of ritualized norms of feasting at extraurban sanctuaries for surrounding communities, even as political power eroded. To summarize: these processes, whereby archaeologically visible elite aggrandizers co-opted these elements of feasting, took centuries to develop, and any type of authority that did arise likely “stood on the shoulders” of ritualized behavior. When aggrandizing leaders did emerge, they looked quite different from their late Mycenaean counterparts, for a number of reasons well beyond the scope of this chapter. Indeed, while Hayden (2001) noted these “aggrandizers” as some of the key actors in socio-political change leading to more stratified hierarchies, the opposite seems to have happened in many parts of Greece: Floris van den Eijnde suggests that the proliferation of votives alongside meat consumption at sanctuaries correlated with the decline of drinking vessels in the seventh century. This pattern represented a transference of patronage from aggrandizing individuals to the gods, emphasizing the authority of the collective (i.e., the polis community) over the individual (2018b, 82–84; Whitley 2019, 178). 2.4.2. Economic Processes: Storage, Long Distance Trade, and Wealth Accumulation The relation of ritualized feasting to broader economic processes is a much larger and more difficult question to answer. I offer some suggestions here, but any of the possible outgrowths discussed require much closer scrutiny into the extent that they were a direct result of ritualized feasting. No doubt many other factors were at play in these trends, but their emergence specifically at sanctuaries like Kalapodi and Olympia, whose earliest Early Iron Age deposits suggest that they were central places for surrounding communities to come together in ritualized feasting and other associated religious practices does suggest a pivotal role for these extraurban locales in structuring the Early Iron Age economy in the eastern Mediterranean. The presence of LH IIIC impressed pithoi and quern stones at Kalapodi suggests ritualized feasting activities required the coordination of large-scale storage and food processing. A large (ca. forty square meters) burnt deposit dated from the Middle to Late Protogeometric periods revealed a rich collection of various botanical specimens, termed by the excavators “sacrificial grain,” although it also contained legumes, possibly for a panspermion festival, celebrating both hunting and cultivation. Pottery from this deposit consisted almost exclusively of large storage vessels, likely used to hold different types of foodstuffs (Kroll 1993, 162; Felsch 2001, 194). It is not certain whether this “sacrificial grain” was solely intended as a dedication to the deity, or whether it was also used to feed sacrificial victims or participants in the ritual (Kroll 1993, 162). Nonetheless, analyses uncovered a variety of grains and legumes, especially seed wheat, hulled barley, lentil, lentil vetch, and flat pea, all of which were

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the main cultivated foodstuffs in the region (Kroll 1993, 174). Kalapodi possibly acted as a hub for food processing and storage, filling a significant gap in food management left by the eroding Bronze Age palatial economies.34 The shift into the Late Geometric and Early Archaic periods brought more changes in both ritual and industrial activity at Kalapodi. Animal bones decrease from the Late Bronze Age through Geometric period, and this shift coincides with the proliferation of metal votives, especially bronzes.35 In particular, metal tripods and thousands of martial votives (helmets, greaves, shields, and weapons) were dedicated, suggesting a major shift in ritual practice (Felsch 2007; Morgan 2009, 47; McInerney 2011). Kalapodi seemed to morph into a production center of metal objects like bird disk pendants (Felsch 1983, 126–28) and bronze attachments (Felsch 2007, 74).36 It is at this point, around the seventh century, that we may see the presence of a growing class of elite citizens associated with local poleis, represented by polychromatic paintings of hoplite warriors at the sanctuary, suggesting a move from a position as a central place to a sanctuary that marked out border zones between city-states (de Polignac 2019, 21; Bintliff 2020, 315–17). The shift from decentralized interregional networks to more regional political identities changed the topographical meanings of sanctuaries, which increasingly came under the control of neighboring city-states by the sixth century (de Polignac 2009; 2019, 21). The role of Early Iron Age sanctuaries in the procurement of raw resources and production of high-value items for wealth storage is also bound up in the ritual drama of feasting. The bronze tripods, used to boil meat at sacrificial meals, and produced by both hammering and casting, are one type of feasting remnant that links ritual consumption with a range of economic processes and relationships. The earliest tripods at Olympia show traces of use and repair, and were likely used to boil meat and water (Janietz 2001, 28–29), a functionality echoed in the Homeric epics. Yet tripods were also highly esteemed items in the epics. Their value as prizes and gifts is apparent in the Iliad, where they frequently feature as top rewards in funeral games, notably the aristocratic pursuit of chariot racing (e.g., 23.263–858), a usage echoed in scenes in Late Geometric figural art showing tripods associated with horses. The Homeric epics suggest that tripods served as significant elements of gift exchange between elite guest friends, as seen in the episode with Alcinous and Odysseus (Od. 13.10–23), an act that established Alcinous’s authority and generosity as a leader (Gimatzidis 2021, 166–67; Papalexandrou 2005, 16–20). 34. Knodell 2021 (and cf. Kyriakidis 2001 on the storage potential of Mycenaean temples). 35. Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011, 35; Stanzel 1991; Feslch 1983; 2007, 552; Kaiser, Rizzotto, and Strack 2011, 35–36. 36. The workshop hypothesis is suggested by finds of semifinished products such as lance tips, and possibly ore mills (Felsch 1983, 123–24). Exceptional bronze ornaments are also noted in the graves at Elateia in the transitional period between the LH IIIC and Protogeometric periods (Livieratou 2020, 102).

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The appearance of thousands of tripods in Iron Age sanctuaries is thus often tied to elite competitive display through conspicuous consumption and deliberate, symbolic wealth disposal in interregional sanctuaries like Olympia (Morgan 1990, 44–46; Papalexandrou 2005; cf. Kiderlen 2010). It is important to note, however, that tripod proliferation at Olympia peaked in the late ninth century, before declining by 700 BCE. These dedications may suggest an increased emphasis on competitive elite aggrandizement through feasting and dedicatory activities by the ninth century in ways not feasible in the LH IIIC and Sub-Mycenaean periods, when feasting activities gathered smaller-scale and more loosely organized groups together to coordinate vital resources, as discussed above. In other words, the proliferation of high-status items like metal objects and other often exotic dedicatory objects was an outgrowth of earlier, small-scale economies centered on regional feasting and worship at places like Olympia, when leadership was much more “managerial” and conditional, and less institutionalized (Stanish 2017). Tripods’ ability to enhance the authority and reputation of elites, however, is only one aspect of their eventual socioeconomic roles: their vast production at Olympia, first for ritual feasting and later for mass dedications required the appropriation of far-flung resources, particularly copper and tin. Levantine and Aegean textual and shipwreck evidence suggest that copper was one of the most sought-after products in the eastern Mediterranean (Gimatzidis 2021, 164). Recent analyses of eleven tripod fragments from Olympia dated between 975 and 750 BCE source the copper to the Faynan mines in Jordan (Kiderlen et al. 2016), a transactional process that lasted several centuries in the Early Iron Age (Jung and Mehofer 2013) and no doubt involved complex diplomatic links and logistical considerations following the palatial collapse (Kiderlen et al. 2016, 311).37 Furthermore, neutron activation analysis of the clay cores and residues of casting molds demonstrates local production of tripods at Olympia, while four of the five tripods analyzed from Kalapodi also came from Olympia (Kiderlen et al. 2017).38 The vast accumulation of tripods at Olympia certainly goes beyond their original functional uses, particularly as later series adopt elaborate ornamental attachments and incised design, and were likely produced as dedicatory items. Beyond competitive display and gift exchange, tripods also centralized the accumulation of wealth in sanctuaries (Gimatzidis 2021, 172–73). As tripods 37. Tripods from earlier phases are awaiting analysis to determine when the influx of Faynan copper into southwestern Greece occurred (Kiderlen et al. 2016, 311). 38. Eder (1999, 446) also notes similarities in Type G swords from tombs between Elateia and Elis, suggesting a trade route running between these regions as early as the LH IIIC. Eighth-century tripods in the Argive Heraion also derive from elsewhere (possibly the Corinthia), and have been interpreted as diplomatic gifts (de Polignac 1996). Interestingly, copper from the Late Geometric periods onward no longer derives from the Faynan, suggesting a reorientation of the copper trade, possibly to the western Black Sea coast (Bode et al. 2020).

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declined at Olympia after ca. 700 (Morgan 1990, 140), treasuries dedicated by city-states blossomed in the sixth century—the era when territorial domination by poleis crystallized (de Polignac 2019; Gimatzidis 2021).39 Before the advent of these centralized political authorities, tripod dedications possibly represent these same tendencies not only to dedicate and display but also to concentrate wealth in central places for communal benefit.40 In the Early Iron Age, these were likely the initiatives of elite leaders with the necessary means to afford these objects, but also emerging political bodies, which may also have increasingly taken over the practice of animal sacrifice and meat consumption in sanctuaries (van den Eijnde 2018a, 12–13; 2018b).41 Thus, one of the quintessential elements of ritual feasting from the Early Iron Age also catalyzed longdistance exchange routes, regional industrial production, and the accumulation of wealth in extraurban sanctuaries like Olympia. 2.5. Conclusion There are further developments in Early Iron Age sanctuaries that need explaining, and are beyond the scope of this present chapter. These include the sea change in votive deposition—both in type and volume—in sanctuaries by the Late Geometric period (Gimatzidis 2011; van den Eijnde 2018b), which likely corresponds to economic shifts (Murray 2017), as well as the complex relationship between religious and political authority (Mazarakis Ainian 1997; Ekroth 2008, 269). These processes were likely reflected in feasting practices, touched on above with the case of Kalapodi (cf. van den Eijnde 2018b). What I have tried to show here is the usefulness of anthropological models of feasting in allowing insight into how Early Iron Age society reorganized itself within a more decentralized landscape following the dissolutions of the Late Bronze Age. Temples acted as symbols of “communal consciousness and economic success,” to return to Sherratt’s and Sherratt’s quotation, because they enabled common social identities and facilitated political and economic processes from their earliest iterations—and their earliest iterations centered on the vital activity of communal ritual feasting, a religious and ritual activity that promoted social cohesion and helped facilitate resource procurement and management, long-distance trade, and wealth accumulation, even in the absence of central-

39. On the continuing importance of tripods in Archaic and Classical times, as prizes in contests often prominently displayed in public places, see Gimatzidis 2021, 173–75. 40. This is essentially Gimatzidis’s (2021) argument, referencing later tendencies of sanctuaries to house wealth for communal use, most notably the sacred vessels and gold ornaments from the sanctuary of Athena Parthenos in Athens (Thuc. 2.13.4-5). 41. In the Iliad, a large tripod was equal to twelve oxen, e.g., 23.703. In the Homeric epics, the basileis are primarily in charge of animal sacrifices and the distribution of meat (Hitch 2009; van den Eijnde 2018b, 61).

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ized authority.42 These Early Iron Age sanctuaries suggest that, in the downfall of the Late Bronze Age political and economic structures, Greek societies conceived new methods of organization, but they perpetuated some of the most beneficial legacies from the Bronze Age to facilitate the several centuries of political and economic regeneration that made up the Early Iron Age—namely, ritual feasting. References Albers, Gabriele. 2001. “Rethinking Mycenaean Sanctuaries.” Pages 131–41 in POTNIA: Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age; Proceedings of the 8th International Aegean Conference, Göteborg, Göteborg University, 12–15 April 2000. Edited by Robert Laffineur and Robin Hägg. Aegaeum 22. Liège: Université de Liège. Antonaccio, Carla M. 1993. “The Archaeology of Ancestors.” Pages 46–70 in Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics. Edited by Carol Dougherty and Leslie Kurke. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1994. “Contesting the Past: Hero Cult, Tomb Cult, and Epic in Early Greece.” AJA 98:389–410. https://doi.org/10.2307/506436. ———. 1995. An Archaeology of Ancestors: Tomb Cult and Hero Cult in Early Greece. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Arena, Emiliano. 2020. “Mycenaean Achaea Before and After the Collapse.” Pages 35–44 in Collapse and Transformation: The Late Bronze Age to Early Iron Age in the Aegean. Edited by Guy D. Middleton. Oxford: Oxbow. https://doi.org/10.2307/j. ctv13pk6k9.11. Balomenou, Eleni. 2020. “Chaos Is a Ladder: First Corinthians Climbing; The End of the Mycenaean Age at Corinthia.” Pages 45–50 in Collapse and Transformation: The Late Bronze Age to Early Iron Age in the Aegean. Edited by Guy D. Middleton. Oxford: Oxbow. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv13pk6k9.12. Bendall, Lisa M. 2001. “The Economics of Potnia in the Linear B Tablets: Palatial Support for a Mycenaean Deity.” Pages 445–52 in POTNIA: Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age; Proceedings of the 8th International Aegean Conference, Göteborg, Göteborg University, 12–15 April 2000. Edited by Robert Laffineur and Robin Hägg. Aegaeum 22. Liège: Université de Liège. ———. 2004. “Fit for a King? Exclusion, Hierarchy, Aspiration and Desire in the Social Structure of Mycenaean Banqueting.” Pages 105–35 in Food, Cuisine and Society in Prehistoric Greece. Edited by Paul Halstead and John C. Barrett. Sheffield Studies in Aegean Archaeology 5. Oxford: Oxbow. Benecke, Norbert. 2006. “Die Tierreste.” Pages 247–48 in Anfänge und Frühzeit des Heiligtums von Olympia: Die Ausgrabungen am Pelopion 1987–1996. Edited by Helmut Kyrieleis. Olympische Forschungen 31. Berlin: de Gruyter. Bintliff, John. 2020. “Social Theory and the Greek Iron Age.” Pages 309–21 in Alternative

42. It is interesting that, at some sanctuaries established later in the Early Iron Age, the earliest deposits seem to be feasting vessels, e.g., the Geometric deposit at the sanctuary of Hera Akraia at Perachora (Payne 1940, 58–66). Obviously a more comprehensive analysis is needed of this phenomenon before making any arguments on the matter.

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Iron Ages: Social Theory from Archaeological Analysis. Edited by Brais X. Currás and Inés Sastre. London: Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781351012119-16. Blake, Emma. 2005. “The Material Expression of Cult, Ritual, and Feasting.” Pages 102– 29 in The Archaeology of Mediterranean Prehistory. Edited by Emma Blake and A. Bernard Knapp. Malden, MA: Blackwell. https://doi.org/10.1002/9780470773536. ch5. Bode, Michael, Moritz Kiderlen, Georgios P. Mastrotheodoros, Eleni Filippaki, and Yannis Bassiakos. 2020. “Das Kupfer der griechischen spätgeometrischen Dreifußkessel (ca. 760–700 v. Chr.): Eine Diskussion der chemischen und bleiisotopischen Analysen.” Pages 329–48 in Metallurgica Anatolica: Festschrift für Ünsal Yalçın anlässlich seines 65. Geburtstags. Edited by H. Gönül Yalçın and Oliver Stegemeier. Istanbul: Ege Yayinlari. Borgna, Elisabetta. 2004. “Aegean Feasting: A Minoan Perspective.” Hesperia 73:247–79. ———. 2012. “From Minoan Crete to Mycenaean Greece and Beyond: The Dissemination of Ritual Practices and Their Material Correlates in Ceremonial Architecture.” Pages 137–51 in Materiality and Social Practice: Transformative Capacities of Intercultural Encounters. Edited by Joseph Maran and Philipp W. Stockhammer. Oxford: Oxbow. Bouchard, Michel. 2011. “The State of the Study of the State in Anthropology.” Reviews in Anthropology 40.3:183–209. https://doi.org/10.1080/00938157.2011.595660. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boyer, Pascal. 2001. Religion Explained: The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought. New York: Basic Books. Bray, Tamara L., ed. 2003. The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum. Broodbank, Cyprian. 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Christakopoulou, Gioulika-Olga. 2018. To Die in Style: The Residential Lifestyle of Feasting and Dying in Iron Age Stamna, Greece. Oxford: Archaeoporess. Concannon, Cavan, and Lindsey A. Mazurek. 2016. “Introduction: A New Connectivity for the Twenty-First Century.” Pages 1–16 in Across the Corrupting Sea: PostBraudelian Approaches to the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean. Edited by Cavan Concannon and Lindsey A. Mazurek. London: Routledge. Cosmopoulos, Michael B. 2015. Bronze Age Eleusis and the Origins of the Eleusinian Mysteries. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Courbin, Paul. 1983. “Obeloi d’Argolide et d’ailleurs.” Pages 149–56 in The Greek Renaissance of the Eighth Century B.C.: Tradition and Innovation; Proceedings of the Second International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 1–5 June, 1981. Edited by Robin Hägg. Stockholm: Swedish Institute at Athens. Dakaronia, Fanouria. 1993. “Homeric Towns in East Lokris: Problems of Identification.” Hesperia 62:115–27. https://doi.org/10.2307/148252. ———. 2006. “Early Iron Age Elite Burials in East Lokis.” Pages 483–504 in Ancient Greece: From the Mycenaean Palaces to the Age of Homer. Edited by Sigrid Deger-Jalkotzy and Irene S. Lemos. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. ———. 2009. “Northeast Phokis.” Pages 292–301 in Archaeology: Euboea and Central Greece. Edited by Andreas G. Vlachopoulos. Athens: Melissa Publishing House.

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Dakaronia, Fanouria, Sigrid Deger-Jalkotsy, and Agni Sakellariou, eds. 1996. Die Siegel aus der Nekropole von Elatia-Alonaki: Corpus der minoischen und mykenischen Siegel. Supplementum 2. Berlin: Mann. Davies, John K. 2018. “State Formation in Early Iron Age Greece: The Operative Forces.” Pages 51–78 in Defining Citizenship in Archaic Greece. Edited by Alain Duplouy and Roger W. Brock. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/ oso/9780198817192.003.0002. Deger-Jalkotzy, Sigrid. 2006. “Late Mycenaean Warrior Tombs.” Pages 151–79 in Ancient Greece: From the Mycenaean Palaces to the Age of Homer. Edited by Sigrid DegerJalkotzy and Irene S. Lemos. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. ———. 2009. “From LH IIIC Late to the Early Iron Age: The Submycenaean Period at Elateia.” Pages 79–116 in LH II C Chronology and Synchronisms III, LH III C Late and the Transition to the Early Iron Age: Proceedings of the International Workshop Held at the Austrian Academy of Sciences at Vienna February 23rd and 24th, 2007. Edited by Sigrid Deger Jalkotzy and Anna Elisabeth Bächle. Veröffentlichungen der Mykenischen Kommission 30. Vienna: Österreichischen Adademie der Wissenschaften. Dickinson, O. T. P. K. 2006. The Aegean from Bronze Age to Iron Age: Continuity and Change between the Twelfth and Eighth Centuries B.C. London: Routledge. Dibble, Flint. 2017. “Politika Zoa: Animals and Social Change in Ancient Greece (1600– 300 B.C.).” PhD diss., University of Cincinnati. Dibble, Flint, and Martin Finné. 2021. “Socioenvironmental Change as a Process: Changing Foodways as Adaptation to Climate Change in South Greece from the Late Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age.” Quaternary International 597:50–62. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.quaint.2021.04.024. Dietler, Michael. 1990. “Driven by Drink: The Role of Drinking in the Political Economy and the Case of Early Iron Age France.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 9:352–406. https://doi.org/10.1016/0278-4165(90)90011-2. ———. 1996. “Feasts and Commensal Politics in the Political Economy.” Pages 87–125 in Food and the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective. Edited by Polly Wiessner and Wulf Shieffenhovel. Providence: Berghahn. ———. 2001. “Theorizing the Feast: Rituals of Consumption, Commensal Politics, and Power in African Contexts.” Page 65–114 in Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power. Edited by Michael Dietler and Brian Hayden. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. ———. 2011. “Feasting and Fasting.” Pages 179–94 in The Oxford Handbook on the Archaeology of Ritual and Religion. Edited by Tim Ingersoll. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dietler, Michael, and Brian Hayden. 2001. Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. van Dommelen, Peter, and A. Bernard Knapp, eds. 2010. Material Connections in the Ancient Mediterranean: Mobility, Materiality and Identity. London: Routledge. Eder, Birgitta. 1999. “Late Bronze Age Swords from Ancient Elis.” Pages 443–48 in Polemos: Le context Guerrier en Égée à l’Âge du Bronze; Actes de la 7e Rencontre égéenne internationale Université de Liège, 14–17 avril 1998. Edited by Robert Laffineur. Aegaeum 19. Liège: Université de Liège. ———. 2001. “Continuity of Bronze Age Cult at Olympia? The Evidence of the Late Bronze

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and Religion. Edited by Peter J. Richerson and Morton H. Christiansen. Cambridge: MIT Press. https://doi.org/10.7551/mitpress/9780262019750.003.0019. Norenzayan, Ara, and W. Gervais. 2012. “The Cultural Evolution of Religion.” Pages 243–65 in Creating Consilience Integrating Science and the Humanities. Edited by Edward Slingerland and Mark Collard. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https:// doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199794393.003.0014. Ober, Josiah. 2010. “Wealthy Hellas.” TAPA 140:241–86. ———. 2015. The Rise and Fall of Classical Greece. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Palaima, Thomas G. 2004. “Sacrificial Feasting in the Linear B Documents.” Hesperia 73:217–46. Palme-Koufa, Anna. 1996. “Die Graffiti auf der Keramik.” Pages 273–331 in Die spätmykenische bis frühgeometrische Keramik; Die korinthische keramik; Die Graffiti auf der Keramik; The Byzantine and Later Pottery. Vol. 1 of Kalapodi: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen im Heiligtum der Artemis und des Apollon von Hyampolis in der antiken Phokis. Edited by Rainer C. S. Felsch. Mainz: von Zabern. Papadopoulos, John K. 2014. “Greece in the Early Iron Age: Mobility, Commodities, Polities, and Literacy.” Pages 178–95 in The Cambridge Prehistory of the Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean. Edited by A.Bernard Knapp and Peter van Dommelen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/ CHO9781139028387.014. Papalexandrou, Athanasios C. 2005. The Visual Poetics of Power: Warriors, Youths, and Tripods in Early Greece. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Papathanasiou, Anastasia, Eleni Panagiotopoulou, Konstantinos Beltsios, Maria-Foteini Papakonstantinou, and Maria Sipsi. 2013. “Inferences from the Human Skeletal Material of the Early Iron Age Cemetery at Agios Dimitrios, Fthiotis, Central Greece.” JArS 40:2924–33. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jas.2013.02.027. Papapostolou, I. A. 2012. Early Thermos: New Excavations 1992–2003. Athens: Archaeological Society at Athens. Payne, Humfry, ed. 1940. Perachora: The Sanctuaries of Hera Akraia and Limenia; Excavations of the British School of Archaeology at Athens 1930–1933; Architecture, Bronzes, Terracottas. Oxford: Clarendon. Petrovic, Andrej, and Ivana Petrovic. 2016. Inner Purity and Pollution in Greek Religion. Vol. 1: Early Greek Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Philippa-Touchais, Anna. 2011. “‘Cycles of Collapse in Greek Prehistory’: Reassessing Social Change at the Beginning of the Middle Helladic and the Early Iron Age.” Pages 31–44 in vol. 1 of The “Dark Ages” Revisited: Acts of an International Symposium in Memory of William D. E. Coulson, University of Thessaly, Volos, 14–17 June 2007. Edited by A. Mazarakis Ainian. Volos: University of Thessaly Press. de Polignac, François. 1995. Cults, Territory, and the Origins of the Greek City-State. Translated by J. Lloyd. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1996. “Offrandes, mémoire et competition ritualisée dans les sanctuaires grecs à l’époque géométrique.” Pages 59–66 in Religion and Power in the Ancient Greek World. Edited by Pontus Hellström and Brita Alroth. Uppsala: University of Uppsala Press. ———. 2009. “Sanctuaries and Festivals.” Pages 427–43 in A Companion to Archaic Greece. Edited by K. A. Raaflaub and H. van Wees. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. https:// doi.org/10.1002/9781444308761.ch22. ———. 2019. “Rituals in Context: Scales and Horizons of Interpretation of Cult Places in

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Early Greece.” Pages 17–24 in Beyond the Polis: Rituals, Rites and Cults in Early and Archaic Greece (12th–6th Centuries BC). Edited by Irene S. Lemos and Athena Tsingarida. Études d’archéologie 15. Brussels: Centre de Recherches en Archéologie et Patrimoine. Pollock, Susan, ed. 2015. Between Feasts and Daily Meals: Towards an Archaeology of Commensal Spaces. Berlin: Topoi. Prent, Mieke. 2005. Cretan Sanctuaries and Cults: Continuity and Change from Late Minoan IIIC to the Archaic Period. RGRW 154. Leiden: Brill. Purzycki, Benjamin G., Coren Apicella, Qentin D. Atkinson, Emma Cohen, Rita Anne McNamara, Aiana K. Willard, Dimitris Xygalatas, Ara Norenzayan, and Joseph Henrich. 2016. “Moralistic Gods, Supernatural Punishment and the Expansion of Human Sociality.” Nature 530:327–30. https://doi.org/10.1038/nature16980. Purzycki, Benjamin G., Joseph Henrich, Coren Apicella, Quentin D. Atkinson, Adam Bairnel, Emma Cohen, Rita Anne McNamara, Aiyana K. Willard, Dimitris Xygalatas, and Ara Norenzayan. 2017. “The Evolution of Religion and Morality: A Synthesis of Ethnographic and Experimental Evidence from Eight Societies.” Religion, Brain & Behavior 8:101–32. https://doi.org/10.1080/215359 9X.2016.1267027. Renfrew, Colin. 1985. The Archaeology of Cult: The Sanctuary at Phylakopi. BSASup 18. London: British School at Athens. ———. 2007. “The Archaeology of Ritual, of Cult, and of Religion.” Pages 109–22 in The Archaeology of Ritual. Edited by Evangelos Kyriakidis. Cotsen Advanced Seminar 3. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology. Rivière, Karine. 2021. “La cuisine ou l’autel? Foyers, cultes, et commensalités dans la Grèce de l’Âge du fer (Xe-VIIIe s. av. J.-C.).” Pages 71–83 in Around the Hearth: Ritual and Commensal Practices in the Mediterranean Iron Age from the Aegean World to the Iberian Peninsula. Edited by Jérémy Lamaze and Maguelone Bastine. Berlin: de Gruyter. Rolley, Claude. 1992. “Argos, Corinthe, Athènes: Identité culturelle et modes de développement (Ixe–VIIIe s.).” Pages 37–54 in Polydipsion Argos: Argos de la fin des palais mycéniens à la constitution de l’État classique; Actes du colloque de Fribourg (7–9 mai 1987). Edited by Marcel Piérart. Suppléments au Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 22. Fribourg: École française d’Athènes. Romano, David Gilman, and Mary E. Voyatzis. 2021. “Sanctuaries of Zeus: Mt. Lykaion and Olympia in the Early Iron Age.” Hesperia 90:1–25. Roscoe, Paul B. 2012. “Before Elites: The Political Capacities of Big Men.” Pages 41–54 in Before Elites: Alternatives to Hierarchical Systems in Modelling Social Formations, Volume 1. Edited by Tobias L. Kienlin and Andreas Zimmerman. Universitätsforschungen zur prähistorischen Archäologie 215. Bonn: Habelt. Rutter, Jeremy. 2004. “Ceramic Sets in Context: One Dimension of Food Preparation and Consumption in a Minoan Palatial Setting.” Pages 63–89 in Food, Cuisine and Society in Prehistoric Greece. Edited by Paul Halstead and John C. Barrett. Sheffield Studies in Aegean Archaeology 5. Oxford: Oxbow. Sahlins, Marshall D. 1963. “Poor Man, Rich Man, Big-Man, Chief.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 5:285–303. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0010417500001729. Schachter, Albert. 2019. Review of Das Orakelheiligtum des Apollon von Abai/Kalapodi: Eines der bedeutendsten griechischen Heiligtümer nach den Ergebnissen der neuen Ausgrabungen, by Wolf-Dietrich Niemeier. Klio 101:335–39.

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Sherratt, Andrew, and Susan Sherratt. 1993. “The Growth of the Mediterranean Economy in the Early First Millennium BC.” World Archaeology 4:361–78. https://doi.or g/10.1080/00438243.1993.9980214. Sherratt, Susan. 2004. “Feasting in Homeric Epic.” Hesperia 73:301–37. https://doi. org/10.2972/hesp.2004.73.2.301. ———. 2016. “From ‘Institutional’ to ‘Private’: Traders, Routes and Commerce from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron Age.” Pages 289–301 in Dynamics of Production in the Ancient Near East, 1300–500 BC. Edited by Juan Carlos Moreno García. Oxford: Oxbow. ———. 2017. “A Globalizing Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean.” Pages 602–17 in The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization. Edited by Tamar Hodos. London: Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315449005.ch42. Sosis, Richard. 2005. “Does Religion Promote Trust? The Role of Signaling, Reputation, and Punishment.” Interdisciplinary Journal of Research on Religion 1:1–30. ———. 2006. “Religious Behaviors, Badges, and Bans: Signaling Theory and the Evolution of Religion.” Pages 61–86 in Where God and Science Meet: How Brain and Evolutionary Studies Alter Our Understanding of Religion. Vol. 1: Evolution, Genes, and the Religious Brain. Edited by Patrick McNamara. Westport: Praeger. Sosis, Richard, and Candace Alcorta. 2003. “Signaling, Solidarity, and the Sacred: The Evolution of Religious Behaviour.” Evolutionary Anthropology 12:264–74. Stanish, Charles. 2017. The Evolution of Human Co-operation: Ritual and Social Complexity in Stateless Societies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stanish, Charles, Henry Tantaleán, and Kelly Knudson. 2018. “Feasting and the Evolution of Cooperative Social Organizations circa 2300 B.P. in Paracas Culture, Southern Peru.” PNAS 115.29:716–21. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1806632115. Stanzel, Manfred. 1991. “Die Tierreste aus dem Artemis-/Apollon-Heiligtum bei Kalapodi.” PhD diss., University of Munich. Stary, Peter F. 1994. “Metallfeuerböcke im früheisenzeitlichen Grabritus.” Pages 603–24 in Festschrift für Otto-Herman Frey zum 65. Geburtstag. Edited by Claus Dobiat. Marburger Studien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 16. Marburg: Hitzeroth. Starkovich, Britt M. 2014. “Appendix 5: Preliminary Faunal Report.” Pages 644–48 in “Mt. Lykaion Excavation and Survey Project, Part 1: The Upper Sanctuary.” By David Gilmore Romano and Mary E. Voyatzis. Hesperia 83:569–652. Solez, Kevin B. 2014. “Multicultural Banqueting in the Development of Archaic Greek Society: An Investigation into Modes of Intercultural Contact.” PhD diss., University of British Columbia. Stocker, Sharon R., and Jack L. Davis. 2004. “Animal Sacrifice, Archives, and Feasting at the Palace of Nestor.” Hesperia 73:179–95. http://doi.org/10.2972/ hesp.2004.73.2.179. Swenson, Edward R. 2006. “Competitive Feasting, Religious Pluralism and Decentralized Power in the Late Moche Period.” Pages 112–42 in Andean Archaeology III: North and South. Edited by William. H. Isbell and Helaine Silverman. Boston: Springer. http://doi.org/10.1007/0-387-28940-2_6. Terpstra, Taco T. 2019. Trade in the Ancient Mediterranean: Private Order and Public Institutions. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Verdan, Samuel. 2013. Le sanctuaire d’Apollon Daphnéphoros à l’époque géométrique. Eretria 22. Gollion: Infolio. Vetters, Melissa. 2015. “Private and Communal Ritual in Postpalatial Tiryns.” Pages 65–

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106 in Cult Material from Archaeological Deposits to Interpretation of Early Greek Religion. Edited by Susanne Bocher and Petra Pakkanen. Papers and Monographs of the Finish Institute at Athens 21. Helsinki: Finish Institute at Athens. Vlachou, Vicky. 2018. “Feasting at the Sanctuary of Apollo Hyakinthos at Amykles: The Evidence from the Early Iron Age.” Pages 93–124 in Feasting and Polis Institutions. Edited by Floris van den Eijnde, Josine Blok, and Rolf Strootman. MnSupp 414. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004356733_005. Voyatzis, Mary. 2019. “Enduring Rituals in the Arcadian Mountains: The Case of the Sanctuary of Zeus at Mt. Lykaion.” Pages 133–46 in Beyond the Polis: Rituals, Rites and Cults in Early and Archaic Greece (12th–6th Centuries BC). Edited by Irene S. Lemos and Athena Tsingarida. Études d’archéologie 15. Brussels: Centre de Recherches en Archéologie et Patrimoine. Węcowski, Marek. 2017. “Wine and the Early History of the Greek Alphabet: Early Greek Vase-Inscriptions and the Symposion.” Pages 309–27 in Panhellenes at Methone: Graphê in Late Geometric and Protoarchaic Methone, Macedonia (ca. 700 BCE). Edited by Jenny Strauss Clay, Irad Malkin, and Yannis Z. Tzifopoulos. Trends in Classics Supplement 44. Berlin: Springer. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110515695016. Wells, Berit. 1983. Asine 2: Results of the Excavations East of the Acropolis 1970–1974. Fasc. 4: The Protogeometric Period. Part 2: An Analysis of the Settlement. Part 3: Catalogue of Pottery and Other Artifacts. Stockholm: Åström. Whitley, James. 1991. “Social Diversity in Dark Age Greece.” BSA 86:341–65. http://doi. org/10.1017/S0068245400014994. ———. 2019. “The Re-Emergence of Political Complexity.” Pages 161–86 in A Companion to the Archaeology of Early Greece and the Mediterranean. Edited by Irene S. Lemos and Antonios Kotsonas. 2 vols. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. https://doi. org/10.1002/9781118769966.ch7. Wiessner, Polly. 2002. “The Vines of Complexity: Egalitarian Structures and the Institutionalization of Inequality among the Enga.” Current Anthropology 43:233–69. https://doi.org/10.1086/338301. Wright, James C. 2004. “A Survey of Evidence for Feasting in Mycenaean Society.” Hesperia 73:133–78. http://doi.org/10.2972/hesp.2004.73.2.133.

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Harnessing the Gods: Big Gods Theory and Moral Supervision in the Greek World Jennifer Larson Evolutionary theory of morality holds that in order for cooperation to thrive among self-interested individuals, there must be a credible threat of punishment for breaking norms. Yet punishment is costly. Groups whose members believe in superhuman punishments thus gain an advantage. Ara Norenzayan’s much-discussed “big gods” theory posits that the advent of omniscient, interventionist, moralizing gods encouraged cooperation and deterred cheating as large-scale societies developed. Other cognitive scientists have opined that ancient polytheistic gods were unconcerned with human behavior, except toward themselves. The Greek data provide a new perspective on the debate about moralizing gods. Homer and Hesiod differ in the degree to which they depict Zeus as a deity who is self-motivated to punish wrongdoing. In Homeric poetry, spontaneous punishment is limited to a narrow range of offenses (mostly variations on xenia) and does not extend to the casual daily interactions of all individuals. Hesiod, on the other hand, envisioned the possibility of spontaneous punishments for generalized wicked deeds. To elicit divine punishment of other forms of wrongdoing, it was necessary to attract the gods’ interest and to place the matter within their purview. The simplest of these methods was the prayer for justice, and the most widespread was the oath. With the rise of the polis, the proliferation of sanctuaries offered additional scope to enlist the gods in moral policing. Examples include sacred truces, trade and banking conducted within sanctuaries, the display of law codes on temples, sacral manumission, and the special case of sacral asylum. The Greek data offer only limited support for Norenzayan’s claim that the earliest large-scale societies relied on deities to lighten the burden of moral enforcement. While belief in big gods was a minority view in early polytheistic societies, worshipers evolved strategies to “harness” the gods, gradually expanding the scope of their moral supervision. Keywords: animal sacrifice, Walter Burkert, ritual, social cohesion, Greek religion, aggression

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volutionary theory of morality holds that in order for cooperation to thrive among self-interested individuals, there must be a credible threat of punishment for breaking norms. Yet punishment is costly, and someone must bear the burden. Groups whose members believe in superhuman punishments thus gain an advantage, to the degree that trust is increased and the burden of scrutiny and punishment is lightened. Modern theorists have proposed that either cultural evolution (Norenzayan 2013) or biological evolution (Johnson 2005; 2015, 411–12) shifted some of this burden to the gods.

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Ara Norenzayan’s much-discussed big gods theory posits that the advent of “powerful, omniscient, interventionist, morally concerned gods” facilitated the development of large-scale societies from the time of the agricultural revolution, ca. 10,000 BCE. Norenzayan writes that these “watchful gods” encouraged cooperation and deterred cheating even as human groups became larger and more anonymous. Although he addresses the origins of civilization, Norenzayan pays surprisingly little attention to the gods of polytheistic cultures, particularly the ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean cases where largescale social organization flourished. Scholars working in the cognitive science of religion (CSR) make widely varying claims concerning the degree to which the gods of ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean peoples were concerned with morality. Whereas Norenzayan assumes the existence of big gods in these cultures, Nicholas Baumard and Pascal Boyer (2014, 280) state: “There is little or no evidence that people in these societies [ancient Sumer, Egypt, Greece, Rome, etc.] represented the gods as concerned with people’s own cooperative or prosocial behavior toward fellow members of their groups” (Cf. Baumard and Boyer 2013, 272). As I will show, both views are incorrect, at least with regard to the Greeks. 3.1. Sources and Perspectives The Greeks never spoke with one voice about the gods and their role in morality, nor did they possess a sacred text analogous to those used in the Abrahamic religions. For the purpose of describing the moral role of gods prior to the rise of the Greek city-state (polis) which began around 800 BCE, I will cite Homer and Hesiod, both of whom name Zeus as the key (but not the sole) supervisor of interpersonal behavior. Homeric poetry (written ca. 700 BCE, but crystallizing a long oral tradition) primarily represents the viewpoint of the aristocratic chieftain, who rules over a group of settlements in a warrior culture. It posits a world in which the gods rarely pay attention to the behavior of lowly people. As the guarantor of cosmic order, Zeus’s moral interest is focused on enforcing the the norms of behavior between elite males, particularly those of guest-friendship and hospitality. For example, in Il. 13.620–635, Menelaos kills the Trojan Peisandros in battle, and declares over his body: “You [Trojans] have done me a disgrace, you evil dogs, nor in your hearts did you fear the wrath of Zeus Xeinios, the thunderer above, who someday will destroy your high city.”1 He goes on to explain that the Trojans (specifically Paris) violated the moral norms of guest-friendship by stealing his wife and “many possessions” from his home. Zeus Xe(i) nios was “Zeus of Hospitality,” the god who punished abuses by either host or guest. Menelaus expects Zeus to ensure the destruction of Troy as punishment 1. Translations are mine unless otherwise noted.

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for Paris’s crime and the Trojan refusal to make amends for it. While Zeus is not given the title Hikesios in the Iliad, and is not invoked during battlefield supplications by the vanquished, Achilles mentions the “injunctions of Zeus” as a reason not to kill his suppliant Priam (Il. 24.568–570). The Iliad also demonstrates Zeus’s interest in upholding oaths and related ritual actions (horkoi, horkia; Cohen 1980, 53–54), though again Zeus does not have his later title of Horkios, and the Erinyes seem to undertake or share the duty of punishing perjurers.2 In the matter of decent burial that dominates the final book of the Iliad, Zeus plays favorites rather than enforcing a universal standard. Mortally wounded, Hector warns that there will be divine punishment for Achilles if he is left unburied (Il. 22.337–360), yet throughout the poem it is understood that less-favored warriors may be exposed to the dogs and birds with impunity (Il. 1.4–5, 8.379–380, 11.451–455, etc.). In the debate over the treatment of Hector’s corpse, Apollo charges that Achilles’s lack of shame or pity risks the gods’ wrath (Il. 24.53). Yet Zeus commands Achilles to yield not because he has mistreated a corpse, but because Hector was a favorite (Il. 24.65–70), and he arranges for Achilles to receive a great ransom in exchange. Ultimately, although the Zeus of the Iliad has a connection with dikē (however that term is defined), there is a vague and sporadic causal connection between this and his role as punisher.3 Outside Zeus’s specific domains of moral interest, a wronged person must pursue justice independently, or make a case as to why Zeus or other gods should get involved. In the Odyssey, widely considered a moralizing work by comparison to the Iliad, Zeus is the protector not only of guest-friends and suppliants, but also of strangers and beggars, under the titles of Xeinios and Hiketesios.4 When Odysseus arrives as a castaway on Scheria, he seats himself at the hearth of King

2. Zeus and oaths in Homer: Il. 3.105–107 (the “oaths of Zeus,” Dios horkia), 4.160–162 (“the Olympian” will punish the Trojans’ broken oath), 4.235–239, 7.411. At Il. 3.278–279 and 19.259–260 “those under the earth” and “the Erinyes” are responsible for punishment. See also Od. 19.302–303 (oath sworn by Zeus). Zeus Horkios is first attested in tragedy: Soph. Phil. 1324, Eur. Hipp. 1025. 3. The nature of Homeric morality and the divine role in upholding it is much debated; most recently see Allan 2006; and cf. the opposing positions of Adkins 1960, 1972; and Lloyd-Jones 1983. In Homer, dikē only twice denotes an abstract idea of “righteousness”; typically it is a concrete judgment made by an authority figure, an individual’s assertion of his rights, or (in the Odyssey) a prevailing custom (Gill 1980). Homer Il. 16.384–393 closely parallels Hesiod (Op. 220–247) and constitutes the only instance in the Iliad of dikē as an abstract concept and of Zeus as a punisher of crimes outside his usual domains. In the Odyssey, dikē is used as an abstract noun meaning “righteousness” at 14.83–84, where Eumaeus says that the gods do not love wicked deeds (schetlia erga) but honor dikē and fitting deeds. 4. Zeus Xeinios: 9.270–271 (suppliants and strangers), 14.53–59 (strangers and beggars), 14.283– 284 (suppliants), 14.389. Zeus Hiketesios: Od. 13.213–214 (protection of suppliants, with ambiguity about other forms of transgression; see Gill 1980, 410).

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Alkinoös, silently indicating that he is a suppliant. The wise elder Echeneus then advises the king (Od. 7.159–165): Alkinoös, it is neither a better thing nor seemly that a stranger [xeinon] sits at the hearth in the ashes, but these men hold back in expectation of your word. Come, let the stranger rise and lead him to a silver-studded seat, and bid the heralds mix wine, so that we may pour libations for Zeus who delights in thunder, he who accompanies reverend suppliants [hiketēisin aidoioisin].

This passage demonstrates the close relationship between the institutions of xenia (hospitality/guest friendship) and hiketeia (supplication), for in certain contexts they amounted to the same thing. The description of hospitality extended to an impoverished stranger can be read as a response to the Iliad, which focuses narrowly on the guest-friendship of aristocrats and battlefield conditions. The Odyssey broadens the scope of divine moral concern to the behavior of less powerful individuals such as slaves (Eumaios, Od. 14.48–58) and women (Nausicaa, Od. 6.206–208), both of whom take care to observe the requirements of xenia. At the same time, the Odyssey continues to limit the types of offenses deemed to elicit divine punishment. Hesiodic poetry (also written ca. 700 BCE, with a long background in oral tradition) represents the perspective of a farmer living within a system of chiefdoms that are transitioning into city-states. It is possible to argue that the difference between Homer and Hesiod is one of emphasis and narrative goals, yet the moral atmosphere of Works and Days seems startlingly different from that of the Iliad or even the Odyssey. Hesiod eschews domain-specific titles such as Xenios and Hiketesios, emphasizes righteousness (dikē) as an abstract concept that applies to everyone, ascribes to Zeus’s “all seeing eye” a universal scrutiny of human behavior, and insists that no evildoer can escape the god’s detection and punishment.5 He catalogues behaviors that specifically attract the anger of Zeus (Op. 327–334): Alike with whoever wrongs a suppliant [hiketēn] or guest [xeinon], whoever secretly visits the bed of his brother’s wife, committing immoderate deeds, and the one who in his folly offends against orphaned children, who upbraids his elderly father on the threshold of old age, attacking him with harsh words: Zeus himself is indignant at this one, and in the end makes a harsh requital for his unjust deeds. 5. For dikē in Hesiod, see esp. Op. 217–221, 276–285; Dickie 1978, 98–101. The closest comparandum in Homer to Hesiod’s moralizing Zeus is the Hesiodic-sounding Il. 16.386–388 (often thought to be an interpolation) where Zeus is said to be angry with those who pronounce crooked judgments in the marketplace, disregarding the vengeance (opin) of the gods. Another very early generalist Zeus is found in Archil. frag. 177 (fable of the fox and eagle): “O Father Zeus, yours is the power in heaven and you oversee men’s deeds and the wicked and the lawful; all creatures’ rights and wrongs are your concern.” On this fragment see West 1997, 504–5.

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Hesiod thus expands the list of interpersonal transgressions that anger Zeus well beyond the standard Homeric offenses. Hesiod envisions a Zeus concerned with violation of the respect due a father, as well as mistreatment of those who are vulnerable or lack social status, represented by the elderly and orphaned children.6 As in the Odyssey, even the lowly and weak can expect the gods’ vengeance on abusers. Additionally, Zeus punishes generalized antisocial behaviors such as “violence,” “wicked deeds,” “going astray,” “devising recklessness” and so on (Op. 238–269). Where the presumption in the Iliad is that the gods police elite men, who in turn police those lower on the social ladder, Hesiod holds that all are accountable to Zeus, but especially the powerful male. The lowly may pay the price together with a wicked prince, when the community is blasted with famine, but it is the “bribe-devouring” man of power whose “crooked judgments” have triggered the wrath of Zeus (Op. 250–251, 264). To summarize, the Homeric epics describe complex moral situations, and tend to limit expectations of divine punishment to a circumscribed group of transgressions and transgressors. In Works and Days, by contrast, Hesiod takes a prescriptive stance, seeking to persuade the audience that divine oversight is comprehensive, and that fear of the gods should inhibit all antisocial behavior. The evidence from Hesiod supports Norenzayan’s thesis, yet Hesiod’s claims of broad, generalized divine scrutiny and punishment were not widely adopted in later centuries. In the Archaic and Classical periods (ca. 800–323 BCE), the list of interpersonal offenses expected to trigger divine punishment remained relatively short and specific, and the traditional Homeric transgressions continued to be emphasized. We can trace a wisdom tradition in sayings like “No man has ever deceived xeinos or hiketēs, Kyrnos, without the immortals taking note” (Thgn. 143–144) and “What god or daimōn listens to you, who swear falsely and deceive xenoi?” (Eur. Med. 1391–1392). As in Hesiod, abuse of a parent and incest were the key kinship-based offenses. Mistreating a corpse (particularly by refusing burial or by mutilation) and murder were crimes that drew a special type of superhuman punishment: the anger of someone who was unjustly killed or left unburied could awaken superhuman avengers to hound the culprit (Larson 2016, 139–42). Intrafamilial transgression and treatment of the dead were favorite subjects in Greek tragedy, regularly expected to draw divine scrutiny (Mikalson 2010, 174). Popular belief in divine punishment appears to have persisted in the Classical period, for it is exploited by the Athenian orators. In Antiphon’s speech for Euxitheus (5.82–83), for example, the latter argues that he must be innocent of murder because he and his fellow-passengers survived a number of sea voyages (Veyne 2005, 428). No less an authority than Aristotle (Pol. 1262a) criticizes Plato’s Republic for his plan to conceal the identities of 6. While unusual in Greek literature, concern for the orphan (and widow) was a commonplace in the Near East; West 1997, 129–30.

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parent and child, because this will make it difficult to guard against “outrages, voluntary or involuntary killing, quarrels and abusive words, none of which is hosion [correct in the eyes of the gods] when committed against fathers, mothers or near-kin.” In addition, lack of awareness of such offenses would make it impossible to “carry out the customary expiations” (nomizomenas luseis). As Josine Blok (2011, 238) and Saskia Peels (2016, 27–67) have shown, hosiē and cognates referred collectively to moral (including religious) norms regarded as subjects of divine supervision. Blok (2014, 19–22) lists the interpersonal component of hosiē as including all conventions pertaining to guests, strangers, and suppliants; all actions involving oaths; all actions involving curses; everything to do with death and burial; respect for parents and care of them in old age; and all conventions between poleis regarding warfare and treaties. Transgressions of these norms comprised an implicit canon of offenses punishable by the gods. While this chapter deals with divine rather than human agency in punishment, it is important to note the occasional overlap between the two spheres. Despite his insistence on Zeus’s scrutiny of every mortal’s behavior, Hesiod (Op. 709–711) did not rely on Zeus alone to administer justice: “But if he wrongs you first, either saying or doing something hateful, remember to pay him back double.” Likewise, the advent of written laws and legal procedures allowed individuals to pursue justice if they had the agency and the means. Solon’s laws included the innovation of the graphē, a procedure that permitted anyone to bring a suit on behalf of a victim, as opposed to the dikē, which could only be brought by the victim or his/her relatives. The graphē may have been introduced to help enforce Solon’s laws on the upkeep of elderly parents, legislation that addressed a wrong traditionally expected to draw divine punishment (Gagarin 1986, 69; Leão and Rhodes 2016, 92–97 [frags. 55–57]). While written laws overlapped with and codified many traditional behavioral norms, it is notable that beliefs about divine punishment tended to address norm violations that were either difficult to detect (incest, certain kinds of oath breaking) or regarded as private matters (hospitality, supplications made to individuals).7 By the fifth century, we hear of “unwritten laws” (agraphoi nomoi), “statutes of Justice” (thesmioi Dikas), and the like, which correspond closely to the concept of hosiē and are assumed to be of divine origin. Xenophon (Mem. 4.4.19–24) identifies three such unwritten laws: fear the gods, honor your parents, and return a favor.8 7. In Solon frag. 6 (= Dem. 23.72), procedures for the return of an exiled killer (thus a suppliant of the dēmos) involve sacrifice and purification. In frag. 44b, a trio of oath gods is mentioned: [Zeus] Hikesios (of Suppliants), Katharsios (of Purification) and Exakester (of Appeasement). For these passages, see Leão and Rhodes 2016, 24–25, 71–72. These fragments show how traditional divine supervision could be incorporated into written law, primarily through the medium of the oath, which is further discussed below. 8. Agraphoi nomoi: Xen. Mem. 4.4.19. Compare the three “statutes of Justice” (thesmioi Dikas) in Aesch. Supp. 698–709. In Soph. Ant. 450–455, Antigone appeals to the “laws [nomoi] that Justice

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In tandem with the rise of mystery cults during the sixth and fifth centuries, popular belief in afterlife punishments and rewards increased. These phenomena are too complex to address here, and a direct role for the gods as punishers is not always contemplated or described.9 The fifth-century painter Polygnotos, for example, created a celebrated mural of the underworld (Paus. 10.28.4–5) in which a man who mistreated his father is beaten by his erstwhile victim, while a temple-robber is chastised by a woman “skilled in poison and other tortures.” The circumstances that could lead to punishment in Hades matched the canonical list of interpersonal offenses (wronging a god, a guestfriend, or one’s parents; breaking an oath) but also encompassed ancestral fault.10 Afterlife rewards were also envisioned, and while the stain of murder was a disqualifier, good behavior was not always an explicit requirement (Edmonds 2015, 557–62). The differing perspectives of Homer and Hesiod are both reflected in later authors, but the idea that Zeus or other gods would be angered at and punish every individual for every type of moral transgression, large or small, did not take root. This is partly because the gods of ancient polytheistic cultures were not omniscient in the same sense as the god(s) of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. In the Greek case, the sphere of divine interest and knowledge expands in certain situations, but it contracts in others: the degree and type of knowledge to which Greek gods have access is always determined contextually.11 The default inference, however, was that Greek gods possessed the indirect or direct ability to see and hear anything of interest to them. Claims of mind-reading are rare, and true omniscience rarer still. While divine superpowers of sight and hearing offer significant potential for policing, mind-reading represents a completely different level of moral scrutiny because it allows a god to identify thought-crimes (such as coveting or lusting). This is a key distinction between the hypermoralizing gods of the Abrahamic religions and many polytheistic systems, especially those of the established among humans” and the “unwritten, unfailing usages of the gods” (agrapta kasphalē theōn nomima). Plato (Leg. 8.838a–d) describes acts of incest as violations of an agraphos nomos, “in no way hosia” and “hated by God” (theomisē). In Thuc. 2.37.3, good behavior is ascribed to agraphoi nomoi that, when broken, incur disgrace; divine punishment is not mentioned. Demosthenes (23.85) refers to “the common law [koinos nomos] of all mankind” that decrees reception of fugitives (i.e., suppliants). 9. An example of direct punishment in the afterlife is Aesch. Eum. 267–275, with the Erinyes the arresting “police” and Hades the judge who passes sentence. 10. Afterlife punishments: Aesch. Eum. 267–275 (impious behavior toward god, guest, or parent); Ar. Ran. 145–163 (wronging a guest, mistreating parents, perjury), 354–371 (comic list of impieties). Ancestral fault: this concern drove the popularity of itinerant purifiers: Plato Resp. 2.364b–365a. 11. On the persuasive contexts of claims to divine supervision and punishment, see Versnel 2002, 43–45 with n. 19. On these questions see also Larson 2016, 95–100; I plan to expand the discussion in a future study.

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ancient Mediterranean and Near East. Norenzayan’s big gods theory needs to be amended to take account of the likelihood that the development of large polities and vast empires in the ancient world took place in the absence of omniscient, mind-reading gods (Turchin et al. 2022). 3.2. Spontaneous and Self-Motivated Divine Punishment Because Norenzayan’s thesis is not concerned with transgressions against kin, I will leave that aside to focus on the other moral domains in which spontaneous punishment from the gods was expected. Zeus’s apparently self-motivated interest in protecting guest-friends, strangers, suppliants, and beggars has occasioned much comment. Even Arthur Adkins (1972, 9; 1987, 314) who argues that Homeric social norms are concrete and transactional, is unable to explain its origins except by appealing to a “perceived social need” for protection of the defenseless.12 My goal here is not to supply another explanation, but to point out the difference between cases where Zeus punishes spontaneously and those where humans must capture his interest through various strategems. With regard to Norenzayan’s theory, however, it is notable that as a moralizing god, Zeus was principally concerned with interactions between strangers with no group affiliation in common. 3.2.1. Xenia Xenia, often translated as “hospitality,” was not merely a matter of generosity toward guests, but a much broader set of expectations governing behavior between strangers (xenoi; Herman 1987; Mikalson 2010, 77–80; Garland 2014, 128–30). Greek mythology includes several variations on a tale-type in which Zeus and other gods visit earth disguised as human travelers in order to test whether people are behaving properly toward strangers.13 The term xenia was also used to denote ritualized friendship between long distance “guest-friends,” an institution practiced primarily by male members of the elite. Finally, xenia describes the formal entertainment of superhuman agents (gods and heroes) with food and drink in ritual as part of a relationship of reciprocity. Perhaps this idea, that gods enjoy relationships of xenia just as humans do, formed the basis for divine interest in policing it.

12. Zeus’s interest is not purely altruistic, because once the domain of xenia comes under his supervision, he must maintain his timē by punishing offenders. On the other hand, there are few or no cults of Zeus Xenios or similar, so he has the burden of enforcement without a compensating reciprocity. Zeus’s policing as Xenios differs from that of other gods because he is expected to enforce transgressions against mortals, not merely against himself. 13. First reported in Hom. Od. 17.483–487 where the gods observe whether they are received with eunomiē or hubris; more examples in West 1997, 122–23. For the tale type see Hansen 2016, 211–16.

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Respect for xenia was an indicator of civilized status as well as moral worth, and the Odyssey is the ancient text most deeply concerned with its rules. In Od. 9.269–272, Odysseus reminds the Cyclops Polyphemus of his obligation to treat strangers well: “Nay, mightiest one, respect the gods; we are your suppliants [hiketai], and Zeus is the avenger of suppliants and strangers [epitimētōr hiketaōn te xeinōn te]—Zeus Xeinios—who accompanies reverend strangers [xeinoisin aidoioisin].” Polyphemus replies that he cares nothing for Zeus, and proceeds to murder and eat his guests. His behavior can be contrasted with that of the Phaeacians, who give the stranger Odysseus a generous welcome. When he is cast ashore naked, the young princess Nausicaa tells her handmaidens (Od. 6.206–208), “This is some unfortunate wanderer who has come here, and we must care for him. For all strangers and beggars [xeinoi te ptōkhoi te] are from Zeus, and even a small gift is welcome.” Theoretically, the hospitality form of xenia included altruistic sheltering and feeding of strangers, but there was a gap between moral ideals and actual behavior. Robert Garland’s (2014, 17) study of wanderers, asylum-seekers, and exiles in Greek culture emphasizes the miserable condition of those without home or friends, who suffered disrespect, suspicion, and want, just as the homeless of today do. Despite Nausicaa’s views, punishment of those who violated the xenia of hospitality was envisioned less for stinginess or a grudging welcome than for gross abuse of visitors. In the mythic example of Zeus’s visit to King Lycaon of Arcadia (Apollod. Bibl. 3.8.1–2, Ov. Met. 216–239), the offending host serves his guest human flesh. The formal xenia of “guest-friendship” applied exclusively to relations between members of different geographical, ethnic, or political groups: one could not be a guest-friend of a fellow citizen. Xenia was the key vehicle (other than marriage) for alliances between powerful men, and it mimicked kinship in several ways. Once established, an obligation did not fade with disuse, and it was hereditary. Xenoi (the parties to the pact) described their relationships as parental or fraternal, and they were expected to protect each other’s children. The relationship was inaugurated with a ritual pronouncement (“I make you my xenos”), and an exchange of symbolic gifts. Homer describes this form of xenia, which was used cross-culturally throughout the Near East and Mediterranean, from the Bronze Age onward, to cement political alliances. It has many parallels worldwide in customs of blood-brotherhood, godparenting, and so forth (Herman 1987, 33). In the era of the polis, the Greeks adapted the custom to permit xenia-like relationships between states and foreign individuals who acted as hosts and advocates; this institution of proxenia persisted into the late Hellenistic period (Herman 1987, 138–42; Mack 2015, 2, 35, 164).14

14. Proxenia seems to have been less subject to the divine policing associated with traditional xenia; however, proxeny decrees were placed in sanctuaries and cancellation of proxenies was

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3.2.2. Hiketeia Formal guest-friendship may be understood as a custom rooted in the need to gain allies and defuse hostilities before they erupt into violence. In contrast, supplication (hiketeia) perhaps developed from the defeated combatant’s selfabasement before a victor, a ritual that involved characteristic postures (kneeling) and gestures (touching the knee or chin of the one supplicated). As John Gould (1973, 89) wrote, the suppliant attempts to inhibit aggression by a ritualized act. Walter Burkert (1998, 80–90) addresses the ethological parallels found especially in mammal behavior. Where xenia in the narrow sense of guestfriendship was practiced mainly among the ruling class, any person could supplicate a more powerful individual, asking for a favor. This favor might involve sparing the life of the suppliant, ritually purifying them, or other kinds of assistance. The powerful one could refuse or accept the suppliant’s plea, though the moral high ground was to accept. If he accepted, he could not change his mind afterward without impiety, and thereafter he had a responsibility to protect the suppliant, much as he would do for a guest-friend. Zeus Hikesios punished those who failed to respect these customs.15 In addition to inhibiting violence, supplication had a social function in that it permitted the rehoming of exiles. In traditional Greek religion, for example, a person who killed was expelled regardless of the circumstances, lest avenging spirits visit punishment on the entire community. In the absence of robust state justice systems, the exile of such killers and their ability to find havens elsewhere presumably benefited communities by reducing the incidence of blood feuds (Parker 1983, 107–8).16 3.2.3. Heralds The ancient Greek herald (kērux) was supposed to be inviolable and under the gods’ protection, although explicit statements of this norm (e.g., Anaximenes of Lampsakos FGH 72 F 41.4) are rare in our sources. This concept too is rooted in the warrior chieftain’s needs: guest-friendship defines relationships with allies who are equals, supplication defines relations with defeated opponents (who may become allies, if worthy), and heralds are necessary intermediaries for communication with potential or actual opponents. In the Greek cultural data, incidents of expected or actual divine punishment for abuse of heralds are rare, but attested. The best-known instance is that of the Persian heralds who unusual “even after a revolution” (Mack 2015, 95), presumably because such an action would be regarded as an immoral failure in reciprocity. 15. On supplication see Naiden 2006, to be read with Peels 2016, 113–24. Zeus Hikesios, see, e.g., Aesch. Supp. 347; Ap. Rhod. Argon. 4.698; Paus. 3.17.9 (wrath of Hikesios in classical Sparta). 16. See the expulsion for involuntary killings in the seventh-century law of Drakon in IG I3 104; Garland 2014, 135–36. Cf. the places of refuge established by Yahweh to prevent revenge killings (Exod 21:13; Garland 2014, 114).

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came to Sparta and were thrown down a well. In this case, the punishment was attributed to a hero, Agamemnon’s herald Talthybios, and the Spartans endeavored to atone for their impiety.17 With respect to big gods theory, it is significant that the three moral domains I have listed (xenia, hiketeia, inviolability of heralds) are highly relevant to strangers from a different community, and less relevant to the cooperation of people living side by side. Fear of Zeus Xenios or Zeus Hikesios would not have had much impact on cheaters who transgressed against their neighbors within a large tribe or polis; furthermore, these domains are especially relevant to elite males. To elicit divine punishment of noncanonical forms of wrongdoing, it was necessary to attract the gods’ interest and to place the matter within their purview. I begin with the methods that were independent of sanctuaries. 3.3. Oral Prayers for Justice and Oral Curses The simplest and most obvious way to secure the gods’ help in punishing wrongdoers was to pray aloud, yet the need to pray demonstrates that a god is not self-motivated to detect and punish the transgression. Instead, the deity acts because (s)he has a relationship of reciprocity with the worshiper, or simply because (s)he is favorably disposed. In Hom. Il. 1.33–42, Chryses prays to Apollo for vengeance after the Greeks refuse a fair offer of a ransom for his daughter; the god obliges by sending a plague on the Greeks. In this case, Chryses invokes a long relationship of reciprocity with Apollo, but the god’s self-interest is also affected because Chryses, his priest, has been insulted. Such prayers overlap with oral curses. The authorities in ancient cities sometimes cursed individuals deemed to be public enemies. The expectation was that the local deities had formed long-term relationships of reciprocity with its inhabitants; they would thus be amenable to carrying out the punishment. This type of curse was an ancient custom at Athens (Lysias 6.51) and we hear of the early lawgivers pronouncing curses (arai) on anyone who accepted bribes (Dinarchus 2.16).18 Written prayers for justice and written curses were also used by individuals to elicit divine policing of morality; these are discussed below.

17. Hdt. 7.133–137 (Talthybios caused bad sacrificial omens, and the deaths of Spartan ambassadors). Note, however, that Herodotus (7.136) makes Xerxes refer to the killing of heralds as a violation of human custom (anthrōpōn nomima). See also Xen. An. 5.7.30 (arguably a reference to impiety); Brown 2011, 164. 18. For prophylactic curses pronounced before each Athenian assembly and council meeting, see Dem. 19.70, 23.97.

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3.4. Oaths An oath is a conditional self-curse, for example, “If I lie/break my promise, let [punishment] happen to me.”19 Oaths often involve the naming of one or more superhuman agents to observe behavior and/or administer punishment as required. The oath-taker may name some precious person or object that is to be destroyed in the event of perjury (in Lys. 32.13, the speaker offers to swear “on the lives of my children”). Oaths made before gods are already attested in Sumerian literature.20 Oaths for witnesses appear in the third-millennium law code of Ur-Namma, although a specific appeal to gods is not mentioned (Roth and Hoffner 1995, 20, §§28–29). The oath appears to have evolved independently in multiple ancient societies, including China (Poo 2008, 290–95). Together with the use of oaths in the Abrahamic religions, these facts suggest that worldwide, gods are intuitively perceived to fall short of fully self-motivated moral scrutiny. Gods cannot be expected to detect and punish promise-breakers and liars spontaneously; instead, the matter must be drawn to their attention and placed within their sphere of interest (Mikalson 1983, 31–32, Veyne 2005, 446).21 Among the Greeks, oaths allowed the expansion of moral supervision well beyond the purview of Zeus to the oath-takers’ gods of choice. Various means were used in order to “harness” the gods as guarantors of oaths. When a participant swore “by” a god, any subsequent infringement of the oath would be understood as an offense to that god. In a speech by Demosthenes (48.52) for a legal client, the speaker says that in breaking an oath his opponent “wronged me and wronged the gods he swore by.” The effect was strengthened if the oath was administered in the sanctuary of a guarantor deity (Isaeus 2.31; Antiphon 6.39; Burkert 1985, 252). Invoking the sanctity and power of oaths was a favorite rhetorical strategy of the Athenian orators, who often reminded the jurors to be faithful to the oaths they had sworn (Mirhady 2007). Additionally, the punitive power of the gods could be manipulated in a litigant’s favor by having him swear an unusually dire, unconventional oath before the jurors, or affirm his willingness to do so. In Demosthenes’s speech Against Conon (54.38), the speaker accuses his op-

19. As in the ancient Near East, divine punishment in Archaic Greek thought differs from modern conceptions of justice in that it may strike innocent parties such as the guilty man’s family (e.g., Hom. Il. 4.160–162) or city. Cf. Hes. Op. 282–285, 238–347. 20. Oath of the serpent and eagle before Shamash in the Etana myth; Dalley 2000, 191. See also the crime of “lying to the gods,” in ETCSL 1.8.1.4, “Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Nether World,” Ur version (= UET 6, 58, lines 20–28). 21. Reputation was also a factor in compliance: see Soph. fr. 472 Radt (trans. Mikalson): “When an oath has been added, a man is more careful, for he guards against two things, the criticism of his friends and committing a transgression against the gods.” Norenzayan (2013, 57) uses Greek oaths as evidence for his big gods theory.

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ponent of planning to bring his children to court, not merely to gain the jury’s sympathy, as was customary, but for a further gambit: For they say that placing his children beside him [Conon] will swear upon them, and will utter such dire and terrible execrations [aras] that the person who heard and reported them to me was amazed.

The speaker criticizes his opponent’s prospective oath as outlandish, but still feels it necessary to counter Conon’s anticipated performance. Therefore he himself swears “by all gods and goddesses” that he is telling the truth, and prays (54.41): “But if I am forsworn, may I perish utterly, I and whatever belongs to me or ever shall belong to me” (Sommerstein and Torrance 2014, 44–46). The willingness to forswear oneself was correlated with the solemnity of the oath. At one end of the spectrum, “oaths” were informal and colloquial (“by Herakles!”), while the other end required solemn ritual gestures such as placing a hand on the god’s altar, or the slaughter of animals. From time to time, of course, impious individuals disregarded oaths. In Aristophanes’s comedy Clouds (398–402) the impious Socrates teaches Strepsiades that Zeus does not really blast perjurers with the thunderbolt, as he has always believed. The play satirizes newfangled ideas that were perceived as threats to traditional piety and social institutions. It is difficult to overestimate the importance and pervasiveness of oaths in ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean societies, which had magistrates and courts, but often lacked publicly funded agencies of enforcement (Sommerstein and Fletcher 2007, 2). An oath could be used to engage the gods in the affairs of members of any social class. Oaths facilitated trade and business, sealed treaties between cities, bolstered the claims of witnesses and jurors in trials and hearings, and bound officials to uphold the public trust. They were deployed both to deter antisocial behavior and to determine the culprits after an offense (Sommerstein and Torrance 2014, 37–47, 67–75). Oaths clearly functioned to facilitate daily interactions between neighbors in large-scale societies, a finding consistent with Norenzayan’s theory. These observations suggest that claims for the role of divine oversight in fostering prosocial behavior ought to focus less on the omniscient and moralizing properties of the gods themselves, and more on the cultural evolution of mechanisms that sought to harness their divine powers in the service of the group. 3.5. Sanctuaries and Divine Moral Oversight The advent of the polis brought about a revolutionary change in the way religion was materially organized, with significant consequences for the gods’ role in morality. The concept of the sanctuary, a space owned by a god, predates the Greek polis by centuries, but the developing city-states massively increased the number of sanctuaries, filling them with monuments and gifts. The gods now

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became zealous to ensure that their prerogatives as property owners were not infringed, and sanctuaries could now be used to leverage the gods’ self-interest in ways that benefited the group. 3.6. The Olympic Truce and Other Truces One of the foundational features of Greek culture was the Panhellenic sanctuary and festival, of which Olympia and the Olympic games are the most famous example. Before and during the games, a truce was in force that barred states from attacking Elis, the district where the sanctuary was located, or people traveling to the festival. (People celebrating festivals in other situations were not immune to attack.) Thucydides (5.49.1–50.4) describes a violation of the truce in 420 BCE, according to which the Spartans attacked an Elean fort during the truce. The Spartans acknowledged the act, but argued that the truce had not been formally proclaimed at the time. Under Olympic law, the Spartans had to pay a fine partly to the Eleans and partly to Zeus Olympios. This latter fact reveals how the god was enlisted to oversee the truce: The law made violators accountable to Zeus as well as the injured party. Zeus was concerned not because attacking enemies was wrong, but because the enemies in question were en route to his sanctuary to celebrate his festival. Sacred truces were observed for the Eleusinian Mysteries and the four Panhellenic athletic festivals. The Olympic truce is supposed to have begun in the eighth century; the others are substantially later and the first written evidence belongs to the fifth century (Krentz 2002, 26–27). 3.7. Trade and Banking Because a god was presumed to be aware of everything that went on within his or her space, basic moral norms, such as prohibitions on killing and stealing, were magnified within the boundaries of a god’s sanctuary. Sanctuaries were therefore good places for merchants to conduct business, especially if they were carrying valuable items. Ulrich Sinn (1996) has suggested that some polities chose to place sanctuaries on the border with their neighbors, creating safe spaces to facilitate trade. Many sanctuaries also functioned as banks, making personal loans (Bogaert 1968, 279–304). For centuries, the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesus functioned as an international bank, where people could safely deposit money or valuables and obtain loans. As Dio Chrysostom (31.54) remarks, the sanctuary of Artemis was regarded as a safe place to leave money because nobody dared to violate it. 3.8. Legal Records, Law Codes, and Decrees Some sanctuaries functioned like records offices, where legal transactions could be witnessed by priests and stored in archives (Chaniotis 2004, 35–36 with n.

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123). The prevailing Archaic practice of erecting law codes in sanctuaries, in some cases even inscribing them directly on temple walls, may represent an attempt to enlist gods in the moral supervision of compliance (Hölkeskamp 1992, 100; Perlman 2002, 198; Blok 2011, 238–39). The same applies to the heading or invocation THEOS/THEOI in the enactment language of laws (Gagarin and Perlman 2016, 125). Greek law codes were sometimes submitted for approval to Apolline oracles, and afterward set up in sanctuaries. In at least some cases, they were represented as the god’s own decrees.22 The direct attribution of written laws to a deity, as in the Ten Commandments, effects a profound transformation, in that it converts interpersonal offenses into transgressions against the god. The Ten Commandments (Exod 20:1–17; Deut 5:4–21) are composed in the first person and include several rules protecting Yahweh’s self-interest (no other gods before me, honor the Sabbath day, etc.), but these are supplemented by several interpersonal rules (killing, stealing, false witness, etc.). In Greek culture, however, this first-person wording is rare.23 Civic decrees erected in sanctuaries integrate divine and human authority through their spatial location, through the headings THEOI or THEOS, and (especially in classical Athens) through the use of sculpted reliefs that show gods mirroring the actions of a civic body, for example, by crowning an honorand (Mack 2018, 385–90). It is notable that most such inscriptions honor benefactors of the city or commemorate interstate agreements, both examples of the fundamental moral imperative of reciprocity (charis). Although the cultural function of these stelai is much debated, one possible interpretation is that such civic decrees are rewards implying divine favor, just as civic bodies may pronounce curses on malefactors. In both cases, the corresponding action of civic gods is assumed because they are aligned with the interests of the polis. The physical form of these decrees as expensively crafted objects of beauty, and their erection in sanctuaries, keeps the relationship before the eyes of the gods and perpetuates divine favor. 3.9. Sacral Manumission The freeing of slaves, or manumission, might occur through either a civil or sacral procedure. Sacral manumissions took place within a sanctuary, and civil ones outside of sacred space.24 In a sacral manumission, the deity served as a 22. The god’s decree: Plut. Lyc. 6.1 (the Spartan rhētra). The Cyrene cathartic law (SEG 9.72 = CGRN 99, ca. 325–300 BCE) begins with the words “Apollo prophesied [echrēse].” Gagarin (1986, 60) cites instances of divinely inspired lawgivers but says that explicit claims of divine origin were “not widespread.” 23. Examples of first-person command or judgment by a deity appear in the “confession inscriptions” of Roman Asia Minor, discussed below. 24. For a recent summary of scholarship see Zelnick-Abramovitz 2005, 69–99, with doubts about whether consecrated slaves were in fact fully free.

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protector of the freedman and guarantor of the terms. Violation of the freedman’s rights (such as an attempt to reenslave him or her) was represented as an impious act against the god. In order to enlist a god as an interested party, sacral manumissions required special arrangements. One method was to have the slave or an advocate give the price of manumission to a priest. The priest then transferred this money to the slaveowner. The purchase of the slave by the god symbolically removed him or her from the former owner’s possession (though in many cases, the terms were activated only upon the owner’s death). The other method was for the former owner, after receiving the price of manumission, to dedicate the slave to the god. Probably in either case, the ritual involved the new freedman sitting on the altar, in the same way as a suppliant. “Ownership” by the god seems to have been desirable because it prevented anyone (not just the former owner) from reenslaving the vulnerable freedman; IG VII.2872 (Koroneia, Boeotia, second century BCE) provides for a fee of one thousand drachmas to Serapis if anyone tries to reenslave Dionysios. A series of manumissions from the sanctuary of (Heracles) Charops, also in Koroneia, states that anyone who reenslaves the freed person will be held liable for sacrilege (Pappadakis 1916, 217 items B, C, and D; Grenet 2014, 419–23). Presumably any deity could oversee such a procedure, but in practice, certain gods were specialists in manumission. Delphi, for example, has yielded a large number of manumission inscriptions from the Hellenistic and Roman periods (Scott 2014, 200–201). 3.10. Asulia When a fugitive reached a sanctuary and took refuge at the altar, he or she was assumed to be under the protection (asulia) of that god or goddess. The god would avenge violence or forcible removal—but otherwise provided no help. Physical contact with the altar protected the suppliant, because attacking one was attacking the other: removing the suppliant was similar to the form of sacrilege known as hierosulia or temple-robbery.25 The Greek historians recount many instances of frustrated authorities attempting to dislodge fugitives through trickery. A character in Euripides’s Ion (1312–1320; Mikalson 1991, 75–76) critiqued the blanket protection for the gods’ suppliants, complaining that “we ought not to seat wrongdoers on the altar but drive them out” while the orator Lysias (12.98) noted that altars “are salvation even for wrongdoers.” From this perspective, asulia appears to be an unintended byproduct of the institution of the sanctuary, with limited value for the group, but substantial value for opportunistic individuals. (As a result, the removal of manifestly unworthy suppliants from the Classical period some25. On asulia see Auffarth 1992; Sinn 1993; Chaniotis 1996; Dreher 2003; Traulsen 2004. Hierosulia included theft of or damage to anything in a sanctuary; Patera 2009.

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times met with public approval and the tacit approval of the gods [Naiden 2004, 77–78].)26 In certain cases, however, asulia may have served useful social functions. Some cities designated a sanctuary as a refuge (phugimon) specifically for runaway slaves claiming abuse by masters. Slaves had no legal standing, yet the sanctuary setting and the institution of asulia allowed cover for adjudication of such cases (IG V 1.1390.80–84; Gawlinski 2012, 187–93). Individual asylum in turn was repurposed and expanded during the Hellenistic period in order to claim the protection of the gods for entire cities (Rigsby 1996). Although very popular, civic declarations of asylum were not as effective as desired, perhaps because they lacked the intuitive elements that gave the original institution its emotional force: a civic territory was not quite the same as the property explicitly owned by a god, and a civic decree lacked the power of an individual’s ritual gestures of supplication, such as direct contact with an altar. 3.11. Written Prayers for Justice Many postclassical inscriptions and papyri demonstrate how resident gods could be enlisted to police interpersonal injustice, especially when the identity of a wrongdoer was unknown (Versnel 1991, 2002, 2009; Kotsifou 2016, 187–89). In a cache of tablets found in the sanctuary of Demeter at Knidos, the writers dedicate wrongdoers to the goddess, to be afflicted until they confess their guilt (Versnel 2002, 50–54; Chaniotis 2004, 6–8). These are similar to oral prayers for justice, but committing them to writing and placing them in the sanctuary increased the intuitive certainty that the deity had “received” the request. Unlike standard magical curse tablets, these texts employ moral arguments in the hope of convincing the god or goddess to act. In some late examples, the stolen object is dedicated to the god; this transforms the culprit into a temple-robber subject to divine punishment (Gager 1992, 195–97, nos. 97, 98, 99). 3.12. The “Confession Inscriptions” Another diverse group of inscriptions, collectively known as the “confession inscriptions,” is specific to Lydia and Phrygia in the first three centuries CE (Petzl 1994; Versnel 2002, 63–72; Chaniotis 2004). These inscriptions are public records of individual punishments meted out by the gods. In most cases, the gods punish infractions against themselves, such as entering the sanctuary in an impure state. Sufferers of accidents or illnesses recognized the deity’s 26. Chaniotis (1996) and Naiden (2004; 2006, 183–95) represent divergent views of the gods’ role in asulia. Chaniotis emphasizes the impiety of violations of asulia, while Naiden emphasizes cases where the supplicant’s unworthiness diluted concerns about divine punishment. Peels (2016, 120–24) reviews their positions, concluding with Chaniotis that the inviolability of the suppliant remained a divine norm, even as poleis developed ad hoc regulations to work around it.

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anger in these misfortunes, and took steps prescribed by an oracle to atone with the god, memorializing the events in inscriptions. Significantly, however, these local gods also administered interpersonal justice, for example, in cases of theft, slander, personal injury, and adultery. In such cases, the wronged person turned to the priestly personnel in the sanctuary, lodging an accusation in a ritual called “raising the scepter” (Gordon 2004). This seems to have been a combination of oath and curse, directing the god’s anger at the accuser if he or she was lying, and at the accused if he or she was guilty. Individuals could raise a scepter preemptively, to curse a person who violated a grave, or disregarded the terms of a will. The confession texts reveal the role of gossip and group sentiment in pushing disputes toward resolution, by communally representing outcomes as the handiwork of the god. They show Lydian and Phrygian deities dispensing interpersonal justice for minor offenses, which is unusual in Greco-Roman polytheism. Also unusual is the fact that these sanctuaries and their oracles produced explicit moral injunctions, sometimes represented as first-person commands from the gods, such as “I command that nobody should commit perjury” (Chaniotis 2004, 43 n. 149).27 This phenomenon, characteristic of Asia Minor in the first centuries CE, suggests a cultural evolution toward expanded divine policing of minor injustices, such as petty theft. 3.13. Conclusion From time to time, Greek thinkers made universalizing claims about the justice of the gods, but in popular Greek thought, the gods were neither amoral nor highly moralizing. They policed interpersonal morality to a limited extent, within specific domains like xenia and hiketeia. They did not generally concern themselves with theft, lying, sexual immorality other than incest, or most minor forms of fraud and betrayal, much less with thought crimes. In these situations, it was necessary to harness the supervisory and punitive powers of the gods in order to deploy them in the interests of the community or the individual. This end was achieved through various means, the simplest of which was the oral prayer for justice, and the most pervasive of which was the oath. With the rise of the polis, the proliferation of sanctuaries allowed still more opportunities for people to harness divine self-interest in order to police mundane interpersonal behavior. Contrary to Norenzayan’s hypothesis that fear of the gods facilitated the development of larger, more complex societies, the domains of Greek morality most often thought to be subject to superhuman punishment were those 27. Cf. “I have punished Theodoros in his eyes in accordance with the wrongs he has committed”; Petzl 1994, no. 5, discussed in Chaniotis 2012, 219–20. Gordon (2004, 188) calls a first-person locution by the god “most unusual.”

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governing (1) kin relationships and (2) relationships between strangers from different communities. Zeus’s supervision of xenia and (to a lesser extent) supplication seem to have encouraged prosocial relations and cooperation only between individuals who were “out-group” in each other’s eyes. The oath, too, was effective between strangers because it did not require the parties to acknowledge or swear by the same god(s) (Burkert 1985, 252; Thuc. 5.18.9, 5.47.8). Thus for the Greeks, divine supervision of reciprocity between strangers helped to build and maintain a Panhellenic and cross-cultural moral norm. On the other hand, the oath was the first cultural strategy (other than direct prayer) to harness divine power for the enforcement of intragroup cooperation. Furthermore, the institution of the oath and the proliferation of sanctuaries recruited gods other than Zeus to the task of policing interpersonal behavior. Prayers for justice, oaths, and other such strategies are also found in the Abrahamic religions, even though theologically correct teaching holds that their supreme gods are aware of all immoral thoughts and behaviors, and fully self-motivated to punish them. Thus, even in religions with supposedly omniscient and altruistic big gods, the scope of these gods’ moral supervision at the implicit, intuitive level may be far more limited than it appears at the doctrinal level. References Adkins, Arthur W. H. 1960. Merit and Responsibility. Oxford: Clarendon. ———. 1972. “Homeric Gods and the Values of Homeric Society.” JHS 92:1–19. https://doi. org/10.2307/629970. ———. 1987. “Gagarin and the ‘Morality’ of Homer.” CP 82:311–22. https://doi. org/10.1086/367063. Allan, William. 2006. “Divine Justice and Cosmic Order in Early Greek Epic.” JHS 126:1– 35. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0075426900007631. Auffarth, Christoph. 1992. “Protecting Strangers: Establishing a Fundamental Value in the Religions of the Ancient Near East and Ancient Greece.” Numen 39:193–216. https://doi.org/10.2307/3269906. Baumard, Nicholas, and Pascal Boyer. 2013. “Explaining Moral Religions.” Trends in Cognitive Science 17.6:272–80. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tics.2013.04.003. ———. 2014. “Empirical Problems with the Notion of ‘Big Gods’ and of Prosociality in Large Societies.” Religion, Brain and Behavior 5.4: 279–83. https://doi.org/10.108 0/2153599X.2014.928349. Blok, Josine. 2011. “Hosiē and Athenian Law from Solon to Lykourgos.” Pages 233–54 in Clisthène et Lycurgue d’Athènes: Autour du politique dans la cité classique. Edited by Vincent Azoulay and Paulin Ismard. Histoire ancienne et médiévale 109. Paris: La Sorbonne. ———. 2014. “A ‘Covenant’ between Gods and Men: Hiera kai Hosia and the Greek Polis.” Pages 14–37 in The City in the Classical and Post-Classical World. Edited by Claudia Rapp and H. A. Drake. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi. org/10.1017/CBO9781139507042.002. Bogaert, Raymond. 1968. Banques et banquiers dans les cités grecques. Lieden: Sijthoff.

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Brown, Andrew S. 2011. “The Common Voice of the People: Heralds and the Importance of Proclamation in Archaic and Classical Greece with Special Respect to Athens.” PhD diss., Oxford University. Burkert, Walter. 1985. Greek Religion. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. ———. 1998. Creation of the Sacred: Tracks of Biology in Early Religions. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Chaniotis, Angelos. 1996. “Conflicting Authorities: Asylia between Secular and Divine Law in the Classical and Hellenistic Poleis.” Kernos 9:65–86. https://doi. org/10.4000/kernos.1157. ———. 2004. “Under the Watchful Eyes of the Gods: Divine Justice in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor.” Pages 1–43 in The Greco-Roman East: Politics, Culture, Society. Edited by Stephen Colvin. Yale Classical Studies 31. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2012. “Constructing the Fear of Gods: Epigraphic Evidence from Sanctuaries of Greece and Asia Minor.” Pages 205–34 in Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World. Edited by Angelos Chaniotis. Stuttgart: Steiner. Cohen, David. 1980. “‘Horkia’ and ‘Horkos’ in the Iliad.” RIDA 27:49–68. Dalley, Stephanie. 2000. Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, the Flood, Gilgamesh and Others. Rev. ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dickie, Matthew. 1978. “Dike as a Moral Term in Homer and Hesiod.” CP 73:91–101. https://doi.org/10.1086/366411. Dreher, Martin, ed. 2003. Das antike Asyl: Kultische Grundlagen, rechtliche Ausgestaltung und politische Funktion. Cologne: Böhlau. Edmonds, Radcliffe G., III. 2015. “Imagining the Afterlife.” Pages 551–63 in The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion. Edited by Esther Eidinow and Julia Kindt. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gagarin, Michael. 1986. Early Greek Law. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gagarin, Michael, and Paula Perlman. 2016. The Laws of Ancient Crete, ca. 650–400 BCE. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gager, John G. 1992. Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World. New York: Oxford University Press. Garland, Robert. 2014. Wandering Greeks: The Ancient Greek Diaspora from the Age of Homer to the Death of Alexander. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gawlinski, Laura. 2012. The Sacred Law of Andania: A New Text with Commentary. Sozomena. Berlin: de Gruyter. Gill, David. 1980. “Aspects of Religious Morality in Early Greek Epic.” HTR 73:373–418. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0017816000002248. Gordon, Richard. 2004. “Raising a Sceptre: Confession Narratives from Lydia and Phrygia.” JRA 17:177–96. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759400008217. Gould, John. 1973. “Hiketeia.” JHS 93:74–103. Grenet, Claire. 2014. “Manumission in Hellenistic Boeotia: New Considerations on the Chronology of the Inscriptions.” Pages 395–442 in The Epigraphy and History of Boeotia: New Finds, New Prospects. Edited by Nikolaos Papazarkadas. Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy 4.Leiden: Brill. https://doi. org/10.1163/9789004273856_015. Hansen, William F. 2016. Ariadne’s Thread: A Guide to International Stories in Classical Literature. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

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Herman, Gabriel. 1987. Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hölkeskamp, Karl J. 1992. “Written Law in Archaic Greece.” PCPS 38:87–117. https://doi. org/10.1017/S0068673500001632. Johnson, Dominic D. 2005. “God’s Punishment and Public Goods. A Test of the Supernatural Punishment Hypothesis in 186 World Cultures.” Human Nature 16:410– 46. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12110-005-1017-0. ———. 2015. God Is Watching You: How the Fear of God Makes Us Human. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kotsifou, Chrysi. 2016. “Prayers and Petitions for Justice: Despair and the ‘Crossing of Boundaries’ between Religion and Law.” Tyche 31:167–99. Krentz, Peter. 2002. “Fighting by the Rules: The Invention of the Hoplite Agōn.” Hesperia 71:23–39. Larson, Jennifer. 2016. Understanding Greek Religion: A Cognitive Approach. London: Routledge. Leão, Delfim F., and P. J. Rhodes. 2016. The Laws of Solon: A New Edition with Introduction, Translation and Commentary. London: Tauris. Lloyd-Jones, Hugh. 1983. The Justice of Zeus. Rev. ed. Sather Classical Lectures. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mack, William. 2015. Proxeny and Polis: Institutional Networks in the Ancient Greek World. Oxford Studies in Ancient Documents. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2018. “Vox Populi, Vox Deorum? Athenian Document Reliefs and the Theologies of Public Inscription.” BSA 113:365–98. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0068245418000072. Mikalson, Jon D. 1983. Athenian Popular Religion. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. ———. 1991. Honor Thy Gods: Popular Religion in Greek Tragedy. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. ———. 2010. Ancient Greek Religion. 2nd ed. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Mirhady, David C. 2007. “The Dikast’s Oath and the Question of Fact.” Pages 48–59 in Horkos: The Oath in Greek Society. Edited by Allen H. Sommerstein and Judith Fletcher. Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press. Naiden, F. S. 2004. “Supplication and the Law.” Pages 71–91 in The Law and the Courts in Ancient Greece. Edited by Edward Monroe Harris and Lene Rubinstein. London: Duckworth. ———. 2006. Ancient Supplication. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Norenzayan, Ara. 2013. Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Pappadakis, Nikolaos G. 1916. “Peri to Kharopeion tes Koroneias.” ΑΔ 2:217–69. Parker, Robert. 1983. Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford: Clarendon. Patera, Ioanna. 2009. “Les biens des dieux et la mémoire des hommes: Accusations, appropriations et manipulations.” Pages 223–31 in Rituels et transgressions de l’antiquité à nos jours. Edited by Geneviève Hoffmann and Antoine Gailliot. Amiens: Encrage. Peels, Saskia. 2016. Hosios: A Semantic Study of Greek Piety. MnSupp 387. Leiden: Brill. Perlman, Paula. 2002. “Gortyn: The First Seven-Hundred Years; Part II; The Laws from the Temple of Apollo Pythios.” Pages 187–227 in Even More Studies in the Ancient

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Greek Polis: Papers of the Copenhagen Polis Centre 6. Edited by Thomas Heine Nielsen. Stuttgart: Steiner. Petzl, Georg. 1994. Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasiens. Epigraphica Anatolica. Bonn: Habelt. Poo, Mu-Chou. 2008. “Ritual and Ritual Texts in Early China.” Pages 281–313 in Early Chinese Religion: Part One, Shang through Han (1250 BC–220 AD). Edited by John Lagerwey and Marc Kalinowski. 2 vols. HdO Section 4 China 21.1. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/ej.9789004168350.i-1312.43. Rigsby, Kent. 1996. Asylia: Territorial Inviolability in the Hellenistic World. HCS. Berkeley: University of California Press. Roth, Martha T., and Harry A. Hoffner. 1995. Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor. WAW. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Scott, Michael. 2014. Delphi: A History of the Center of the World. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sinn, Ulrich. 1993. “Greek Sanctuaries as Places of Refuge.” Pages 88–109 in Greek Sanctuaries: New Approaches. Edited by Nanno Marinatos and Robin Hägg. London: Routledge. ———. 1996. “The Influence of Greek Sanctuaries on the Consolidation of Economic Power.” Pages 67–74 in Religion and Power in the Ancient Greek World: Proceedings of the Uppsala Symposium 1993. Edited by Pontus Hellström and Brita Alroth. Uppsala: Swedish Academy at Uppsala. Sommerstein, Alan H., and Judith Fletcher, eds. 2007. Horkos: The Oath in Greek Society. Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press. Sommerstein, Alan H., Isabelle C. Torrance, eds. 2014. Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece. BzA 307. Berlin: de Gruyter. Traulsen, Christian. 2004. Das sakrale Asyl in der alten Welt: Zur Schutzfunktion des Heiligen von König Salmo bis zum Codex Theodosianus. Jus Ecclesiasticum 72. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Turchin, Peter et al. 2022. “Explaining the Rise of Moralizing Religions: A Test of Competing Hypotheses Using the Seshat Databank.” Religion Brain and Behavior. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1080/2153599X.2022.2065345 Versnel, Henk S. 1991. “Beyond Cursing: The Appeal to Justice in Judicial Prayers.” Pages 60–106 in Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion. Edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Dirk Obbink. New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 2002. “Writing Mortals and Reading Gods: Appeal to the Gods as a Dual Strategy in Social Control.” Pages 37–76 in Demokratie, Recht, und soziale Kontrolle im klassischen Athen. Edited by David Cohen. Schriften des Historischen Kollegs 49. Munich: Ouldenberg. https://doi.org/10.1524/9783486594522-005. ———. 2009. “Prayers for Justice, East and West: New Finds and Publications Since 1990.” Pages 275–354 in Magical Practice in the Latin West. Edited by Francisco Marco Simón and Richard Gordon. RGRW 168. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/ ej.9789004179042.i-676.63. Veyne, Paul. 2005. L’empire gréco-romain. Des travaux. Paris: Seuil. West, M. L. 1997. The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford: Clarendon. Zelnick-Abramovitz, Rachel. 2005. Not Wholly Free: The Concept of Manumission and the Status of Manumitted Slaves in the Ancient Greek World. MnSupp 266. Leiden: Brill.

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Festival Souvenirs from Roman Cologne: Connectivity, Memory, and Conceptions of Time Maggie L. Popkin This chapter examines a fascinating series of terracotta figurines manufactured in the second century CE in Roman Cologne, capital of the Roman province of Germania Inferior. Servandus, the manufacturer of these figurines, inscribed them with his signature, their location of production, and specific dates. This chapter argues that these figurines were intended as souvenirs commemorating official festivals celebrated in the provincial capital. Produced and purchased in Cologne but brought home to cities around the province, the figurines created connective links on local and supraregional levels, uniting inhabitants of Germania Inferior to each other and simultaneously drawing them into an empire-wide community of citizens who celebrated festivals related to, for example, the imperial cult. Drawing on cognitive memory studies, I argue that the festival souvenirs from Cologne implicated retrospective memory (both episodic and semantic) and prospective memory to construct a social conception of festival time as cyclical, stretching into the past and the future. The terracotta figurines likely served various functions, from decorative objects to votive gifts, but in all instances, as miniature, portable objects, they transcended the physical boundaries of the sites where festivals were performed in Cologne and the temporal limits of the festivals, extending memories of past performances into the future and thereby shaping both individual and collective memories and conceptions of time in Cologne and Germania Inferior. Keywords: Roman terracotta figurines; Roman festivals; Roman calendar; Roman Germany.

W

hen people attend festivals today, it is common practice to purchase souvenirs. The festivals might be overtly religious, such as the celebration of Eid al-Adha in Mecca to end the Hajj, or more secular, such as the Coachella Music Festival. In all instances, people purchase souvenirs—motivated by a desire to possess a physical reminder of an exciting, memorable, and often personally meaningful experience. A fascinating series of terracotta figurines from Roman Germany offers evidence that this impulse existed among people living in the Roman Empire as well. Manufactured in the second century CE in Roman Cologne, the ancient Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium, these figurines were inscribed not only with the name of their manufacturer and their I would like to thank Sandy Blakely and Megan Daniels for inviting me to contribute to this volume. I am grateful to the two anonymous reviewers, whose thoughtful comments have improved the essay considerably. I, of course, take full responsibility for the contents.

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location of manufacture, but also with specific dates commemorating festivals celebrated in Cologne, the capital of the province of Germania Inferior. These figurines offer compelling evidence of the capacity of souvenirs in antiquity to construct people’s conceptions of festival calendars, social time, and cultural connectivity in Germania and the broader empire. They implicate various aspects of human memory, both retrospective and prospective, making them an ideal case study of how human sciences such as cognitive and social memory studies enrich our understanding of ritual and religious practices and communities in the Roman world. They also demonstrate the vital impact of material objects on lived religious experience.1 Cologne’s festival souvenirs offer provocative evidence of how moveable objects related to gods and festivals could (re)mediate ancient religious experience, transforming something ephemeral into something material, possessable, and, therefore, capable of shaping individual and collective memories and identities.2 This chapter begins with an overview of the Cologne festival souvenirs, which are little known outside specialized coroplastic studies focusing on Roman Germany. The essay then argues that the souvenirs created networks of connectivity and shared memories and knowledge in Cologne and the Rhine Valley. Throughout, the aim is to illuminate the souvenirs’ agency in constructing perceptions of time and anniversaries and in guiding remembering, all of which enabled them to transcend the physical and temporal limits of festival performances themselves. 4.1. The Festival Souvenirs from Roman Cologne The history of Roman settlement at the site of modern Cologne dates to the second half of the first century BCE, when the Romans displaced the Ubians from the east bank of the River Rhine and founded a new town, which came to be called Ara Ubiorum after the founding of an altar of the imperial cult.3 Initially, two legions were stationed at the city. Ara Ubiorum became the capital of Germania Inferior and in 50 CE was promoted to the rank of colonia (Tac. Ann. 12.27.1). Its new name, Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (CCAA), refers to Claudius’s wife, who had been born in Cologne. CCAA developed into an important manufacturing center, producing glass, perfume, and terracottas. From the end of the first century CE onward, the city was one of the major terracotta production centers north of the Alps and the most important such center along the Rhine, where its access to good clay and the markets of the Rhine Valley and Britannia assured the success of its pottery industry (Lange 1994, 117–18).4 1. On lived ancient religion, see Raja and Weiss 2016; Rüpke 2016. 2. On remediation of religious objects, see Morgan 2017. 3. See Eck 2004 for a comprehensive history of Roman Cologne. 4. See Eck 2004, 439–53; Höpken 2005 on ceramic production in Cologne. All dates that follow are CE unless otherwise noted.

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Figure 4.1. Terracotta figurine of Cybele, signed by Servandus. Second century CE. Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln, inventory number 3180. Photograph © Rheinisches Bildarchiv Köln rba_057550.

Among this industry’s products were mold-made terracotta figurines manufactured during the second century, in the form of subjects ranging from gods, including members of the Roman pantheon and indigenous deities, to humans and animals. An extraordinary trove of these figurines was discovered in 1883 in the Roman potters’ district at modern Rudolfplatz, and further examples have been discovered over the years (Lange 1994, 117; Höpken 2004). Of the over three hundred figural terracottas found at Rudolfplatz, approximately eighty-five bear the signature of their maker. A potter named Servandus signed about forty-five pieces himself. Frequently, the potter would also include the abbreviation of the city’s official name, CCAA, as well as the Latin fecit, indicating that the figurine in question was manufactured in Cologne by the named potter (fig. 4.1). These sorts of signatures would have been effective advertisements for the owners of the pottery workshops (Lange 1994, 143). Although it is noteworthy to have so many signed pieces from a single location, even more remarkable are a series of figurines signed by Servandus or members of his workshop that include not only the place of manufacture but also a specific date. The inscriptions are carved into the clay after it had been molded but before it was fired. They appear on the reverse of the figurines, usually on either the rear of a throne for a seated figure or socle for a standing fig-

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Figure 4.2. Fragmentary terracotta figurine of Cybele. Second century CE. Hessisiches Landesmuseum Darmstadt, inventory number A 1980:5,86. Drawing by Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln (Joseph Ribbers, Seebastian Bertalan, Silke Haase); used by permission.

ure or bust. Most of the signed and dated figurines are extremely fragmentary. Some inscriptions preserve the date and year but not Servandus’s name, others preserve Servandus’s name and the year but not the date, and so on. Taken as a group, however, they indicate the serial production of figurines that included Servandus’s signature and a specific date and year. A fragmentary figurine of Cybele preserves the lower part of the enthroned goddess and part of a flanking lion, as well as a partial inscription on the back of the goddess’s throne (fig. 4.2). The inscription can be reconstructed as follows: [SERVA/NDVS?/CCA]A F(ecit)/[ID]IB(US) SEP(TEMBRIS)/[O]RFITO/[ET]PV/[DE]NTE/[CO(n)S(ulibus)], which would indicate September 13, 165. The actual signature of the potter is not preserved here, so it is only by comparison with other pieces that scholars attribute it to Servandus (Lange 1994, 144, 251 no. 141.1). Similarly, a fragmentary figurine preserving the lower legs of a figure who may be Diana does not include a signature in its inscription but gives the date of February 25, 164, while a partially preserved figurine of Minerva includes the date of September 13, 164 (Lange 1994, 245 no. 119.1 [Diana], 235 no. 95.3 [Minerva]). Several examples from the Rudolfplatz cache preserve Servandus’s signature and a year but are missing the specific date of the given year. A figurine

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Figure 4.3. Terracotta figurine of a seated veiled goddess. Second century CE. RömischGermanisches Museum Köln, inventory number 340 and 23,198. Drawing by RömischGermanisches Museum Köln (Joseph Ribbers, Seebastian Bertalan, Silke Haase); used by permission.

of a veiled goddess seated on a throne with a hound on her lap preserves the inscription: SERVAN/DVS/CCAA[F(ecit)?/AD[… / …]/MACRI/N[O ET/CELSO/ CO(n)S(ulibus)?], that is, Servandus made this in Cologne during the consulship of Macrinus and Celsus, or 164 (fig. 4.3; Lange 1994, 258–59 no. 161.5). Presumably, the specific day and month would have been in the two missing rows following CCAA (Lange 1994, 258-59).5 A very fragmentary bust of unidentifiable subject has a partial inscription on the rear of the socle: […R?]VS SFL[A?...] / [O]RFITO ET PV/DENT[E] CO(n)S(ulibus) (fig. 4.4). Here the consular year of Gavius Orfitus and L. Arrius Pudens translates to 165 (Lange 1994, 286 no. 239.1). A figurine of a standing Mercury preserves Servandus’s signature and a month, but no year or day; the inscription reads: SER[V]AND[VS] / CCAA FECIT / […] APRI(I…) or APR(i)L / […] (Lange 1994, 270 no. 194.7). A fragmentary figurine that preserves its base with the nude feet of a person flanked by the paws of an animal has a complete inscription on the rear of the base: SERVAN/DVS CCA[A]/ ESC(…)? FEC(it) P(ublio) / COELIO AP(ollinare) /

5. The missing lines may also have contained a locative indication, such as AD FORVM HORDIA(rium); see Lange 1994, 258–59.

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Figure 4.4. Fragmentary terracotta bust. Second century CE. Amersfoort, Rijksdienst voor het Oudheidkundig Bodemonderzoek, inventory number Ve 70.648. Drawing by Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln (Joseph Ribbers, Seebastian Bertalan, Silke Haase); used by permission.

Figure 4.5. Fragmentary terracotta figurine preserving base with nude feet flanked by paws of an animal. Leiden, Rijksmuseum van Oudheden, inventory number h 1924/I.17. Drawing by Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln (Joseph Ribbers, Seebastian Bertalan, Silke Haase); used by permission.

CO(n)S(ule) (fig. 4.5). P. Coelius Apollinaris was consul in 169 (Lange 1994, 278 no. 214.1). This figurine appears not to have room for an additional inscription giving the month and date. This suggests that in some cases, the year alone could be stated; however, where there is room, it seems that one should reconstruct a specific date comprising day, month, and year. In 2002, another figurine was identified that belongs to this group and that preserves Servandus’s name, a specific date, and a year (figs. 4.6–4.7; Höpken 2004). This fragmentary miniature terracotta bust was discovered in a medieval pit near the Neumarkt in Cologne. The bust’s subject matter is no longer identifiable, as the head and front chest area are broken off, but it preserves its socle and rear surface, where the potter carved the following inscription:

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Figure 4.6. Fragmentary terracotta bust. Second century CE. Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln, inventory number 2002,22.776. Photograph © Römisch-Germanisches Museum/Rheinisches Bildarchiv Köln (Anja Wegner).

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Figure 4.7. Fragmentary terracotta bust, reverse side with inscription. Second century CE. Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln, inventory number 2002,22.776. Drawing by Maggie L. Popkin after Höpken 2004.

[…] / DVS [..] / CCAA / K SEP / PVDE / NTE.6 Constanze Höpken has reconstructed the inscription as [Servan] / dus [f(ecit)] / C(olonia) C(laudia) A(ra) A(grippinensium) / K(alendis) Sep(tembris) / Pude / nte (consule), that is, Servandus made this in Cologne, the kalends of September, during the consulship of Pudens. This object, therefore, was manufactured in the workshop of Servandus on the occasion of September 1 in either 165 or 166, although the later year is more likely given that Pudens was the first consul that year (Höpken 2004, 39–40). The dates on this group of figurines likely do not mark the time of the objects’ manufacture. The February date given on the fragmentary figurine of Diana, for example, falls during the cold winter months when ceramic production halted in Cologne (Lange 1994, 145). Instead, as various scholars have noted, the inscribed dates correspond with important dates in the official Roman festival calendar. September 13, which appears on the fragmentary figurine 6. One of the anonymous reviewers suggested there may be a trace of a C preserved in the line following NTE. Having not been able to examine this figurine in person, I defer to Höpken, who examined the figurine closely before publishing it and who did not discern an extant C. The photograph generously provided me by the Römisch-Germanisches Museum Köln does not, to my eye, provide evidence of any additional letter following the NTE.

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of Cybele, is the dies natalis of the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitoline Hill in Rome, celebrated in Rome each year with the Ludi Romani. September 1, which appears on the bust from the Neumarkt, is the dies natalis of the temples to Juno Regina and Jupiter Liber on the Aventine Hill and of the temple to Jupiter Tonans on the Capitoline. February 25, from the figurine possibly of Diana, is the anniversary of Hadrian’s adoption of Antoninus Pius, who later adopted Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus on this same date; Hadrian instituted a festival related to the imperial cult on this date, the Lorio, which was still recorded in the Codex-Calendar of 354 (Salzman 1990, 141).7 The figurine of Mercury whose fragmentary inscription mentions April offers no specific date, but a number of festivals in Rome were celebrated during that month, including the dies natalis of Jupiter Victor (April 13), the Cerealia (April 19), the Parilia (April 21), and the Floralia (April 28), among others (Fowler 2004 [1899], 66–97; Donati and Stefanetti 2006, 41–55). Given that the dates inscribed on the terracotta figurines, when preserved, all match dates in Rome’s festival calendar, scholars have proposed that the Cologne terracottas commemorate dates of important festivals (Reusch 1936; Lange 1994, 144–45; Höpken 2004). This suggestion is persuasive for several reasons. First, it is likely that Roman Cologne celebrated official festivals on dates that corresponded to important festivals in Rome’s festival calendar, particularly those related to the imperial family and cult.8 No epigraphic evidence survives of Cologne’s calendar, which would have been determined by the city’s magistrates, but CCAA surely celebrated certain festivals marked officially by games and sacrifices (Eck 2004, 478).9 The city’s calendar would not have been identical to Rome’s, but the timing of Cologne’s festivals would probably have been motivated by the central Roman calendar (on which more below). Second, in some cases the same date (e.g., September 13) appears on figurines with different years, suggesting that the inscribed dates were of perennial importance and further indicating the celebration of an annual festival (Höpken 2004, 41). Finally, while one might expect Servandus and other potters to sign their wares as a means of advertising their workshops, dates would not have advertised a particular potter as a signature would have.10 Instead, potters surely intended the figurines’ inscribed dates to increase the objects’ appeal to a wide audience, and festival dates seem the most likely to have raised the figurines’ marketability. 7. An inscription from Bonn mentions the date of Antoninus Pius’s birthday (CIL 13.8016), suggesting that at least some people in Roman Germany cared about imperial anniversaries associated with the Antonine dynasty. 8. See Scheid 2003, 58 on this phenomenon in colonies and municipia generally. 9. The lex Ursonensis (64) offers evidence that local magistrates had the power (and obligation) to determine the festival calendars of cities in the Roman Empire. See Scheid 2003, 41–42. 10. As Höpken (2004, 41–42) notes, it is difficult to imagine a personal motivation for adding these specific dates.

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It is impossible to identify precisely the Agrippinensian festivals that the dated figurines commemorated. The subject matter does not offer much of a clue. As Höpken has noted, different gods are represented on souvenirs of the same festival day; for example, a figurine of Cybele and a figurine of Minerva are both inscribed with the date of September 13. She argues that the deity represented could be detached from the dedicatee of the festival because the primary cultic content of these festivals had fallen away and been replaced by a more political celebration, perhaps one in the context of the imperial cult (Höpken 2004, 43).11 CCAA was certainly a site of the imperial cult; its predecessor, the Ara Ubiorum, was established, maybe by Drusus himself, as an altar serving a cult related to the imperial family, such as the cult of Roma and Augusta (Fishwick 2002, 12, 20; Tac. Ann. 1.39.1). Representatives of all the municipalities of Germania Inferior met annually in Cologne to carry out the cult of the living emperor in the sacred district south of the Praetorium, and festivals in honor of the emperors would have occurred throughout the year (Eck 2004, 480–81). Thus, although September 13, which appears on the Cybele figurine, marks the Ludi Romani in Rome, the date might have had a different significance for the residents of Roman Cologne, perhaps, as Höpken (2004, 41, 43) has suggested, as the day on which Cologne’s own Capitolium had been founded or as a celebration of the imperial cult.12 Two possibilities explain the production of these dated figurines. The first, as proposed by Wilhelm Reusch, Heinrich Lange, and Höpken, is that on festival days in Cologne, when many people from surrounding areas would have poured into the city, ceramic workshops produced and sold mold-made terracotta objects as mementos of the occasion. The crowds flooding the city would doubtlessly have formed an attractive market.13 Potters such as Servandus increased the incentive to purchase an object by inscribing the date of the specific festival day on the figurine, thus transforming figurines into souvenirs not only of the holiday in general (e.g., the dies natalis of Jupiter Optimus Maximus) but also of a historical celebration of it in particular (the dies natalis of Jupiter Optimus Maximus celebrated in 165 CE). The second possibility is that an individual, perhaps a member of Cologne’s elite who sponsored celebrations on the dates in question, commissioned Servandus to produce a series of figurines to distribute as commemorative gifts at the festival. If an 11. The imperial cult often came to be affiliated with other gods in the Roman Empire (Galinsky 2011, 4–5), so it would not necessarily be surprising to have images of other, locally venerated gods appear on figurines commemorating a festival tied to the imperial cult. 12. The Ludi Romani were one of metropolitan Rome’s great annual festivals, but few inscriptions about the festival from outside of Rome proper are known; from the Germanic provinces, in fact, the terracotta figurines from Cologne provide the only known inscriptions with this date (Höpken 2004, 41). 13. Roman festivals often included markets and fairs and could, consequently, be excellent events at which to conduct trade. See Rives 2007, 135.

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individual patron paid for the dated figurines in advance, Servandus would not have had to assume any financial risk resulting from unsold mementos. As discussed below, the practice of gifting mementos on the occasion of religious festivals occurred at Rome, although we cannot be sure the practice was in fashion in Germania as well. Regardless of whether Servandus sold the figurines directly to consumers or produced them for a single patron who then distributed them, the moldmade manufacturing technique enabled production of the terracotta figurines on a large scale in an efficient and economical manner. Although only several dated figurines survive, the extant examples presumably represent a much larger corpus. It is possible that existing models could have been easily modified by the addition of an inscribed date to transform more ordinary figurines into festival souvenirs; the dated inscriptions were carved into the molded figurines, not formed by the mold itself, and so would not have necessitated new molds. In addition to being mass-producible, the figurines were also designed to be portable. Terracotta figurines produced in Cologne—both those with and without signatures and/or dates—generally measure between approximately twelve and eighteen centimeters high (see Lange 1994). They would easily have been carried home from Cologne by visitors to this major Roman city who had purchased them as a memento (see Höpken 2004, 42–43). As objects manufactured to commemorate a particular event, the dated Cologne terracottas should, in my view, be considered souvenirs, whether they were sold or gifted to attendees at the festivals in question. Noga Collins-Kreiner and Yael Zins (2013, 30) define souvenirs as “commercial objects usually purchased during travel that remind us of past experiences and places visited.” Not everybody who purchased the terracotta figurines must have traveled to Cologne; some purchasers might have been residents of the city (although those with findspots do in fact come from outside Cologne—see below). Whether their owners lived in Cologne or elsewhere in Germania, however, the dated figurines were commercial objects, purchased to remind their owners of a past experience—the festival in Cologne, and perhaps a visit to the city more broadly. Although neither Greek nor Latin had a word equivalent to the modern “souvenir,” the dated Cologne terracottas, as well as many other objects from the Roman Empire, fit this definition well and should be considered as souvenirs avant la lettre (see Popkin 2018, 428; 2022, 4–8). Specifically, one can categorize them as representative souvenirs; that is, they represent exterior, public, and/or monumental sights or events in a purchasable form (Stewart 1993, 138; Hume 2014, 5, 121–74). As Werner Eck (2004, 480) has argued, public festivals in Cologne would have been rare compared with festivals in Rome itself, as the cost of staging numerous games and sacrifices throughout the year would have been prohibitive. The relative infrequency of major festivals in Cologne, and the fact that they drew together the population of the colony’s wider territory to participate

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in civic celebration, could have made them more memorable and thus worthier of material commemoration. The motivations for purchasing these souvenirs were surely multiple and overlapping. A particular affiliation with the divinity celebrated might have played a role. If the festivals celebrated the imperial cult, purchasing a memento might have aligned oneself with the imperial family, an act potentially with political undertones. For still other people, the souvenirs might have commemorated the thrill of visiting the big city of Cologne from a smaller town in Germania Inferior. The uses to which purchasers put the figurines could also have varied. The terracottas may later have served as votive offerings, devotional objects placed in household shrines, or decorative objects. In all instances, however, they would have remained souvenirs of a festival celebrated on a particular day, in a particular year, in a particular city.14 4.2. Connectivity and Memory Even if we cannot determine precisely the identities of the festivals commemorated by the terracotta figurines, it seems clear, both from the dates inscribed and the representation of Roman deities such as Diana and Mercury, that we are not in the realm of a strictly indigenous religious operation (though, of course, many of Cologne’s terracottas do take the form of local deities, such as the Matronae, and dated figurines too may have taken such forms). Festivals were a mainstay of social and religious life in the Roman Empire, the “heartbeat” of Roman society, in the words of J. Asmus Brandt and Jon Adding (2012, 1). A quick glance at the surviving inscribed Fasti, such as the Fasti Praenestini (fig. 4.8), reveals the sheer frequency of feriae and ludi in the Roman calendar. The Feriale Duranum (Fink, Hoey, and Snyder 1940) and epigraphic evidence show that the practice of celebrating festivals and public anniversaries was hardly limited to the city of Rome but was widespread across the empire. The Roman calendar provided the model for festivals celebrated in provinces and municipalities around the empire, but individual localities could customize their selection of the festivals they performed, which could be a mix of festivals drawn from the Roman calendar and celebrations for local cults (Fishwick 1991, 482; Rüpke 1995, 538; 2014, 143–44). At Cologne, for example, the indigenous cult of the Matronae survived unabated in the Roman period, as statuettes and local sanctuaries attest (Eck 2004, 481–87; see also Burns 1994; Garman 2008). Such local traditions existed side by side with the imperial cult, which, though practiced in different forms, permeated all regions of the empire (Bendlin 1997; Friesen 2011 Ga14. On the potential use of the Cologne terracottas as votives or devotional objects, see Moosbauer 2005, 377. According to Macrobius (Sat. 1.11.49), clay figurines purchased during the Saturnalia could be offered to Saturn. On the varied potential uses of Roman souvenirs in general, see Popkin 2022.

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Figure 4.8. Detail of the Fasti Praenestini. Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano al Palazzo Massimo. Photograph by Marie-Lan Ngyuen; used under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 General License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/deed.en).

linsky 2011; cf. Ando 2000). There was no monolithic festival culture in the Roman Empire (Beck and Wiemer 2009, 39). With the exception of the imperial cult, festival calendars were local calendars. At the same time, dates from Rome’s calendar, disseminated by imperial bureaucrats, traders, and soldiers, likely were adapted for local celebrations, creating occasions that were Roman in their calendrical origins even as they followed local customs (Rüpke 2014, 143–49).15 CCAA itself was both local and regional—its own city, and the capital of a Germanic province—and supraregional, in its close connections to Rome and other provinces. Through traders, merchants, associations of Cologne’s citizens in other provinces, and soldiers, Cologne was integrally involved in the broader Roman Empire, informed about and responding to developments outside of Germania Inferior (Eck 2004, 512–16). Like the city that produced them, and like so much having to do with the religions of the Roman Empire, the Cologne festival souvenirs operated at a nexus between localizing and universalizing 15. It is not unattractive to imagine that the dates commemorated on the Cologne souvenirs, if not celebrations of the imperial cult, were dates that had originated in the Roman calendar but then been co-opted for local celebrations. And they may indeed have been festivals of the imperial cult; as Rüpke (2011, 25) notes, some dates and festivals, especially those connected to the house of Augustus, were in fact celebrated all over the empire.

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tendencies. Eric Orlin (2011) has argued that Roman religion shifted over the course of the Augustan period from a “locative” model to a “utopian” one, that is, from religious self-definition tied to a specific place to a religion that transcended a limited place. I would argue that the Cologne souvenirs are locative and utopian. They are at once highly local and deeply tied to widely disseminated practices. The very act of manufacturing terracotta figurines to commemorate festivals, for example, was tied to broader customs in the Roman Empire. Figural terracotta miniatures were produced across the regions of the empire, often in the form of deities, often related to religious, funerary, and other ritual activity.16 It is possible that festivals at sites other than Cologne were commemorated with souvenirs.17 From Rome itself, there is no extant material evidence that the capital city’s festivals were commemorated through souvenirs, but literary evidence is evocative. Suetonius refers to several emperors’ gifting apophoreta to attendees at certain festivals. Of Vespasian, for example, he writes that he “gave gifts [apophoreta] to women on the Kalends of March, as he did to the men on the Saturnalia” (Suet. Vesp. 19.1, see also Aug. 75.1, Calig. 55.2). According to the Historia Augusta (SHA Heliogab. 21.7), Elagabalus gave such party favors as well, although the gifts are so extreme (eunuchs! qaudrigas!) that they may be no more than authorial exaggeration or outright fabrication. The Latin apophoreta derives from the Greek ἀποφόρητα (“to be borne away”) and could apparently mean these sorts of gifts at festivals or party favors given at private events (Petron. Sat. 40, 56H, 60). Book 14 of Martial’s Epigrams is entitled Apophoreta and describes various items that could be gifted at the Saturnalia (see Leary 1996). Among the many possibilities, Martial describes several statuettes (sigilla or sigillaria), which would traditionally have been given on the last two days of the festival, which were themselves called sigillaria. The statuettes could represent divinities—Martial mentions a gold statuette of Victoria (14.170), a silver statuette of Minerva (14.178), and a terracotta figurine of Hercules (14.182), among others—or humbler subjects, such as a clay hunchback.18 That figures of divinities other than Saturn could serve 16. The many regional studies of Roman terracotta figurines from western and eastern sites in the Roman Empire attest to their ubiquitous production. The catalogue raisonné of a large collection such as that of the Louvre gives a sense of the range of locations at which terracotta figurines were manufactured (Besques 1954–1992). 17. Cline (2014) suggests that a mold to produce clay or metal discs, one side of which shows the Aphrodite Ourania of Aphaca, was used to manufacture objects to be sold at the annual festival that might have occurred at the sanctuary at Aphaca. Miniature reproductions in silver of the Artemision at Ephesus were available for purchase (Acts 19:23–27), although it is not clear that these souvenirs commemorated particular festivals as much as the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesus itself. 18. Macrobius (Sat. 1.10.24) implies that the two extra days were added specifically to accommodate the sigillaria. For an interesting discussion of the miniatures discussed by Martial, see MacDonald 2017.

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as Saturnalian gifts perhaps offers a parallel for the diversity of divinities with which Cologne’s potters commemorated various festivals in the city. The literary sources offer no indication of whether objects were mass produced as apophoreta for Rome’s festivals, although if emperors were lavishing gifts on the Saturnalia’s participants, mass production hardly seems out of the question. Yet, if the general idea of commemorating festivals was more widely spread around the empire, the manufacture of festival souvenirs in Cologne in the second century also resulted from the highly local conditions of CCAA’s pottery industry and patterns of consumption of terracotta figurines in Germania Inferior. Cologne was favorably situated for pottery production, as described earlier. It was an economically and politically important city, a provincial capital that could draw people from surrounding areas. And, of course, its festivals were specific to the city. The souvenirs, indeed, commemorate Cologne’s festivals as very much “a religion of place,” to use Orlin’s (2011, 52) phrase, not only by taking the form of Cologne’s standard terracotta figurines but also by marking, quite literally in the surviving inscriptions, where the souvenirs were made and purchased and by providing a locally manufactured, tangible reminder of an experience that took place at a specific time in a specific place. This local scale was mirrored by the intimate scale of the objects themselves, which are designed to be easily held in one’s hands. They are three-dimensional, textured, tactile, small, and could belong to a particular individual who had witnessed a festival at a specific time and place. At the same time, the souvenirs forged connections beyond the intimate connection that existed between the object and an individual. They engendered varying scales of connectivity ranging from the interpersonal and local to the imperial. They could not only be held in one person’s hands but also passed to others. One can imagine the terracotta figurines, with their evocative deities and bold inscriptions, as conversation pieces, eliciting recollections of the owner’s personal experience in Cologne, of the significance of the date and the festival, of the powers of the god depicted. Within families or social circles, then, the souvenirs nurtured connections. Additionally, although manufactured and sold in Cologne, the terracotta souvenirs were portable. The festivals they commemorated unfolded in CCAA, but the souvenirs were hardly confined to the city limits. Examples of the figurines with inscribed dates have been found far outside Cologne—in KobernGondorf and Riedstadt-Goddelau in Germany to the south of Cologne, and to the north in Vechten and Arentsburg in the Netherlands (fig. 4.9; Höpken 2004, 42–43). These objects ended up all along the Rhine Valley, carried home by people who desired a tangible reminder of their experience in Cologne. In this sense, they acted as agents of connectivity on a provincial level, weaving people living across Germania Inferior into a community of individuals who all gathered for certain festival celebrations in CCAA.

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Figure 4.9. Map showing sites where the dated terracotta figurines have been found. Drawing by Maggie L. Popkin.

Beyond Germania Inferior, the souvenirs operated on a supraregional level. The celebration of the imperial cult, if that is what the festivals celebrated, was itself an imperial phenomenon and one explicitly designed to call to mind people’s connections to Rome and its emperors, no matter the distance at which they found themselves from the capital city. Regardless of the content of the festivals, the act of celebrating festivals on and commemorating precise dates placed Cologne within a broader imperial context. As Denis Feeney has argued, calendars enabled Romans across the empire to feel a sense of belonging to a shared community of citizens, a community defined in part by its adherence to a calendar and its marking of cultic time through festivals. Calendrical and festival links “stretched throughout the diaspora of Roman citizens across the Mediterranean, above all in the case of the colonies, whose cults and calendars linked them back to the center of the Empire, in Rome” (2007, 210). The importance of dates and anniversaries in Roman culture is widely acknowledged. The first-century stone fasti of Italy monumentalized records of annual festivals. Decennalia and vicennalia, the anniversaries of Roman emperors’ ascensions, were lavishly feted (Heil 2009). Under the republic, Roman generals often intentionally celebrated their triumphal processions on specific, significant dates, such as the dies natalis of a particular temple, the day of a chosen festival, or the anniversary of an ancestor’s triumph (Livy 40.59.3; Bastien

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2007, 335–97; 2008, 36–44; Popkin 2016, 17). Septimius Severus announced his purported conquest of Parthia on January 28, 198, the anniversary of Trajan’s accession (Birley 1988, 131 n. 4; Bennett 1997, 51 n. 33). Perhaps Septimius felt that the resonances of that date and its connection to Trajan, who had been deified as Divus Traianus Parthicus, might obscure the fact that he had not, in fact, conquered the Parthian king, Vologaeses. Feeney (2007, 148–49) has characterized this fascination with important dates as an “anniversary mentality,” reflective of the role he ascribes to the calendar as a unifying framework of Roman culture. The unusual act of inscribing dates on the souvenirs indicates that, for the residents of Germania Inferior whom manufacturers envisioned as customers, dates were meaningful. The inscribed dates marked the particular festival performance that the purchaser had experienced, and they also might have enabled people to attach further personal meaning to the objects. It is speculative but nonetheless tempting to imagine that the Cologne festival souvenirs might have been particularly attractive to a potential purchaser for whom the festival date commemorated also bore personal significance, for example, a birthday or the anniversary of being cured of a disease. Again, one can imagine a dense imbrication of the personal and the local with the supraregional and imperial. The Cologne festival souvenirs did not, however, simply respond to an anniversary mentality. Thinking about these objects with the cognitive science of memory allows us to recapture some of the remarkable agency they must have possessed individually and socially. Cognitive research has demonstrated repeatedly how manipulable human memory is. The process of remembering, from encoding and storage to retrieval and report, is subject to distortion and alteration. Remembering is a fundamentally (re)constructive process, so that each time a person recalls a memory, that memory changes (Schacter 1996; 2001; Loftus 2005; Nash and Ost 2017; Popkin 2019 for discussion in a Roman context). External stimuli, including visual stimuli, can manipulate people’s memories, for example, causing people to privilege certain aspects of a remembered event over others (see Davis and Loftus 2009 for an overview). The festival souvenirs emphasize their dated inscriptions. Although the inscriptions appear on their backsides, the letters are relatively large and, because of their three-dimensional texture, would have been highly tactilely perceptible when somebody held a figurine in his or her hands. The inscribed souvenirs would thus have continually reminded beholders of the importance not just of the setting of CCAA, but also of dates for the celebration and commemoration of the festival. In emphasizing dates, the souvenirs meshed episodic memory and semantic memory in ways that made them individually and collectively significant. Cognitive research distinguishes between two main types of long-term memory. Episodic memory refers to memory of events one has experienced personally; for example, I remember taking a camping trip to Yosemite National Park

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when I was a child. Semantic memory refers to memory of facts, of events one has not experienced personally; for example, I remember that George Washington was the United States’ first president, although I never personally witnessed him serving as president (Tulving 1972; Schacter 2001, 27). As souvenirs, the dated terracotta figurines from Cologne interwove episodic and semantic memory. On one hand, they recalled for their purchasers a personal, episodic experience of a festival in Cologne. On the other hand, whether their beholders were conscious of this function or not, they recalled the semantic importance of Cologne’s calendar and specific dates within it, of the imperial cult or other festivals celebrated, of Cologne’s status as the provincial capital that enabled it to draw people from across the province for the celebration of festivals, and so on. In this latter capacity, as agents of the formation of semantic memory, the portable souvenirs acted upon not only people who had witnessed a festival performance in Cologne, but also people in Germania Inferior who had never traveled to Cologne but did get to see the souvenirs. They constructed a frame of reference that people could share beyond the temporal, geographical, and experiential limitations of Cologne’s festivals themselves. Their ability to create semantic memory of festival anniversaries enabled them actively to construct an anniversary mentality in Germania Inferior. Episodic and semantic memory are both types of long-term retrospective memory—that is, memories of events, people, places, and things experienced in the past. As discussed earlier, Servandus’s workshop produced, and people purchased, these souvenirs to commemorate a specific festival performance that became a thing of the past as soon as the ephemeral festival concluded. This desire to capture a past and thus in some aspects inherently irrecoverable experience is a defining aspect of souvenirs. The terracotta figurines, however, also implicate prospective memory, and their prospective aspect is significant for understanding how they might have actively affected people’s conceptions of festival time as cyclical. Cognitive researchers have defined prospective memory as “the encoding, storage, and delayed retrieval of intended actions” (Kliegel, McDaniel, and Einstein 2008, xiii; see also Einstein and McDaniel 2005, 2007). It governs how people remember to perform actions in the future—what people are supposed to do, in what form, at what time. On one level, the Cologne festival souvenirs attest to acts of prospection on the part of their manufacturers. As mentioned earlier, the figurine of Diana inscribed with the date February 25, 164 must have been manufactured in autumn of 163 at the latest, as ceramic production ceased during Cologne’s cold season (Lange 1994, 145). Servandus, in whose workshop this figurine was likely produced, needed to be able to look ahead to and imagine the future performance of the festival the following spring, and he needed to trust that the performance would in fact occur. His ability to simulate the future and to envision Cologne’s festival time as cyclical underpinned his decision to manufacture objects for sale at a specific future date. Here, Servandus’s ability to

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remember personal episodes from his past (the performance of a given festival on particular dates) underpinned his ability to simulate future scenarios, that is, to engage in what cognitive psychologists call episodic future thinking (Szpunar 2010; Schacter, Benoit, and Szpunar 2017).19 Cognitive studies of prospective memory have focused on the individual brain and on how people form intentions and remember to perform specific actions, such as buying an appropriate birthday gift for an upcoming party before the party begins or remembering to pick up one’s child after soccer practice at 11:00 am on Saturday. Yet prospection, like all cognitive processes, occurs in the brains of individuals who are part of societies, and social as well as individual circumstances affect it. Some scholars have begun to think about “a collective prospective memory,” considering what shapes societies’ agendas or collective “to-do” lists. Media reports, for example, can remind societies of “collective commitments, promises, and intentions” that must be fulfilled in the future, such as the commitment, or at least intention, to reform the American health care system (Tenenboim-Weinblatt 2011, 216). People can imagine events yet to transpire on behalf of a group and, in engaging in this “collective future thought,” can construct and uphold group identities (Merck, Topcu, and Hirst 2016; Szpunar and Szpunar 2016). The terracotta figurines from Cologne spoke to collective commitments. They did not commemorate a festival performed on a certain date in a certain year and then never repeated. Instead, they commemorated a specific performance of a festival that would be performed again in future years. The inclusion of the date marked a historical (or, from the purchaser’s perspective, soon-to-be historical) performance of the festival, but it also reminded beholders that the given festival would occur again, as part of a cycle of religious performance that stretched indefinitely into the future, for as long as the beholder imagined Cologne existing as a Roman city. The souvenirs thus adumbrated future performances of the festivals they retrospectively commemorated. They concretely marked a person’s attendance at a particular historical iteration while simultaneously evoking the potential to witness future iterations of the festival, which would be the same festival in one sense (the Saturnalia was the Saturnalia every year) but an entirely different festival in another sense (no two celebrations of the Saturnalia were identical, in part because the participants changed).20 The souvenirs had the potential to remind their individual beholders about actions to be performed in the future and the possibility of personally attending a celebration again. But they also called to mind the collective responsibility, on the part of the 19. On prospectively simulating the future, see also Szpunar, Spreng, and Schacter 2014. For discussion of prospective memory and future thinking in a Roman context, see Popkin and Ng 2022. 20. On the impact of different performers—with different experiences and emotions—on the performance of rituals, see Chaniotis 2006.

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citizens of CCAA, to perform the festival annually, in the future. The souvenirs commemorated that the festival had been performed on a given date in a given year and simultaneously offered the promise that the ritual action would continue to (re)occur, as appropriate and necessary Arguably, if “the future itself is socially and culturally constructed” (Seligman et al. 2016, 133), the festival souvenirs were one of the cultural technologies that ensured the future performance of festivals. Prospective memory and retrospective memory are, cognitively speaking, inextricably linked. The neural processes for remembering and for imagining or simulating future events overlap considerably. People form predictive models of future scenarios based on recombining memories of past experiences and information that they have acquired in the past (Schacter, Addis, and Buckner 2007; Fukukura, Helzer, and Ferguson 2013; Seligman et al. 2016, 91). In short, the act of prospection necessarily involves the past. The Cologne festival souvenirs, however, suggest that the imbrication of retrospective and prospective memory operates beyond the cognitive level of neural processes. These objects linked retrospective and prospective memory socially as well as cognitively, materially constructing Romans’ conceptions of festival time as cyclical, that is, as extending into the past and into the future. The souvenirs from Cologne could forge such multivalent, multiscalar, and multitemporal connectivities precisely because of the different cognitive modalities in which they operated in the realm of memory. 4.3. Conclusion The Cologne festival souvenirs would have been but one of myriad ways inhabitants of the city and of Germania Inferior commemorated past celebrations of festivals and imagined future ones. Urban monuments and monumental inscriptions, coins, and texts surely also played important roles. Yet the terracotta figurines’ inclusion of specific dates is remarkable and makes them especially powerful agents, at both individual and collective levels, for constructing an anniversary mentality and a cyclical conception of time in this Roman province. They forged local, regional, and supraregional connections on various levels, constructing a shared concept of time. The connections forged by the souvenirs operated on horizontal levels, as we have seen, connecting people in Cologne and Germania Inferior to each other and to other residents of the empire who celebrated cyclical festivals and participated in the imperial cult. They also, however, operated vertically, connecting people to gods, both those whom the festivals celebrated—whether deified emperors, indigenous divinities, Roman gods, or some amalgamation thereof—and those whom the souvenirs represented coroplastically. The festival souvenirs materialized these horizontal and vertical relationships and connectivities, and they materialized a cyclical notion of religious time that commemorated past iterations of a fes-

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tival and encouraged people to think of future performances. As miniature, portable objects, they transcended the physical boundaries of the sites where festivals were performed in Cologne and the temporal limits of the festivals, extending memories of past performances into the future and thereby shaping both individual and collective memories and conceptions of time in Cologne and Germania Inferior. References Ando, Clifford. 2000. Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire. Classics and Contemporary Thought 6. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bastien, Jean-Luc. 2007. Le triomphe romain et son utilisation politique à Rome aux trois derniers siècles de la république. CÉFR 392. Rome: École française de Rome. ———. 2008. “Les temples votifs de la Rome républicaine: Monumentalisation et célébration des cérémonies du triomphe.” Pages 29–47 in Roma illustrata: Représentations de la ville; Actes du colloque international de Caen (6–8 octobre 2005). Edited by Philippe Fleury and Olivier Desbordes. Caen: Presses universitaires de Caen. Beck, Hans, and Hans-Ulrich Wiemer. 2009. “Feiern und Erinnern—eine Einleitung.” Pages 9–54 in Feiern und Erinnern: Geschictsbilder im Spiegel antiker Feste. Edited by Hans Beck and Hans-Ulrich Wiemer. Studien zur alten Geschichte 12. Berlin: Verlag Antike. Bendlin, Andreas. 1997. “Peripheral Centres—Central Peripheries: Religious Communication in the Roman Empire.” Pages 35–68 in Römische Reichsreligion und Provinzialreligion. Edited by Hubert Cancik and Jörg Rüpke. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bennett, Julian. 1997. Trajan, Optimus Princeps: A Life and Times. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Besques, Simone. 1954–1992. Catalogue raisonné des figurines et reliefs en terre-cuite grecs, étrusques et romains. 4 vols. Paris: Éditions des Musées Nationaux. Birley, Anthony R. 1988. The African Emperor: Septimius Severus. London: Batsford. Brandt, J. Rasmus, and Jon W. Iddeng, eds. 2012. Greek and Roman Festivals: Content, Meaning, and Practice. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Burns, Vincent T. 1994. “Romanization and Acculturation: The Rhineland Matronae.” PhD diss. University of Wisconsin-Madison. Chaniotis, Angelos. 2006. “Rituals between Norms and Emotions: Rituals as Shared Experience and Memory.” Pages 211–38 in Ritual and Communication in the GraecoRoman World. Edited by Eftychia Stavrianopoulou. Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège. Cline, Rangar H. 2014. “A Two-Sided Mold and the Entrepreneurial Spirit of Pilgrimage: Souvenir Production in Late Antique Syria-Palestine.” Journal of Late Antiquity 7:28–48. https://doi.org/10.1353/jla.2014.0017. Collins-Kreiner, Noga, and Yael Zins. 2013. “With the Passing of Time: The Changing Meaning of Souvenirs.” Pages 29–39 in Tourism and Souvenirs: Glocal Perspectives from the Margins. Edited by Jenny Cave, Lee Jolliffe, and Tom Baum. Tourism and Cultural Change. Bristol: Channel View Publications. https://doi. org/10.21832/9781845414078-003. Davis, Deborah, and Elizabeth F. Loftus. 2009. “Expectancies, Emotion, and Memory

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Reports for Visual Events.” Pages 178–214 in The Visual World in Memory. Edited by James R. Brockmole. Current Issues in Memory. Hove: Psychology Press. Donati, Natascia, and Patrizia Stefanetti. 2006. Dies natalis: I calendari romani e gli anniversari dei culti. Rome: Quasar. Eck, Werner. 2004. Köln in römischer Zeit: Geschichte einer Stadt im Rahmen des Imperium Romanum. Geschichte der Stadt Köln 1. Cologne: Greven. Einstein, Gilles O., and Mark A. McDaniel. 2005. “Prospective Memory: Multiple Retrieval Processes.” Current Directions in Psychological Science 14:286–90. https:// doi.org/10.1111/j.0963-7214.2005.00382.x. ———. 2007. Prospective Memory: An Overview and Synthesis of an Emerging Field. Cognitive Psychology Program. Los Angeles: Sage. Feeney, Denis. 2007. Caesar’s Calendar: Ancient Time and the Beginnings of History. Sather Classical Lectures 65. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fink, Robert O., Allan S. Hoey, and Walter F. Synder. 1940. The Feriale Duranum. YCS 7. New Haven: Yale University Press. Fishwick, Duncan. 1991. The Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire. Vol. 2.1. EPRO 108.2A. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2002. The Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire. Vol. 3.1: Provincial Cult: Part 1; Institution and Evolution. RGRW 147. Leiden: Brill. Fowler, W. Warde. 2004. The Roman Festivals of the Period of the Republic: An Introduction to the Study of the Religion of the Romans. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias. Friesen, Steven J. 2011. “Normal Religion, or, Words Fail Us: A Response to Karl Galinsky’s ‘The Cult of the Roman Emperor: Uniter or Divider?’” Pages 23–26 in Rome and Religion: A Cross-Disciplinary Dialogue on the Imperial Cult. Edited by Jeffrey Brodd and Jonathan L. Reed. WGRWSup 5. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Fukukura, Jun, Erik G. Helzer, and Melissa J. Ferguson. 2013. “Prospection by Any Other Name? A Response to Seligman et al.” Perspectives on Psychological Science 8:146–50. https://doi.org/10.1177/1745691612474320. Galinsky, Karl. 2011. “The Cult of the Roman Emperor: Uniter or Divider?” Pages 1–22 in Rome and Religion: A Cross-Disciplinary Dialogue on the Imperial Cult. Edited by Jeffrey Brodd and Jonathan L. Reed. WRGWSup 5. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Garman, Alex G. 2008. The Cult of the Matronae in the Roman Rhineland: An Historical Evaluation of the Archaeological Evidence. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen. Heil, Matthäus. “Die Jubilarfeiern der römischen Kaiser.” 2009. Pages 167–202 in Feiern und Erinnern: Geschictsbilder im Spiegel antiker Feste. Edited by Hans Beck and Hans-Ulrich Wiemer. Studien zur alten Geschichte 12. Berlin: Verlag Antike. Höpken, Constanze. 2004. “Servandus und der römische Festkalender: Eine neue tagesdatierte Terrakottafigur aus Köln.” Kölner Jahrbuch 37:39–44. ———. 2005. Die römische Keramikproduktion in Köln. Kölner Forschungen 8. Mainz: von Zabern. Hume, David L. 2014. Tourism Art and Souvenirs: The Material Culture of Tourism. Routledge Advances in Tourism 32. London: Routledge. Kliegel, Matthias, Mark A. McDaniel, and Gilles O. Einstein, eds. 2008. Prospective Memory: Cognitive, Neuroscience, Developmental, and Applied Perspectives. New York: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.

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Lange, Heinrich. 1994. “Die Koroplastik der Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium: Untersuchungen zu Typologie, Technik, Werkstattfunden, Betrieben, Signaturen und Produktionszeit.” Kölner Jahrbuch 27:117–309. Leary, Timothy J. 2016. “Introduction.” Pages 1–28 in Martial, Book XIV: The Apophoreta; Text with Introduction and Commentary. London: Bloomsbury. Loftus, Elizabeth F. 2005. “Planting Misinformation in the Human Mind: A 30-year Investigation of the Malleability of Memory.” Learning and Memory 12:361–66. https://doi.org/10.1101/lm.94705. MacDonald, Carolyn. 2017. “Take-Away Art: Ekphrasis and Appropriation in Martial’s Apophoreta 170–82.” ClAnt 36:288–316. https://doi.org/10.1525/ca.2017.36.2.288. Merck, Clinton, Meymune N. Topcu, and William Hirst. 2016. “Collective Mental Time Travel: Creating a Shared Future through Our Shared Past.” Memory Studies 9:284–94. https://doi.org/10.1177/1750698016645236. Moosbauer, Günther. 2005. “Devotionalien und religiöse Andenken in der Antike.” Pages 370–84 in Rom, Germanien und das Reich: Festschrift zu Ehren von Rainer Wiegels anlässlich seines 65. Geburtstages. Edited by Wolfgang Spickermann, Kresimir Matijevic, and Heinz Hermann Stengen. Pharos: Studien zur griechisch-römischen Antike 18. St. Katharinen: Scripta Mercaturae. Morgan, David. 2017. “Material Analysis and the Study of Religion.” Pages 14–32 in Materiality and the Study of Religion: The Stuff of the Sacred. Edited by Tim Hutchings and Joanne McKenzie. Theology and Religion in Interdisciplinary Perspective. New York: Routledge. http://dx.doi.org/10.4324/9781315604787-2. Nash, Robert A. and James Ost, eds. 2017. False and Distorted Memories. Current Issues in Memory. London: Routledge. Orlin, Eric M. “Augustan Religion: From Locative to Utopian.” Pages 49–59 in Rome and Religion: A Cross-Disciplinary Dialogue on the Imperial Cult. Edited by Jeffrey Brodd and Jonathan L. Reed. RGRWSup 5. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Popkin, Maggie L. 2016. The Architecture of the Roman Triumph: Monuments, Memory, and Identity. New York: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2018. “Urban Images in Glass from the Late Roman Empire: The Souvenir Flasks of Puteoli and Baiae.” AJA 122:427–62. https://doi.org/10.3764/aja.122.3.0427. ———. 2019. “Art, Architecture, and False Memory in the Roman Empire: A Cognitive Perspective.” Pages 383–402 in The Routledge Handbook of Classics and Cognitive Theory. Edited by Peter Meineck, Willliam Michael Short, and Jennifer Devereaux. New York: Routledge. ———. 2022. Souvenirs and the Experience of Empire in Ancient Rome. New York: Cambridge University Press. Popkin, Maggie L., and Diana Y. Ng, eds. 2022. Future Thinking in Roman Culture: New Approaches to History, Memory, and Cognition. New York: Routledge. Raja, Rubina, and Lara Weiss. 2016. “The Significance of Objects: Considerations on Agency and Context.” Religion in the Roman Empire 2:297–306. http://dx.doi.org/ 10.1628/219944616X14770583541445. Reusch, Wilhelm. 1936. “Datierte Inschriften rheinischer Terrakotten.” Germania 20:112–14. Rives, James B. 2007. Religion in the Roman Empire. Blackwell Ancient Religions. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Rüpke, Jörg. 1995. Kalender und Öffentlichkeit: Die Geschichte der Repräsentation und

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religiösen Qualifikation von Zeit in Rom. Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 40. Berlin: de Grutyer. ———. 2011. “Roman Religion and the Religion of Empire: Some Reflections on Method.” Pages 9–36 in The Religious History of the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians. Edited by John A. North and S. R. F. Price. Oxford Readings in Classical Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2014. From Jupiter to Christ: On the History of Religion in the Roman Imperial Period. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2016. On Roman Religion: Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome. Cornell Studies in Classical Philology. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Salzman, Michele Renee. 1990. On Roman Time: The Codex-Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity. Transformation of the Classical Heritage 17. Berkeley: University of California Press. Schacter, Daniel L. 1996. Searching for Memory: The Brain, the Mind, and the Past. New York: Basic Books. ———. 2001. The Seven Sins of Memory: How the Mind Forgets and Remembers. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Schacter, Daniel L., Donna Rose Addis, and Randy L. Buckner. 2007. “Remembering the Past to Imagine the Future: The Prospective Brain.” Nature Reviews Neuroscience 8:657–61. https://doi.org/10.1038/nrn2213. Schacter, Daniel L., Roland G. Benoit, and Karl K. Szpunar. 2017. “Episodic Future Thinking: Mechanisms and Functions.” Current Opinion in Behavioral Sciences 17:41– 50. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cobeha.2017.06.002. Scheid, John. 2003. An Introduction to Roman Religion. Translated by Janet Lloyd. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Seligmann, Martin E. P., Peter Railton, Roy F. Baumeister, and Chandra Sripada. 2016. Homo Prospectus. New York: Oxford University Press. Stewart, Susan. 1993. On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Szpunar, Karl K. 2010. “Episodic Future Thought: An Emerging Concept.” Perspectives on Psychological Science 5:142–62. https://doi.org/10.1177/1745691610362350. Szpunar, Karl K., R. Nathan Spreng, and Daniel L. Schacter. 2014. “A Taxonomy of Prospection: Introducing an Organizational Framework for Future Oriented Cognition.” PNAS 111:18414–21. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1417144111. Szpunar, Piotr M., and Karl K. Szpunar. 2016. “Collective Future Thought: Concept, Function, and Implications for Collective Memory Studies.” Memory Studies 9:376–89. https://doi.org/10.1177/1750698015615660. Tenenboim-Weinblatt, Keren. 2011. “Journalism as an Agent of Prospective Memory.” Pages 213–25 in On Media Memory: Collective Memory in a New Media Age. Edited by Motti Neiger, Oren Meyers, and Eyal Zandberg. Palgrave Macmillan Memory Studies. London: Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi.org/10.1057/9780230307070_16. Tulving, Endel. 1972. “Episodic and Semantic Memory.” Pages 381–403 in Organization of Memory. Edited by Endel Tulving and Wayne Donaldson. New York: Academic Press.

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Roman Strategies of Ritualization and the Performance of the Pompa Circensis Jacob Latham Ancient Roman civic religion’s well-known precision has often been dismissed as fastidious ritualism or, less commonly, read as a form of spirituality. What has been overlooked, however, is the work performed by such punctiliousness. In ancient Rome, exacting execution was a key strategy of ritualization—one way to differentiate ritual from other kinds of activities, following Catherine Bell’s definition of ritualization as the process by which quotidian actions are made different by a variety of culturally specific tactics. For example, Roman strategies of ritualization, which overlap significantly with Roy Rappaport’s definition of ritual, transformed a stroll through the center of Rome into the religious procession that kicked off the chariot races in the arena. Moreover, these forms of ritualization produced a dazzling performance in a full sense—the proper rite (correctly ritualized practice) performed at the right time in the proper way. In the end, an examination of strategies of ritualization offers insights into what one might call the Romans’ tenets of ritual theology. Keywords: ritualization, performance, procession (Pompa Circensis), Roman civic religion, spectacle

R

ituals are ritualized actions (or sequences of ritualized actions)—a statement which is not as circular as it may seem. That is, as Catherine Bell (1992) argued, rituals may be most usefully approached not as a separate species of practice with a singular and universal definition, but rather as quotidian actions (like eating, drinking, talking, and walking) that have been made different or distinct by a variety of strategies. Butchering an animal may be business or a sacrifice; spilling wine on the ground may be an accident or a libation; talking about the gods may be conversation or a sermon; walking through town may be a stroll or a procession—culturally specific strategies of ritualization distinguish one from the other. As is well known, ancient Romans were rather demanding about their rituals—rituals had to be done just so. But, fastidious observance was not mere formalism or even just proper procedure based on empirical knowledge, not just what worked to please or appease the gods though it was also that.1 Punctilious performance (so-called orthopraxy) was also a way to set rituals apart from other practices. In other words, exacting execution was a strategy of ritualization—one among a host of other means to differentiate ritual from other 1. See Ando 2008, esp. ix–xvii and 1–18, on Rome’s empiricist religious epistemology.

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kinds of activities. In fact, Roman strategies of ritualization overlap significantly with a definition of ritual proposed by the eminent anthropologist Roy Rappaport (1999, esp. 23–58)—a definition that may be understood as a kind of digest of some of the most prominent, cross-cultural strategies of ritualization. For Rappaport, adherence to a traditional script composed (largely) by others, ritual choreography (formality), and (reputed) invariance are hallmarks of ritual performance—they were also attributes of many Roman rituals. Ritualization, however, is (and was) culturally specific, even if certain features appear regularly. For example, Rapport’s characteristics of ritual (but in a Roman key) along with other more specific modes of ritualization (like crowd control) transformed a stroll through the center of downtown Rome into a pompa circensis (circus procession)—the religious procession that kicked off the chariot races in the arena (circus). Before the ludi circenses (chariot races and other events in the arena), the president (or organizers) of the games conducted and led (probably) a spectacular procession from the Capitol through the Forum to the Circus Maximus (the only known pompa circensis itinerary) to escort the gods (made present in various ways) to the games. Following the president, two groups of young Roman men rode or marched in ranks and rows as if on their way to the military training grounds. On the heels of the youth, came the competitors in the games, driving their chariots, riding their horses, or walking, and then two choruses of dancers, a group of ludiones beating out a martial rhythm and a band of satyrs and Silenoi, whose sexualized choreography mocked the chorus of ludiones. Finally, priests and other officials (probably) along with attendants carrying ritual vessels and censors introduced the gods, who occupied the position of honor at the end.2 By various and often spectacular strategies of ritualization, the pompa circensis became a dazzling ritual performance, in a rather full sense of the term. First, as Rappaport argued, a ritual cannot do what it does unless it is performed. A ritual must be staged. Second, everyone must play their parts in the right way. As Erving Goffman (1959, esp. 17–76) and others have argued, all identity is performed, but in the pompa circensis the presentation of self was probably more self-aware, the participants were likely performing their “best” Roman selves in a rather more conscious manner than usual and in a manner shaped by Roman strategies of ritualization. And third, the pompa circensis was also, quite simply, a spectacular production—the various modes of ritualization (central dogmas of Rome’s ritual spirituality) came together in action to create a striking pageant. In the end, Roman strategies of ritualization, specifically Roman ways of constructing and performing ritual, scaffolded an intensified performance of Roman social identities in an impressive Roman parade.

2. On the pompa circensis, see Latham 2016.

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5.1. Roman Strategies of Ritualization Even the smallest moments of religious concern are seen to be examined with so much scrupulous care, because our state should never be thought to have turned its eyes from the most precise practice of religious rites. Valerius Maximus 1.1.8 (LCL)3

Ancient Roman traditional religion required the punctilious performance of ritual. Indeed, following the rules was, in a way, an article of faith—“divine service is performed by ancient [that is, strict] regulation” (Val. Max. 1.1.1a [LCL]) or at least Romans allowed themselves to think so.4 Seemingly minor mistakes could cause acute anxieties. At the Latin festival in 176 BCE, as Livy told the tale, “there was a religious concern” because a magistrate from Lanuvium had not prayed for the Roman people when offering one of the sacrificial victims (Livy 41.16.1 [LCL]). The college of pontiffs ordered a repetition of the entire festival, for which Lanuvium was to provide all the sacrificial animals as compensation for the ritual fault. More (in)famously, the consular election of 162 BCE was eventually vitiated when, after consulting books on the matter, Tiberius Gracchus realized that he had committed an error while conducting the auspices.5 Even the highest authority should yield to religious scruples (Val. Max. 1.1.2). The pompa circensis was similarly hedged about with rules and regulations. According to Cicero, “if the ludius [dancer or player] stopped or if the piper suddenly fell silent, if the boy whose father and mother were still alive [puer patrimus et matrimus] did not keep to his tensa or let go of the reins, or if the aedile deviated in word or mishandled the libation vessel, then the games were not performed according to rite, and those errors are expiated and the feelings of the immortal gods are placated by an instauratio [a repetition] of the games” (Cic. Har. resp. 23 [LCL]; Gailliot 2009, 89–96; and Latham 2016, 39–42 and 61–65). Dancers (or players), musicians, young children, and civic officials all needed to follow faithfully, so to speak, their ritual scripts. Failure to do so was a ritual fault that required expiation through repetition (of the procession and sometimes the entire festival). Though a ritual error might be “invented” to justify the repetition of particularly popular games (and a number of instaurationes were seemingly connected to performances of Plautus), ritual faults in the circus procession might precipitate devastating repercussions.6 According to an oft-told, legendary exemplar, during the early republic Rome was plagued by fearsome prophecies,

3. All translations are my own, except where noted. 4. On the spirituality of Roman ritual, see esp. Scheid 2003, 198–209; 2007, 39–71. 5. Cic. Nat. D. 2.10–11; Div. 1.33 and 2.74; Val. Max. 1.1.3; Plut. Marc. 5.2; and Serv. Aen. 2.178; on which see Rasmussen 2003, 154–57, who argues the ritual fault was not merely political. 6. See Taylor 1937, 284–304, esp. 291–96 on instaurationes.

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abnormal births of human and cattle, and pestilence. Eventually Titus Latinius, a plebian farmer, came to the senate to report a series of dreams in which Jupiter complained that the lead dancer (ludius) in the procession before the most recent games was unacceptable. The senate was at a loss until one member recalled that a prominent citizen had had a slave scourged in public right before the procession and perhaps in the Circus itself. The slave’s anguished screams and pained gesticulations were a horrific perversion of the careful choreography of the ludius, a transgression that prompted divine retribution. Once the fault had been identified, the senate quickly ordered a lavish repetition of the games—with a properly performed procession one assumes—to placate the wrath of heaven.7 The moral of the story: a ritual fault (including the “inopportune” torture of a slave) could be resolved through a scrupulous repetition of the rite. An instauratio could compensate for a mistake already committed, but Romans also took precautions to avoid such failures in the first place. As Pliny the Elder noted in a well-known passage, “the highest magistrates supplicate according to fixed prayers and, so that no word is omitted or spoken out of order, someone reads from a script beforehand, and again another guard to keep watch is provided, indeed yet another is appointed to keep tongues still, while a piper plays so that nothing else may be heard” (Plin. HN 28.11 [LCL]). Inauspicious noises or misspoken words (or abused slaves) might ruin the prayer and so to ensure proper recitation an impressive number of safeguards were employed: dictation from a script, attendants to monitor the ritual and to maintain silence, and music to drown out any other sounds. And yet, mistakes still occurred, often followed by disastrous consequences—or at least Romans often linked the two. So, the proper response, for an ancient Roman, was a properly and precisely performed ritual. Such rigor, however, was more than piety. Punctilious performance seems to have also served as a technique of ritualization. According to Bell (1992, 74), ritualization is “a way of acting that is designed and orchestrated to distinguish and privilege what is being done in comparison to other, usually more quotidian, activities. As such, ritualization is a matter of various culturally specific strategies for setting some activities off from others.” In this case, exceptional caution distinguished prayer from ordinary speech. Such fastidiousness likewise privileged ritual processions, like the pompa circensis, which were otherwise calqued on and differentiated from a prosaic stroll through town. That is to say, the stylization of certain acts, their mode of performance, is what makes them rituals. In Bell’s (1992, 140) words, “ritualization, the produc7. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.68.1–7.69.2 and 7.73.5. Cic. Div. 1.26.55; Livy 2.36.1–8; Val. Max. 1.7.4; Plut. Coriol. 24.1–25.1; Min. Fel. Oct. 7.3 and 27.4; Arn. Adv. nat. 7.39 and 7.41–43; Lactant. Div. inst. 2.7.20–21; August. De civ. D. 4.26; and Macrob. Sat. 1.11.3–5, on which see Bernstein 1998, 85–96; and Gailliot 2009, 90.

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tion of ritualized acts, can be described, in part, as that way of acting that sets itself apart from other ways of acting by virtue of the way in which it does what it does.” Vigilant performance was one way that Romans ritualized actions; anxious attention helped to transform simple butchering into sacrifice. But there were other Roman strategies of ritualization, some of which cohere with the thoughtful and thought-provoking definition of ritual offered by Rappaport. According to Rappaport, the term ritual “denote[s] the performance of more or less invariant sequences of formal acts and utterances not entirely encoded by the performers” (1999, 24 [emphasis original]). Though there are many attempts to define ritual, Rappaport’s offers apposite scaffolding to explore Roman strategies of ritualization, or the specific ways that Romans produced what we call rituals. 5.1.1. “The First Feature of Ritual: Encoding by Other Than Performers” As Rappaport explained, the “definition stipulates that the performers of ritual do not specify all the acts and utterances constituting their own performances. They follow, more or less punctiliously, orders established or taken to have been established, by others” (1999, 32). In the case of Roman prayer as described by Pliny, a reader dictated the prayer from a script to the officiant—the words were expressly and importantly not the officiant’s own. In fact, the Roman religious imagination frequently ascribed its rites and ceremonies to the ancients—sometimes Romulus, the historico-mythical founder and first king of Rome, or more often Numa, Rome’s second historico-mythical king. According to Dionysius of Halicarnassus, “whatever [regulation concerning worship of the gods] prescribed by customs and laws that [Numa] received from Romulus remained” (Ant. Rom. 2.63.2 [LCL]; see North 1976, 1–12; and Beard, North, and Price 1998, 87–98). In fact, as the story goes, these rites remained unchanged until the age of Augustus. And so, much of Roman civic cult was thought to have been encoded by Romulus or Numa. Even if the acts and utterances of Roman civic religion were not, in fact, encoded in hoary antiquity, they were established, or taken to have been established, by someone else. Past practice authorized present action. Rituals, even Roman ones, assuredly develop over time, but, as Rappaport (1999, 32) noted, “invention is limited and the sanction of previous performance is maintained.” In the case of Roman civic religion, the obligation to repeat past precedent, or to be thought to have done so, was a central component of Rome’s ritual spirituality (Scheid 2003, 2007). Indeed, the encoding by other than performers was a key feature of Roman traditional religion, but one that Romans accented in a particular way. In ancient Rome, such encoding amounted to what one might call archaism or primordialism (imagined or not), a core constituent not only of ritual performance specifically, but also Roman identity more generally. Archaism seems to have long been an element of Roman socio-cultural practice, but it may have been

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especially cultivated during the empire, beginning notably with Augustus (see, e.g., Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 215–58; and Eder 1990, 71–122). Writing during the high empire, Plutarch recorded that the pontifex maximus supervised sacred rituals, both in public festivals and private rituals, to “prevent deviation from customary practices,” which, in some cases, resulted in a ritual with “esoteric prayers” (Num. 9 and 10 [LCL]). Plutarch, in fact, admired Roman exactitude in even trivial affairs, a practice he declared free of superstition, because the Romans did not allow anyone “to change or to deviate from inherited customs” (Marc. 5.4 [LCL]). Following Plutarch, one might say that Roman ritualization leaned heavily on primordialism, or the encoding of the ritual script and choreography in the archaic age of Rome’s origins. Unsurprisingly, archaism marked the pompa circensis as well. According to Dionysius of Halicarnassus, drawing on the work of Fabius Pictor, “At the head of the procession, boys on the verge of manhood and of the right age to take part in the procession led the way: on horseback those whose fathers met the financial requirements to be equestrians, on foot those who would serve in the infantry; the first in troops and squadrons, the second in divisions and companies as if going to the training ground” (Ant. Rom. 7.72.1 [LCL]). The participation of teenage boys was only to be expected—ephebes were something of an honor guard in the Greek East (Connelly 2011, 313–46, esp. 317 and 319–20). However, as Lily Ross Taylor (1924, 159) remarked long ago, “The old-time parade of boys on horse and on foot which Fabius described could no longer be seen when Dionysius lived in Rome in the days of Augustus,” because the infantry was no longer recruited from the city of Rome. Officers were still drawn from the senatorial and equestrian classes, and so could provide young men on horseback, but the plebs no longer furnished foot soldiers, according to Taylor. Even so, a ceremonial infantry could have been drawn from the plebs Romana for the purpose of the parade. After all, they need not have been real soldiers; they simply needed to play the part in the procession. If “the old-time parade of boys on horse and on foot” had been maintained, then the pompa circensis would have appeared especially traditional—Roman men were, after all, supposed to be manly and martial (see McDonnell 2006). Over time, the parade of young men transformed, it seems, from one mode of ritualization to another—from formality (the careful arrangement of the young men in troops and squadrons and divisions and companies) to archaism (the studious cultivation of antiquated custom). 5.1.2. “The Second Feature: Formality (as Decorum)” In fact, archaism (or the marked maintenance of the past) as a Roman strategy of ritualization often required a certain formality—a certain way of doing things. As Rappaport argued, “behavior in ritual tends to be punctilious and repetitive. Ritual sequences are composed of conventional, even stereotyped elements, for instance stylized and often decorous gestures and pos-

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tures” (1999, 33). As is well known, Roman civic religion was indeed quite concerned with proper ritual—that is, the right or correct ritual done in the right or correct manner—and even propriety (the right people, i.e., elite men, doing the ritual). The carefully choreographed gestures of Roman civic ritual needed to be performed properly—a libation offered this way; a pray that way; a sacrifice just so. The same was true for the pompa circensis in general and the ludiones, a group of male dancers divided into three age-groups, men, teens, and boys, in particular. According to Dionysius of Halicarnassus (again following Fabius Pictor), “One man guided each group of dancers, a man who displayed the forms of the dance to the rest and was the first to represent the quick military steps” (Ant. Rom. 7.72.6 [LCL]; see Dupont 1993, 189–210; and Latham 2016, 31–34). “The bellicose and serious dance” of the ludiones was certainly quite formal and stylized—the choreography was precise and demanding (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72.10 [LCL]). After all, if one of them should pause at the wrong time, divine anger could follow, as Cicero noted. On the flip side, according to a Roman proverb “all is well when the old man dances,” an adage suggesting that the correct dance of just one ludio could avert ritual failure.8 Formal and repetitive stylized gestures (including choreography) need not, however, always be decorous. Indeed, as Rappaport recognized, stereotyped behavior need not be “proper” at all. In fact, in ancient Rome, formality could be downright raunchy. The ludiones executed a strict and serious choreography, but the company of dancers that followed was an entirely different matter: “after the armed choruses [the ludiones], bands of dancers playing satyrs came in procession, performing the Greek sikinnis. Those portraying Silenoi wore woolly tunics, which some call chortaioi [“farmyard wear”], and mantles of flowers of every kind; while those who appeared as satyrs wore loincloths and goatskins with their locks of hair standing straight up on their heads and other such things. These [dancers] mocked and mimicked the earnest dances, transforming them into rather comical affairs” (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.72.10 [LCL]; see Jannot 1992, 56–68). The burlesque of the satyrs and Silenoi taunted the “bellicose and serious” ludiones, satirizing their solemnity. More importantly for present purposes, the satyrs and Silenoi performed the sikinnis, which seems to have been a kind of erotic dance with perhaps exaggerated, sexualized gestures that goaded the martial choruses and incited the audience. Their gestures may have been satirical and sexualized, but they were still stereotyped— that is, still ritualized.

8. Serv. Aen. 8.110 (ed. Thilo), seemingly related to the ludi Apollinares of 211; and see also Serv. Aen. 3.279, linking more or less the same proverb to Magna Mater; and Fest. 436L, a similar or perhaps even the same adage, on which see Salzman 1990, 287–88; and Bernstein 1998, 89.

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5.1.3. “The Third Feature: Invariance (More or Less)” Previously encoded gestures and speech along with formal and stereotyped behavior often conjure a sense of changelessness and, unsurprisingly, “more or less invariant acts” are a key characteristic of Rappaport’s definition of ritual (1999, 36). In certain respects, Roman archaism was a species of invariance, one with a specific (even if imagined) historical referent. But, even without the authority of a Romulus or a Numa, invariance was an important mode of ritualization at Rome. As Livy noted, “different treaties involve different terms, but the ritual is always the same” (1.24.3 [LCL]; see North 1976, 1–3). Such (ascribed) invariance, rituals remaining supposedly unchanged over the course of centuries, endowed ritual formulas with a certain power, a primordial sense of authority, as Pliny the Elder recognized (HN 28.12). Dionysios of Halicarnassus similarly held that “among [the ancient customs, laws, and practices, which the Romans have preserved down to my own time just as they received them from their ancestors] the first and the most authoritative of all are, I am persuaded, the things done by each city concerning the gods and divinities, that is, ancestral worship” (Ant. Rom. 7.70.2–3; see Gabba 1991, 134–36). That is, religious rites were supposedly less liable to change: indeed they should not change at all. As it once was, so it still is—thus Roman youth might still have paraded on horseback and on foot even in the early empire. Likewise, the ludiones pounded out their formal (perhaps even rigid) choreography to the tunes of “flautists blowing archaic short pipes, as happens even now,” and cithara-players plucking barbita, old-fashioned seven-stringed lyres. As Dionysius noted, both instruments had fallen out of fashion among the Greeks, but they were maintained “by the Roman in all [their] archaic acts of sacrifices” (Ant. Rom. 7.72.5 [LCL]). As Dionysius saw it, Romans were in origin Greeks—“Greeks” who better preserved Greek tradition than the Greeks themselves—and the archaic invariance (more or less) of the pompa circensis provided the surest proof of their Hellenic pedigree (Schultze 2004, 93–105; and Latham 2016, 21–25). 5.1.4. The Street Already encoded ritual scripts, formality, and invariance were interconnected and mutually reinforcing strategies of ritualization, but Rappaport’s definition of ritual does not, of course, exhaust the various strategies of ritualization at Rome (and neither will this essay for that matter). Different ritual practices may have required different modes of ritualization. Religious processions, for example, necessitated another technique, one that both distinguished the procession from the ordinary everyday and also made the procession possible in a practical sense—namely, crowd control. As Jonathan Z. Smith (1987, 104) noted, “when one enters a temple, one enters marked-off space.… Within the temple, the ordinary … becomes significant, becomes ‘sacred.’” The very act of marking

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off a space made it sacred and subsequently objects and actions also become sacred by virtue of taking place within sacralized space—much the same may be said about Rome’s processional itineraries, which for the duration of the parade at least were set apart from mundane use and thus (temporarily) sacred. On any given day, Rome’s streets teemed with a crush that not only slowed travel but also threatened to injure anyone trying to traverse the city, or so we are told.9 Plautus (Merc. 115) noted overcrowded footpaths already in the midrepublic, while Cicero (Planc. 17) complained that any pedestrian, even a senator, was liable to get bulldozed. Even Horace (Sat. 2.6.27–31) “admitted” that he might shove his way through slow-moving traffic. During the early empire, according to Seneca, one might slip, be splashed, or simply get stuck in the crowd, whose “unceasing flow along the broadest roads is jammed whenever anything blocks the ways and hinders its rapid, torrential course” (De ira 3.6.4; Clem. 1.6.1 [LCL]). Juvenal, unsurprisingly, conjured some quite pungent (melodramatic even) imagery: “As we hurry along, the wave in front gets in the way, the great troops of people who follow behind crush our hips. One guy throws an elbow, another strikes me with a hard pole, this guy hits my head with a beam, that guy with a jug” (Sat. 3.243–246[LCL]). Gaggles of worshipers, like the “chorus of raging Bellona and the Mother of the gods,” harangue passersby as they roam the city to proclaim their deity or religious freelance experts, like “a trembling Jewish woman … an expert in the law of Jerusalem,” beg alms in exchange for enigmatic wisdom (Sat. 6.511–512 and 6.543–544 [LCL]).10 In addition to crowds, one might also run into “a contractor with mules and laborers, [or even] a huge machine [that] now hoists a boulder and now a beam, sorrowful funerals [that] wrestle with wagons; here a mad dog flees, there a filthy sow tumbles,” according to Horace (Ep. 2.2.72–75 [LCL]). The streets were filled with potential hazards (at least in the satirical imagination of Juvenal): “a tall fir approaches on a heavy wagon, and another cart bears a pine” (Sat. 3.254–256 [LCL]). Rome’s schools, bakeries, workshops, and bars spilled out onto the streets as well—obstructions temporarily curtailed by Domitian, though the sidewalk café and other curbside ventures surely made a comeback (Mart. 12.57.4–14; on which Hartnett 2017, 60–67). Satire tended to paint exaggeratedly dystopian (even specious) portraits of the urbs, but Rome was, in fact, a vast city that was continuously under construction with a massive population whose needs and wants were equally massive.11 Assuredly, the streets would have been teeming on a daily basis, even if most managed to avoid getting beaten with wine jugs or crushed by trees. 9. On street crowds, see Hartnett 2017, esp. 38–40, 45, 72–73, 92–93, and 106, and passim; and, on congestion, van Tilburg 2007, 120–22 and 127–36. 10. On religious freelance experts, see Wendt 2016, esp. 74–113. 11. On the literary sources, see Laurence 1997, 1–20; and Hartnett 2017, 17–19.

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Even if the seething streets were (mostly or partially) satirical fancy, it was still an extraordinary honor to be granted right-of-way on the streets of Rome—to walk unimpeded and unmolested was a prized privilege (e.g., Val. Max. 5.2.1a; and Plut. Rom. 20.3). The wealthy could avoid most, but not all, of the hassle of the hustle and bustle with their large retinues or litters, while the poor and middling classes felt its full weight (O’Sullivan 2011, 71–74 and Hartnett 2017, 91–93). A set of Roman civic regulations, the Tabula Heracleensis, attempted to mitigate street traffic by limiting the hours of operation of certain vehicles. Heavy carts (plaustra or plostra) were banned from sunrise to the tenth hour, allowing foot, light-wheeled, and authorized heavy cart traffic a bit more space to operate for the majority of the day. In addition, construction projects of any size were not to block or close off porticos and other public spaces (including streets and sidewalks it seems).12 Whatever the impact of these measures, the regulations do suggest, in line with the satirists, that Rome’s streets were cramped, crowded, and potentially hazardous. Civic processions, then, were a striking exception to the norm. In order to pass through town, some sort of ceremonial crowd control was necessary— a duty that lictors commonly discharged, during the republic at least. In the triumph of Aemilius Paullus, as conjured by Plutarch, “many attendants and lictors constrained the disorderly crowds streaming to the center and running about and provided open and clear roads” (Aem. 32.3 [LCL]).13 During the dictatorship of Caesar, a consul conducted a procession of praetors, tribunes, quaestors, and the whole senate arranged in proper order to deliver a raft of newly awarded honors to the autocrat—lictors led the way, pushing back the crowd on either side (Nic. Dam. 78 [Toher 2017, 110]). In fact, lictors seem to have regularly carved out space for their magistrates on even mundane promenades, while the retinue of the rich might similarly elbow aside human traffic obstructions.14 Such were the prerogatives of the powerful. During the empire, soldiers (often the praetorian guard) cleared the streets and maintained order—at least for imperial ceremonies. Praetorian cohorts lined the square in front of their camp to greet the procession of the defeated but proud Caratacus during the reign of Claudius, while soldiers, in their parade best as it were, occupied the Forum during Nero’s return to Rome in 66 CE.15 Over three centuries later in 395 CE, soldiers in full panoply lined the streets of Milan during Honorius’s arrival before the emperor took up his third 12. Tab. Her. 56–72; on which see von Tilburg 2007, 128–31; Hartnett 2011, 147–48; and Kaiser 2011, 174–76; and more generally Laurence 2008, 87–106. 13. On ceremonial crowd control see Bell 2004, 218–20; and Favro 2008, 10–42, esp. 20–21. 14. E.g. Sen. Ep. 94.60; Mart. 3.46.4–6; and Juv. Sat. 3.128–129; on elite escorts see Östenberg 2015, 13–22; and on lictors as guards, see Livy 6.38.8; App. B Civ. 1.14–17 (58–72) and Plut. Ti. Gracch. 19. 15. Tac. Ann. 12.36.2; Dio Cass. 63.4; and see also Tac. Ann. 16.27 (soldiers as crowd control for the trial of Thrasea Paetus).

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consulship (in 396; Claud. Pan. Ter. Hon. 133–141).16 Lictors, soldiers, and other attendants likely performed a similar service when Rome’s magistrates or emperors conducted a pompa circensis. Someone (perhaps seconded by a physical barrier) had to keep the street clear for the procession to pass. It surely would have been a ritual error if the surging crowds knocked down (a statue of) Jupiter Optimus Maximus while in a rush to get to the butcher shop or find a bite for lunch. In fact, such crowd control was probably part of the show—soldiers in their gleaming panoply would certainly have stood out. In addition to lictors and soldiers (probably), the Tabula Heracleensis, which otherwise embargoed heavy cart traffic during the day, carved out an exception for the plostra or plaustra of the ludi circenses. That is, on a normal day, “no-one … in the day-time, after sunrise or before the tenth hour of the day, is to lead or drive a cart” on the streets of Rome, or even within one mile of the city—except those related to temple construction (Tab. Her. 55–56, trans. Crawford). But on race days, “whatever carts it shall be necessary to bring or drive, (for the sake) of the games [plostra ludorum] … or for the procession at the ludi circenses [pompam ludeis circiensibus]” were exempt from the ban (Tab. Her. 64–65, trans. Crawford). The statute may have envisioned carts filled with fodder for the horses, but the carts for the procession may have been a very different kind of wheeled vehicle. In this case, plostra may signal tensae, processional chariots used nearly exclusively in the pompa circensis. Indeed for Tertullian, plaustrum (plostrum) and tensa were synonymous: “Even if one draws only one tensa, nevertheless it is the plaustrum of Jupiter” (De spect. 7.5 [LCL]; Latham 2016, 56–59, 61–65, and 74). During a pompa circensis, an ordinary walk was transformed into an extraordinary ritual by a number of strategies: strict adherence to a previously encoded ritual script that included certain rules, archaism or concern for tradition, formality or choreography both formal and not so formal, and invariance imagined or otherwise. In addition, the procession was granted right-of-way or even a temporary monopoly on some of downtown’s Rome’s most prominent streets, passing unimpeded through the day-to-day grind of Rome’s crowds, which were (probably) pushed back by lictors and others. What is more, the sacred chariots (tensae) seem to have been given a specific exemption from the ban on heavy wheeled traffic during the early daylight hours. Taken all together, no one would have confused the pompa circensis with a trip to the market. The procession was, one might say, strongly ritualized.

16. On the late antique adventus at Rome, see Latham 2021.

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5.2. “The Fourth Feature: Performance (Ritual and Other Performance Forms)” In the end, however, “unless there is a performance there is no ritual,” as Rappaport insisted (1999, 37). A sacrifice listed in an inscription, depicted in an image, exegeted by an “antiquarian”—or even analyzed by a modern historian—was not a ritual (though it is evidence of and about ritual practice). A ritual must be executed and it must also be executed in the right way. For example, in the mid-third century CE, Flavia Publicia, a virgo vestalis maxima, was praised not only for her moral virtues (a necessary component of ritual performance, as Valerius Maximus insisted), but also for the ceremonious and attentive way that she conducted the sacred rites.17 That is to say, Flavia Publicia performed the proper rituals and she did so in the proper way. Similarly, Roman strategies of ritualization not only determined what act should be done, but it also shaped how that act should be done. Such structuration extended beyond choreography to the performance of a Roman self. The president of the games, for example, had a role to perform in the pompa circensis, but there does not seem to have been any formal protocol (except, almost certainly, for the sacrifice at the conclusion the procession). Rather, his performance was molded by the mandates of social identity. As the Goffman (1959, 55) noted, “everyday secular performances [or presentations of self in everyday life] … must often pass a strict test of aptness, fitness, propriety, and decorum.” As Goffman (75) continued, “A status, a position, a social place is not a material thing, to be possessed and then displayed; it is a pattern of appropriate conduct, coherent, embellished, and well articulated.” The various tests of propriety or patterns of appropriate conduct were not, of course, invented by the performer. Much like ritual according to Rappaport, codes of social conduct were encoded by others. As Judith Butler (1988, 526) argues, “the act that one does, the act that one performs, is, in a sense, an act that has been going on before one arrived on the scene. Hence, gender [and other forms of identity] is an act which has been rehearsed, much as a script survives the particular actors who make use of it, but which requires individual actors in order to be actualized and reproduced as reality once again.” In other words, the performance of social identity requires words and gestures scripted and choreographed by others as well as actors (or human subjects) to enunciate that script and enact its choreography. In most circumstances, this performance of social identity remains nonconscious, much like Pierre Bourdieu’s (1990, 53) habitus which he defined as “systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures, that is, as principles which gener17. CIL 6.32404 = ILS 4934 = EDCS-18100852; and Mueller 2002, esp. 108–47 (ritual and morality).

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ate and organize practices and representations that can be objectively adapted to their outcomes without presupposing a conscious aiming at ends.” The presentation of self in everyday life tends to unfold by rote. In the pompa circensis by contrast, the praeses ludorum knew he was on stage, performing before an audience that might number in the hundreds of thousands. During the procession, his performance of social identity was perhaps more marked, more self-conscious, and perhaps also more consequential (the larger the stage and audience, the higher the stakes). Though the president of the games did not have an actual script, thankfully he did have a costume and some props with which to pull off the act. By the early fourth century BCE, according to Livy, “those who conduct the tensae” (the president of the games who conducted the pompa circensis) wore the same majestic regalia as those who celebrated a triumph (5.41.2 [LCL]; and Latham 2016, 25–27). By the high empire, the praeses wore a crown (or rather a public slave held it above his head), a tradition that may stretch back to the republic, and he also carried a scepter, another possible republican tradition (Juv. 10.36–46; and Latham 2016, 152–55). In addition, the president rode at the head of the procession, probably, in a biga (a two-horse chariot)—while emperors seem to have driven quadrigae.18 Apart from hieratic gestures to the crowd, all the editor of the games needed to do was drive his chariot to the arena, resplendent in triumphal or circensian attire and towering above the crowds. Tragically, not every editor could pull this off—in 500 BCE, Manius Tullius was said to have fallen from his chariot during the procession and died three days later (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 5.57.5). Amazingly, this tragedy does not seem to have been considered a ritual error—the games were not repeated. Likewise, the aediles, who organized the games and who were positioned just before the gods in the procession, were given both costumes and props: they were granted purple garments and royal insignia in the procession and an ivory seat in the arena (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 6.95.4). The traditional costume was insufficiently flashy for some. In 58 BCE, Marcus Scaurus traded in the customary robes for a specially chosen costume (Val. Max. 2.4.6). Perhaps he felt that the time-honored garb was ill-suited for how he wanted to play the role of aedile. Whatever the case, this costume change demonstrates that even a supposedly invariant ritual, like the pompa circensis, could change, as Rappaport (1999, 36–37) noted. In fact, all performances change from one iteration to the next. While the president and aediles performed their roles following (for the most part) a soft-spoken, social script, the Roman youth had a more fulsome set of stage directions. Civic officials (the editor and aediles) played parts based 18. On the chariot, see Livy 45.1.7; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 5.57.5; and Plin. HN 34.20; on emperors in quadrigae, see Latham 2016, 197–202; and Gailliot 2011, who rightly argues that Dionysius of Halicarnassus did not actually write that the editor led the way—though he probably did.

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on their office, while the young men were assigned roles that they were not necessarily already playing. As Dionysius of Halicarnassus noted, the young men were explicitly divided into troops and squadrons or divisions and companies according their parents’ census categories—a (theoretically) quinquennial ritual that classified citizens of Rome according to wealth and associated military duties, rich kids on horseback (cavalry), poor ones on foot (infantry).19 These categories, like the cortege of young men as a whole, might have been something of a throwback to an earlier age during the empire, but the census remained a key element of the Roman social imaginary, an important means by which Romans imagined their own society. And so, in a way, the Roman youth were assigned (or initiated into) roles that they would come to play as adults and were also provided the props and perhaps also costumes to perform as if they were going to the training ground. The magistrates (and the competitors and contestants for that matter) reprised social performances in the pompa circensis, though perhaps they played their parts more self-consciously as their costumes and props heightened the theatricality of it all. By contrast, the Roman youth (and seemingly also both choruses of dancers) had specific roles assigned for the procession—roles that they might not play elsewhere. Their performance, too, was likely more selfconscious as their stage directions (division into census categories or choreography) and likely also their costumes and props (horses if nothing else) highlighted the staged quality of the ritual and so focused attention on the presentation of self. The pompa circensis was a spectacle after all—and a performance is to be seen. Indeed, the organizers of the processions often went to great lengths to produce a spectacular parade, one that would capture the attention of gods and humans. Aediles attempted to gain fame by exhibiting exotic animals, including unusually tall humans—efforts that were both well-known and sometimes mocked.20 In addition to novelty performers as well as costumes and props, the itinerary was also rendered more splendid (beyond crowd control or ritualized logistics): the Forum was adorned with shields (and other ornaments) at times, while the vicus Tuscus (or some stretch of the route) was covered with a canopy, a nod to religious obligation as well as, it would seem, spectator comfort—oddly, awnings were absent from the Circus Maximus itself.21 The processions, among other spectacles and entertainments, produced by Julius Caesar during his term as aedile seem to have set a new standard as Caesarian

19. For an overview of the census procedure, see Nicolet 1980, 49–88; and on its significance, see especially Hopkins 1991, 479–98, esp. 490–91; and also Marco Simón 2006, 153–66. 20. E.g. Columella, Rust. 3.8.2: a tall Jew; and Plaut. Poen. 1010–1012: African mice for the aediles. 21. Livy 9.40.15–17; Macrob. Sat. 1.6.15; and Plut. Rom. 5.5; Humphrey 1986, 101, 122–24, and 210; Latham 2016, 36–39 and 83–84.

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opulence overwhelmed Roman culture memory—though imperial spectacle, including elephants drawing elaborate carts carrying statues of deified emperors or pulling ornate chariots with living emperors, was perhaps even more extravagant.22 The pompa circensis was indeed a performance—it needed to be performed, and performed in the right way (as both ritual and spectacle), by individuals who were performing their social identities. 5.3. Conclusion Like other cultures, ancient Romans developed a series of strategies to distinguish and privilege certain acts over others. In short, Romans ritualized certain practices—practices that are now often simply called rituals. A number of Roman strategies of ritualization appear to be common to a wide-range of rituals (or ritualized practices): an emphasis on a preexisting ritual script (“encoding by other than performers”), stylized behavior or choreography (“formality [as decorum]”), and supposedly unchanging procedures and practices (“invariance [more or less]”). Many liturgical orders, a term that is almost synonymous with ritual for Rappaport, share these features—perhaps most notably the Mass of the Roman rite. Of course, what was encoded and by whom, the ritualized gestures, and the invariant acts were particular to Rome, derived from a Roman ritual habitus as it were. Indeed, to construe encoding by other than performers as ancient (or even primordial) practice was an important element of the Roman social imaginary and so also Roman identity. Other Roman modes of ritual differentiation were specific to a given ritual form; for example, parades demanded ritualized logistics. Put together and put into action, these strategies and modes of ritualization transformed a walk through town into a Roman ritual procession. As Rappaport (1999, 37, 38) insisted, “liturgical orders [rituals] are realized—made into res—only by being performed.… The act of performance is itself a part of the order performed, or, to put it a little differently, the manner of ‘saying’ and ‘doing’ is intrinsic to what is being said and done.” That is, one must not only perform the proper ritual (according to the codes of ritualization), but one must perform it in the proper way (according to the various relevant norms of performance). Otherwise, the ritual would not be the right ritual. In other words, in a ritual, each participant has a role to play if the ritual is to be done correctly. Indeed, the performance of social identity (the presentation of self) in ritual contexts may be more marked, more self-conscious (and so more consequential) than everyday life. As Smith (1987, 103) argued, “Ritual is, first and foremost, a mode of paying attention”—including, I would argue, attention to oneself. The participants in a pompa circensis were likely more 22. Plut. Caes. 5.5; and see also Suet. Iul. 10; and Plin. HN 19.23; and on elephants, see e.g. RIC I2 Tiberius #56, 62, and 68; and RIC 6 Roma #217; on which further Latham 2016, 115–28 and 197–99.

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aware of and sensitive to how they performed their particular roles—whether it was a role determined elsewhere or specific to the procession. From the praeses ludorum to the competitors in the games, the parade participants had to know they were on stage, and a large one at that, and so performed accordingly. The performance of the pompa circensis, assembled by various Roman strategies of ritualization, structured the performance of Roman identity. In the end, the strategies of ritualization employed or, better, performed at Rome offer insights to Roman tenets of ritual theology. In Roman civic religion, at least, Romans took great pains to do the right ritual (the properly ritualized practice) in the right way (the proper performance of rite, the proper performance of self) at the right time in the right place. References Ando, Clifford. 2008. The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. Beard, Mary, John North, and Simon R. F. Price. 1998. Religions of Rome. Vol. 1: History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bell, Andrew. 2004. Spectacular Power in the Greek and Roman City. New York: Oxford University Press. Bell, Catherine. 1992. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Bernstein, Frank. 1998. Ludi publici: Untersuchungen zur Entstehung und Entwicklung der öffentlichen Spiele im republikanische Rom. Historia Einzelschriften 119. Stuttgart: Steiner. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1990. The Logic of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Butler, Judith. 1988. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal 40:519–31. https://doi. org/10.2307/3207893. Connelly, Joan Breton. 2011.“Ritual Movement through Greek Sacred Space: Towards an Archaeology of Performance.” Pages 313–46 in Ritual Dynamics in the Ancient Mediterranean: Agency, Emotion, Gender, Representation. Edited by Angelos Chaniotis. Stuttgart: Steiner. Crawford, Michael. 1996. Roman Statutes, Volume 1. London: Institute of Classical Studies, University of London. Dupont, Florence. 1993. “Ludions, lydioi: Les danseurs de la pompa circensis; Exégese et discours sur l’origine des jeux a Rome.” Pages 189–210 in Spectacles sportifs et scéniques dans le monde étrusco-italique: Actes de la table ronde. Collection de l’École française de Rome 172. Rome: École française de Rome. Eder, Walter. 1990. “Augustus and the Power of Tradition: The Augustan Principate as Binding Link between Republic and Empire.” Pages 71–122 in Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and His Principate. Edited by Kurt Raaflaub and Mark Toher. Berkeley: University of California Press. https://doi. org/10.1525/9780520914513-006. Favro, Diane. 2008. “The Festive Experience: Roman Processions in the Urban Context.” Pages 10–42 in Festival Architecture. Edited by Sarah Bonnemaison and Christine Macy. New York: Routledge.

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Gabba, Emilio. 1991. Dionysius and The History of Archaic Rome. Sather Classical Lectures. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gailliot, Antoine. 2009. “Une impiété volontaire? La procession des jeux et le problème de l’instauratio.” Pages 89–96 in Rituels et transgressions de l’antiquité à nos jours. Edited by Geneviève Hoffmann and Antoine Gailliot. Amiens: Encrage. ———. 2011. “La place de l’editor dans la procession des jeux.” Cahiers Mondes anciens 2. https://doi.org/10.4000/mondesanciens.634. Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New York: Anchor Books. Hartnett, Jeremy. 2011. “The Power of Nuisances on the Roman Street.” Pages 135–59 in Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space. Edited by Ray Laurence and David J. Newsome. New York: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:os obl/9780199583126.003.0006. ———. 2017. The Roman Street: Urban Life and Society in Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Rome. New York: Cambridge University Press. Hopkins, Keith. 1991. “From Violence to Blessing: Symbols and Rituals in Ancient Rome.” Pages 479–98 in City States in Classical Antiquity and Medieval Italy: Athens and Rome, Florence and Venice. Edited by Anthony Molho, Kurt Raaflaub, and Julia Emlen. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Humphrey, John. 1986. Roman Circuses: Arenas for Chariot Racing. London: Batsford, 1986. Jannot, Jean-René. 1992. “Les danseurs de la pompa du cirque: Témoignages textuels et iconographiques.” REL 70:56–68. Kaiser, Alan. 2011. “Cart Traffic Flow in Pompeii and Rome.” Pages 174–93 in Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space. Edited by Ray Laurence and David J. Newsome. New York: Oxford University Press. Latham, Jacob. 2016. Performance, Memory, and Processions in Ancient Rome: The Pompa Circensis from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2021. “Rolling Out the Red Carpet, Roman-Style: The Arrival at Rome from Constantine to Charlemagne.” Pages 109–48 in Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Edited by Gregor Kalas and Ann Dijk. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. https://doi. org/10.1515/9789048541492-006. Laurence, Ray. 1997. “Writing the Roman Metropolis.” Pages 1–20 in Roman Urbanism: Beyond the Consumer City. Edited by Helen Parkins. New York: Routledge. ———. 2008. “City Traffic and the Archaeology of Roman Streets from Pompeii to Rome.” Pages 87–106 in Stadtverkehr in der antiken Welt: Internationales Kolloquium zur 175-Jahrfeier des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Rom, 21. bis 23. April 2004. Edited by Dieter Mertens. Palilia 11. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2006. “Ritual Participation and Collective Identity in the Roman Republic: Census and Lustrum.” Pages 153–66 in Repúblicas y ciudadanos: Modelos de participación cívica en el mundo antiguo. Edited by Francisco Marco Simón, Francisco Pina Polo, and José Remesal Rodríguez. Barcelona: Publicacions i Edicions de la Universitat de Barcelona. McDonnell, Myles. 2006. Roman Manliness: Virtus and the Roman Republic. New York: Cambridge University Press.

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Mueller, Hans-Friedrich. 2002. Roman Religion in Valerius Maximus. New York: Routledge. Nicolet, Claude. 1980. The World of the Citizen in Republican Rome. Translated by P. S. Falla. Berkeley: University of California Press. North, J. A. 1976. “Conservatism and Change in Roman Religion.” PBSR 44:1–12. Östenberg, Ida. 2015. “Power Walks: Aristocratic Escorted Movements in Republican Rome.” Pages 13–22 in The Moving City: Processions, Passages, and Promenades in Ancient Rome. Edited by Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg, and Jonas Bjørnebye. New York: Bloomsbury. http://dx.doi.org/10.5040/9781474219235.ch-001. O’Sullivan, Timothy. 2011. Walking in Roman Culture. New York: Cambridge University Press. Rappaport, Roy A. 1999. Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rasmussen, Susanne William. 2003. Public Portents in Republican Rome. Rome: Bretschneider. Salzman, Michele Renee. 1990. On Roman Time: The Codex-Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity. The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 17. Berkeley: University of California Press. Scheid, John. 2003. “Religion romaine et spiritualité.” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 5:198–209. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110234213.198. ———. 2007. “Les sens des rites: L’exemple romain.” Pages 39–71 in Rites et croyances dans les religions du monde romain. Edited by John Scheid and Corinne Bonnet. Geneva: Fondation Hardt. Schultze, Clemence. 2004. “Dionysius of Halicarnassus: Greek Origins and Roman Games (AR 7.70–73).” Pages 93–105 in Games and Festivals in Classical Antiquity: Proceedings of the Conference Held in Edinburgh, 10–12 July 2000. Edited by Sinclair Bell and Glenys Davies. BARIS 1220. Oxford: Archaeopress. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1987. To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Taylor, Lilly Ross. 1924. “Seviri Equitum Romanorum and Municipal Seviri: A Study in Pre-Military Training among the Romans.” JRS 14:158–71. https://doi. org/10.2307/296331. ———. 1937. “The Opportunities for Dramatic Performances in the Time of Plautus and Terence.” TAPA 68:284–304. https://doi.org/10.2307/283270. van Tilburg, Cornelius. 2007. Traffic and Congestion in the Roman Empire. New York: Routledge. Toher, Mark, ed. 2017. Nicolaus of Damascus: The Life of Augustus and The Autobiography, Edited with Introduction, Translations, and Historical Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. 2008. Rome’s Cultural Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wendt, Heidi. 2016. At the Temple Gates: The Religion of Freelance Experts in the Roman Empire. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Nearness and Experience in a Network of Roman Amphitheaters Sebastian Heath This chapter uses a dataset of Roman amphitheaters plausibly in use during the second century CE to consider the extent to which relative nearness of these structures to each other could have influenced the experience of attending events within them. The selection of which amphitheaters to include in the discussion is made clear as the construction of amphitheaters in Roman territory was a continuous process leading to a peak in numbers in the second century. The discussion uses network analysis—specifically network degree, or number of connections to nearby amphitheaters—to estimate the total number of amphitheater seats that are themselves relatively near-to-other-amphitheater seats. The paper intends to be clear about the nature of the calculations on which it is based and emphasizes that only estimates are possible. Within this constraint, it is likely that the number and nearness of seats in central Italy and the nearest parts of North Africa was sufficiently greater than in other regions to make the experience of watching beast hunts, executions, and gladiatorial combat in these regions qualitatively different than in other parts of the empire. This observation implicates the understanding of amphitheaters as a stable category of Roman material culture. The data and code on which the discussion is based are both available for download. Keywords: Roman amphitheaters, network analysis, mapping, reproducible research

B

y the end of the second century CE, during which time the Roman Empire reached and then pulled back from its maximum territorial expansion, the great majority of the Roman amphitheaters that were to be built were in place, though it is the case that some of these structures had already gone out of use by the century’s end. Accordingly, the second century is the focus here, and it is by using a dataset of amphitheaters plausibly still serving their original purpose over that span that this chapter will pursue two main avenues of discussion. First, this chapter is intended as an example of bringing data to bear on humanistic problems so that the mechanics of how it proceeds will be one

Versions of this paper were given to the Big Ancient Mediterranean conference organized by Sarah Bond and Paul Dilley at the University of Iowa and at the session “Big Data and Ancient Religion: Gods in Our Machines?” organized by the editors of this volume at the 2018 meetings of the Archaeological Institute of America. I am grateful to the editors for the invitation to that event and for the opportunity to further develop the ideas I broached there. The two anonymous readers encouraged even greater clarity and I am particularly grateful to them. All dates are in the Common Era unless otherwise noted.

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aspect that receives attention. But describing method and process is not the end goal. The role of amphitheaters in sustaining a shared experience within the territory of the Roman Empire is the underlying historical question. It is worth noting at the outset that this role is uneven when spatial distribution is taken into account, and likewise noting that this assessment is already built into the study of amphitheaters and their role in the Roman world. These two themes come together in that the discussion here will stress the importance of the spatial relationships of amphitheaters to one another. To what extent does any single amphitheater sustain an experience because there are others nearby? What are the implications for Rome as a territorial empire that many amphitheaters are relatively isolated from similar structures? These are general questions that allow network analysis, which is the main digital method brought to bear in this chapter, to sustain a data-informed perspective when considering the amphitheater as a specific physical context for past human behavior within a complex political and social entity. The discussion that follows consists of four main parts. In the first, the nature of the choices involved in compiling a dataset of amphitheaters in use in the second century is made clear. A brief discussion of a selection of specific decisions highlights that no one set of amphitheaters can be taken as canonical for all purposes. That discussion of data collection is followed by mapping second-century amphitheaters as well as the creation of a computationally actionable network of these structures. The key to creating this network is choosing a distance in kilometers that implies that two amphitheaters are meaningfully near to each other. A combination of ancient evidence and visualization of the set of all interamphitheater distances suggests 150 km as a useful threshold, though it is stressed that the data from which this number is derived is freely available online so that the computational processes described here can be repeated, as well as adapted, using a different threshold. With this network in place, the distribution of highly connected and relatively isolated amphitheaters is illustrated by mapping and data visualization. The next section presents a short selection of evidence that speaks to the experience inside amphitheaters. It is dependent on prior work, but does emphasize the role of the crowd and the creation of a specific visual and aural context for watching various forms of staged violence. The fourth major section remains within the amphitheater by incorporating estimates of seating capacity into the network and into the analyses that proceed from that network. While the first section builds on the existing awareness that amphitheaters are concentrated in Roman Italy and nearby regions, this last section shows that this aspect is amplified when seating capacity in taken into consideration. It is primarily in Italy that the seating in any one amphitheater is near hundreds of thousands of other seats in other structures. While deriving meaning from this observation requires some speculation, the concluding remarks of this paper suggest that this restricted concentration of seats means that the experience of visiting an

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amphitheater would have been distinctive in Italy and the central region of Africa Proconsularis, which in turn has implications for understanding amphitheaters as a component of a widespread Roman cultural experience during the high empire. With this preview of the substance of this chapter in place, a few more general remarks are warranted before turning to counting, mapping, and networking amphitheaters. This is particularly the case in a volume that collects perspectives well beyond the frequently specialized study of this very Roman architectural form. As a matter of terminology, this chapter uses “amphitheater” to refer to permanent, generally stone-built, large, oval structures, often seating upward of ten-thousand spectators, and intended for the display of gladiatorial combat—that is, two individuals fighting each other with potentially, if uncommonly, deadly outcome—and for display of judicial executions and staged beast hunts (Dodge 2014a). None of these three activities took place only in amphitheaters. Gladiatorial combats were held in repurposed theaters in the Greek East and also in temporary structures in towns of the West and elsewhere (Balch 2016, Dodge 2014b, Mann 2009). The same is true of fights involving animals, whether against each other or against human adversaries. And it is certainly the case that amphitheaters had no exclusive role as venues for public execution (de Angelis 2010; Noreña 2013). Crucifixion, beheading, burning, and other means of capital punishment could be imposed in a variety of settings; and the effect of all these displays of violence was found throughout Roman society (Edmondson 2020). The crowd in attendance at amphitheaters played a role in the experience of any one individual who was watching these entertainments. Saint Augustine wrote in the late fourth century that when his student Alypius was dragged unwillingly by friends to the amphitheater in Carthage, he at first resisted participating and shut his eyes. But after opening them in response to a sudden cry among the crowd: he saw that blood, he drank deep of its barbarity and did not turn himself away but fixed his gaze and drank in the torments and was unaware, and found gratification in the wickedness of the contest, and became drunk on the pleasures of blood. Now he was no longer the same person as when he had come. He was one of the crowd that he had joined, a true companion of the friends who had taken him there. (Confessions 6.8; LCL)

Even accounting for Augustine’s bias against gladiatorial entertainments and clear discomfort with the loss of individual control that is equated with drunkenness, he is not likely wrong that those in the audience did lose themselves in the companionship of the crowd as violence peaked. It also seems right to say that they enjoyed doing so, that is, being part of a crowd is part of the fun. Engaging with this aspect of Roman spectacle, Garrett Fagan has written:

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Sebastian Heath Armed with an understanding of how people are excited by watching sport, we can revisit gladiatorial combats and analyze them as psychological stimuli analogous to sports spectaculars. (I recognize that doing so underplays their religious significance, but the entire issue of how “religious” or not munera were is poorly evidenced and hotly debated.) (2011, 209)

The pairing of an ancient Christian writer whose work is inherently religious with a modern commentator emphasizing a psychological perspective creates an interpretative space within Roman amphitheater that is open to multiple views. To the extent this volume has as one of its concerns the application of computationally informed approaches to the study of ancient religion, this chapter does not assert that such digital approaches reduce our answers to hotly debated questions to the same true/false distinction that underlies digital data. I also don’t intend to engage closely with the older thread of scholarship that asks if amphitheaters and the violence they put on display are directly preservers of traditional Roman religion drawn forward from the Republican period when gladiatorial combat became part of funerary ritual (Edmondson 1996, Moeller 1970, 91, Piganiol 1923, 126). Instead, I hope to show that computational approaches encourage open-ended questions rather than reductive conclusions (White 2010). Some of those questions can be answered and some questions are themselves the framework for understanding the variability of human response to the specialized environment that was the Roman amphitheater. One framework for the discussion here is the existing scholarship on the importance of amphitheaters within the Roman Empire. The bibliography is vast and it encompasses many approaches and disciplines. In response, these introductory paragraphs cite only a very small selection so as to indicate that minimal and maximal interpretations remain current. A minimal view is sometimes expressed by scholars looking directly at the phenomenon. Ray Laurence, Simon Esmonde Cleary, and Gareth Sears, in a book focused on the empire’s western cities, write in their chapter on amphitheaters that, “At an Empire-wide level, the fact that so many cities did not possess an amphitheatre makes it difficult to claim that it was an essential component of the city” (2011, 280–81). I agree. They continue by noting that in Africa Proconsularis and Gaul, amphitheaters were “distinguishing features” that marked some cities in those provinces apart from others; and that in central and northern Italy amphitheaters, “must have been a key feature of urbanism.” They add the analytical comment that “the law, leisure and religion were all tied to the structure.” Repeating that amphitheaters were not essential, they do conclude that the presence of one nonetheless “enhanced the standing of a place” (281). This overview suggests that amphitheaters should be left off any list of necessary and standardized components of Roman urbanism if an empire-wide perspective is intended (e.g., Noreña 2013, 541; Garnsey and Saller 2015, 218). Taking a more maximal view, Johannes Hahn invokes the broader symbolism of amphitheaters and the role of these structures in the self-

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conception of the Roman city generally in his chapter “Rituals of Killing” (2017). I again paraphrase and quote in the hope of doing justice to the original context. After noting the role of the Colosseum in Rome as providing a stage for the performance of Roman “victoriousness,” Hahn writes that: The monumentalization of amphitheatres in stone and marble under the Empire signaled the definite establishment of the munera in urban public life as privileged and highly popular entertainment for the Roman population. (2017, 41)

He adds that by providing the “sole space” for regular performance of munera, the amphitheater, “unmistakably stood as a monumental marker of Roman identity.” A marker that “dominated urban prospects.” Furthermore, “In imperial times, most major cities in the Latin West possessed amphitheatres and regularly organized spectacula.” This is not a zero-sum game. The presence of the largest amphitheater in the Roman world in the imperial capital, whose construction was likely funded by spoils captured during the Jewish Wars under Vespasian (CIL VI 4054a; Alföldy 1995; Bodel 2001, 47; Bond 2019), creates interpretive opportunities that have been properly pursued. And clearly the imperially sponsored violence put on display in the Flavian Amphitheater should not be too rigidly separated from the military violence that is one of the expressions of power that a Roman emperor could deploy throughout Roman territory as a whole (Noreña 2010, 543; Dench 2018, 107). Even though gladiators were not soldiers, it is the case that violence, entertainment, and politics did go hand-in-hand. Looking beyond amphitheaters as a specific architectural form, it is right to say that imperial Rome—the city—killed on an “enormous scale” (Kyle 1998, 2) and that deadly violence was integrated into its annual ritual (Kyle 1998, ch. 7). But symbolism and ideas are easier to gather and communicate than massive buildings are to construct, so that amphitheaters as a specific and immersive materialization of this nexus of political and social interaction are not a universal presence throughout Roman territory. Rather than an interpretive obstacle, this uneven distribution is an opportunity to bring a quantitatively informed approach to the characterization of the distribution of amphitheaters in the second century. This is the approach that the following paragraphs will pursue. 6.2. Counting and Mapping Second Century Amphitheaters In all, approximately 260 structures that can be identified as amphitheaters were built within Roman territory. Within this set there is variability, both in terms of the form of the buildings that are included and in how many amphitheaters were in use at any one time. In terms of form, the approach here is somewhat permissive. As noted above, the focus is on structures that create largely complete circuits of sloping rows of seats and that had the display

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of gladiatorial combat and related events as their original purpose. Accordingly, purpose-built theaters that were later adapted for display of combat are excluded. Nonetheless, the so-called Gallo-Roman amphitheaters, which have incomplete circuits of seating, that likely fit my chronological bound of the second century are usually included.1 There is of course much that can be said about typological variation when it comes to construction techniques (Golvin 1988), but that level of detail falls outside the intended scope here. The utility, indeed the necessity, of considering a particular chronological period is easily demonstrated and is a consideration that extends beyond the study of amphitheaters (Poehler 2017, 202). The Flavian Amphitheater in Rome was in operation by 80 CE during the reign of Vespasian’s son Titus. That date comes after the later months of 79 CE when the amphitheater at Pompeii was no longer in use following the destruction of the city during the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Matching these events means that in 79 CE, some twenty-thousand amphitheater seats were lost in Pompeii not long before approximately fifty thousand came into regular use at Rome. Such specific balancing of additions and subtractions is not usually possible. The immediacy by which the large Anfiteatro Campano replaced its nearby predecessor is not known with precision (Tuck 2007). Nonetheless, it is useful to offer further examples of change in number of amphitheaters over time. In Italy, the amphitheater at Forum Novum was abandoned by the early third century (British School at Rome 2006). Accordingly, a distribution map that includes that structure can with reason exclude the large amphitheater built at El Jem in Tunisia, ancient Thysdrus, by 235, which is not part of the discussion here. That “dot,” however, remains on the maps due to the presence of an earlier smaller amphitheater in this important provincial town. Reassessment of archaeological work at Trier dates the construction of that amphitheater to after 200 CE, meaning I exclude it (Kuhnen 2009, 99). The amphitheater at Bordeaux had previously been dated to the third century but is now assigned the early second (Hourcade 2013). Likewise, there is now greater confidence, though not certainty, that the large neolithic feature at Maumbury in England that was repurposed as an amphitheater in the Flavian period continued in use past the second century (Wilmott 2008, 107). Archaeological fieldwork at the amphitheater at Viminacium, now in Serbia, indicates that it “was built in the first quarter of the second century, and that it was used until the turn of the third and fourth centuries AD” (Nikolić and Bogdanović 2015, 547). This chronological range, which is not unusual for amphitheaters, means the structure is used here. It is also the case that amphitheaters continue to be identified, with examples now newly known at Torreparedones in Baetica (Monterroso-Checa 2016) and at Volterra in Italy (Battini and Sorge 2017). The identification of an amphitheater at Mastaura in Turkey 1. I have gone back-and-forth on whether or not to include these structures. If excluded, the extremes of distribution that I discuss below are all accentuated.

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in August of 2020 does not affect this discussion as that structure has been dated to the Severan period (Aydın İl Kültür ve Turizm Müdürlüğü 2021; Gershon 2021). Of course, the inherent uncertainty of archaeological interpretation persists. The small circuit of seats at Portus identified as an amphitheater may fall outside the chronological range of this chapter (Keay, Parcak, and Strutt 2014; University of Southampton 2009) and is excluded. And of course, all these examples are only specifics in a larger picture. The general point, in so far as it affects the interpretation that follows, is that there is no single map of Roman amphitheaters that can stand in for all of Roman imperial history. There were under 20 largely stone amphitheaters at the beginning of the reign of Augustus (Welch 2007) and approximately 240 in use in the mid to late second century. Accordingly, it is that second century period of maximal amphitheater use—or “peak amphitheater”—that is the focus here. It is not just because it would take up too much space that reporting the reasons for including or excluding each known amphitheater from the narrative that follow can be limited. Fundamental to this work is that all the data it is based on is available for download and reuse on the data-sharing site GitHub. Additionally, the Python code that generates the maps and charts below is also on GitHub, as well as deposited with the EU-sponsored archiving site Zenodo. org.2 Taking these steps is in the interest of putting into practice the principles of reproducible research, which are of increasing importance in archaeological practice and related fields (Marwick et al. 2017). The use of the term here is expansive. The computational processes can not only be reproduced but also easily changed in response to different decisions by different scholars (Heath 2021). This is adaptable research that can be a starting point for work by others. Any readers who do look at the data directly will see that amphitheaters designated as not having been in use during the second century are marked as excluded. Editing these choices, rerunning the code, and assessing how that might affect the interpretations here is possible. Building on a point made above, it is inherent in this approach and in the publication of the underlying data that there is no one distribution of Roman amphitheaters that can serve all purposes. A dynamic and developing infrastructure for the display of violence is a useful way to describe the phenomenon of amphitheaters in the empire, rather than to invoke them as a timeless symbol of Roman imperial culture and power. Because of this dynamism, choices were made in the process of this writing, but other authors can choose differently as they pursue different goals (Hanson and Ortman 2020, 424; Hugget 2020). The end result of the considerations described above means that 246 amphitheaters plausibly in use during the second century form the dataset used in what follows. Figure 6.1 is a map that shows the distribution of these structures. 2. See https://github.com/roman-amphitheaters/roman-amphitheaters; and https://doi.org/ 10.5281/zenodo.4542553.

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Figure 6.1. Map of Roman amphitheaters presumed to be in use in the second century.

It is visual support for one of the basic tenets of the study of amphitheaters that has already been discussed. There are many more in the central Mediterranean—specifically Italy and the near part of Africa Proconsularis (roughly corresponding to the northern region of modern Tunisia)—and in Gaul, Hispania, and Britain than there are in the eastern Mediterranean. Another fundamental aspect of their distribution is that they appear only in Roman territory. To be very specific, the amphitheater at Newstead in Scotland is north of Hadrian’s wall, so in an area not always firmly under Roman control. Additionally, the unusual amphitheater at Mauretanian Caesarea was built while under Roman hegemony, rather than direct rule; but that circumstance was no longer the case by the second century, by which time the provincial system of direct Roman control had long been in place. A map showing only dots captures spatial distribution. Simple data visualization highlights a further aspect of the set of second-century Roman amphitheaters: most of them are relatively small in comparison to the egregiously large Flavian Amphitheater in Rome. Figure 6.2 is an index plot of maximum exterior dimensions of the included amphitheaters for which that measurement is known. The vertical axis shows the length, and each amphitheater is ordered along the horizontal axis by ascending values of this measurement. The relatively constant slope in the middle of the resulting curve indicates that half of all amphitheaters fall between 76 and 115 m in length. This is in comparison

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Figure 6.2. Index plot of known exterior second century CE amphitheater lengths.

to 156 m, the maximum exterior length of the Flavian Amphitheater, which is represented by the last dot at the upper right of the figure. Figure 6.3 is a box plot of the same data. Fifty percent of amphitheaters fall within the box and the horizontal line in the box represents the mean value. The small dot above the top “whisker” represents the exterior maximum length of the Flavian Amphitheater; again, it is egregious in this particular visualization.3 Index plots and box plots are basic tools of Exploratory Data Analysis (EDA) and have the advantage of being conceptually simple and robust. They are useful here because they highlight that the common experience of visiting an amphitheater

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Figure 6.3. Box plot of known exterior second century CE amphitheater exterior maximum lengths.

3. One note: the Python library Pandas that generates these visualizations is configurable so that it would be possible to extend the upper bar to include the Flavian Amphitheater. This is a reminder that data visualizations do not reveal an underlying truth. They are interpretations and also new starting points that should themselves be subject to critique; Drucker 2011; White 2010.

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is not to be found in structures such as the Flavian Amphitheater. It is rather the smaller structures that are typical of the category. Maximum exterior dimension is a useful first measurement to introduce here because it is knowable with confidence when the outer circuit wall of an amphitheater is preserved, a circumstance that is not always the case. In what follows, estimates, and they are always only that, of the seating capacity of these public structures will come to the fore. But a prior step is to create a computationally actionable network of amphitheaters. 6.3. Networking Amphitheaters Writing within the context of bringing computational approaches to bear on the study of the ancient Mediterranean, and the Roman Empire in particular, a network is a specific form of digital representation that consists of nodes, which can correlate to any identifiable entity, and edges, which are connections between nodes that imply a meaningful relationship between them. There are of course more colloquial uses of “network” and of related terms that are relevant here. In general, such use highlights that many aspects of the Roman world can be described using the language that implies interaction between various elements. The Corrupting Sea (Horden and Purcell 2000) invigorated the study of connectivity in the Mediterranean and is relevant here because it disaggregated the region into smaller units with varying levels of interconnection. The specifics of connectivity in Mediterranean now underlies much work that span religious and cultural networks (see the contributions in Concannon and Mazurek 2016; Concannon 2021) The Stanford Orbis project has further confirmed connectivity as an important approach to studying the Roman world using digital tools, one that overlaps with the concept of network and with the vocabulary of network analysis (Scheidel 2014; Pettegrew 2012, Kowalzig 2018). The Roman road system is properly described as a network that supported communication between regions (C. Adams 2012, 229; Hitchner 2012). Roman trade is often conceived as moving along an economic network that is often more metaphorical (e.g., Rathbone 2007), and political and social networks have been identified in the Roman world (Noreña 2010, 543; citing among others Mann 1986–1993). These are just a few of the ways the term “network” has become central to the modern terminology of Roman studies. All these specific examples use the concept to imply or directly describe interaction between actual or conceptual entities, often along more or less physically manifest paths, with a consequence that denser networks, of any sort, are usually taken to imply increased activity. This is an easy segue to network analysis when the method is understood as the digital representation of interaction and the subsequent computational analysis of that interaction. Networks as a specific digital construct and network analysis as a specific methodology jointly continue to inform archaeological analysis in all fields

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(Brughmans 2018; Leidwanger et al. 2014) and remain current in Roman archaeology (Isaksen 2013, Leidwanger 2017). A key step in any network-analysis-based study is the creation of the network itself (Brughmans 2013; Brughmans and Poblome 2016, 256). A full survey of how that has been done in the context of the Roman world is beyond the scope of this chapter, though some review is useful. Studies that use the written evidence of surviving texts, papyri, or inscriptions to trace personal interaction adopt an approach similar to the social network analysis that has enabled modern social media (Ruffini 2009; Collar 2013). Here the nodes are often people and the written record shows communication that is represented as edges. Networks based on material evidence frequently give priority to the spatial component, which is of direct interest here. Brick stamps have shown a dense network of economic interaction in central Italy (Graham 2006). Looking further back in time than the Imperial period, similarity of material assemblage has been used to identify networks that correlate to ethnic identity in pre-Roman Italy (Blake 2014). In that study, edges were created between nodes only when sites were nearer to each other than fifty kilometers and shared categories of material culture, with a single cooccurrence being enough to establish an inferred link. In the eastern Mediterranean, the quantified presence of types of Roman tablewares has likewise been used to create networks based on a similarity coefficient, or numerical indicator of how similar any one assemblage within a group is to each one of the other assemblages (Brughmans 2018). Access to a similar assemblage of ceramic types is considered an indication of connected participation in an economic network. Such creation of a similarity matrix is a common technique in archaeologically oriented network analysis, and the choice of what threshold of similarity to accept as indicating a link between sites is a key decision (e.g., Birch and Hart 2018; Brughmans 2018, 190) that has a direct analog when creating a network of Roman amphitheaters. Again, a central decision in any network analysis is when to create edges between nodes, with that decision being an indication of meaningful interaction or other presumed relationship between them. This chapter takes a conceptually straightforward approach to turning the distribution of amphitheaters around Roman territory in the second century into a computationally actionable network structure of connected nodes. Unsurprisingly, every amphitheater is a node in the network. An edge is drawn between each amphitheater and all other amphitheaters that are near to it when distance is considered. Picking up on the language used above, choosing a distance that implies the presence of “meaningful interaction” between amphitheaters will be key. It is also important to note that there is risk of terminological confusion when bringing the ideas of spatial distance and nearness into a discussion that uses network analysis. “Closeness,” as a technical term in this form of analysis, is a measure of how many other nodes are on the shortest path between any two nodes in a network. That is not how the term would be

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used here. Spatial proximity is the focus so that forms of the term “near” are preferred. As with choosing a set of amphitheaters, there is no singularly correct approach to choosing a threshold distance, though some can be said to be wrong and this judgment is easy to illustrate. For example, it is a simple statement to say that every amphitheater in the set has a straight-line, so-called great circle, distance to every other amphitheater. The maximum distance between amphitheaters in the set used here is the 4,142 km that separate the town of Conimbriga in Hispania and the town of Palmyra in Syria (for the presence of an amphitheater there see Hammad 2008). That is not a meaningful number when establishing spatial relationships within the set of second century amphitheaters. It is simply too far and needs no further consideration in the current discussion. There are also amphitheaters that are within 10 km of each other; the paired amphitheaters in the towns of Aquincum and Carnuntum are examples. That measure of nearness is too high a bar in that it results in a network that consists almost entirely of unconnected nodes. There is some ancient evidence that contributes to setting a distance threshold when constructing a digital network of amphitheaters. In the first century, Pompeians saw advertisements for munera, meaning days in the amphitheater given over to violent entertainment that included gladiatorial combat, scheduled to take place in Herculaneum, Nucera, Nola, Cales, Puteoli, and Cumae (Sabbatini Tumolesi 1980, 91–110). The most distant of these cities from Pompeii, Cales is approximately sixty-five kilometers away, and all but Herculaneum, the nearest, may well have had amphitheaters at this time. In 27 CE spectators walked from Rome to Fidenae, less than twenty kilometers from the Roman Forum, to see gladiatorial combat in a temporary wooden amphitheater that then collapsed (Tac. Ann. 4.62–63; Bruun 2009, 132). According to Tacitus, this disaster killed or maimed 50,000 people, though that number seems high. The most famous evidence for the role of amphitheaters as a focus for intercommunity interaction is the riot of 59 CE between Pompeians and Nucerians that took place in the former’s amphitheater. That is attested by a wall painting at Pompeii (in house I.3.23, NAM inventory for painting: no. 112222), and the event, along with the aftermath, was described by Tacitus: About the same time a trifling beginning led to frightful bloodshed between the inhabitants of Nuceria and Pompeii, at a gladiatorial show exhibited by Livineius Regulus, who had been, as I have related, expelled from the Senate. With the unruly spirit of townsfolk, they began with abusive language of each other; then they took up stones and at last weapons, the advantage resting with the populace of Pompeii, where the show was being exhibited. (Ann. 14.17, trans. Perseus Digital Library)

There is extensive commentary on this disturbance and reaction to it (e.g., Clarke 2006, 152–57; Fagan 2011, 93–96) so, for the time being, I note that

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“abusive language” exchanged between townsfolk from different cities may well have been common when such crowds gathered in amphitheaters; indeed, it may have been an expected component of an entertaining day and in keeping with the sense of civic pride and rivalry that was likely widespread in the Roman world (Woolf 2019, 136; Syme 1981, 272; Harland 2006, 35–39). It is the escalation to actual armed violence that drew direct imperial attention. The main interest here is the spatial dimension. Approximately forty kilometers lie between these two cities as the crow flies, with the Stanford Orbis Project indicating that sixty-seven kilometers separated the cities. That range of distances is only one data point, but it does indicate that two communities so near to each other can develop a mix of familiarity and animosity that could come to a boil when enclosed within the constructed and enclosed environment of a twenty-thousand-seat amphitheater (see also Cooley and Cooley 2004, no. D38). These numbers, roughly between twenty kilometers and seventy kilometers are small in comparison to a recently published funerary inscription from Pompeii that refers to an imperial order to move all gladiatorial troupes (familias) far away from Rome (Bodel et al 2019). The relevant passage is not so familiar as Tacitus’s description of the 59 riot so is quoted here in both translation and the original Latin: [lines 5–6] Et, cum Caesar omnes familias ultra ducentesimum ab urbe ut abducerent iussisset, uni huic ut Pompeios in patriam suam reduceret permisit. And when Caesar had ordered that they remove all their gladiatorial troupes beyond the two- hundredth milestone from the city, to this man alone he granted permission to bring back (his own gladiatorial troupe) to his hometown of Pompeii. (trans. Bodel et al. 2019)

This is very indirect evidence for the topic at hand. Gladiatorial troupes (familias) are not amphitheaters, which is a fundamental point, and, like much ancient evidence, the exact meaning of this sentence is unclear. To the extent these lines refer to an additional punishment in response to the 59 riot, an interpretation that seems likely, and that this punishment was meant to deny wealthy Pompeian households the ability to participate in gladiatorial displays in the capital and its surroundings, it is relevant that the distance of 200 Roman miles, or 296 km by conventional conversion, is deemed large enough to create separation. The social benefits of ownership and display are cut off by that point. If correct, that is an observation that is very relevant here. While still keeping the numbers drawn from ancient written evidence in mind, a very different approach to characterizing and interpreting distance between Roman amphitheaters is to look at the set of edges that connect these structures in a computationally actionable network. While this approach is not inherently better than relying only on the written record, it does, nonetheless,

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allow for additional explicit reasoning and is the path that the following paragraphs will pursue. To begin, given a set of 246 amphitheaters, there are 30,135 possible links between them; and it has already been noted that the longest distance is 4,142 km. Using more formal terminology, a network of Roman amphitheaters that created edges from each one to the other 246 nodes would have 30,135 edges and would be considered “complete.” As noted above, this is not a useful representation of the historical concept that amphitheaters are physical infrastructure that could play a role in interaction between communities. Keeping within the terminology of network analysis, the minimal threshold geodetic distance—or “crow flies” distance—that forms a connected network of second century Roman amphitheaters is 609.5 km. Using this threshold to establish links between nodes, there is a notional path from each amphitheater to every other amphitheater. Following these paths, one would never have to traverse more than 610 straight-line kilometers (to round up) before arriving at one amphitheater and then being able to travel no more than that distance, though usually far less, to the next. This again is not a practical distance for regular communication and that assessment is reinforced by brief consideration of some of the pairs of amphitheaters that are that distance apart. The amphitheaters in Paphos on Cyprus and Ierapetra on the southern coast of Crete are just over 609 km apart in this network. There is no need to suggest that there was regular movement of individuals between these two communities. Padua in northern Italy and Susa in the Italian Alps are also both just over 609 km from the small amphitheater at Arnsburg, but the Alps intervene. These examples indicate that a network with this threshold for establishing an edge between nodes is not useful and no map of it is shown. Another threshold that can be derived from the network itself is 367 km. Connecting amphitheaters by this distance means that every amphitheater is joined to another by at least one edge but that there are separate groups within the network. This situation is perhaps most easily understood by reference to a map (fig. 6.4). Using specific network terminology to describe that visualization, a threshold of 367 km creates a network in which each node has a degree of at least one, but each node is also indirectly connected to only a subset of all the other nodes. It is reasonable to deem 367 km to be too great a distance for the purposes here, a choice supported by considering the pairs shown in the resulting map. Among the amphitheaters that are near to 367 km apart are those in Corinth on mainland Greece and Gortyn in Crete, which is in turn connected to Ierapetra. There is no need to state that no Roman-period resident of Corinth ever traveled to Gortyn and watched a fight, hunt, or execution in its amphitheater during their visit. Rather, it is unlikely that a trip in either direction was a regular occurrence. The same is likely true for the amphitheaters in Fréjus in Provence and Roselle in Italy, which are also just under 309 km apart as the crow flies (in this case across the Tyrrhenian Sea). Travel between the

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Figure 6.4. Network of second century Roman Amphitheaters in which each node has at least one connection to another node. The maximum edge distance in 367 km.

amphitheaters in Susa in the Italian Alps and in Bezier, in the Languedoc region of France, required crossing or going around the western Alps. That edge in this network does not reflect a Roman reality that included regular passage between its end points. And as a final comment on figure 6.4, it is the case that the network visualization creates an unhelpful thick clump of lines over Italy. In network parlance, this is a proverbial “hairball” (Crnovrsanin et al. 2014). It will become important to this discussion that Italy has a higher density of amphitheaters, but this map, particularly when rendered in black-and-white in a print volume, obscures the subtleties within the region. Another approach to determining a threshold of distance is to consider interamphitheater distances as an ordered sequence of values. It is simple to identify the shortest 5 percent of such distances and then to use that as a cutoff. That is, within the set of all 30,135 potential edges, 5 percent are equal to or shorter than 151 km (rounded to three decimal places [or to meters], the value is 151.348 km). This value can also be called the twentieth quantile. It is of course somewhat arbitrary to choose the shortest 5 percent of edge lengths as the cut-off for the distance that defines meaningful nearness between amphitheaters. It is important to note, therefore, that this number is within the range of the ancient written evidence introduced above; evidence that ranged from 20 km to 300 km. It is also made somewhat less arbitrary by rendering

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the sequence of distances as a density plot. This is a visualization that indicates how common any one value is compared to the other values in a series. Figure 6.5 renders the sequence of interamphitheaters distances as such a plot. The most common value is approximately 698 km, as indicated by the highest point of the density plot, which is marked by the dotted vertical line intersecting the horizontal axis at that value. It is the case that very few of the over 31,000 interamphitheater distances are close to that specific number. Another feature of this visualization is the local peak at 144 km, which is indicated by the solid vertical line. This inflection point is very much a result of there being a cluster of amphitheaters in the central Mediterranean. Showing figure 6.5 provides another occasion to stress that no single visualization provides an unassailable answer to what distance defines nearness. This density plot offers one perspective that is informed by, and also informs, the other evidence introduced here. Fundamentally, the choice of which distance to use is an authorial one. Going forward, this paper takes 150 km as a reasonable distance and threshold by which to create edges between nodes in the network of amphitheaters. As with any threshold used to create edges in a network, this is an interpretive act. It is meant to accommodate the discussion above as well as the realities of movement in the Roman world. It will have been harder to travel the real-world topography across which some of those edges lie than others, but in aggregate, it is presented here as a threshold of connectivity between these structures that supports considering all structures at the scale of the whole empire. Figures 6.6 and 6.7 are maps showing links between spatially near amphitheaters that reflect this choice, while also taking the opportunity to add to both maps an indication of the network degree of each amphitheater. Brief discussion of that term will help with reading these spatial visualizations. In network analysis, “degree” is a fundamental statistic for each node and the distribution of degree, that is, the range and relative occurrence of its values, is one way to characterize networks as a whole. Both approaches to degree have long been used by archaeologists (Jenkins 2001, Leidwanger 2017).

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Figure 6.6. Spatial rendering of the network showing near-to-each-other amphitheaters connected by edges. The maximum edge distance is 150 km.

The term itself has a simple definition: “degree” is the number of other nodes to which any one node is connected by edges. The smallest possible value for degree is zero. For example, the amphitheater at Newstead, situated between Hadrian’s Wall and the Antonine Wall, is the northernmost amphitheater in the Roman Empire and has no spatially near neighbors and so has a degree of zero in this network. The same is true of the small amphitheater at Lixus near the Atlantic coast of modern Morocco and also of the amphitheater at Palmyra, the easternmost dot on this map.4 Corinth in Greece is likewise isolated. In total there are twenty amphitheaters—or 8 percent of the total—that have no neighbors within 150 km. This chapter is not primarily about isolation, however; it is about connection and interaction. To move discussion of those themes forward, figures 6.6 and 6.7 indicate the network degree of each amphitheater by shading each dot on these maps, with higher degree being lighter. Figure 6.6 shows the entire Mediterranean and still suffers from there being a too dense web of connections in Italy. Figure 6.7 is a print-based accommodation to that density that shows the central Mediterranean in greater detail. Figures 6.8 and 6.9 show an index 4. Lixus is an example of a structure that one could choose to exclude due to its unusual form and small size.

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Figure 6.7. Spatial rendering of the central Mediterranean network showing near-toeach-other amphitheaters connected by edges. The maximum edge distance is 150 km.

plot of amphitheater degrees and a series of box plots that show the distribution of degree within regions of the empire. They are a complement to the maps and function as legends. The index plot (fig. 6.8) shows that over half of secondcentury amphitheaters, 135 out of 246, have 6 or fewer near neighbors. Indeed,

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73 have 2, 1, or none. At the other end of this visualization, 69 amphitheaters have a degree greater than or equal to 20. All of these amphitheaters are either in Roman Italy or in Proconsularis, and for the latter, all relatively high-degree amphitheaters are in or very near to the areas that would become the later administrative units of Zeugitana and Byzacena. That is, they are within the cluster overlapping with the northern part of modern Tunisia (fig. 6.7).

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Figure 6.9 renders the same data as a series of box plots showing the range of degree within the major administrative units of the empire.5 The plots are sorted in ascending order from left to right by the maximum degree within that region. Note that the maximum degree in Regio IV (Samnium) is forty-seven, which is also the maximum degree in the index plot. Again, these are two different views on the same data. Reading these regions from right to left: Regio IV (Samnium), I (Latium and Campania), and V (Picenum) cover the center of the Italian peninsula from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Adriatic. Together those regions have thirty-seven amphitheaters, all of which have more than eighteen near neighbors. Regio II (Apulia and Calabria) extends so far south that much of it is outside the area of highest amphitheater density, as indicated by the long lower whisker of its box plot that extends down to one. With Proconsularis the figure moves out of Roman Italy. That specific box plot also works well with the closeup map in figure 6.7. Indeed, just as the index plots and series of box plots use the same data, so do the two maps. All four representations of network degree as defined in this context can and should be taken together. Doing so, that is, considering these four visualizations as a group, supports numerically informed—though still fundamentally qualitative—characterizations of second-century amphitheaters and their relationships to each other around the Roman Empire. Central Italy is distinguished from all other regions in terms of amphitheater density and in the number of near neighbors that its amphitheaters have. The amphitheater at San Benedetto di Marsi, in the valley of the Fucine Lake east of Rome, has the most near neighbors, forty-seven, of all in the set. The amphitheater at Alba Fucens, at the other end of the same valley, has forty-three. These are the two lightest dots in figures 6.6 and 6.7. If central Italy is taken to set the standard of what it means for any group of amphitheaters to be meaningfully near to each other, then it can be said that no other region of the empire can be said to have the same density of amphitheaters. Even in Proconsularis the two most connected amphitheaters, at Thuburbo Maius and Seressi near the center of the region’s most dense cluster, have only twenty-three near neighbors, or just under half the greatest number in Roman Italy. Gallia, which is divided into its constituent provinces in figure 6.9, and Britannia, two regions often considered to be relatively well provided with amphitheaters, do not come close. The map in figure 6.7 makes this clear, as do the relevant box plots of spread of degree in figure 6.9. Baetica and Tarraconensis also have amphitheaters, but, using the perspective offered here, not many. This set of observations brings the above narrative of quantitatively informed steps to a pause. The opening paragraph of the chapter indicated that 5. As with choosing a set of amphitheaters, it is the case that there is no one set of names that works for all of Roman imperial history so these are conventional and drawn largely from the Trismegistos Places database.

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describing computational method would play a role here. The visualizations and maps shown so far, along with the underlying manipulation of data using specific and available Python code that produced them, form just one possible path in pursuit of that aspect of the discussion. The concepts of experience and the idea that the nearness of amphitheaters can contribute to the experience within individual structures were also introduced in the opening. The next section turns to these issues. 6.4. Experience and Community within Amphitheaters Some evidence for the experience inside amphitheaters has already been introduced above. The riot of 59 CE at Pompeii is earlier than the chronological focus here, but does illuminate the intercommunity competition and dislike that could surface when crowds from different communities came together. Augustine’s description of his student succumbing to savageness is post-second century, but likely captures a persistent aspect of watching gladiatorial combat in the physical setting of a complete circuit of seats. The Christian apologist Tertullian was long-lived, having been born around 160 and died in 240 CE, so that the formation of his perspective does overlap with the period of greatest amphitheater use. In his De spectaculis, written near the turn of the second to the third century, he launched a litany of attacks against all public entertainment with direct emphasis on the idolatry and violence on display within amphitheaters. He writes that the amphitheater is “the temple of all demons” (“Omnium daemonum templum est,” Spect. 12). Further bias, as well as the basis for it, are clear in a later passage: are we to wait now for a scriptural condemnation of the amphitheater? If we can plead that cruelty is allowed us, if impiety, if brute savagery, by all means let us go to the amphitheatre. If we are what people say we are, let us take our delight in the blood of men. “It is a good thing, when the guilty are punished.” Who will deny that, unless he is one of the guilty? (Spect. 19; LCL)

Traditional Roman religion, the watching of blood-sport, and execution of criminals before an angry public are all condemned as a package by Tertullian; a package that contributed to the experience that was able to draw the public to amphitheaters. Eusebius’s fourth century history of the Christian church includes a first-hand account of the martyrdom of believers in the amphitheater at Lyon in 177. The following excerpt includes a description of the crowd: for the day of fighting with beasts was specially appointed for the Christians. Maturus and Sanctus passed again through all torture in the amphitheater as though they had suffered nothing before, but rather as though, having conquered the opponent in many bouts, they were now striving for his crown, once more they ran the gauntlet in the accustomed manner, en-

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The day is unusual for being devoted only to the punishment of this group of Christians, but the presence of the “maddened public” (μαινόμενος ὁ δῆμος) was typical; though that is of course an adversarial choice of adjective. A more sympathetic reference to the input of the crowd comes from Martial’s first-century epigram on the bout between two gladiators in the Flavian Amphitheater that was eventually called a draw by the Emperor Titus: As Priscus and Verus each drew out the contest and the struggle between the pair long stood equal, shouts loud and often sought discharge for the combatants. (Epigrams 31; LCL)

Frequent and noisy shouting (“saepe … magno clamore”) would have been commonplace. This epigram is famous for a clear example of the crowd influencing the behavior of the overseeing emperor. It was just more than twenty years before this bout between Priscus and Verus that the crowd in the amphitheater at Pompeii had lost control of its emotions when intercommunal competition was added to the mix. The above very abbreviated selection of textual evidence points to the overlapping themes of bloody violence, crowd participation, and religion that were at play inside the amphitheaters when events were underway. Material and visual sources also contribute to this discussion, though here the record is so rich that as much or more selectivity is required in comparison to the textual sources (Dunbabin 2016). Accordingly, what follows is a small grouping of visual sources that help with a broad re-creation of the sites and sounds that were experienced in Roman amphitheaters. The relief sculpture on display in the so-called Anfiteatro Campano at Capua is a good starting point. The structure itself is the second stone amphitheater built in this southern Italian city and its construction is now dateable to the second century, so to the period of peak amphitheater use (Tuck 2007). As Steven Tuck has noted, the collected sculpture both reflects the activities on display in the venue and creates an ambience that likely reinforced the effectiveness and meaning of those activities. Figure 6.10 shows the depiction of the flaying of Marsyas that was visible within the space of the Anfiteatro Campano.6 The story is well known, though of course with variation. Marsyas was a satyr who at least twice offended the gods. He incurred Athena’s ire by playing an aulos she had discarded. The particular scene here shows his punishment for losing a musical contest to Apollo. This is the proximate cause of his being flayed, but he was also guilty of hubris against an established order. 6. Additional images in color are available at http://nosho.usask.ca/islandora/object/ kalinowski%3A402.

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Figure 6.10. Sculptural relief of slaying of Marsyas from the Anfiteatro Campano in Capua, Italy. Adapted from photograph by Angela Kalinowski. Published under a CCBY-NC 4.0 license.

This image is not quite license to create a neat package whereby the sculpture is a direct representation of what any particular spectator might have actually seen when the condemned were brought out and executed in creative ways. The connection between art and event is, however, amply illustrated by Kathleen Coleman’s (1990) still fundamental discussion of mythological reenactments in the arena and their role in judicial punishment. It is no stretch to say that the mythological image would certainly have evoked the punishment meted out in the arena and that any punishment against criminals in turn evokes this myth, an approach that recognizes the “plethora or profusion” of meaning that surrounds all Graeco-Roman art (Vout 2012, 465). In the Anfiteatro Campano the list of myths and mythological characters on display includes many of Hercules’s labors, Icarus, Actaeon, and a Centauromachy (Tuck 2007, 258–59). There is enough here for this encircled space to be its own plethora of meaning. And while this amphitheater is exceptional in its materialization of myth into stone, the evocation of socially meaningful narrative was likely as much a feature of visiting an amphitheater as was a boisterous crowd. In addition to mythological scenes that do overlap with the events on display, civic practice and civic identity are also shown. As a matter of visual representation, there are reliefs in the Anfitratro Campano that show a procession of civic magistrates, a group of Tyches generically identified by their civic crowns, a cart (ferculum) itself bearing statues of deities, and a depiction of a sacrifice outside a building that may be the amphitheater itself. Tuck (2007, 259) plausibly suggests that these reliefs represent the ceremonies that took place at the dedication of the building. The presence of Tyches (fig. 6.11) makes clear that regional civic identity played a role in whatever event is being depicted. And they are just as easily read as permanent display of the scenes

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Figure 6.11. Sculptural relief of procession of Civic Tyches in the Anfiteatro Campano in Capua, Italy. Adapted from photograph by Angela Kalinowski. Published under a CCBY-NC 4.0 license.

created whenever the amphitheater served as the venue for a procession or sacrifice (Latham 2016), even if these may not have always been quite at the scale of the first. As with the mythological scenes, the intended message of the repeated live events in the amphitheater is enhanced by the presence of the reliefs, and the meaning of the reliefs for anyone who looked at them is renewed by the events. The reliefs in the Anfiteatro Campano are part of the surrounding scenery in that structure. There are many representations of the events that took place inside amphitheaters that were themselves displayed outside these structures. Two of the most well-known receive attention here: the Zliten mosaic, named for its findspot, and the Magerius mosaic, named for the individual named as the benefactor of a staged animal hunt (Coleman 1990, 50–54). The Zliten mosaic comes from a villa near Leptis Magnus; it has been recently dated by Katherine Dunbabin (2016) to the second century, though a third century date is possible. In terms of its overall layout, the mosaic is roughly square and consists mostly of a grid with alternating marine and opus sectile squares.7 Around 7. The digital publication Vici.org has more color images of the mosaic. See https://vici.org/ vici/7043/.

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this is a continuous band of scenes that illustrate what one might see in an amphitheater. There are many details: Among the refereed gladiatorial pairings, the animal hunts, the animal-on-animal contests, and gruesome executions there are musicians playing wind instruments and a herm with shield leaned against it. This last, despite being just one of many figures, can perhaps be read as providing a hint of divine oversight as well as indicating the boundary that existed between audience one on hand and the entertainers and condemned on the other. Perhaps whoever saw the mosaic in its villa context noted this division as well. It is possible that such a viewer was familiar with the organizational principle by which gladiatorial combat exhibited more organization and regulation than the comparatively more frenetic animal fights and executions (Kyle 1998, 156). Figures 6.12 and 6.13 show two details: the group of musicians and a scene of a condemned person about to be attacked by an animal who may well be being whipped by the person holding the victim. In addition to this execution, a prisoner is also depicted strapped upright to a chariot, indicating further the imagination that went into evoking a narrative around death. These small vignettes are outnumbered by the more numerous gladiatorial pairings so are not a basis for undue highlighting of the inhumanity that will strike a modern viewer of the whole ensemble of images. But neither should one ignore cruelty as an aspect of the experience of going to an amphitheater. The scene of musicians adds an additional element to the actively constructed components of the interior experience in these structures. Sounds of contest and the roar of the crowd were accompanied by music that likely enhanced the appreciation of all the other sights and sounds, though this may have been one

Figure 6.12. Detail of Zliten mosaic showing herm and musicians. Adapted from image posted online by vici.org. Published under a CC-BY-SA license.

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Figure 6.13. Detail of Zliten mosaic showing animal fights and prisoner. Adapted from image posted online by vici.org. Published under a CC-BY-SA license.

Figure 6.14. The Magerius mosaic. Wikimedia Commons. Published under a CC-BY-4.0 license.CC-BY-4.0).

of the more variable aspects of amphitheater attendance, depending on the positioning of the musicians and the size of the venue (Galindo, Girón, and Cebrián 2020, 14). In the Roman world—and of course in many other cultures—musicians were often present in domestic and sacrificial settings. We are, again, in a con-

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structed environment in which, when an event is in full swing and the crowd is having a good time, all elements amplify the others. The so-called Magerius mosaic (fig. 6.14) is a venationes scene with compelling invocation of the social and political context within which it took place (Bomgardner 2009). At least five men are in various phases of combat with four leopards. As with the herm at Zliten, the figure of Diana at the left (perhaps intended to represent an actor in costume present at the scene being recorded) gives a divine context to the composition and event (Bomgardner 2009, 173; Foucher 1994; Kyle 1998, 270). At the center of the mosaic is a vivid reminder to both ancient and modern viewers that a crowd was watching this scene. The individual depicted there, a herald, holds money sacks, likely the payment of one thousand denarii for each leopard, an indication of the sponsor’s generosity as the asking price was five hundred. Around this figure is the record of a threepart dialog between the herald, the crowd and Magerius himself. In brief, the herald requests five hundred denarii for each leopard. The crowd responds with fulsome acclamations including the exhortation that the echo of the display be heard by past benefactors. Magerius responds: “hoc est habere, hoc est posse,·hoc est ia(m)” Loosely translatable as “This is having, this is being powerful, indeed this is!”8 The glimpse into experience presented above has been purposefully noncomputational. It is hoped that even this abbreviated selection of evidence allows readers to reconstruct the issues and themes that were at play inside an amphitheater. The same issues were, of course, at play elsewhere in Roman society, but here the focus is the particular environment created by this architectural form. Empire, community, justice, myth, and religion are just a few of the rubrics that would be more or less explicitly present in the minds of the audience. This perspective is apposite now because the next section will bring a computational approach to the audience collectively within amphitheaters. It will move inside the walls and ask not just where amphitheaters were and how connected they were to their near neighbors, but also ask where on a regional basis amphitheater seating capacity is and how connections can be derived from those data to again emphasize that a context for the experience in any one amphitheater experience will have been the seats, and the people who sat in them, within near amphitheaters. 6.5. Amphitheater Seats as a Unit of Analysis This section will undertake a rerendering of the maps in figures 6.6 and 6.7 that incorporates assessments of seating capacity. The goal is to emphasize that one context for sitting in any amphitheater is the number of seats not only in that amphitheater itself but also in its nearby amphitheaters. The crowd had a role 8. J. Adams 2015 is a full discussion of the language of this inscription.

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in the experience of the individual and so it is an easy extension to say that the prior experience of the crowd affects its overall behavior. A crowd that is more likely to be formed by spectators who have also seen combat and executions taking place in other amphitheaters will be harder to please, more appreciative of a well-run event, and may also have more experience in how it can participate with timely shouts and cheers. The following analysis takes accumulated seating capacity of each amphitheater and its near neighbors as an indicator of the likelihood that an experienced and informed crowd was present within any one amphitheater. In doing so it focuses on the relationships between amphitheaters and the role these played in creating experience and how such experience can be read into the network of amphitheaters (Kilgore 2013). In pursuing this approach, it is not possible to avoid the fact that all estimates of amphitheater seating capacity are only that: estimates. Nonetheless, useable quantitative data can be gathered. When doing so, the Flavian Amphitheater is again an outlier. That structure is conventionally said to hold at least 50,000 spectators, which is the number used here. It is the largest in size and likely the largest in capacity. In the dataset used here, Jean-Claude Golvin’s (1988) catalog of amphitheaters is one source of capacity information. David Bomgardner (2002) has recalculated capacities for many amphitheaters in Africa Proconsularis and those numbers are used here when available. Each author is noted as a source in the data. There are specific studies for other structures that are also cited. For many amphitheaters there is no number available. In the version of the data used here, 119 capacity estimates are given and 127 are left blank. Summing the estimated values that are available gives a total of 1,404,886. Although a large number, it is obviously an undercount. Amphitheaters for which no well-reasoned estimate is included in the dataset did not have a seating capacity of zero. In estimating what the capacity of those amphitheaters might have been, a relatively simple calculation is implemented. In doing so, transparency is emphasized over excessively sophisticated calculation that is unlikely to change the big picture. The process of filling in missing values in a dataset is called “imputation.” Merely taking the mean of the known values for a column in a dataset and assigning that to the unknown values is one common approach. That seems too simple for the current use case. It is also possible to establish statistical correlations between multiple variables, such as the maximum and minimum exterior and arena lengths, and use those correlations to estimate seating capacity where at least some of those values are known but there is no good estimate for capacity. For the purposes of this paper, this approach veers toward being too much of a black box. The strategy nearest neighbors imputation (or NN) as implemented in the SciKit Python module is a good balance between too great simplicity and excessive and obfuscating complexity. In summary, NN creates a coordinate space using known values for multiple variables. For cases in which one of those variables is not known, a value is imputed by looking for the most

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similar neighbors on the basis of the known values. For example, the capacity of the amphitheater at Todi in Italy is not recorded in the original dataset, but extant remains reveal its exterior dimensions to be approximately 90 × 60 m. That allows an excessively precise capacity of 9001 to be imputed on the basis of the known capacities of the ten amphitheaters that have exterior dimensions closest to Todi’s values. Cutting to the chase, the NN imputation implemented here results in a total count of amphitheater seats in the Roman Empire during the second century of 2,801,161, which is of course also excessively precise. The only reason to report that exact number is so that readers who want to run the Python code that generated it can see the alignment between those calculations and the following discussion. The statement, “There were likely well over twoand-a-half million amphitheater seats in use in the second century,” is a better takeaway outside the context of the specific visualizations shown here. Having imputed amphitheater seating capacity where that data is missing, it is possible to integrate that measure into visualizations. The basic approach to doing so builds on the visualizations that appear above. For each amphitheater, the seating capacity of its nearby neighbors, that is, those to which it is connected in the network by an edge of 150 km or less, is summed and added to its own capacity. The total represents the number of nearby seats. For example, the Anfiteatro Campano, with a network degree of 31, has an estimated capacity of 37,000 and an estimated number of near seats within 150 km of 399,359 (effectively 400,000). The amphitheater at Carthage has a network degree of 17 and 159,603 near seats by the same calculation. For Lugdunum, these numbers are respectively 2 and 54,879, with the latter number being the combined capacity of the amphitheaters at Lugdunum, Autun, and Nyon. Including each amphitheater’s own seats emphasizes that each amphitheater is part of an analytical unit with its neighbors. Figure 6.15 is an index plot of the number of nearby seats for all 246 secondcentury amphitheaters. And as with the index plot of degrees (fig. 6.8 above), the amphitheater with the highest value in this visualization, with 583,317 nearby seats, is at San Benedetto dei Marsi in central Italy. Within these ordered values, there is an inflection point at 200,000. It is telling for this discussion that all of the amphitheaters with this or a greater number of near seats are in either a region of Roman Italy or Africa Proconsularis; and it is again the case that all the amphitheaters in the latter region that have high numbers of near seats are in the central cluster. Figure 6.16, which renders the same data as a series of box plots grouped by region, complements the index plot and adds detail. Regions I (Latium and Campania) and IV (Samnium) have the amphitheaters with the greatest number of near seats and all the amphitheaters in these regions rank highly by this measure. Again, only Proconsularis ranks up with the Italian regions, though it has many amphitheaters with between 100,000 and 200,000 near seats. Of the other regions, those now in modern France are relatively high, though there is a dramatic drop off from the Italian and African values.

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Figure 6.16. Box plot of amphitheater seats near each second century amphitheater grouped by region.

A map is again a useful rendering of this same data. Figures 6.17 and 6.18 repeat the same pairing of Mediterranean-wide scope and a focus on the central regions of the empire. As a matter of visual impression, Italy stands out even more as the African nodes of this network are barely lighter than black.9

9. To accommodate this shortcoming, color versions of all maps are available in the Zenodo archive that publishes the code that generated the figures.

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Figure 6.17. Map of near-to-each-other amphitheaters with indication of relative number of near amphitheater seats.

6.6. Concluding Observations The four prior sections of this chapter pursued two related computational approaches to considering spatial distance within the distribution of amphitheaters around the empire and also collected a selection of textual and visual evidence that spoke to the experience of the audience within these structures. The sections can be tied together with a qualitative and experiential observation: it is in central Italy and the part of Africa Proconsularis that is nearest to the Italian peninsula that someone sitting in an amphitheater was most likely to interact with someone else who had seen similar events in a relatively nearby structure. Such interactions could have reinforced the mutual enjoyment of the entertainments on display. Shared surprise at a particularly novel display would lead to a particularly enthusiastic reception. Or perhaps it could reinforce a sense of disappointment at an inadequate event. A sponsor would likely want visitors from nearby towns, as indicated by the advertisements in Pompeii, but would be aware of the expectations those visitors would bring (Benefiel 2016, 446). They would likely know to expect good music, as indicated by the Zliten mosaic. That multiple civic identities could be accommodated in amphitheaters is shown by the multiple Tyches depicted in the reliefs in the Anfiteatro Campano. A worst case is that the interactions between communities

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Figure 6.18. Detail map of the central Mediterranean showing near-to-each-other amphitheaters with indication of relative number of near amphitheater seats.

become too competitive and a riot along the lines of what happened in Pompeii in 59 CE breaks out. It is clear that the crowd inside an amphitheater mattered. The composition of that crowd will have mattered as well, and this chapter highlights that it will have been easier for a region to develop and sustain a

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sophisticated audience when there was relatively high seating capacity within groups of nearby amphitheaters. Expanding the scope of this discussion can mean asking, “What is the role of amphitheaters in creating a shared experience throughout the Roman Empire?” The answer must be they were an important factor, but with qualifications. It is the case that even a relatively isolated amphitheater could host the type of interaction illustrated and scripted on the Magerius mosaic. By doing so it would have played a role in maintaining the social hierarchy and stability that was one concern of Roman emperors (Dench 2018, ch. 4). Experiential outposts are still Roman, even if isolated. But if intensity and connectivity does matter, and I hope to have created a framework in which they do, it is appropriate to highlight that it is only in the innermost core, central Italy, and part of one near province, Proconsularis, that connectivity was at or near its maximum. Amphitheaters, therefore, were not a necessary aspect of territorial integration. Indeed, it is noteworthy that there are none in Roman Egypt. The growth of the Roman Empire, therefore, however one conceives of it, did not lead to equal spread of amphitheaters, and that will have affected the role that amphitheaters played in peripheral regions where they were not common as much as it affected their role in regions in which they were. In assessing the importance of amphitheaters it is relevant that Italy and Proconsularis have also been identified as the areas in which Capitolia, or temples dedicated to Iuppiter Optimus Maximus, Iuno Regina and Minerva Augusta, occur in greatest number (Quinn and Wilson 2013). Josephine Quinn and Andrew Wilson cast doubt on the existence of a widespread materially manifested Roman urban “package” (2013, 167) and the same can be done using the discussion of amphitheaters appearing in this chapter, especially as both types of structures reach their greatest numbers in the second century. Chronological dynamism matters. Astrid Van Oyen’s (2015, 65) discussion of the development of Roman sigillata highlights that any stability that was achieved as these vessels coalesced into definable types is the result of a dynamic historical process. She (2017) makes similar points in regard to the use of Roman concrete and the appearance of architectural categories. Amphitheaters are very recognizable as one materialization of such a category. In this chapter, which has a more synchronic focus, the maximum distribution of a “category” of building-type is a context for recognizing instability in experience along the spatial—not temporal—dimension. As density of structures and seating decreased away from Italy, instability in behavior may have had opportunity to increase. The perceived presence of the emperor, even if indirect, will be part of this instability. At what point does the distribution of amphitheaters become so thin that very few people at any one display of entertainments will ever have attended an event at which there was direct imperial presence, as was obviously much more common at Rome (Aldrete 1999, 152–53)? I tentatively suggest that outside of Italy,

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few attendees ever saw an emperor in an amphitheater or were part of the same crowd as someone who had. In terms of the computational approach, I have tried to keep the steps relatively simple and the visual outputs relatively clear. It is generally the case that in any presentation of data, adding one more visualization does not mean that adding yet another one might not be useful. So the set appearing above was chosen to communicate the core of my argument. It is more interesting to think about what additional categories of information could be added to the figures above, particularly to the maps. Capitolia have just been mentioned, which would move the maps in the direction of exploring the symbolic and religious aspects of Roman rule. Urban populations would be useful if we had consistent information for the many sites with amphitheaters. Roman circuses and theaters are also venues for large crowds. Open-licensed and computationally actionable representations of all these aspects of the Roman world are very desirable (Bagnall and Heath 2018). In the absence of there being such resources (or at least such resources that are readily incorporated into a network representation by anyone other than their creators), I am asking readers to ask themselves what these maps might look like, and what they might mean, with such layers added. That may well be the first step to such maps and other visualizations actually being made. References Adams, Colin. 2012. “Transport.” Pages 218–40 in The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Economy. Edited by Walter Scheidel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CCO9781139030199.015. Adams, James N. 2015. “The Latin of the Magerius (Smirat) Mosaic.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 108:509–44. Aldrete, Gregory. 1999. Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient Rome. Ancient Society and History. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Alföldy, Géza. 1995. “Eine Bauinschrift aus dem Colosseum.” ZPE 109:195–226. de Angelis, Francesco, ed. 2010. Spaces of Justice in the Roman World. Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition 35. Leiden: Brill. Aydın İl Kültür ve Turizm Müdürlüğü. 2021. “Mastaura Amphitiyatrosu.” Aydın İl Kültür ve Turizm Müdürlüğü - T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı. https://aydin.ktb.gov.tr/ TR-286606/mastaura-amphitiyatrosu.html. Bagnall, Roger, and Sebastian Heath. 2018. “Roman Studies and Digital Resources.” JRS 108:171–89. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0075435818000874. Balch, David L. 2016. “Violence in Pompeian/Roman Domestic Art as a Visual Context for Pauline and Deutero-Pauline Letters.” Pages 123–66 in Early Christianity in Pompeian Light: People, Texts, Situations. Edited by Bruce Longenecker. Minneapolis: Fortress. Battini, Carlo, and Elena Sorge. 2017. “Amphitheater of Volterra: Case Study for the Representation of Excavation Data.” Studies in Digital Heritage 1.2:269–81. https:// doi.org/10.14434/sdh.v1i2.23242. Benefiel, Rebecca. 2016. “Regional Interaction and Local Networks.” Pages 441–58 in A

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Companion to Roman Italy. Edited by Alison E. Cooley. West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons. Birch, Jennifer, and John Hart. 2018. “Social Networks and Northern Iroquoian Confederacy Dynamics.” American Antiquity 83:13–33. https://doi.org/10.1017/ aaq.2017.59. Blake, Emma. 2014. “Dyads and Triads in Community Detection: A View from the Italian Bronze Age.” Les nouvelles de l’archéologie 135:28–32. https://doi.org/10.4000/ nda.2342. Bodel, John. 2001. Epigraphic Evidence: Ancient History from Inscriptions. Approaching the Ancient World. Routledge: New York. Bodel, John, Andreas Bendlin, Seth Bernard, Christer Bruun, and Jonathan Edmondson. 2019. “Notes on the Elogium of a Benefactor at Pompeii.” JRA 32:148–82. https:// doi.org/10.1017/S1047759419000096. Bomgardner, David. 2002. The Story of the Roman Amphitheatre. London: Taylor & Francis. ———. 2009. “The Magerius Mosaic Revisited.” Pages 165–77 in Roman Amphitheatres and Spectacula: A 21st-Century Perspective. Edited by Tony Wilmott. BARIS 1946. Oxford: Archaeopress. Bond, Sarah. 2019. “The Jewish Colosseum: Revising the Memory of Rome’s Flavian Amphitheater.” History from Below, April 27, 2019. https://sarahemilybond. com/2019/04/27/the-jewish-colosseum-revising-the-memory-of-romes-flavianamphitheater/. British School at Rome. 2006. “Forum Novum: Amphitheatre.” https://archive.today/ TzNZV. Brughmans, Tom. 2013. “Thinking Through Networks: A Review of Formal Network Methods in Archaeology.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 20:623– 62. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10816-012-9133-8. ———. 2018. “Lessons Learned from the Uninformative Use of Network Science Techniques: An Exploratory Analysis of Tableware Distribution In The Roman Eastern Mediterranean.” Pages 184–218 in Maritime Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Edited by Justin Leidwanger and Carl Knappett. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108555685.009. Brughmans, Tom, and Jeroen Poblome. 2016. “Pots in Space: Understanding Roman Pottery Distribution from Confronting Exploratory and Geographical Network Analyses.” Pages 255–79 in New Worlds from Old Texts: Revisiting Ancient Space and Place. Edited by Elton Barker, Stefan Bouzarovski, Christopher Pelling, and Leif Isaksen. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bruun, Christer. 2009. “Civic Rituals in Imperial Ostia.” Pages 121–41 in Ritual Dynamics and Religious Change in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Eighth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Heidelberg, July 5–7, 2007). Edited by Olivier Joram Hekster, Sebastian Schmidt Hofner, and Christian Witschel. Impact of Empire 9. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/ej.9789004174818.i-380.30. Clarke, John. 2006. Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans: Visual Representation and NonElite Viewers in Italy, 100 B.C.–A.D. 315. Berkeley: University of California Press. Coleman, Kathleen M. 1990. “Fatal Charades: Roman Execution Staged as Mythological Enactments.” JRS 80:44–73. Collar, Anna. 2013. Religious Networks in the Roman World: The Spread of New Ideas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Concannon, Cavan. 2021. “Second Century Christian Networks in Corinth.” NTT Journal for Theology and the Study of Religion 75:213–29. https://doi.org/10.5117/ NTT2021.2.005.CONC. Concannon, Cavan, and Lindsey Mazurek, eds. 2016. Across The Corrupting Sea: PostBraudelian Approaches to the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean. London: Routledge. Cooley, Alison, and M. G. L. Cooley. 2004. Pompeii: A Sourcebook. London: Routledge. Crnovrsanin, Tarik, Chris W. Muelder, Robert Faris, Diane Felmlee, and Kwan-Liu Ma. 2014. “Visualization Techniques for Categorical Analysis of Social Networks with Multiple Edge Sets.” Social Networks 37:56–64. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.socnet.2013.12.002. Dench, Emma. 2018. Empire and Political Cultures in the Roman World. Key Themes in Ancient History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dodge, Hazel. 2014a. “Amphitheaters in the Roman World.” Pages 545–60 in A Companion to Sport and Spectacle in Greek and Roman Antiquity. Edited by Paul Christesen and Donald G. Kyle. Chichester: Wiley & Sons. https://doi. org/10.1002/9781118609965.ch37. ———. 2014b. “Venues for Spectacle and Sport (Other Than Amphitheaters) in the Roman World.” Pages 561–77 in A Companion to Sport and Spectacle in Greek and Roman Antiquity. Edited by Paul Christesen and Donald G. Kyle. Chichester: Wiley & Sons. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118609965.ch38. Drucker, Joanna. 2011. “Humanities Approaches to Graphical Display.” Digital Humanities Quarterly 5.1. http://www.digitalhumanities.org/dhq/vol/5/1/000091/000091. html. Dunbabin, Katherine. 2016. Theater and Spectacle in the Art of the Roman Empire. Cornell Studies in Classical Philology. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Edmondson, Jonathan. 1996. “Dynamic Arenas: Gladiatorial Presentations in the City of Rome and the Construction of Roman Society during the Early Empire.” Pages 69–112 in Roman Theater and Society. Edited by William Slater. E. Togo Salmon Papers 1. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. ———. 2020. “The Linguistic Lure of the Arena in Apuleius’ Golden Ass.” Pages 160– 82 in People and Institutions in the Roman Empire. Edited by Andrea Gatzke, Lee Brice, and Matthew Trundle. MnSup 437. Leiden: Brill. https://doi. org/10.1163/9789004441378_011. Fagan, Garrett. 2011. The Lure of the Arena: Social Psychology and the Crowd at the Roman Games. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foucher, Louis. 1994. “Diana-Nemesis, patronne de l’amphithéâtre.” Pages 229–37 in Fifth International Colloquium on Ancient Mosaics Held at Bath on September 5–12, 1987. Edited by Peter Johnson, Roger Ling, and David J. Smith. JRASup 9. Ann Arbor, MI: Journal of Roman Archaeology. Galindo, M., S. Girón, and R. Cebrián. 2020. “Acoustics of Performance Buildings in Hispania: The Roman Theatre and Amphitheatre of Segobriga, Spain.” Applied Acoustics 166.107373:1–14. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.apacoust.2020.107373. Garnsey, Peter, and Richard Saller. 2015. The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture. 2nd ed. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gershon, Livia. 2021. “In Ancient Turkey, Gladiators Fought at This Colosseum-Like Amphitheater.” Smithsonian Magazine April 23, 2021. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/gladiator-amphitheater-uncovered-turkey-180977581/.

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Golvin, Jean-Claude. 1988. L’amphithéâtre romain: Essai sur la théorisation de sa forme et de ses fonctions. Paris: de Boccard. Graham, Shawn. 2006. Ex Figlinis: The Network Dynamics of the Tiber Valley Brick Industry in the Hinterland of Rome. BARIS 1468. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Hahn, Johannes. 2017. “Rituals of Killing: Public Punishment, Munera and the Dissemination of Roman Values and Ideology in the Imperium Romanum.” Pages 36–60 in Imperial Identities in the Roman World. Edited by Wouter Vanacker and Arjan Zuiderhoek. Abingdon: Routledge. Hammad, Manar. 2008. “Un Amphithéâtre à Tadmor-Palmyre?” Syria 85:339–46. Hanson, John, and Scott Ortman. 2020. “Reassessing the Capacities of Entertainment Structures in the Roman Empire.” AJA 124:417–40. https://doi.org/10.3764/ aja.124.3.0417. Harland, Philip. 2006. “The Declining Polis? Religious Rivalries in Ancient Civic Context.” Pages 21–49 in Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity. Edited by Leif E. Vaage. SCJud. Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Heath, Sebastian. 2021. “Applied Use of JSON, GeoJSON, JSON-LD, SPARQL, and IPython Notebooks for Representing and Interacting with Small Datasets.” In Linked Open Data for the Ancient Mediterranean: Structures, Practices, Prospects. Edited by Sarah Bond, Paul Dilley, and Ryan Horne. ISAW Papers 20.13. http://dlib.nyu. edu/awdl/isaw/isaw-papers/20-13/. Hitchner, R. Bruce. 2012. “Roads, Integration, Connectivity and Economic Performance in the Roman Empire.” Pages 222–34 in Highways, Byways, and Road Systems in the Pre-modern World. Edited by Susan Alcock, John Bodel, and Richard J. A. Talbert. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Horden, Peregrine, and Nicholas Purcell. 2000. The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Hourcade, David. 2013. “Le Palais-Gallien de Bordeaux, exemple de valorisation d’un site archéologique en cours d’étude.” Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 46:269–74. https://doi.org/10.4000/mcv.7022. Huggett, Jeremy. 2020. “Is Big Digital Data Different? Towards a New Archaeological Paradigm.” JFA 45.sup1:s8–s17. https://doi.org/10.1080/00934690.2020.1713281. Isaksen, Leif. 2013. “‘O What A Tangled Web We Weave’—Towards a Practice That Does Not Deceive.” Pages 42–67 in Network Analysis in Archaeology: New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Edited by Carl Knappett. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199697090.003.0003. Jenkins, David. 2001. “A Network Analysis of Inka Roads, Administrative Centers, and Storage Facilities.” Ethnohistory 48:655–87. https://doi.org/10.1215/00141801-484-655. Keay, Simon J., Sarah H. Parcak, and Kristian D. Strutt. 2014. “High Resolution Space and Ground-Based Remote Sensing and Implications for Landscape Archaeology: The Case from Portus, Italy.” JArS 52:277–92. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. jas.2014.08.010. Kilgore, Christopher D. 2013. “Rhetoric of the Network: Toward a New Metaphor.” Mosaic: An Interdisciplinary Critical Journal 46.4:37–58. Kowalzig, Barbara. 2018. “Cults, Cabotage, and Connectivity: Experimenting with Religious and Economic Networks in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean.” Pages 93–

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131 in Maritime Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Edited by Justin Leidwanger and Carl Knappet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https:// doi.org/10.1017/9781108555685.006. Kuhnen, Hahns-Peter. 2009. “The Trier Amphitheatre; An Ancient Monument in the Light of New Research.” Pages 95–104 in Roman Amphitheatres and Spectacula, a 21st-Century Perspective: Papers from an International Conference Held at Chester, 16th–18th February, 2007. Edited by Tony Wilmott. Oxford: Archaeopress. Kyle, Donald. 1998. Spectacles of Death in Ancient Rome. London: Routledge. Latham, Jacob. 2016. Performance, Memory, and Processions in Ancient Rome: The Pompa Circensis from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laurence, Ray, Simon Esmonde Cleary, and Gareth Sears. 2011. The City in the Roman West: C. 250 BC–c. AD 250. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leidwanger, Justin. 2017. “From Time Capsules to Networks: New Light on Roman Shipwrecks in the Maritime Economy.” AJA 121:595–619. https://doi.org/10.3764/ aja.121.4.0595. Leidwanger, Justin, et al. 2014. “A Manifesto for the Study of Ancient Mediterranean Maritime Networks.” Antiquity 88.342. http://journal.antiquity.ac.uk/projgall/ leidwanger342. Mann, Christian. 2009. “Gladiators in the Greek East: A Case Study in Romanization.” International Journal of the History of Sport 26:272–97. https://doi. org/10.1080/09523360802513322. Mann, Michael. 1986–1993. The Sources of Social Power. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marwick, Benjamin, et al. 2017. “Open Science in Archaeology.” SAA Archaeological Record 17.4: 8–14. http://dx.doi.org/10.17605/OSF.IO/3D6XX. Moeller, Walter O. 1970. “The Riot of A. D. 59 at Pompeii.” Historia: Zeitschrift für alte Geschichte 19: 84–95. Monterroso-Checa, Antonio. 2016. “Remote Sensing and Archaeology from Spanish LiDAR-PNOA: Identifying the Amphitheatre of the Roman City of Torreparedones (Córdoba-Andalucía-Spain).” Mediterranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 17.1:15–22. https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.258079. Nikolić, Snežana, and Ivan Bogdanović. 2015. “Recent Excavations on the Amphitheatre of Viminacium (Upper Moesia).” Pages 547–55 in Limes XXII: Proceedings of the 22nd International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies, Ruse, Bulgaria, September 2012. Edited by Liudmil Ferdinandov Vagalinski and Nikolaĭ Sharankov. Sophia: National Archaeological Institute with Bulgarian Academy of Sciences. Noreña, Carlos. 2010. “The Early Imperial Monarchy.” Pages 533–46 in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Studies. Edited by Alessandro Barchiesi and Walter Scheidel. New York: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199211524.013.0034. ———. 2013. “The Socio-Spatial Embeddedness of Roman Law.” JRA 26:565–74. https:// doi.org/10.1017/S1047759413000433. Pettegrew, David. 2012. “Connectivity.” Pages 1708–11 in vol. 4 of Encyclopedia of Ancient History. Edited by Roger Bagnall. 13 vols. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781444338386.wbeah06086. Piganiol, André. 1923. Recherches sur les Jeux romains. Publications de la Faculté des Lettres de Strasbourg, fasc. 13. Strasbourg: Istra.

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Poehler, Eric. 2017. The Traffic Systems of Pompeii. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Quinn, Josephine Crawley, and Andrew Wilson. 2013. “Capitolia.” JRS 103:117–73. https://doi.org/ 10.1017/S0075435813000105. Rathbone, Dominic. 2007. “Merchant Networks in the Greek World: The Impact of Rome.” Mediterranean Historical Review 22:309–20. https://doi. org/10.1080/09518960802005943. Ruffini, Giovanni. 2009. Social Networks in Byzantine Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sabbatini Tumolesi, Patrizia. 1980. Gladiatorum paria: Annunci di spettacoli gladiatorii a Pompeii. Roma: Storia e Letteratura. Scheidel, Walter. 2014. “The Shape of the Roman World: Modelling Imperial Connectivity.” JRA 27:7–32. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759414001147. Syme, Ronald. 1981. “Rival Cities, Notably Tarraco and Barcino.” Ktema 6:271–85. https:// doi.org/10.3406/ktema.1981.1851. Tuck, Steven L. 2007. “Spectacle and Ideology in the Relief Decorations of the Anfiteatro Campano at Capua.” JRA 20:255–72. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759400005407. University of Southampton. 2009. “Archaeologists Discover Amphitheatre in Excavation of Portus, Ancient Port of Rome.” Science Daily October 1, 2009. www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/09/090930194337.htm. Van Oyen, Astrid. 2015. “Actor-Network Theory’s Take on Archaeological Types: Becoming, Material Agency and Historical Explanation.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 25:63–78. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0959774314000705. ———. 2017. “Finding the Material in ‘Material Culture’: Form and Matter in Roman Concrete.” Pages 133–52 in Materialising Roman Histories. Edited by Astrid Van Oyen and Martin Pitts. Oxford: Oxbow. Vout, Caroline. 2012. “Putting the Art into Artefact.” Pages 442–67 in Classical Archaeology. Edited by Susan E. Alcock and Robin Osborne. 2nd ed. Blackwell Studies in Global Archaeology. Chichester: Wiley & Sons. Welch, Katherine. 2007. The Roman Amphitheatre: From Its Origins to the Colosseum. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. White, Richard. 2010. “What Is Spatial History?” https://web.stanford.edu/group/spatialhistory/cgi-bin/site/pub.php?id=29. Wilmott, Tony. 2008. The Roman Amphitheatre in Britain. Stroud: History Press. Woolf, Greg. 2019. “Strangers in the City.” Pages 127–36 in Xenofobia y Racismo in el Mundo Antiguo. Edited by F. Marco Simón, F. Pina Polo, and J. Remesal Rodríguez. Instrumenta 64. Barcelona: Edicions Universitat de Barcelona.

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Reflexivity and Digital Praxis: Reconstructing Ostia’s Social Networks Lindsey A. Mazurek, Kathryn A. Langenfeld, and R. Benjamin Gorham In this chapter, we reflect on our own research praxis in the research and fieldwork of the Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative (MCI), formerly the Ostia Connectivity Project. Our research examines questions of social connectivity, scales of experience, and globalization through an interdisciplinary approach that brings together digital humanities toolkits with archaeological methods and practices. MCI brings together archaeological survey practices, geospatial methods and tools, and open-source social network analysis software to offer a new way to examine the complex layers of relations that facilitated the movement of goods, people, and ideas in and around the Mediterranean. In this way, we look to reshape the study of the ancient Mediterranean while also training a new generation of undergraduate and graduate students in how to produce, work with, and visualize big data. As part of our work, however, we have noted several limitations in our work that must be addressed. Chief among our concerns are the correct interpretation of our information as capta (Drucker 2011) rather than data, the challenge of dealing with inexact chronologies in producing images that drive our research inquiry, and correctly interpreting these images as we develop historical narratives from digital humanities research. These comments, like our project, are intended to be the starting point of a broader conversation in the burgeoning field of ancient digital humanities about how to use these tools appropriately and what they can offer to us as scholars. Keywords: globalization, digital humanities, Ostia, social network analysis, epigraphy, Porta Romana

T

he issue of globalization in the ancient world has recently come to the forefront of scholarly discussions. Though it has been treated as a modern phenomenon, recent research suggests that modern theories of globalization can be successfully applied to the ancient world, offering new perspectives on Mediterranean-wide cultural shifts (Hingely 2005; Jennings 2011; Pitts and Versluys 2015; Hodos 2017). Several scholars have examined globalization at a local level, bringing new questions to bear on everyday experiences inside cit-

In addition to the authors, MCI’s leadership team consists of codirector Cavan Concannon and epigraphy director Alexander Meyer. Their support and insights have helped shape our arguments here. We have been ably assisted by Jane Clark and Elizabeth McAtee and our undergraduate field school students. Special thanks to Jill Hicks-Keaton, Jacob Latham, and Katherine Shaner for assisting in the 2019 field season.

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ies and smaller communities (Hales and Hodos 2009, Concannon and Mazurek 2016; Concannon 2017, 2022; Mazurek 2020). Despite these advances, we still lack a way to integrate local and global scales of analysis, leaving these two levels of experience as two separate scholarly discussions. Our project, the Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative (MCI), seeks to address this gap by bringing the local and the global into dialogue. Our project focuses on the agency of the epigraphic texts and the social work inscriptions perform in creating and maintaining connectivity between the local and the global as a way to bridge these two scales of human experience. We work with the assumption that objects are not merely products but instead actors and agents of connectivity. Our project centers on a key question: What is the shape of trans-Mediterranean connectivity and what is the work that is done by communities (and texts) to enact and maintain that connectivity? In order to answer this question, we have taken an approach that integrates critical theory, GIS mapping, and digital visualizations of social network analysis, focusing on the large- and small-scale networks that shaped the Mediterranean’s social world. Much of our project to date involves exploring how inscriptions from the ancient Roman site of Ostia Antica and its environs construct and participate in social work over the long term. We work from the assumption that inscriptions can be mined for data on the networks of people, institutions, and things that connected ancient cities and their inhabitants with their world. In order to analyze these texts in their material, urban, and Mediterranean contexts, we integrate abstract social network analysis with GIS mapping. In our first phase, we focused on studying connections between individuals and deities represented in Ostia’s epigraphic corpus that have revealed promising insights into social life within Ostia’s religious world. With the generous support of the Onassis Foundation, we are beginning an expansion into Macedonia, which will address the bigger questions of globalization and rhizomatic connectivity that underpin the project. Though our project is still in early stages, our methods and evidence have the potential to reshape existing ideas about Mediterranean connectivity and give deeper textures to historical ideas about how the inhabitants of a bustling Roman port city created and preserved connections at home and across the ancient world. At the same time, however, this work has forced us to reckon with the nature of creating history through digital approaches and recognize the flaws, limits, and promises of the tools and methods we have employed. In this chapter, we present the initial findings of the MCI as a self-reflexive critique of our own digital praxis. We begin with an overview of our project’s goals, methods, and history, and then progress to a critique of the approaches we have initiated. The first step in our method utilizes the social network visualization software Gephi, which allows us to reconstruct potential social networks in Ostia based on social, religious, familial, and political affiliations mentioned in Ostia’s inscriptions. The networks reconstructed offer tantalizing

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possibilities for thinking about how ancient peoples intertwined religious and social activities in urban contexts. Next, we discuss some early results from the second phase of our project, which combines our abstract Gephi networks with GIS mapping of Ostia’s inscription distribution. In our study of the Porta Romana necropolis, for example, our approach was able to trace how epigraphic texts responded to shifting urban features. An initial pilot project concerning the distribution of inscriptions with cultic associations, discussed in the chapter’s conclusion, suggests that the combination of these two digital techniques will allow us to examine abstract social networks over geographic space. These comments, like our project, are intended to be the starting point of a broader conversation in the burgeoning field of ancient digital humanities about how to use these tools appropriately and what they can offer to us as scholars. 7.1. Data, Capta, and Epigraphy: The Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative How might digital tools help us grasp the deeper dimensionality of ancient social worlds? More importantly, how can we transform ancient evidence into data that work in tandem with digital processes and methods designed for contemporary use? In order to consider these issues, MCI developed an approach for coding and analyzing ancient epigraphic texts. The project began as the Ostia Connectivity Project, focused on the site of Ostia Antica. Excavated intermittently since the Renaissance, Ostia serves as a case study for the construction of connectivity at multiple scales in the ancient world: the local, the regional, and the global. Part of Rome’s main port complex in the Imperial period, the city housed a cosmopolitan population of mostly middle-class artisans and merchants. Trade with the entire empire, particularly the grain trade, passed through Ostia and its warehouses. Among its remains are streets, shops, warehouses, taverns, baths, temples, and administrative buildings. Combined with its excavation records and digitized inscriptions (EAGLE), Ostia offers us a chance to reconsider how its inhabitants created and preserved social, religious, and political connections at home and across the Mediterranean world. Excellent work has been done to reconstruct the city’s social history, which, along with its large epigraphic corpus and relatively well-preserved architectural remains, made the city a good starting point for our research into questions of ancient connectivity. Russell Meiggs (1978) offered a preliminary analysis of Ostia’s class structure and social institutions. He focused, however, on civic elites and their connections, leaving unanswered many questions about Ostia’s enslaved and merchant classes. Other research demonstrated that inhabitants formed professional and religious associations, in addition to more informal groups based on family and social factors (White 1997; Stöger 2011a, 2011b; Van Haeperen 2017). These types of associations are found throughout the eastern Mediterranean (Arnatoglou 2003; Trümper 2006, 2011), providing useful points of comparison for the continued study of Ostia’s voluntary as-

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sociations (Royden 1988; Liu 2009). More recently, a Scandinavian team began a study of ethnic identity at Ostia based on osteoarchaeology and epigraphy (Kariveri et al. n.d.), and a European team led by Simon Keay combined archaeological and historical research to examine Ostia and the Isola Sacra necropolis to advance our knowledge of port cities in the Mediterranean (Keay et al. 2013, Keay 2015). Our goal with the MCI is to build dynamic network maps to see what social work individuals and groups performed in order to create and maintain connectivity over time and space.1 Ancient inscriptions make concrete the effort required to build and maintain these connections, and though modern visitors may think of these texts as inanimate objects, our project relies on the assumption that material texts and objects played an active role in social connectivity in the ancient world.2 Inscriptions reified and memorialized key aspects of social relationships, and informed how people formed groups, where they advertised group membership, and when these types of labels became relevant. To visualize these phenomena we rely on the published inscriptions of Ostia, which total around 6500, and an open-source platform called Gephi, which operates on mathematical principles of social network analysis (SNA) theory.3 Gephi allows us to highlight and organize connections between different human, cultural, religious, and social factors that appear in Ostia’s epigraphic corpus and visualize patterns in social networks. Using our published corpus, we code these texts into a CSV database. The CSV format is essential for our purposes, because it allows for simple, seamless integration with other platforms and methods of analysis, including GIS and SNA platforms.4 Our database is organized around individuals mentioned in the inscriptions, and includes descriptors like gender, magistrate offices, and familial roles, among others, as categories of metadata associated with each inscription. Because we rely so heavily on inscriptions, there are several literal

1. In this article we will deal primarily with issues of space. We plan to address questions of temporality in network archaeology and networked history in a future publication. For further discussion of time in network analysis, see Blake 2013; Collar 2013. 2. Bourdieu 1985, 723–26; Gell 1998, Smith 2007; Stewart 2007; Bussels 2012; Mattingly 2014, 38–41. 3. We hope that unpublished inscriptions and graffiti can eventually be added to the database, along with information on sculpture, pottery, and building materials. Katherine Larson (2013) applied Gephi to a study of Hellenistic sculptors and workshops in the Hellenistic Mediterranean to tease out networks of production and transmission. Her approach demonstrates the challenges in using SNA to estimate familial relations within human lifetimes given the problems with dating inscriptions in the ancient world. 4. This format also allows us to continually expand and adapt our dataset, keep it stable over the long term, and make it accessible to other scholars. Though other database software like FileMaker Pro can export data to CSV files, the software is proprietary and updates frequently, making older databases obsolete and difficult to work with in multiple locations, as the collaborative nature of our project requires.

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and figural lacunae in our information. First, we are limited by the types and amount of information preserved. Roman inscriptions are, by their nature, laconic.5 Our ability to gain information from them is limited by several factors, including physical damage, poor excavation records, and the absence of data about women, slaves, and the urban poor inherent to epigraphy. Often data that would provide a fuller picture, even patronymics, are not included, leaving us with a dataset that is difficult to reconcile with digital tools that work best with more complete information. A second complication is the difficulty of dating inscriptions. The ways in which we draw chronological boundaries must be represented carefully in order to highlight the interpretive decisions that went into our database. Often, inscriptions can only be dated to within a century or two because of the lack of datable references or the types of information an individual chose to preserve in stone. Most of our inscriptions can be dated only generally to the second or third century CE. Entries for inscriptions in our CSV database, then, often do not contain every possible element or a high degree of temporal specificity. Despite these lacunae in our dataset, our approach provides a way to exceed the limits of traditional epigraphic analysis. While most epigraphic collections include cross-references and some comments on social groups, existing scholarly models fundamentally rely on human memory to organize and make sense of patterns and connections within and across thousands and thousands of ancient inscriptions. With traditional methods we can visualize certain kinds of networks from inscriptions, like the sarcophagus of Junius Euhodus and his wife Metilia Acte, made during the 160s CE (fig. 7.1).6 With a cursory reading, this epitaph can be embedded in several overlapping networks at Ostia: religious, professional, familial, economic, and artistic, among many others that we can no longer trace. Network theorists have referred to these as strong ties, relationships between closely linked people stemming from similarity that produce frequent and significant interactions. These strong ties organize communities and grant certain individuals and relationships more power and centrality within a network context. Because of the affective power of these relationships, strong ties frequently motivate social action (Granovetter 1973; Centola 2018, 6, 22–23, 60–62). But social networks are also reliant on weaker ties between people, groups, and objects whose connections are not always clear to us. These types of relationships, which do not rely as heavily on similarity and commonality

5. On the Roman “epigraphic habit” and chronological patterns of dedication, see MacMullen 1982. Henrik Mouritsen (2010) has examined inscriptions from Ostia and argued that inscription types better represent the aspirations and goals of particular groups rather than actual population distributions. 6. Museo Chiaramonti inv. 1195, CIL XIV 371; Grassinger 1994, no. 76. See Wood 1978; Zanker and Ewald 2004, 202, figs. 182–83, 298–330, no. 8; Newby 2014, 281–84, fig. 8.8.

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Figure 7.1. Marble sarcophagus of Gaius Iunius Euhodus and Metilia Acte from Ostia. 161–170 CE. Museo Chiaramonti inv. 1195, CIL XIV 371.

and occur randomly, snake through adjacent networks and provide shortcuts between disparate peoples and communities (Granovatter 1973, Centola 2018, 24–30). Damon Centola (2018) has recently argued that the social power behind strong ties are better motivators for changing behavior within networks, but historically archaeologists have seen weak ties as more important for understanding the diffusion of ideas and social practices within a network (Blake 2013; Rivers, Knappett, and Evans 2013). Weak ties, then, can be key to understanding how different and disparate network clusters are connected, but human memory has not proved sufficient to follow the branching and unpredictable paths that these types of relationships created. Because of computers’ ability to hold and process massive amounts of information, digital approaches can go further toward parsing out the fringes of social networks. With Gephi we can address some of the weaker, less visible social connections: friends of friends, adjacent associations, neighbors of neighbors, and other secondary and tertiary relationships that affected social connections and actions. By integrating secondary, tertiary, and indirect connections through a variety of ontological associations, SNA software like Gephi offers a way to curate and present historical possibilities visually.7 Central to the functionality of any SNA program are the primary tenets of graph theory. In graph theory, relationships between objects are visualized as lines or edges connecting verti7. For an overview of Gephi and some of its functionality, see Bastian and Heymann 2009.

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ces or nodes.8 Nodes are the primary units under investigation. In MCI’s work, they can take any form (people, organizations, divinities, etc.) because of our assumption that objects and groups have agency within ancient social networks. What constitutes the connections between nodes is defined by the researcher. Two people (nodes) might be considered linked if they feature in the same inscription, if they share membership in the same collegium, or if they are family members. This ontological mutability enables researchers to query relationships that may not be evident in an archaeological or historical record and discover new questions that can be asked of their data. Further, this approach grants objects and social groupings a deeper agency within networks and sees them not just as edges or ties within networks, but rather as nodes and actors in their own right (Gell 1998; Mol 2015). Social network analysis software thus allows us to bring together a great many potential actors in Ostia’s religious landscape and visualize the myriad ways they were connected to each other, and more broadly to the wider Mediterranean. The attraction of using software like Gephi for this investigation lies in its ability to make formerly invisible connections visible, to illuminate the shifting potentialities of social and religious networks that may not be revealed by more traditional archaeological or epigraphic investigations. By building a large, expandable database of individuals mentioned in Ostia’s inscriptions and finding new ways to visualize the connections represented, we hope to flesh out these secondary and tertiary connections and find ways to visualize the complex and rhizomatic networks that are invisible in traditional analysis (fig. 7.2). Though we have not finished entering all of the published inscriptions into our database, the beginnings of how we might use Gephi to expand the map of direct and indirect connections to offer a fuller picture of the social networks available to someone like Euhodus come into focus. For example, in our database and using Gephi to analyze the potential connections, Euhodus is defined by his relationships and social placement in Ostia. Each column in the CSV file describes people, groups, and places in relation to Euhodus: as his wife (Metilia Acte), as his professional guild (carpenter), as his tribe (Palatine). Our data design also assumes that secondary associations might have colored Euhodus’s life. For example, his wife, Metilia Acte, held a priesthood in the Cybele cult that might have bolstered Euhodus’s integration with that religious and social circle. As our dataset grows, the network maps we produce have become more textured and detailed. From our growing dataset of funerary, cultic, and honorific inscriptions in and around Rome’s port city of Ostia, we selected the names of dedicators and the gods they mention as nodes in a bimodal social network analysis. Drawing together hundreds of nodes, this approach can tease out the 8. A detailed introduction to graph theory can be found in Bondy and Murty 2010. For a useful primer that examines its origin and applications see “Graph Theory” 2017.

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Figure 7.2. Network graph of connections between named individuals at Ostia and specific deities mentioned in inscriptions. This graph centers on connections between Gaius Iunius Euhodus (lower middle) and the wider community. Nodes are sized according to betweenness (how frequently they appear on the shortest path between all other nodes), and darker nodes are fewer steps away from Euhodus, suggesting a closer connection in Ostia’s social landscape.

shape of the cultic landscape at Ostia, revealing what divinities figure more prominently in what social arenas, and which people figured most prominently in this shifting armature. Gephi allows us to refine and refigure our examination by testing certain statistical metrics of our dataset and using them to visualize the networks in new ways. Values of “centrality,” including betweenness, and eigenvector measurements assign more weight to nodes that have a higher importance in the graph due to their location on the shortest path between other nodes or their connections to more highly connected nodes,

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Figure 7.3. A network graph illustrating the connections between all individuals named and deities named in inscriptions. The nodes are symbolized according to eigenvector centrality, with well-connected nodes appearing larger and darker to indicate their relative influence over the entire network.

respectively.9 Figure 7.2 visualizes the betweenness centrality of all nodes on a social network graph centered around the figure of Gaius Junius Euhodus. The larger the node, the more times that node lies on the shortest path between all other nodes and Euhodus, and therefore the more influence that entity would have on the flow of information to and from Euhodus and the wider religious community at Ostia. A more nuanced metric, eigenvector centrality, acknowledges that not all connections in a network graph have equal value, and weights more heavily those nodes that are connected to other, well-connected nodes (fig. 7.3).10 These sorts of measurements allow us to consider the possibility that certain dedicators may have served as the only connection between two otherwise disparate cults, to identify the most influential figures in this social landscape, 9. For a discussion of centrality values as useful indicators of a node’s importance on a social network graph, see Hanneman and Riddle 2005; Larson 2013, 236–38. 10. Newman (2008) details the calculation and application of eigenvector centralities and documents their utility in nuancing measures of influence on social network graphs.

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Figure 7.4. A unimodal network illustrating the connections between people named in inscriptions. When multiple individuals mention a deity in an inscription, that deity is here represented as the edge connecting them. The upper range of nodes have overall higher eigenvector centrality (darker nodes), and therefore exert more influence across the network, while the lower half includes nodes with the highest betweenness centrality (larger nodes).

or to identify overlooked divinities that share cultic worship with other more important gods. Which dedicators were the most well-connected? Were there individuals who may have served as gatekeepers between cults, or the arbiters of information-transfer? How might a divinity like Silvanus be connected to the cults of Jupiter Sol Serapis? Gephi allows us to answer these questions and identify neighborhoods and people of particular interest in the social topography of Ostia in novel ways. We have used Gephi to examine the ways that individuals mentioned cluster around divinities (fig. 7.4). In this example, using the individuals involved in the cults of Isis, Serapis, Mithras, and Cybele, there are two clear groupings in

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the Gephi visualization.11 The upper portion largely clusters around officeholders in the cults of Mithras and Cybele, while the bottom cluster is largely made up of Isiac devotees. The nodes in the top half have larger general influence (they are all more strongly connected to strongly connected nodes), while the lower half are generally connected to fewer nodes. However, the nodes in the lower half have more shared connections (in terms of deities venerated) than those in the upper half, reflected here by the thickness of the edges. There seems to be little crossover between those who venerate Egyptian deities and those who dedicate to Cybele and Mithras, which suggests that devotees of Isis might participate in only one mystery cult. Despite the continuing tendency to study the three cults as a comprehensive group due to a resurgence of scholarly interest in the work of Franz Cumont (Alvar 2008, Price 2012, Mol 2015, cf. Versluys 2013, Gordon 2014), this evidence suggests that there was little social overlap in the groups’ devotees. This differentiation, then, forces us to question whether the concept of “Oriental” cults is a useful heuristic for reconstructing broader emic perspectives of ancient Mediterranean religion.12 Since this initial phase, our database has grown to include over 1150 individuals mentioned in inscriptions. Our team is working its way through the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL) volumes for Ostia. When it came to our analysis of religious affiliations as represented in Ostia’s epigraphy, because of the gaps in the epigraphic record and differences in dedicatory practices and missing portions of texts, we had to adapt the way we curated the datasets in Gephi. The Gephi program prefers full columns of data. Consequently, we choose to orient many of our visualizations around individual dedicators and gods, since most inscriptions mention these two factors. Many fragmentary inscriptions, however, preserve an individual dedicator’s name but not one of a deity. These inscriptions, which we have classed as referencing “unknown” deities, present a problem, as seen in figure 7.5. Here, we have visualized relationships between all dedicators and deities mentioned in our CSV database thus far. The images above have been edited 11. In forming this subset of individuals and determining their involvement in these cults, we followed the boundaries set out in Vermaseren’s (1977, 1956–1960) corpuses of material related to the cults of Mithras and Cybele and Bricault’s (2005) corpus of inscriptions related to the cults of the Egyptian gods. It is common scholarly practice to group the worship of Isis, Sarapis, and other Egyptian deities (including that of Anubis and Harpocrates, among others), and discuss the gods somewhat interchangeably. The gods were worshiped together in groups and shared many of the same personality traits and powers, and scholars tend to use the term Isiac to refer to the cults on the whole (Malaise 2005, 20–31). 12. Cumont originally grouped the cults of Cybele, Mithras, and Isis under the concept of Oriental cults. Many scholars (Van Haeperen 2007; Muniz Grijalvo 2009; Price 2012) have argued that the label obscures important differences between the three cults and creates a category that does not reflect ancient perspectives. In recent years, however, some scholars (Alvar 2008; Versluys 2013; Mol 2015) have argued for preserving the category due to the prominence and active role of alterity in all three cults.

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Figure 7.5. A pilot study of network connectivity within the inscriptions at Ostia using inscriptions related to the cults of Cybele, Mithras, and the Egyptian gods. This image explores how dramatically incomplete data can affect our interpretations. The large “Unknown” node is by far the most heavily weighted actor on the network by eigenvector centrality.

to remove “unknown” factors from the data visualization process, but using a complete version of the database produces maps that highlight the large number of dedicators closely tied to “unknown deities,” which is difficult to use as a knowledge-producing heuristic. It does, however, emphasize the limits of our knowledge. The map changes when we include inscriptions clearly dedicating something to a divinity whose name is not visible in the extant inscription.

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Gephi is a useful data visualization and analysis tool, but here has assumed that all the unknown gods were the same god. Even with digital approaches, we will not always be able to access all of the information we would need to map every aspect of Ostia’s connectivity and we have to be aware of the limits of our digital tools. Translating epigraphically derived data into a usable database and finding ways to analyze that information has forced us to ask new questions of our methods and praxis. As scholars, we must reflect the interpretive work that lies behind Gephi and the images it produces. The maps it produces are not objective, but rather the outcome of the questions we ask, the columns of data we compare, the colors and weights we assign to different aspects of connectivity based on our own interests and arguments about the societal composition of Ostia. Gephi can visualize only a limited number of CSV columns (up to three at a time; the source nodes, the target nodes, and the nature of their connection), which limits the types of questions we can visualize in any one image. Most importantly, Gephi does not generate new knowledge in and of itself, but reorganizes existing information in ways that can help scholars identify new patterns, much like rearranging Scrabble tiles. Because Gephi allows us to take data and translate it into images that can seem more real than textual narratives, we must also be careful to show how the choices made in the very use of the software will affect the outcome of our analysis. As we move forward, it is critical that our information and the ways that we visualize it recognize these limitations. Joanna Drucker (2011) described the types of partial and coded information that goes into these visualizations not as data, but as capta, characteristic of literary and historical research in the digital humanities. The information we glean from inscriptions and curate in our database is captured from texts, which is fundamentally different from the ways that statisticians and natural and physical scientists produce data. As Bruno Latour (1988) has argued, scientific data is constructed by human interpretation as well. Still, our project is based on quantitative methods applied to humanistic evidence, questions, and forms of analysis. As such, it is imperative that our representations not overstate our own confidence in the information, but rather find ways to include qualitative context that avoids reifying the categories used to curate and visualize our epigraphically derived information. This caveat is another way of indicating both the limits on our knowledge and the ways in which the choices that modern interpreters make about what data they want to see will shape analysis itself. The Gephi images we generate, which rely on inscriptions that can be dated mostly to centuries, reflect what we might call possibilities and potentialities for networks within Ostia. The lived experiences of ancient Ostians may have differed from the narratives reflected in our images, and our visualizations and networks maps reflect social networks that include several generations of individuals who, while participating in ongoing social networks, did not live contemporaneously. These images

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represent only a part of the actual long-term social connections and networks that linked Ostians together, but that does not mean that what they show is not significant.13 Roman inscriptions in stone, which form the majority of our corpus, aim to preserve memories over the long term.14 The Gephi maps we produce might be relying on temporalities that reflect the priorities of the objects more than those of individuals, so in fact the histories we produce might be histories of memorialization more than they are histories of lived human experiences. That is, the Gephi images more accurately represent the way that texts function as asynchronous communicators of social information and preservers of memory over the long term (Krieger 2017, 135–60). This shift toward privileging the text-as-object complicates our historical interpretation, but also allows us to think about how the believed permanence of these objects makes ephemeral social relationships and positionality relevant over multiple centuries. More importantly, inscriptions preserve and keep active social networks whose relevance persisted beyond the lifespan of any one individual who composed, funded, and initiated an inscription’s creation. 7.2. Theoretical Difficulties and the Practicalities of GIS Mapping at Ostia In addition to visualizing potential social networks in Ostia in the second and third centuries, our project aims to address how connectivity operates within the physical landscape and topography of Ostia. Over the course of three field seasons in 2017, 2018, and 2019, we have collected geolocation data for approximately 460 inscriptions in conjunction with an undergraduate field school.15 In the first season, we directed our attention to the inscriptions located in the Campus of Magna Mater, which was chosen to coincide with our initial CSV database entries and Gephi analysis of inscriptions related to the religious cults of Ostia. In the second and third field seasons, we have expanded our data set to

13. This approach has some similarities with Jörg Rüpke’s Lived Ancient Religion framework (2016; cf. Raja and Rüpke 2015), in which religion is studied as a series of ritual practices and affective responses evoked in individuals rather than a series of beliefs or practices dictated by the state. Their goal is to prioritize the individual agency of the worshiper and cult community. Similarly, our project focuses on the agencies of people, objects, and groups and the actions they take to construct and reshape their social networks. However, as discussed here, our approach differs in that we do not believe our visualizations represent human lived experiences as much as processes of memorialization over the long term. 14. Though many scholarly assessments assume that epigraphy and the epigraphic habit is closely tied to the desire to memorialize, few have treated this relationship in detail (Barrett 1993; Ma 2009). Many, however, have explored related issues of materiality and memory in epigraphy, including van Nijf (2000), Flower (2006, esp. 276–84), and Östenberg (2019). 15. During our first two field seasons in 2017 and 2018, our data were collected in conjunction with an undergraduate field school of about twenty students supervised by project staff. In 2019, data were collected by project staff and volunteer scholars.

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include inscriptions found throughout the site, with the highest concentrations from Regio II and the Porta Romana and Isola Sacra necropoleis. These concentrations reflect only the locations and buildings where we were able to identify a large number of inscriptions with known findspot or display locations, like the Caserma dei Vigiles and the Piazza delle Corporazioni, and may not reflect inscription density throughout the site. By mapping these inscriptions’ findspots and use locations, we have begun to connect the abstract networks that we render in Gephi with spatial information on the ground to produce a dynamic, multiscalar reading of our archaeological and epigraphic evidence. Combining these two methods helps us to better understand the spatial dynamics of social and religious connectivity in Ostia. At the same time, our work needs to represent the uncertainty inherent in these reconstructions. Part of the challenge when conducting geospatial research of ancient sites is reflecting the long lives these objects have lived. Many of our inscriptions are thought to have been moved from their original contexts or spoliated for later reuse in secondary or tertiary contexts (van der Meer 2012, 8, 42; Underwood 2013; Boin 2013, 29–30, 74).16 Some examples are as simple as inscriptions whose original locations have been disturbed by the modern excavation backfill at the Porta Romana necropolis. Others are more complex. The well-known portrait statue bases set up in the Piazza delle Corporazioni were moved into the neighboring theater during late antiquity to form new benches (Calza et al. 1953; Cébeillac-Gervasoni, Caldelli, and Zevi 2010, no. 77; Pensabene 2007, 422–24, van der Meer 2012, 37–39). This shift, in which both contexts may have relied on the social relationships between the texts, the individuals mentioned, and the locus of display, presents complex challenges to our goal of visualizing their primary and secondary uses through GIS. This phenomenon is not a problem unique to Ostia; many ancient sites across the Mediterranean offer similar examples of spoliation. In order to reconstruct Ostia’s connectivity, however, it was imperative that we design our data collection to account for the ways in which the movement and reuse of objects and material across time and space intervened in the site’s social networks. To account for these nuances within the epigraphic evidence, we devised a tripartite categorization system to reflect the perceived security of an inscription’s findspot and to take account of multiple display locales or potential reuse. Based on available excavation reports and scholarly consensus wherever possible, we devised three categories to indicate whether an inscription was 16. Other examples: A statue base dedicated to Lucius Aelius, adopted son of Hadrian (Ostia inv. 19795, CIL XIV S 4356 = AE 1889, 128 = EDCS 11900075) seems to have been moved from elsewhere to join an imperial group in the Caserma dei Vigiles. See Højte 1999, 230–31, no. 3; Laird 2018, 56–62, 76 no. 1. On spoliation in cities of the late empire more generally, see Alchermes 1994; Kinney 1995.

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found in situ, whether its original or secondary use contexts could be securely reconstructed, or whether its various contexts could only be insecurely reconstructed. Defining this portion of our survey was difficult. Archaeologists and epigraphers define the term in situ differently, and there are many inscriptions currently displayed on site in locations unrelated to their ancient use context. We chose to define “in situ” as something that stood in a location where it was displayed in antiquity or whose location could be easily reconstructed, as in the case of the Sarapeum’s marble architrave that had fallen down from its original location but was found directly in front of the building it once crowned (AE 1956, 76=Bricault 2005, 580–81, cat. 03/1103; Floriani Squarciapino 1962, 21; Malaise 1972b, 71, Ostia no. 16; Mar 2001, 188, no. 6). The label “secure reconstruction” was granted to inscriptions whose use locations, whether in its primary or secondary use context, are generally agreed upon by scholars with a high degree of certainty, such as the aforementioned statue bases that were originally found near the theater but belong to foundations in the neighboring Piazza delle Corporazioni. For inscriptions whose original or secondary locations are contested or are identified without a high degree of certainty we instead labeled “insecurely reconstructed.” One example of this category (CIL XIV 5177+5349/50) is a plaque reconstructed from several fragments that early archaeologists attributed to excavations in the area of the forum (CIL XIV 5177+5349/50 = AE 1969/70, 87; Bloch 1953, no. 35; Cébeillac-Gervasoni, Caldelli, and Zevi 2010, no. 61.5). In this case, we set a point at the center of the Forum, since no more precise locale could be identified. When it came to visualizing moved or spoliated inscriptions with both primary and secondary use-locations, we plotted two discrete data points—one that indicated its find spot and one that indicated its reconstructed original use in order to trace how an inscription might have intervened in different social networks in its multiple contexts and time periods. Other scholars might have drawn the boundaries between these categories differently, but this categorization and terminology was chosen to best reflect our level of certainty about the accuracy of any given point. The debates we could have about the design of our survey, curation of our metadata, and recording methods are just the types of self-reflexivity necessary to do this kind of work, and we are continually revising our praxis to determine the best methods for analyzing and visualizing these relationships. This categorization determined how we recorded the inscriptions within our GIS mapping at Ostia. Over the course of all three field seasons, we plotted our 460 inscriptions using an ArcGIS iPhone app called Survey123 supplemented with a Bad Elf GPS booster in order to enhance geospatial accuracy. Originally designed by Esri as part of a larger suite of smartphone apps to aid field collection of geospatial data, Survey123 allows users to compose a custom survey form that conducts geospatial mapping and attaches metadata and images smoothly into one step. Through the survey format, we were able to attach

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additional identifying data for each inscription that included our classification system about the security of the inscription’s findspot, its object type, building name, Regio number, insula number, and date to each point. Embedding this data within each point allows us to better sort the data in later analysis. With the addition of the Bad Elf geolocation booster, almost two-thirds of our points were recorded within Survey123’s lowest margin of error category, which is between one and five meters, and Bad Elf indicated that most were recorded on the lower end of that margin. For contemporary excavations or surveys, that margin of error would not be considered acceptable. But for our work, which involves reconstructing original findspots and display locations based on nineteenth and early twentieth century excavation reports, this range was acceptable and better reflects our certainty that any inscription came from a particular location. Although our usable GIS-referenced data set of roughly 460 data points still remains a small corpus, several promising applications of this data have arisen.17 The Porta Romana necropolis, which lay to the east of the city gate along the Via Ostiensis and Via dei Sepolcri, was a popular cemetery for middle-class Ostians. The site, which seems to have gone into use in the second century BCE and operated into the third century CE, lay atop an early republican cemetery. The complex included cremations, inhumations, monuments, and utilitarian structures (Heinzelmann 2000, 28–37). Recent reinvestigation of the area has produced a careful and fine-grained analysis of the area’s architecture and epigraphy, though much has been found in the backfill of earlier nineteenth and twentieth century excavations. By plotting the findspots of inscriptions in this area, we can make some preliminary observations about changes in the spatial distribution of inscriptions over time. Figure 7.6 depicts an incident map of sixty-one data points plotted in the Porta Romana necropolis. Each dot corresponds to an inscription, and each of the patterns correlates to a time range. If we look at the data here from a chronological perspective, the few early inscriptions (generally republican in date) cluster around the Via Ostiensis, especially on its west end close to the Porta Romana itself. Most of the second group, which dates to the first century CE, cluster around the central part of Michael Heinzelmann’s Tomb Group A (the tombs that run along the south side of the Via Ostiensis) and Tomb Group B (a neighboring group of tombs that runs along the north side of the Via dei Sepolcri). The third group of inscriptions, which dates generally to the second century CE, primarily occupies the center of Tomb Group B, which may suggest that Tomb Group A offered fewer opportunities for epigraphic 17. The most thorough study of the region remains Heinzelmann 2000. The Porta Romana necropolis was uncovered in three campaigns: the first, led by Pietro Ercole Visconti in the years 1855–1859, the second led by Dante Vaglieri in the years 1909–1913, and the third led by Guido Calza in the period 1919–1923.

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Figure 7.6. A grayscale detail of the Porta Romana necropolis, with each dot representing a single inscription. The dots range in date from the first century BCE to the third century CE, with a noticeable cluster of later inscriptions in Tomb Group C.

display or had become otherwise less popular at the end of the first or beginning of the second century CE. Heinzelmann (2000, 32) notes that the street level of the Via Ostiensis was raised between 0.5–2.20 m in this period and that the Porta Romana itself was revetted with marble, which may have affected patterns of dedication. This change in distribution thus suggests that Tomb Group B reoriented itself away from the Republican and Julio-Claudian period power center of the Via Ostiensis toward the newer Via dei Sepolcri and eventually toward the new gate into the city, the Porta Secondaria, constructed in the Hadrianic period. Several inscriptions in Tomb Group C, located to the south of the Via dei Sepolcri, date to the third and fourth century CE, which indicates a growing necropolis to the south in later periods. Though Heinzelmann dates only one tomb, C6, to the third century, the continued dedication in this area suggests that individuals continued to bury in this area after a significant portion of the city’s population had moved to Portus and the construction of new tombs in the Porta Romana necropolis had halted (Meiggs 1978, 211; Heinzelmann 2000, 36–38, abb. 18; 210–11, cat. PR C6, Abb. 119). We can also represent the same information as a heatmap (fig. 7.7). The darker areas are places where more inscriptions were found closer to a road, which we take as an indicator of a tomb’s engagement with passers-by.18 18. This method of spatial analysis, and the attention to roads as visually integrated spaces, has

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Figure 7.7. A heatmap of sixty-one inscriptions observed around the Porta Romana necropolis. The darker the color, the more intense the concentration of inscriptions. A particularly dense cluster is observable along the Via di Sepolcri.

Remark­ably, the densest cluster appears not along Ostia’s decumanus, its main road toward Rome, but on the smaller Via dei Sepolcri.19 A few third century inscriptions also appear in Tomb Group B, which suggests that the inscriptions in these tombs engaged with the earlier ones from the first and second centuries CE, involving themselves with a network of memory and connectivity that stretched backward into Ostia’s past. Because of the insecure nature of many of these findspots, the high density here (and lack of density elsewhere) could be attributed to postdepositional processes. Enough of the inscriptions, however, were found in secure contexts and are datable to the Severan period to suggest that epigraphic display related to burials did intensify in this area during the late second and third centuries CE (Heinzelmann 2000, 197–211). Together, this reorientation away from the decumanus and evidence for the intensification of dedications in the late second to early third centuries CE may reflect larger shifts within the use of the necropolis in the Severan period toward the south side of the Via dei Sepolcri. Still, we must be cautious with dates. Many

been used elsewhere at Ostia, as in Stöger 2011a. Similar approaches have been applied to analyze spatial visibility and integration in Pompeii; van Nes 2011. On engagement between public and private at Ostia, see Arnhold 2015. 19. On the centrality of the decumanus to the movement of people and goods through the city of Ostia in the Republican through Antonine periods and the decumanus’s higher level of visual and physical integration within the network of city streets, see Stöger 2011a, 219–28, 235–37.

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of these tombs are dated generally, and to produce this image we had to select midpoints of date ranges like “third-to-fourth centuries CE” to visualize the area’s chronology in a comprehensible way. These general ranges, as well as the imperfect nature of these findspots, means that our interpretations will remain tentative, but these types of visualizations can give a general sense of epigraphic activities and the shifting valences of social networks over time. Thus, our approach shows that, in areas where enough securely located inscriptions were found, mapping these inscriptions and delineating chronological boundaries does have the potential to give greater nuance and detail to our understanding of textual display and dedicatory practices over time.20 This mapping also gestures toward a sense of the type of work dedicators wanted these texts to perform: to be visible reminders of the people entombed and to exist in dialogue with proximate inscriptions over the long term. 7.3. Conclusion: Digital Praxis in Social History As we continue to refine our praxis, we are optimistic that our methods have the potential to unlock new forms of social history. Using data from our 2017 field season, we ran a test analysis to examine how Gephi visualizations line up with our GIS landscape maps. This experiment, which used an early form of our database, focused on the inscriptions related to the cults of Cybele, Mithras, and the Egyptian gods, as well as funerary inscriptions related to these cults, and suggests that these two complementary techniques might work well to highlight unrecognized spatial patterns in social networks. In figure 7.8, which indicates relationships between gods and dedicators, we can identify six somewhat discrete groupings organized around particular deities. Semidiscrete groups of dedicators cluster around Cybele, Dis Manibus, Isis Regina, Isis and Anubis, the Dioscuri, and, integrating language into our analysis, a Greek-speaking group of Isis devotees.21 Though based on partial and selective evidence (a database that includes only mentions of deities related to three cults), these clusters may suggest that religious dedications reflected or reified cultic boundaries within Ostia’s social networks.22 We then cross-referenced these clusters with their locations in Ostia’s topography (fig. 7.9). These comparisons revealed a few obvious locations with 20. Dillon and Baltes (2013) used an analogous digital procedure to examine the patterns of dedication and persistence in the dromos of Delos’s sanctuary to Apollo from the late Classical through early Roman periods. 21. All of these gods were named in the corpuses of inscriptions related to the cults of Cybele, Mithras, and the Egyptian deities named in note 12. Most of the inscriptions discussed were found without context in Portus, which may indicate that there was a sanctuary there. First suggested by Lanciani 1868, 228, further attested in CIL XIV 18, 19. 22. See note 11 regarding the creation of this epigraphic corpus. Though the inscriptions related to the cult of Mithras, as recorded in Vermaseren 1956–1960, 1:114–47, were included in this pilot

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Figure 7.8. A grayscale image detailing the connections between dedicators and various divinities. Cult affiliations are represented by the type of fill in each node, with no clear cult affiliation represented as flat gray. Six primary groups are detectable in the existing dataset.

clusters of inscriptions from devotees of the same divinity—namely, Cybele in the Campus of the Magna Mater, and Isis Regina in the Sarapeum. Some of these clusters are revealing. Two dedications to Isis Regina, a version of Isis popular in Egypt but less popular in other parts of the Mediterranean (Dousa 2002, 156–68), made up a small proportion of our overall corpus but a high percentage of the dedications in Ostia’s Sarapeum. More importantly, the people mentioned in these inscriptions, P. Cornelius Victorinus and members of the gens Statilia, appear in several other inscriptions, indicating that those who project, they frequently did not mention a specific deity, which meant that the gods did not become nodes with high eigenvector centrality in our visualizations.

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Figure 7.9. The cult groups identified in the network analysis of figure 7.8 are here mapped to their rough locations around Ostia, translating social stakes into physical presences. Such a comparison allows for the unification of abstracted social connections and geographic, or civic investment by cults and their practitioners.

dedicate to Isis Regina have a large presence in the epigraphic world of Ostia.23 The dedications to Isis Regina in the Sarapeum, then, may have been more important because of their dedicators’ clout within the city, particularly in Regio III, where the Sarapeum community was highly influential.24 23. Publius Cornelius Victorinus: CIL XIV 343, 4290. Found in the Antonine Baths, see also Malaise 1972a; 1972b, 69, cat. Ostia 10. Both inscriptions are dated to the second to third centuries CE. The gens Statilia: Bricault 2005, 581 cat. 203/1106 (=AE 1971, 63, AE 1988, 216, found in the Sarapeum) refers to a Titus Statilius Taurianus, dates to the second century CE. Bricault 2005, 581 cat. 203/1104 (Malaise 1972b, 72 cat. Ostia 19, found in the Sarapeum) refers to a T. Statilius Optatio and dates to the second to third centuries CE; Bricault 2005, cat. 503/1105 (Malaise 1972b, 72, cat. Ostia 20, found in the Sarapeum in 1954) mentions T. Statilius Florus and dates to the second to third century CE. Bricault 2005, 581–82 cat. 503/1107 (in Greek; Malaise 1972b, 72–73, cat. Ostia 22) is a series of herms found in the neighboring Trinacria baths that mentions Titus Statilio Alkimos and his alumna Statilia Eisias that date to the second to third centuries CE. Bricault 2005, 583 cat. 503/1112 (in Greek; Malaise 1972b, 73 cat. Ostia 27; Nutton 1969, 96, in the Sarapeum) mentions T. Statilios, who may have been a freedman and a doctor, and dates to the second century CE. 24. Mar (2001, 339–55) has argued that the Sarapeum community actually owned the entire insula and that several neighboring buildings, including the Trinacria Baths, were built in conjunction with the Sarapeum. More recently, Mols (2007) has critiqued this interpretation, but Mar is

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These maps also challenge some of our Gephi visualizations. For example, as we saw in figure 7.4, our Gephi image pointed to an epigraphic separation of Egyptian cult devotees from the heavily intermingled cultic communities of Cybele and Mithras. The GIS maps, however, indicate a significant proportion of dedications mentioning Isis and Anubis have a connection to the Campus of the Magna Mater. The connection is not one of spatial display, but rather of social connectivity. Julius Faustinus dedicated a stone cippus from 251 CE in honor of Decimus Fabius Florus Veranus, who was a priest of Isis and an Anubiacus, as well as a navicularus of the corpus lenunculariorum Ostiensium, among his many other titles.25 Though its physical location is unknown, the corpus lenunculariorum at Ostia appears frequently in the site’s inscriptions, including some related to members of the cult of Mithras.26 Considering this inscription, which also includes mentions of other highly connected individuals like Flavius Moschylus, Quintus Veturius Firmus Felix Socrates, and Lucius Florus Euprepes, alongside its connectivity and findspot may point toward new ways of thinking about how texts intervened in religious life at Ostia. This relationship between Isis and Anubis dedicators and the community of the Campus of the Magna Mater forces us to reconsider the relationships between those two cults and suggests that these secondary and tertiary relationships did inform how people interacted and memorialized those interactions over the long term. More importantly, it demonstrates the importance of inscribed texts for constructing and preserving these networks. This cippus and its inscription wove together these people, cults, titles, and sites into a coherent memory and continued to do so long after its initial dedication in 251 CE. The object and text function together to do critical social work, and our project’s main goal is to recognize and study that labor and its effects. Going forward, these analyses can point to new areas of inquiry and new social patterns that can be investigated through both digital and traditional epigraphic methods. In the coming years, the MCI hopes to finish data encorrect to point out the importance of the Sarapeum’s association and its members in the epigraphy of this part of Ostia. 25. CIL XIV 352. The inscription lacks archaeological context. See further Malaise 1972b, 67–68 cat. Ostia 5; Bricault 2005, 584–85 cat. 03/1115. 26. The group, which seems to have some connection with transportation, is attested well into the reign of Gordion III. Hermaseren (1981, 115–17) has identified their schola in the basilica. Mentions include a marble plaque from the basilica (Ostia Archaeological Museum inv. 7906, Hermaseren 1981, 115). There are several other plaques, including CIL XIV 250, 251, 252, 352, 409, 4144. CIL XIV 41 = 4302, also from the Campus of the Magna Mater, preserves a mention of a navigan[tibus] in a very fragmentary area of the text, which may have included a reference to an office similar to the one mentioned in CIL XIV 352. Similarly, CIL XIV 42 refers to a navigantium. Another inscription found in the campus that refers to a freedman of M. Umbilius Maximinus, who was a patronus of the corpus lenunculariorum tabulariorum auxiliariorum ostiensium in 192 CE. See Vermaseren 1956–1960, 1:133 no. 275. On the interactions between the five different corpus lenunculariorum, see Rohde 2012, 163–64.

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try on the published inscriptions, giving us broader data sets that can support new forms of analysis in Gephi that would better integrate our metadata. As we continue our fieldwork over the next few years we hope that we will be able to expand our analysis further. Many of the clusters identified in figure 7.9 have yet to show up in our GIS analysis, and we anticipate that continued attention to issues of spatial display and social networks will yield important new insights. As we continue to refine our approach, we are also considering further ways that Gephi can be used to visualize relationships between objects and people, which might allow us to pose new questions about how objects perform social work. Through our big data approach, social network analysis with Gephi, and continued GIS survey of Ostia, MCI hopes to build out the ancient Mediterranean’s networks, to visualize the complex and rhizomatic networks that are not always visible through traditional forms of humanistic analysis. By paying attention to the many weak and strong ties that bound Ostians to each other, to Latium, and to the broader Mediterranean, we can ask new questions of our evidence that give us a fuller picture of who individual Ostians were and how they interacted in local and global cultic networks. With the support of the Onassis Foundation, we are beginning a new pilot initiative to apply our techniques to sites in Macedonia, where Athanassios Rizakis (1998, 2002, 2003) has already noted the importance of Italian migrants in local epigraphic and civic landscapes. By comparing our results from Ostia with new sites and regions, we want to assess whether different sites have observably similar patterns and clusters in the relationships between texts and people. These analyses can help us understand better in which register—the local, the regional, or the Mediterranean-wide—individuals oriented their social lives and self-understandings. Of course, whether working on the local or global scale, this approach requires constant self-critique. We expect that there will be conflict between our abstracted networks and our GIS mapping, as well as debates about the dating of inscriptions and the relationship between our maps and the work of archaeologists. This reflexivity, however, should aim toward better research praxis and recognize digital methods’ potential to allow us to stretch social network maps over geographic space and at various scales, from the local to the global. References Alchermes, Joseph. 1994. “Spolia in Roman Cities of the Late Empire: Legislative Rationales and Architectural Reuse.” DOP 48:167–78. https://doi.org/10.2307/1291726. Alvar, Jaime. 2008. Romanising Oriental Gods: Myth, Salvation and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis and Mithras. Translated by Richard Gordon. RGRW 165. Leiden: Brill. Arnaoutoglou, Ilias. 2003. Thusias heneka kai sunousias: Private Religious Associations in Hellenistic Athens. Athens: Academy of Athens. Arnhold, Marlis. 2015. “Sanctuaries and Urban Spatial Settings in Roman Imperial Ostia.” Pages 293–303 in A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient

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World. Edited by Rubina Raja and Jörg Rüpke. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118886809.ch22. Barrett, John C. 1993. “Chronologies of Remembrance: the Interpretation of Some Roman Inscriptions.” World Archaeology 25:236–47. https://doi.org/10.1080/004382 43.1993.9980240. Bastian, Mathieu, and Sebastien Heymann. 2009.“Gephi: An Open Source Software for Exploring and Manipulating Networks.” International AAAI Conference on Weblogs and Social Media. https://gephi.org/publications/gephi-bastian-feb09.pdf. Blake, Emma. 2013. “Social Networks, Path Dependence, and the Rise of Ethnic Groups in Pre-Roman Italy.” Pages 203–21 in Network Analysis in Archaeology: New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Edited by Carl Knappett. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bloch, H. 1953. “Ostia: Iscrizioni rinvenute tra il 1938 e il 1939.” NSA (1953):239–306. Boin, Douglas. 2013. Ostia in Late Antiquity. New York: Cambridge University Press. Bondy, J. A., and U. S. R. Murty. 2010. Graph Theory. Graduate Texts in Mathematics. London: Springer. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1985. “The Social Space and the Genesis of Groups.” Theory and Society 14:723–44. https://doi.org/10.1177/053901885024002001. Bricault, Laurent. 2005. Recueil des inscriptions concernant les cultes isiaques: RICIS. Mémoires de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres. 3 vols. Paris: de Boccard. Bussels, Stijn. 2012. The Animated Image: Roman Theory on Naturalism, Vividness and Divine Power. Reihe Kunst und Wirkmacht. Berlin: Akademie; Leiden: Leiden University Press. Calza, Guido, Giovanni Becatti, Maria Floriani Squarciapino, Raissa Calza, Patrizio Pensabene, A. L. Pietrogrande, Paola Baccini Leotardi, and Carlo Pavolini. 1953. Topografia generale: Scavi di Ostia I. Rome: Libreria dello Stato. Cébeillac-Gervasoni, Mireille, Maria Letizia Caldelli, and Fausto Zevi. 2010. Epigrafia Latina: Ostia; Cento iscrizioni in contesto. Rome: Quasar. Centola, Damon. 2018. How Behavior Spreads: The Science of Complex Contagions. Princeton Analytical Sociology Series. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Collar, Anna. 2013. “Re-thinking Jewish Ethnicity through Social Network Analysis.” Pages 223–44 in Network Analysis in Archaeology: New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Edited by Carl Knappett. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https:// doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199697090.003.0010. Concannon, Cavan W. 2017. Assembling Early Christianity: Trade, Networks, and the Letters of Dionysios of Corinth. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2022. “‘Let Us Know Anything Further Which You Have Heard’: Mapping Philippian Connectivity.” Pages 185–207 in Philippi: From Colonia Augusta to Communitas Christiana: Religion and Society in Transition. Edited by Steven J. Friesen, Michalis Lychounas, and Daniel N. Schowalter. NovTSup 186. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004469334_010. Concannon, Cavan, and Lindsey Mazurek, eds. 2016. Across the Corrupting Sea: PostBraudelian Approaches to the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean. London: Routledge. Dillon, Sheila, and Elizabeth Palmer Baltes. 2013. “Honorific Practices and the Politics of Space On Hellenistic Delos: Portrait Statue Monuments along the Dromos.” AJA 117:207–46. https://doi.org/10.3764/aja.117.2.0207. Dousa, Thomas E. 2002. “Imagining Isis: On Some Continuities and Discontinuities in

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200 Lindsey A. Mazurek, Kathryn A. Langenfeld, and R. Benjamin Gorham the Image of Isis in Greek Hymns and Demotic Texts.” Pages 149–84 in Acts of the Seventh International Conference of Demotic Studies: Copenhagen, 23–27 August 1999. Edited by Kim Ryholt. CNI Publications 27. Copenhagen: Cartsten Nieburhr Institute of Near Eastern Studies, 2002. Drucker, Johanna. 2011. “Humanities Approaches to Graphical Display.” Digital Humanities Quarterly 5.1. http://www.digitalhumanities.org/dhq/vol/5/1/000091/000091. html. Europeana Network of Ancient Greek and Latin Epigraphy. Europeana Eagle Project. http://www.eagle-network.eu/. Floriani Squarciapino, Maria. 1962. I culti orientali ad Ostia. Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 3. Leiden: Brill. Flower, Harriet I. 2006. The Art of Forgetting: Disgrace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture. Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press. Gell, Alfred. 1998. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon. Gordon, Richard L. 2014. “Coming to Terms with the ‘Oriental Religions of the Roman Empire.’” Numen 61:657–72. https://doi.org/10.1163/15685276-12341346. Granovetter, Mark. S. 1973. “The Strength of Weak Ties.” The American Journal of Sociology 78(6): 1360–80. “Graph Theory.” 2017. Encyclopedia of Mathematics. European Mathematical Society. https://encyclopediaofmath.org/wiki/Graph_theory. Grassinger, D. 1994. “The Meaning of Myth on Roman Sarcophagi.” Pages 91–107 in Myth and Allusion: Meanings and Uses of Myth in Ancient Greek and Roman Society. Edited by Anne Hawley and Hilliard T. Goldfarb. Boston: Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Hales, Shelley, and Tamar Hodos, eds. 2009. Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World. New York: Cambridge University Press. Hanneman, Robert A., and Mark Riddle. 2005. “Centrality and Power.” In Introduction to Social Network Methods. http://faculty.ucr.edu/~hanneman/nettext/C10_Centrality.html. Heinzelmann, Michael. 2000. Die Nekropolen von Ostia: Untersuchungen zu den Gräberstraßen vor der Porta Romana und an der Via Laurentina. Studien zur antiken Stadt. Munich: Pfeil. Hermansen, Gustav. 1981. Ostia: Aspects of Roman City Life. Edmonton: University of Alberta Press. Hingley, Richard. 2005. Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire. London: Routledge. Hodos, Tamar, ed. 2017. The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization. London: Routledge. Højte, Jakob Munk. 1999. “The Epigraphic Evidence Concerning Portrait Statues of Hadrian’s Heir L. Aelius Caesar.” ZPE 127:217–38. Jennings, Justin. 2011. Globalizations and the Ancient World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kariveri, Arja, Katariina Mustakalio, Ria Berg, Marja-Leena Hänninen, Anna Kjellström, and Ghislaine van der Ploeg. n.d. “Ostia: Segregated or Integrated?” https://projects.tuni.fi/ostia/introduction/. Keay, Simon. 2015 “The Roman Ports Projects.” PBSR 83:302–10. https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0068246215000264. Keay, Simon, Graeme Earl, Gareth Beale, Nathan Davis, Jessica Ogden, Kristian Strutt,

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Fabrizio Felici, Martin Millett, Steve Kay, and Roberta Cascino. 2013. “Challenges of Port Landscapes: Integrating Geophysics, Open Area Excavation and Computer Graphic Visualisation at Portus and the Isola Sacra.” Pages 303–57 in Archaeological Survey and the City. Edited by Paul S. Johnson and Martin Millett. University of Cambridge Museum of Classical Archaeology Monograph 2. Oxford: Oxbow. Kinney, Dale. 1995. “Rape or Restitution of the Past? Interpreting Spolia.” Pages 52–67 in The Art of Interpreting. Edited by Susan Scott. University Park, PA: Penn State Department of Art History. Krieger, Jenny R. 2017. “The Business of Commemoration: A Comparative Study of Italian Catacombs.” PhD diss., University of Michigan. Laird, Margaret L. 2018. “The Vigiles, Dynastic Succession, and Symbolic Reappropriation in the Caserma dei Vigili at Ostia.” Pages 51–83 in Reuse and Renovation in Roman Material Culture. Edited by Diana Y. Ng and Molly Swetnam-Burland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108582513.003. Lanciani, Rodolfo. 1868. “Iscrizioni portuensi.” Bulletino dell’Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica 1868:227–37. Larson, Katherine A. 2013. “A Network Approach to Hellenistic Sculptural Production.” JMA 26:235–60. https://doi.org/10.1558/jmea.v26i2.235. Latour, Bruno. 1988. The Pasteurization of France. Translated by Alan Sheridan and John Law. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Liu, Jinyu. 2009. Collegia Centonariorum: The Guilds of Textile Dealers in the Roman West. Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition 34. Leiden: Brill. Ma, John. 2009. “City as Memory.” Pages 248–59 in The Oxford Handbook of Hellenic Studies. Edited by Barbara Graziosi, Phiroze Vasunia, and G. R. Boys-Stones. Oxford: Oxford University Press. MacMullen, Ramsay. 1982. “The Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire.” AJP 103:233– 46. https://doi.org/10.2307/294470. Malaise, Michel. 1972a. Inventaire préliminaire des documents égyptiens découverts en Italie. Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 21. Leiden: Brill. ———. 1972b. Les conditions de pénétration et de diffusion des cultes égyptiens en Italie. Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 22. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2005. Pour une terminologie et une analyse des cultes isiaques. Mémoire de la Classe des Lettres 35. Brussels: Académie royale de Belgique. Mar, Ricardo, ed. 2001. El santuario de Serapis en Ostia. Documents d’arqueologia clàssica 4. Tarragona: Universitat Rovira i Virgili. Mattingly, David J. 2014. “Identities in the Roman World: Discrepancy, Heterogeneity, Hybridity, and Plurality.” Pages 35–60 in Roman in the Provinces: Art on the Periphery of Empire. Edited by Lisa R. Brody and Gail L. Hoffman. Boston: McMullen Museum of Art. Mazurek, A. 2020. “Fashioning a Global Goddess: The Representation of Isis across Hellenistic Seascapes.” Pages 179–207 in Mediterranean Archaeologies of Insularity in the Age of Globalization. Edited by Anna Kouremenos and Jody Michael Gordon. Oxford: Oxbow Press. van der Meer, Lammert Bouke. 2012. Ostia Speaks: Inscriptions, Buildings, and Spaces in Rome’s Main Port. Leuven: Peeters.

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202 Lindsey A. Mazurek, Kathryn A. Langenfeld, and R. Benjamin Gorham Meiggs, Russell. 1978 Roman Ostia. 2nd ed. Oxford: Clarendon. Mol, Eva. 2015. “Romanising Oriental Cults? A Cognitive Approach to Alterity and Religious Experience in the Roman Cults of Isis.” Pages 89–111 in Romanisation des dieux orientaux? Transformations religieuses dans les provinces balkaniques à l’époque romaine: Nouvelles découvertes et perspectives; Proceedings of the International Symposium in Skopje, 18–21 September 2013. Edited by Aleksandra Nikoloska and Sander Müskens. Skopje: University of Leiden, 2015. Mols, Stephan T. A. M. 2007. “The Urban Context of the Serapeum at Ostia.” BABESCH 82:227–32. https://doi.org/10.2143/BAB.82.1.2020772. Mouritsen, Henrik. 2010. “Freedmen and Decurions: Epitaphs and Social History in Imperial Italy.” JRS 95:38–63. https://doi.org/10.3815/000000005784016315. Muniz Grijalvo, Elena. 2009. “The Cult of the Egyptian Gods in Roman Athens.” Pages 325–41 in Les religions orientales dans le monde grec et romain: Cent ans après Cumont (1906–2006). Edited by Corinne Bonnet, Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, and Danny Praet. Brussels: Belgisch Historisch Instituut te Rome. van Nes, Akkelies. 2011. “Measuring Spatial Visibility, Adjacency, Permeability and Degrees of Street Life in Pompeii.” Pages 100–117 in Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space. Edited by Ray Laurence and David J. Newsome. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:osobl/9780199583126.003.0004. Newby, Zahra. 2014. “Poems in Stone: Reading Mythological Sarcophagi through Statius’ Consolations.” Pages 256–87 in Art and Rhetoric in Roman Culture. Edited by Jaś Elsner and Michel Meyer. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https:// doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511732317.013. Newman, Mark E. J. 2008. “Mathematics of Networks.” Pages 4059–64 in The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics. Edited by Lawrence E. Blume and Steven N. Durlauf. 8 vols. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. van Nijf, Onno. 2000. “Inscriptions and Civic Memory in the Roman East.” BICS 75:21– 36. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.2041-5370.2000.tb01962.x. Nutton, Vivian. 1969. “Five Inscriptions of Doctors.” PBSR 37:96–99. https://doi. org/10.1017/s0068246200007716. Östenberg, Ida. 2019. “Damnatio Memoriae Inscribed: The Materiality of Cultural Repression.” Pages 324–47 in The Materiality of Text—Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity. Edited by Andrej Petrovic, Ivan Petrovic, and Edmund Thomas. Brill Studies in Greek and Roman Epigraphy 11. Leiden: Brill, 2019. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004379435_014. Pensabene, Patrizio. 2007. Ostiensium marmorum decus et decor: Studi architettonici, decorativi e archeometrici. Studi Miscellanei 33. Rome: Bretschneider. Pitts, Martin, and Miguel John Versluys, eds. 2015. Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity, and Material Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781107338920. Price, Simon R.F. 2012. “Religious Mobility in the Roman Empire.” JRS 102:1–19. https:// doi.org/10.1017/S0075435812000056. Rivers, Ray, Carl Knappett, and Tim Evans. 2013. “What Makes a Site Important? Centrality, Gateways, and Gravity.” Pages 125–50 in Network Analysis in Archaeology: New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Edited by Carl Knappett. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199697090.003.0006. Rizakis, Athanassios D. 1998. “Incolae-paroikoi: populations et communautés dépendan-

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tes dans les cités et les colonies romaines de l’Orient.” Revue des Études Anciennes 100: 599–617. https://doi.org/10.3406/rea.1998.4751. ———. 2002. “L’émigration romaine en Macédoine et la communauté marchande de Thessalonique: Perspectives économiques et sociales.” Pages 109–32 in Les italiens dans le monde grec: IIe siècle av. J.-C.–Ier siècle ap. J.-C.; Circulation, activités, intégration; Actes de la Table Ronde, École Normale Supérieure; Paris 14–16 Mai 1998. Edited by Christel Müller and Claire Hasenohr. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique Supplement 41. Paris: Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique, 2002. ———. 2003. “Recrutement et formation des élites dans les colonies romaines de la province de Macédoine.” Pages 107–29 in Les élites et leur facettes: Les élites locales dans le monde hellénistique et romain. Edited by Mireille Cébeillac-Gervasoni and Laurent Lamoine. Collection de l’École française de Rome 309. Rome: École française de Rome. Rohde, Dorothea. 2012. Zwischen Individuum und Stadtgemeinde: Die Integration von Collegia in Hafenstädten. Studien zur alten Geschichte. Mainz: Antike. Royden, Halsey L. 1988. The Magistrates of the Roman Professional Collegia in Italy from the First to the Third Century A.D. Pisa: Giardini. Rüpke, Jörg. 2016. On Roman Religion: Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome. Cornell Studies in Classical Philology. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Rüpke, Jörg, and Rubina Raja. 2015. “Archaeology of Religion, Material Religion, and the Ancient World.” Pages 1–25 in A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, edited by Rubina Raja and Jörg Rüpke. Malden, MA: Wiley. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118886809.ch1. Smith, R. R. R. 2007. “Statue Life in the Hadrianic Baths at Aphrodisias, AD 100–600: Local Context and Historical Meaning.” Pages 203–35 in Statuen in der Spätantike. Edited by Franz A. Bauer and Christian Witschel. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Stewart, Peter. 2007. “Gell’s Idols and Roman Cult.” Pages 158–78 in Art’s Agency and Art History. Edited by Robin Osborne and Jeremy Tanner. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Stöger, Hanna. 2011a. “The Spatial Organization of the Movement Economy: The Analysis of Ostia’s Scholae.” Pages 215–42 in Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space. Edited by Ray Laurence and David J. Newsome. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:osobl/9780199583126.003.0010. ———. 2011b. Rethinking Ostia: A Spatial Enquiry into the Urban Society of Rome’s Imperial Port-Town. Archaeological Studies, Leiden University. Leiden: Leiden University Press. Trümper, Monika. 2006. “Negotiating Religious and Ethnic Identity: the Case of Clubhouses in Late Hellenistic Delos.” Pages 113–50 in Zwischen Kult und Gesellschaft: Kosmopolitische Zentren des antiken Mittelmeeraums als Aktionsraum von Kultvereinen Religionsgemeinschaften; Akten eines Symposiums des Archäologischen Instituts der Universität Hamburg (12.–14. Oktober 2005). Edited by Inge Nielson. Hephaistos 24. Augsburg: Camelion. ———. 2011. “Where the Non-Delians Met in Delos: The Meeting-Places of Foreign Associations and Ethnic Communities in Late Hellenistic Delos.” Pages 49–100 in Political Culture in the Greek City after the Classical Age. Edited by Onno van Nijf and Richard Alston. Leuven: Peeters. Underwood, Douglas. 2013. “Reuse as Archaeology: A Test Case for Late Antique Buildings in Ostia.” Pages 383–409 in Field Methods and Post-Excavation Techniques in

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204 Lindsey A. Mazurek, Kathryn A. Langenfeld, and R. Benjamin Gorham Late Antique Archaeology. Edited by Luke Lavan and Michael Mulryan. Leiden: Brill. Van Haeperen, Françoise. 2007. “La réception des Religions orientales de Fr. Cumont : L’apport des comptes rendus.” Anabases 6:159–85. https://doi.org/10.4000/anabases.3360. ———. 2017. “Establishing, Displaying, and Strengthening Group Identity by Making Offerings and Producing Texts: Some Case Studies from Ostia’s Guilds.” Religion in the Roman Empire 3:87–118. https://doi.org/10.1628/219944617X14860387744302. Vermaseren, Maarten J. 1956–1960. Corpus Inscriptionum et Monumentorum Religionis Mithriacae. 2 vols. The Hague: Nijhoff. ———. 1977. Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque. Vol. 3: Italia-Latium. Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 3. Leiden: Brill, 1977. Versluys, Miguel John. 2013. “Orientalising Roman Gods.” Pages 233–59 in Panthée: Religious Transformations in the Graeco-Roman Empire. Edited by L. Bricault and C. Bonnet. RGRW 177. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004256903_011. White, L. Michael. 1997. “Synagogue and Society in Imperial Ostia: Archaeological and Epigraphic Evidence.” HTR 90:23–58. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0017816000006179. Wood, Susan. 1978. “Alcestis on Roman Sarcophagi.” AJA 82:499–510. https://doi. org/10.2307/504638. Zanker, Paul, and Björn Christian Ewald. Mit Mythen leben: Die Bilderwelt der römischen Sarkophage. Munich: Hirmer, 2004.

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The Landscape of Early Greek Religion: GIS, Big Data, and the Complexity of the Archaeological Record Sarah Murray In this chapter, I consider the way that big data might contribute to the study of the archaeology of religious landscapes, especially the articulation between the spatial configuration of ritual spaces, spaces for political or domestic use, and the natural environment. I begin with some critical thoughts about the nature and philosophy of big data and its potential for interrogating the archaeological record, present a case study investigating patterns in data related to Greek sanctuaries over the Late Bronze to Early Iron Age transition, then critique the results as a meaningful representation of ritual practice in the early stages of Greek institutional history. The case study serves as both a confirmation that looking at large arrays of data in systematic ways can reveal interesting patterns and a cautionary tale that encourages skepticism about whether big data can ever be a suitable avenue to useful insights about the archaeological record, which is always inherently complex, difficult to represent simply through numbers, and structured by the ideologies and ends of those who curate it. Keywords: big data, Early Iron Age Greece, landscape archaeology, archaeological theory

T

he analysis and organization of data is at the core of archaeological practice. Archaeological work requires practitioners to organize the unordered detritus of past human societies in ways that allow chronological and typological sortings of material that ultimately transform it into information tractable within the narrative structures of history. It is therefore not surprising that scholars have begun to leverage the incredible computational advances of recent years to enhance and transform the way in which they process, organize, interrogate, and visualize archaeological evidence (Onsrud and Campbell 2007; Bevan 2015; Fowles 2017, 686). Moreover, some research has begun to explore the potential of using the transformative computational processes associated with so-called big data to come to new insights about patterns of human behavior in the past (e.g., Turchin et al. 2018). Perhaps predictably, such analyses are already running into opposition by researchers claiming that the data do not support the insights they claim to reveal (Slingerland et al. 2018–2019; Beheim et al. 2021). Notwithstanding the increasing openness of researchers to ideas associated with big data analysis, archaeological datasets remain extremely small in comparison with big data proper. For a variety of reasons, from the complicated landscape of publication rights and heritage laws to inconsistent chronological designations and schemes within and across regions, archaeological data will

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probably never remotely resemble the hyperscale tranches of behavioral data that now drive the frothy economic explosion of Silicon Valley firms (Borker 2018; Manyika and Chui 2014). Companies including but not limited to Alphabet, Meta, Amazon, and Verizon are engaged in a rapidly snowballing project of surveillance capitalism that relies on the perpetual rendition of billions of data points about personal preferences, the timing of purchases, and the habits of internet users, which are used to predict human choices and thus sell advertisements (Diaz-Bone 2016, 61–64; Zuboff 2019). The datasets curated by these corporations are so large that they literally cannot be comprehended at the scale of the human analyst (Hilbert 2012; 2013, 4; Mayer-Schönberger and Cukier 2013, 9). They require computational assistance to parse, and new storage infrastructures must be developed to accommodate them. Needless to say, archaeological and ancient historical data are not likely to approach this level of true bigness anytime soon. Whatever the disparity in scale between ancient and modern datasets, historians and archaeologists are increasingly embracing concepts and principles native to big data in work on past cultures. While the power of large-scale data science is currently an incredibly important force shaping corporate practice, it remains to be seen how successful and influential a move toward big data will be in the context of the study of the ancient Mediterranean. One principle that seems quite promising for the study of the ancient past and that has the potential to traverse the chasm between big and small datasets is that organizing and arraying comprehensive sets of data in a systematic or novel way can yield unexpected insights and reveal patterns that may be difficult to see at a smaller scale.1 This has already been demonstrated by a number of published studies, even within the relatively small world of classical archaeology, that collect large quantities of data and visualize them in novel and sophisticated ways to reach new conclusions (Farinetti 2011; Dannell and Mees 2013). On the other hand, when it comes to a fundamental goal of humanities research, to enlighten and enrich understanding of the variety and virtuosity of human experience, there is surely much to be lost by flattening the evidence for this experience into vast reams of data points, which are often difficult to encode in ways that adequately capture their nuance and ambiguity.2 In what follows I interrogate some of the potential and pitfalls of analyzing archaeological evidence for ancient religious practice through the lens of big 1. For the principle, see Bryson et al. 1999. For some projects exploring or attempting to build massive archaeological datasets, see, e.g., tDAR (https://core.tdar.org); Open Context (https://opencontext.org); GlobalXplorer© (www.globalexplorer.org); Orbis (http://orbis.stanford.edu). See also research building on principles from big data in Vlachidis and Tudhope 2011; Fulford and Holbrook 2011; Haselgrove and Moore 2017. 2. As recently enlightened by, e.g., Lucas 2012; Kotsonas 2016. This basic unreliability of the relationship between archaeological evidence and past realities has long been a core concept of postprocessual archaeology, e.g., Wylie 1985; Hodder 1986.

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data. I assess the potential for big data to impact the study of ancient religion by way of a case study investigating the origin of mainland Greek religious institutions centering on rural sanctuaries. I use GIS and a comprehensive geodatabase of archaeological sites to identify patterns in ritual practice at rural sites from the Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages from both mainland Greece and the island of Crete, with the dual aims of (1) discerning patterns in religious landscapes over time in each region, and (2) determining whether a Cretan tradition of rural worship might have influenced Greek religious practice from the Early Iron Age onward. Taken at face value, the patterns in the data lead to some clear conclusions about the historical and geographical development of early Greek religious landscapes. However, peering under the hood of the dataset makes it clear that these patterns are likely to be more closely related to the history of archaeological exploration in the Aegean than to real historical processes in the distant past. 8.1. Archaeological Landscapes of Early Greek Religion There are important local and urban sanctuaries in Archaic and Classical Greek states, but many important sanctuaries in the ancient Greek world were in locations that were marginal from the point of view of political centers.3 Such sanctuaries emerged in the Early Iron Age and articulate with the political and domestic landscape with varying degrees of marginality: there are the major Panhellenic sanctuaries such as Olympia and Delphi in the hinterlands of Elis and Phokis, regional sanctuaries in remote locations far from major city-state centers or borders like Mt. Lykaion and Kalapodi, sites that seem to be situated at state borders like Eleusis or Perachora, and worship in caves and mountaintops, like the Polis cave in Ithaka or Mt Hymettus in Attica.4 From a historical point of view, one of the more compelling features of this pattern of extraurban ritual activity in wild places like mountains or caves is that it does not seem to have a grounding in widespread ritual practice known from the mainland Mycenaean civilization of the Late Bronze Age (Renfrew 1985, 398). While certain components of historical Greek religion do have Mycenaean antecedents, most scholars of Mycenaean ritual have emphasized that identifiable religious activity is concentrated in palatial centers or urban environments.5

3. Desborough 1952, 199–200; Demakopoulou 1982; Eder 2001a, 2001b, 2006; Kyrieleis 2002, 627–28; McDonald and Rapp 1972, 317; de Polignac 1995; Morgan 1999, 379–84. 4. On the possible Bronze Age origins of the rituals at Eleusis, see Cosmopoulos 2014, 2015; for Perachora, see Salmon 1972; on the Polis cave, see Benton 1934–1935, 1938–1939; On Hymettus, see Langdon 1976. On Kalapodi, see Felsch 1996, 2007; for Lykaion, see Romano 2005; Romano and Voyatzis 2010. 5. Van Leuven 1978; Chadwick 1988; Aravantinos 1989–1990; Albers 1994; Bendall 2007; Lupack 2010.

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The apparent novelty of communal worship in rural locations in the Early Iron Age mainland leaves the issue of the origins of this religious institution open to interrogation. An obvious question might be whether worship at remote sanctuaries has its roots in Crete, where rural sanctuaries in the hinterland, on mountains, and in caves had a long history back into the Bronze Age.6 In what follows I test the data to see whether there are superficial similarities in the landscape of Greek religious sites that emerged in the eighth century BCE and religious sites from preceding generations on Crete. In particular, I investigate the correlation of two factors, topography and distance from an urban center, with sanctuary presence diachronically across a dataset. The first issue to address is the dataset. For the purposes of this case study, it was necessary to assemble a geographical dataset that included the following for the periods encompassing the Late Bronze Age–Early Iron Age transition: (1) settlement sites from the Greek mainland and Crete, with indications of which encompass some kind of evidence for ritual practice, (2) sanctuary or dedicated ritual sites from the mainland and Crete, and (3) detailed topographical raster data from which to extrapolate details of topography and natural environment. The raster data were acquired from the Consortium for Spatial Information through their SRTM 90m Digital Elevation Database.7 For the first two datasets, evidence was gathered for the final Bronze Age to the Geometric period. I set aside the data from the Late Helladic IIIC and Protogeometric periods, simply because there is not much data to work with from the mainland for these periods. The main source of data for sites mapped in the dataset was an encyclopedic resource entitled Η Προϊστορική Κατοίκησις της Ελλάδος και η Γένεσις του Ελληνικού Έθνους (Syriopoulos 1995). This is a massive compendium of prehistoric sites (Paleolithic to Geometric) in the Greek world that were discovered up to 1990. The volumes include brief descriptions of the nature of material discovered that are succinct but sufficient for identifying a site as a sanctuary or settlement. Syriopoulos’s data were used to populate a geodatabase of nonmortuary sites from the Late Bronze IIIA and IIIB and Geometric periods from the Greek mainland and from Crete and to encode sites as containing evidence of mainly ritual or nonritual use, or some combination of the two.8 I also integrated data from some other recent studies of religion and cult spaces over the Late Bronze/Early Iron Age transition in Crete and 6. The term “open air shrine” was first coined by Dessenne (1949). For an overview of Cretan sanctuaries, see Sporn 2002; Wallace 2010, 136–39; for early and widespread investment by Cretans in sanctuaries on borders and in nature, and of the function and meaning of these cults, see Chaniotis 2006. On important sites, see Alexiou 1963; Rutkowski 1986, 47–99; Rutkowski and Nowicki 1986, 1996; Watrous 1996, 47–98; Kanta 1991; Lebessi 1975, 1985 (Kato Symi); Marinatos 1929; Marinatos 1996; Schäfer 1991, 1992, 182–83; Watrous 1996, 100–102 (Amnisos). 7. More information about the dataset and freely available downloads of data for the Aegean are available online: https://cgiarcsi.community/data/srtm-90m-digital-elevation-database-v4-1/. 8. For a more detailed description of the nature of the dataset, see Murray 2018, 23–24.

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on the mainland (Ksifaras 2004; Prent 2005; Marakas 2010; Eder 2016). Table 8.1 provides a sense of the basic metrics of the data I was able to assemble. As is immediately clear from the scale of the numbers presented, these are not really Big Data with capital letters. Nonetheless, they do represent something along the lines of a dataset that allows distant readings of a sum of evidence using technological tools unsuitable for the investigation of evidence on a more granular scale.

LM IIIA Crete sites

LM IIIB Crete sites

LH IIIA mainland sites

LH IIIB mainland sites

LM IIIC Crete sites

Geometric Crete sites

Geometric mainland sites

Table 8.1. Data analytics for the landscape of Early Greek religious sites.

Total sites

99

80

282

300

90

122

301

Ritual/cult sites

42

20

36

31

24

34

88

Number of cult sites peripheral/rural

25

14

7

12

15

23

64

Average cult site ruggedness

43

48

19

21

50

42

42

Once I had entered and mapped these data within the GIS, I used some basic analytical tools to describe the relationship between ritual and nonritual spaces and the landscape in Crete and on the mainland in the Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages. First, I calculated a proxy for the ruggedness of the terrain on which the sanctuaries were located using a DEM (digital elevation model) and a standard GIS calculation known as the topographic ruggedness index (Riley, DeGloria and Elliot 1999). This calculation essentially produces a measure of how dramatic the change in elevation is from one pixel to the next in a given area, based on the DEM provided. Second, I used the GIS to generate Thiessen polygons (also known as a Voronoi diagram) based on the settlement sites I had encoded for each period, and calculated the percentage of ritual sites that were located within three kilometers of the boundaries of the Thiessen polygons, which demarcate positions in the landscape that are far from any single settlement node (Aurenhammer 1991). The data as I constructed and queried them show relatively compelling patterns. While most identified Late Mycenaean mainland ritual sites are located in the immediate vicinity of or within a settlement, and are not in particularly rugged environments, Cretan Bronze and Iron Age ritual landscapes have much more in common, at least from the point of view of relationship to settlements and to topography, with Greek ones that emerged in the ninth and

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eighth centuries BCE. A landscape analysis based on a comprehensive GIS of sites for cult and ritual practice dated from the final phases of the Late Bronze Age to the Geometric period on both the Greek mainland and on Crete therefore appears to provide some clarity regarding the history of religion on the Greek mainland. The religious landscape of mainland Greece in the eighth century seems to bear greater resemblance to the religious landscape of Bronze Age Crete than it does to the religious landscape of the mainland Bronze Age. There are certain additional pieces of evidence that I could call upon to support this connection between rural sanctuaries on the mainland, and Cretan ritual practice. Literary sources from early Greece do indeed attest to certain cases of Cretan involvement in rural sanctuary foundation. Pausanias states that, Herakles, the oldest of the Daktyls from Cretan Ida, came to Olympia and set up a race for his brothers, the prize for which was an olive crown (Paus. 5.7.4). In terms of monuments at the site of Olympia, the Metroon was sacred to Rhea, who is the mother of Dictaean Zeus. Moreover, there is a shrine of Eileithyia and Sosipolis, entities with Cretan connections (Paus. 5.8.1; 6.10.1). Finally, Pindar attests to the presence of an Idaean cave at Olympia and the practice of old Cretan rituals there during the Classical period (Pindar Ol. 5.20). Moving to Delphi, the Homeric Hymn to Apollo concludes with a story about how the sanctuary was founded—by Cretans whom the god essentially kidnapped and ordered to establish his cult in the mountains of Phokis (Hymn. Hom. Ap. 388–544). In the archaeological record, it is apparent that “new” kinds of features in Protogeometric and Geometric Greek sanctuary deposits, like massive black or burnt layers that may represent pre-Geometric ash altars (e.g., at Traostalos, Thronos Kefala, Amnisos, and Juktas) and the deposition of metal anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figurines (which appear for the first time on the mainland at sites like Olympia and Delphi) are likewise prefigured in the archaeology of ritual sites from twelfth and eleventh century Crete.9 It does therefore seem plausible to argue that rural sanctuaries on the mainland were heirs to a Creto-Minoan religious tradition rather than a sui generis development based on political, social, or economic factors in the Early Iron Age.10 8.2. The Complexity of the Archaeological Record for Early Greek Religion Or does it? When a computer analyzes the extant data, it sees certain superficial patterns, but fails to consider a crux at the center of archaeological interpretation: that data are often not what they seem. What the computer cannot 9. On ash altars, in general, see Wallace 2010, 137; at Kavousi, see Alexiou 1956; at Gazi, see Gesell 1972; on animal figures, see Nicholls 1970; Renfrew 1985, 439–40; Schürmann 1996; Zeimbekis 1998; Muhly 2008; on bulls at Phaistos, see Maraghiannis 1912, pl. XV, nos. 3, 5; at Haghia Triada, see Banti 1943; D’Agata 1999. 10. Renfrew and Cherry (1985, 307–8) originally raised this possibility. See also discussion in Sourvinou-Inwood 1993, Eder 2019.

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see is the historiography of archaeology on Crete and on the mainland. In the case of Crete and the Greek mainland at the transition from the Bronze to the Iron Age, scholars are dealing with an uneven record of material culture that has been the subject of asymmetrical research priorities and investigative habits over a century of work. Data from these periods cannot be compared uncritically. The objective or empirical patterns the computer thought it was seeing in the sanctuary data can probably be more convincingly explained as artifacts of the history of archaeological work and the nature of archaeological evidence than as residua of real patterns true to the ancient past. Especially important to keep in mind is the fact that Minoan archaeologists have aggressively scoured the Cretan landscape for rural sites (Rutkowski 1988, 23; Faro 2008, 195). At least partly because of the role of nature and topography in Minoan art, the study of Minoan religion has always been tied up with the notion that the Minoans were interested in nature and engaged with extreme aspects of nature through ritual. The philologist Paul Faure, who was interested in Cretan sacred caves, seemingly explored every cave on Crete between 1956 and 1978, publishing his results in a series of ten articles over that period (e.g., Faure 1967, 1969, 1972). Since then, archaeologists like Bogdan Rutkowski and Krzysztof Nowicki have taken up the torch of tireless explorers of the Cretan landscape, visiting nearly every mountaintop and cliff on the island in the second half of the twentieth century (Rutkowski 1988; Nowicki 2000). Very few new peak sanctuaries or sacred caves have been discovered in Crete lately. In other words, even the most extreme regions of Cretan territory have been visited by archaeologists, and so we can be confident that the knowledge we currently possess about the Cretan ritual landscape is probably quite thorough. The situation on the mainland is different. The interpretation of Mycenaean religion seems to have been considerably influenced by the content of the Linear B texts, which provide some basis for the idea that the religious sector was subordinated to the wanax and the palatial administration.11 The idea that the religious sector was controlled by the palace may have led to the limitation of identified religious spaces to areas that could nominally be controlled by the palatial authorities, that is, within or near settlements, especially palaces (Hiller 1981, 95). Mycenaean artifacts that are found at later Greek sanctuaries like Olympia, Delphi, and Mt. Hymettus, are, furthermore, often declared by their excavators to be unrelated to cult activity on relatively creaky logical grounds. The argument tends to rely on the notion that the Bronze Age pottery from these sites cannot be proven to be related to ritual activity and the circular logic that Mycenaeans did not practice extraurban ritual and therefore would not have been doing so at these extraurban sites. However, it is not entirely clear,

11. See discussion of religion as reflected in the Linear B texts in Lupack 2011, 208–12.

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and is not normally specified, what else Mycenaeans might have been doing with ceramic vessels at remote sites.12 In addition, while intensive archaeological surveys have been conducted in force on the mainland, these surveys have tended to focus on plough-zone assemblages rather than extreme landscapes like mountain peaks and agriculturally unproductive hinterlands where rural sanctuaries might be found.13 Although Giannis Pikoulas’s (2012, 2016) work is one example of an exception to this rule, his focus on routes also obviates the likelihood that extreme places such as mountaintops will fall in the purview of his explorations of the hinterland. Increasing investigation of these rural hinterlands is generating “growing evidence for Mycenaean sanctuaries … located in the countryside beyond the palace” (Eder 2016, 178).14 Birgitta Eder has generated a list of twelve sites that are likely to have represented extraurban sanctuaries on the Mycenaean mainland, which include mountains and peaks and passes.15 While the evidence at some of these sites is limited to relatively ambiguous artifactual assemblages of figurines or pottery and cannot be confidently ascribed to formal worship at sanctuaries, at others, like Mt. Lykaion in Arcadia (Romano 2005; 2013, 187–88; Romano and Voyatzis 2010), Kalapodi in Lokris (Felsch 1996, 2007), and Mt. Kynortion near Epidauros (Lambrounidakis 1981), the evidence for continuous mountaintop or rural ritual practice is clearly not in question. All in all, it seems extremely likely that the reported and published data that I draw on in the data analysis above are very likely to have been distorted by the historical conditions of archaeological practice that led to the existence of very different approaches to archaeology, both methodological and interpretative, on Crete and on the mainland. Recent work at sites on the Greek mainland confounds the notion that Mycenaean ritual practice was limited to settlement contexts. Thorough rural investigation of the mountaintops and caves of the Greek mainland along the lines of what Faure and Nowicki undertook on Crete would likely have profound effect on the patterns in the data and

12. Langdon 1976, 87: “in view of the strength of the negative evidence and the vast differences separating Mycenaean from later Greek religion, we assume no religious activity on the top of Mt Hymettus in the Bronze Age”; Müller 1992, 481–86. 13. On archaeological survey methods on the Greek mainland, see, e.g., Bintliff and Snodgrass 1985; Alcock, Cherry, and Davis 1994; Bintliff 1994; Cherry 2003, 2004; Caraher, Nakassis, and Pettigrew 2006; Tartaron et al. 2006. The particular methodological bent of mainland survey has often tended to create a dismissive attitude toward extensive survey methods of the kind likely to result in data for mountaintops or rugged landscapes (e.g., Kowalewski 2008, 249). 14. See also discussion in Wright 1994, 63–72; Lupack 2010, 269. 15. Eder 2016, 178–82. The sites are as follows: Mount Lykaion in Arcadia, Mount Arachnaion in the Argolid, Mount Oros on Aegina, Mount Hymettus in Attica, Mount Kynortion near Epidauros, Mount Profitis Ilias near Kranidi, Mount Profitis Ilias near Ayios Adrianos, Ayios Vasilios in the Argolid, the site of the Aphaia temple on Aegina, Kalapodi, Delphi, and site of the sanctuary of Apollo Hyakinthos in Laconia.

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complicate the conclusions that a big data analysis of archaeological evidence pushes us toward. 8.3. Big Data as God Machine: Promise or Hazard for Humanistic Scholarship? This case study provides a clear example of why, in the context of the study of archaeological data in general and the history of cult, it is difficult to wrangle big data into the study of the prehistoric past. In many ways, the incomplete and contingent nature of the archaeological record makes it complicated to use for analysis at a distance. When querying the data on diachronic patterns in the presence of sites, I have difficulty controlling for negative data in any systematic way. It is difficult to conceive of methods for creating strong metrics establishing whether regions are devoid of habitation evidence from the past because of disruptions in the archaeological record, intensive modern overbuilding, or sea level changes, instead of because there was no past activity in those areas. It is challenging to distinguish between evidence of sites that have been excavated or locations that have been surveyed and turned up no late Mycenaean or Early Iron Age material, and places that have simply never been explored. When the topic of analysis is ritual and religious activity, I face the additional challenge that confidently ascribing artifactual remains to such activity requires a great deal of interpretative input, and therefore cannot easily be reduced to the kinds of binary data point needed for computational analysis, for example, within a GIS framework. In light of the idea that archaeological evidence for religion may often be unsuitable for analysis at the scale of big data, it is interesting to consider why such analysis is being pursued by archaeologists and historians of ancient religion. From the point of view of archaeology, it is apparent that a move toward big data is not being directed by trends in archaeological thought overall. Current trends in archaeological theory emphasize that the field ought to become more of an object-centered philosophy of existence exploring the ambiguous nature of individual and collective experiences of the world rather than pursuing generalizing, law-like conclusions about human society through quantitative analysis (Hodder 2012; Thomas 2015a, 2015b). Such a position seeks out conclusions highlighting the lack of objective truths or authoritative voices and the coexistence of multiple contradictory narratives and realities within the nexus of human society, past and present (Olsen 2012). Rather than leading us toward big data, these currents are at odds with a system of knowledge that seeks codification and digitization at scale, flattening human experiences to charts, graphs, and distantly beheld patterns. The tension between a philosophical-humanistic and data-scientific approaches to ancient religion suggests that archaeologists are instead being influenced by nonacademic forces in their embrace of big data (see also Mann

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2017). While there is nothing inherently wrong with adopting ideas from outside of an academic discipline or even from beyond the walls of academia overall in forming research agendas, humanities scholars pursuing such technological transfers ought to be critical about doing so. Just because big data analysis has become popular in business and many social sciences, it is not necessarily clear that big data is well-suited to proper archaeological analysis, as I show in this chapter. Moreover, the ideology of big data as it exists in the wider world is not necessarily compatible with the tenets of humanistic study. The big data revolution that is sweeping the corporate landscape, and leaking over into the academic one, has tended to undermine rather than elevate humanity at an individual and collective level (Zuboff 2019, 15). Historians and archaeologists usually (and more or less correctly) think of data as a relatively inert, harmless raw material from which to build narratives about the past. But when we talk about big data in the context of archaeological research, we should not let the terminological overlap redirect our attention from what big data is about in the new economy or fail to think carefully about the baggage of terminology we borrow from such phenomena. 8.4. Conclusions As big data increases in popularity as a framework for approaching research topics and questions of all kinds, scholars of the humanities should not lose sight of their conviction that quantification and data themselves are socially constructed and historically complicated. Understanding our data for the archaeology of ritual as historically and disciplinarily contingent should remain a paramount concern in the process of interpretation. As the case study on early Greek religious landscapes presented above makes clear, these data always need to be interpreted in a properly humanistic way, partly because it seems very likely that big datasets in archaeology are always likely to be flawed and in need of very careful interpretation and vetting. Another reason to be skeptical about adopting a big data approach in the context of the study of history is because the tenets of big data as a method are problematic for a humanistic approach. One of the reasons that the humanities exist is to cultivate and curate a deeper understanding of the varieties of the human experience, and the ways in which human agency, freedom to decide, and individual virtuosity have shaped a vibrant history of art, literature, architecture, philosophical thought, and community formation that cannot be reduced to reams of data. It seems that humanities scholars have a duty to continue to articulate a model for human understanding that rejects the notion that human society can be adequately understood through numbers. Even if big data will inevitably inveigh our lives as humans going forward, we need not accept its inevitability as a part of our historical ontologies (Winner 1978, 7–8).

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Of course, data are data, and it would be going too far to suggest that quantification and encoding cannot yield useful insights for historians and archaeologists of religion. Yet, it would be concomitantly naïve to believe that researchers’ decisions about how and where to focus attention do not have any rhetorical or moral underpinnings. As researchers and scholars, it is important to be aware of the sources of our methods and the ideological springboards that underpin them, and to remain critical about this kind of baggage. In the case of big data approaches, the baggage seems like it requires additional critical thought. References Albers, Gabriele. 1994. Spätmykenische Stadtheiligtümer: Systematische Analyse und Vergleichende Auswertung der Archäologischen Befunde. BARIS 596. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Alcock, Susan, John Cherry, and Jack Davis. 1994. “Intensive Survey, Agricultural Practice, and the Classical Landscape of Greece.” Pages 137–70 in Classical Greece: Ancient Histories and Modern Archaeologies. Edited by Ian Morris. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Alexiou, Stelios. 1956. “Ἱερὸν παρὰ τὸ Καβοῦσι Ἱεραπέτρας.” Kretika Chronika 10:7–19. ———. 1963. “Τσούτσουρος.” Archaiologikon Deltion 18 B Meletemata:310–11. Aravantinos, Vassilios. 1989–1990. “Santuari e Palazzo: Appunti sui rapporti economico-amministrativi tra la sfera del culto e il potere politico in età micenea.” Scienze dell’Antichità 3–4:243–61. Aurenhammer, Franz. 1991. “Voronoi Diagrams: A Survey of a Fundamental Geometric Data Structure.” ACM Computing Surveys 23:345–405. https://doi. org/10.1145/116873.116880. Banti, Luisa. 1943. “I culti minoici e greci di Haghia Triada.” Annuario della Scuola Archeologica di Atene 3–4:10–74. Beheim, Bret, et al. 2021. “Treatment of Missing Data Determined Conclusions Regarding Moralizing Gods.” Nature 595:E29–E34. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-02103655-4. Bendall, Lisa. 2007. Economics of Religion in the Mycenaean World: Resources Dedicated to Religion in the Mycenaean Palace Economy. Oxford University School of Archaeology Monograph 67. Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology. Benton, Sylvia. 1934–1935. “Excavations in Ithaca, III: The Cave at Polis, I.” BSA 35:45– 73. https://doi.org/10.1017/S006824540001488X. ———. 1938–1939. “Excavations in Ithaca, III: The Cave at Polis, II.” BSA 39:1–51. https:// doi.org/10.1017/S0068245400012144. Bevan, Andrew. 2015. “The Data Deluge.” Antiquity 89:1473–84. https://doi.org/10.15184/ aqy.2015.102. Bintliff, John. 1994. “The History of the Greek Countryside: As the Wave Breaks, Prospects for Future Research.” Pages 7–16 in Structures rurales et sociétés antiques: Actes du colloque de Corfou (14–16 mai 1992). Edited by Panagiotis Doukellis and Lina Mendoni. Annales littéraires de l’Université de Besançon 508. Paris: Centre de Recherches d’Histoire Ancienne.

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Bintliff, John, and Anthony Snodgrass. 1985. “The Cambridge/Bradford Boeotia Expedition: The First Four Years.” JFA 12:123–61. Borker, Jeff. 2017. “What Is Hyperscale?” Digital Realty November 15, 2017. Bryson, Steve, David Kenwright, Michael Cox, David Ellsworth, and Robert Haimes. 1999. “Visually Exploring Gigabyte Data Sets in Real Time.” Communications of the ACM 42.8:82–90. https://doi.org/10.1145/310930.310977. Caraher, William, Dimitri Nakassis, and David Pettigrew. 2006. “Siteless Survey and Intensive Data Collection in an Artifact-Rich Environment: Case Studies from the Eastern Corinthia, Greece.” JMA 19:7–43. http://dx.doi.org/10.1558/ jmea.2006.19.1.7. Chadwick, John. 1988. “What Do I Know about Mycenaean Religion.” Pages 191–202 in Linear B: A 1984 Survey; Proceedings of the Mycenaean Colloquium of the VIIIth Congress of the International Federation of the Societies of Classical Studies (Dublin, 27 August–1st September 1984). Edited by Anna Morpurgo-Davies and Yves Duhoux. Leuven: Peeters. Chaniotis, Angelos. 2006. “Heiligtümer überregionaler Bedeutung auf Kreta.” Pages 197–210 in Kult–Politik–Ethnos: Überregionale Heiligtümer im Spannungsfeld von Kult und Politik. Edited by Klaus Freitag, Peter Funke, and Matthias Haake. Stuttgart: Steiner. Cherry, John. 2003. “Archaeology beyond the Site: Regional Survey and Its Future.” Pages 137–60 in Theory and Practice in Mediterranean Archaeology: Old World and New World Perspectives. Edited by John Papadopoulos end Richard Leventhal. Cotsen Advanced Seminars. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology. ———. 2004. “Cyprus, the Mediterranean, and Survey: Current Issues and Future Trends.” Pages 23–35 in Archaeological Field Survey in Cyprus: Past History, Future Potentials. Edited by Maria Iacovou. BSAS 11. London: British School at Athens. Cosmopoulos, Michael. 2014. The Sanctuary of Demeter at Eleusis: The Bronze Age. Athens: Archaeological Society of Athens Library. ———. 2015. Bronze Age Eleusis and the Origins of the Eleusinian Mysteries. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. D’Agata, Anna Lucia. 1999. Statuine minoiche e post-minoiche dai vecchi scavi de Haghia Triada (Creta). Haghia Triada 2. Padua: Bottega d’Erasmo. Dannell, Geoffrey, and Allard Mees. 2013: “The Mainz Internet Database of Names on Terra Sigillata.” Pages 28–35 in Seeing Red: New Economic and Social Perspectives of Terra Sigillata. Edited by Michael Fulford. BICSSup 102. London: Institute of Classical Studies. Demakopoulou, Katie. 1982. “Το μυκηναικό ιερό στο Αμυκλαίο και η ΥΕ ΙΙΙΓ περίοδος στην Λακόνια.” PhD diss., University of Athens. Desborough, Vincent. 1952. Protogeometric Pottery. Oxford: Clarendon. Dessenne, Andre. 1949. “Têtes minoennes.” BCH 73:307–15. https://doi.org/10.3406/ bch.1949.2519. Diaz-Bone, Rainer. 2016. “Convention Theory, Classification and Quantification.” Historical Social Research 41.2:48–71. Eder, Birgitta. 2001a. “Continuity of Bronze Age Cult at Olympia? The Evidence of the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Pottery.” Pages 201–9 in POTNIA: Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age; Proceedings of the 8th International Aegean Conference, Göteborg, Göteborg University, 12–15 April 2000. Edited by Robert Laffineur and Robin Hägg. Aegaeum 22. Brussels: University of Liège.

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———. 2001b. “Die Anfänge von Elis und Olympia: Zur Siedlungsgeschichte der Landschaft Elis am Ubergang von der Spätbronze-zur Früheisenzeit.” Pages 233–43 in Forschungen in der Peloponnes: Akten des Symposions anlässlich der Feier “100 Jahre Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut Athen,” Athen 5.3.–7.3.1998. Edited by Veronika Mitsopoulos-Leon. Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut Sonderschriften 38 Athens: Austrian Institute. ———. 2006. “Die spätbronze und früheisenzeitliche Keramik.” Pages 141–246 in Anfänge und Frühzeit des Heiligtums von Olympia: Die ausgrabungen am Pelopion 1987–1996. Edited by Helmut Kyrieleis. Olympische Forschungen 31. Berlin: de Gruyter. ———. 2016. “Ideology in Space: Mycenaean Symbols in Action.” Pages 175–85 in Metaphysis: Ritual, Myth, and Symbolism in the Aegean Bronze Age. Edited by Eva Alram-Stern, Fritz Blakolmer, Sigrid Deger-Jalkotzy, Robert Laffineur, and Jörg Weilharnter. Aegaeum 39. Leuven: Peeters. ———. 2019. “The Role of Sanctuaries and the Formation of Greek Identities in the Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age Transition.” Pages 25–52 in Beyond the Polis: Rituals, Rites and Cults in Early and Archaic Greece (12th–6th Centuries BC). Edited by Irene S. Lemos and Athena Tsingarida. Études d’archéologie 15. Brussels: Centre de Recherches en Archéologie et Patrimoine. Farinetti, Emeri, 2011: Boeotian Landscapes: A GIS-based Study of the Reconstruction and Interpretation of the Archaeological Datasets of Ancient Boeotia. BARIS 2195. Oxford: BAR Publishing. Faro, Elissa. 2008. “Ritual Activity and Regional Dynamics: Towards a Reinterpretation of Minoan Extra-Urban Ritual Space.” PhD diss., University of Michigan. Faure, Paul. 1967. “Nouvelles recherches sur trois sortes de sanctuaires cretois.” BCH 91:114–50. https://doi.org/10.3406/bch.1967.2220. ———. 1969. “Sure trois sortes de sanctuaires crétois.” BCH 93:174–213. https://doi. org/10.3406/bch.1969.2184. ———. 1972. “Cultes populaires dans la Crète antique.” BCH 96:389–426. https://doi. org/10.3406/bch.1972.2142 Felsch, Rainer C. S.. 1996. Kalapodi: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen im Heiligtum der Artemis und des Apollon von Hyampolis in der antiken Phokis. Mainz: von Zabern. ———, ed. 2007. Kalapodi: Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen im Heiligtum der Artemis und des Apollon von Hyampolis in der antiken Phokis. Vol. 2: Zur Stratigraphy des Heiligtums; Die Bronzefunde; Die Angriffswaffen. Mainz: von Zabern. Fowles, Severin. 2017. “Absorption, Theatricality, and the Image in Deep Time.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 27:679–89. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0959774317000701. Fulford, Michael, and Neil Holbrook. 2011. “Assessing the Contribution of Commercial Archaeology to the Study of the Roman Period in England, 1990–2004.” The Antiquaries Journal 91:323–45. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003581511000138. Gesell, Geraldine. 1972. “The Archaeological Evidence for the Minoan House Cult and Its Survival in Iron Age Crete.” PhD diss., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Haselgrove, Colin, and Tom Moore, eds. 2017. The Later Iron Age in Britain and Beyond. Oxford: Oxbow. Hilbert, Martin. 2012. “Toward a Synthesis of Cognitive Biases: How Noisy Information Processing Can Bias Human Decision Making.” Psychological Bulletin 138:211– 37. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0025940.

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———. 2013. “Big Data for Development: From Information to Knowledge Societies.” United Nations ECLAC Report, Social Science Research Network 4. https://doi. org/10.2139/ssrn.2205145. Hiller, Stefan. 1981. “Mykenische Heiligtümer: Das Zeugnis der Linear B-Texte.” Pages 95–125 in Sanctuaries and Cults in the Aegean Bronze Age: Proceedings of the First International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 12–13 May, 1980. Edited by Robin Hägg and Nanno Marinatos. Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Athens. Hodder, Ian. 1986: Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2012. Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Kanta, Athanasia. 1991. “Cult, Continuity, and the Evidence of Pottery at the Sanctuary of Syme Viannou, Crete.” Pages 479–505 in La transizione dal miceneo all’alto arcaismo: Dal palazzo alla cittá. Edited by Domenico Musti. Rome: Consiglio nazionale delle ricerche. Kotsonas, Antonis. 2016. “Politics of Periodization and the Archaeology of Early Greece.” AJA 120:239–70. https://doi.org/10.3764/aja.120.2.0239. Kowalewski, Stephen. 2008. “Regional Settlement Pattern Studies.” JAR 16:225–85. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10814-008-9020-8. Ksifaras, N. 2004. Οικιστική της Πρωτογεωμετρικής και Γεωμετρικής Κρήτης: Η μετάβαση από τη ‘μινωική’ στην ‘ελλενική’ κοινωνία. PhD diss., University of Crete. Kyrieleis, Helmut. 2002. “Zu den Anfängen des Heiligtums von Olympia.” Pages 213–20 in Olympia 1875–2000: 125 Jahre deutsche Ausgrabungen; 125 Jahre Deutsche Ausgrabungen; Internationales Symposium Berlin 9.–11. November 2000. Edited by Helmut Kyrieleis. Mainz: von Zabern. Lambrounidakis, Vasilis. 1981. “Remains of the Mycenaean Period in the Sanctuary of Apollon Maleatas.” Pages 59–65 in Sanctuaries and Cults in the Aegean Bronze Age: Proceedings of the First International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 12–13 May, 1980. Edited by Robin Hägg and Nanno Marinatos. Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Athens. Langdon, Merle. 1976. A Sanctuary of Zeus on Mount Hymettos. Hesperia Supplement 16. Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Lebessi, Angeliki. 1975. “Ιερόν Ερμού και Αφροδίτης εις Σήμη Βιάννου.” Praktika tes en Athenais Archaiologikes Hetaireias 1975:322–39. ———. 1985. Το ιερό του Ερμή και της Αφροδίτης στη Σύμη Βιάννου, Ι: Χάλκινα κρήτικά τορέματα. Athens: Archaeological Society of Athens. Lucas, Gavin. 2012. Understanding the Archaeological Record. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lupack, Susan. 2010. “Mycenaean Religion.” Pages 263–76 in The Oxford Handbook of the Bronze Age Aegean. Edited by Eric Cline. Oxford: Oxford University Press. http:// dx.doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199873609.013.0020. ———. 2011. “Redistribution in Aegean Palatial Societies: A View from Outside the Palace; The Sanctuary and the Damos in Mycenaean Economy and Society.” AJA 115:207–17. https://doi.org/10.3764/aja.115.2.0207. Mann, Steve. 2017. “Big Data Is a Big Lie without Little Data: Humanistic Intelligence as a Human Right.” Big Data & Society 4:205395171769155. https://doi. org/10.1177/2053951717691550.

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Manyika, James, and Michael Chui. 2014. “Digital Era Brings Hyperscale Challenges.” Financial Times August 13, 2014. Maraghiannis, Giorgos. 1912. Antiquités Crétoises I. Vienna: Angerer. Marakas, Gemma. 2010. Ritual Practice between the Late Bronze Age and Protogeometric Periods of Greece. BARIS 2145. Oxford: Archaeopress. Marinatos, Nanno. 1996. “Cult by the Seashore: What Happened at Amnisos?” Pages 135–39 in The Role of Religion in the Early Greek Polis. Edited by Robin Hägg. Stockholm: Åström. Marinatos, Spyridon. 1929. “Ανασκαφαί εν Κρήτη.” Πρακτικτὰ τῆς Ἀρχαιολογικῆς Ἐταιρείας 1929:91–99. Mayer-Schönberger, Viktor, and Kenneth Cukier. 2013. Big Data: A Revolution That Will Transform How I Live, Work, and Think. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. McDonald, William, and George Rapp. 1972. The Minnesota Messenia Expedition: Reconstructing a Bronze Age Regional Environment. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Morgan, Catherine. 1999. Isthmia: The Late Bronze Age Settlement and Early Iron Age Sanctuary. Isthmia 8. Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Muhly, Polymnia. 2008. The Sanctuary of Hermes and Aphrodite at Syme Viannou IV: Animal Images of Clay, Handmade Figurines; Attachments; Mouldmade Plaques. Athens: Archaeological Society at Athens. Müller, Sylvie. 1992. “Delphes et sa région à l’époque mycénienne.” BCH 116:445–96. https://doi.org/10.3406/bch.1992.4664. Murray, Sarah C. 2018. “Lights and Darks: Data, Labeling, and Language in the History of Scholarship on Early Greece.” Hesperia 87:17–54. https://doi.org/10.2972/hesperia.87.1.0017. Nicholls, Richard. 1970. “Greek Votive Statuettes and Religious Continuity, c. 1200–700 B.C.” Pages 1–37 in Auckland Classical Essays Presented to E. M. Blaiklock. Edited by Bruce Harris. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Nowicki, Krzysztof. 2000. Defensible Sites in Crete, c. 1200–800 BC. Liège: University of Liège. Olsen, Bjørnar. 2012: “After Interpretation: Remembering Archaeology.” Current Swedish Archaeology 20:11–34. https://doi.org/10.37718/CSA.2012.01. Onsrud, Harlan, and James Campbell. 2007. “Big Opportunities in Access to ‘Small Science’ Data.” Data Science Journal 6:58–66. https://doi.org/10.2481/dsj.6.OD58. Pikoulas, Giannis. 2012. Το οδικό δίκτυο της Λακωνικής. Athens: Horos. ———. 2016. Η άγνωστη Μικρά Ασία: Ταξιδιωτικες σημειώσεις. Athens: Ekdoseis Anavasi. de Polignac, Francois. 1995. Cults, Territory, and the Origins of the Greek City State. Translated by J. Lloyd. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Prent, Mieke. 2005. Cretan Sanctuaries and Cults: Continuity and Change from Late Minoan IIIC to the Archaic Period. RGRW 154. Leiden: Brill. Renfrew, Colin, ed. 1985. The Archaeology of Cult: The Sanctuary at Phylakopi. BSASup 18. London: British School at Athens. Renfrew, Colin, and John Cherry. 1985. “The Other Finds.” Pages 299–359 in The Archaeology of Cult: The Sanctuary at Phylakopi. Edited by Colin Renfrew. BSASup 18. London: British School at Athens. Riley, Shawn J., Stephen D. DeGloria, and Robert Elliot. 1999. “A Terrain Ruggedness

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Index That Quantifies Topographic Heterogeneity.” Intermountain Journal of Sciences 5.1–4:23–27. Romano, David G. 2005. “A New Topographical and Architectural Survey of the Sanctuary of Zeus at Mt. Lykaion.” Pages 381–96 in Ancient Arcadia: Papers from the Third International Seminar on Ancient Arkadia, Held at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 7–10 May 2002. Edited by Erik Østby. Athens: Norwegian Institute. ———. 2013. “Athletic Festivals in the Northern Peloponnese and Central Greece.” Pages 176–91 in A Companion to Sport and Spectacle in Greek and Roman Antiquity. Edited by Paul Christesen and Donald G. Kyle. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118609965.ch11. Romano, David G., and Mary Voyatzis. 2010. “Excavating at the Birthplace of Zeus.” Expedition 52:9–21. Rutkowski, Bogdan. 1986. The Cult Places of the Aegean. New Haven: Yale University Press. ———. 1988. “Cretan Open-air Shrines.” Archeologia Warsaw 39:9–26. Rutkowski, Bogdan, and Krzysztof Nowicki. 1986. “Report on Investigations in Greece IV.” Archaeologia Warsaw 37:159–70. ———. 1996. The Psychro Cave and Other Sacred Grottoes in Crete. Studies and Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology and Civilization 2/1. Warsaw: Art & Archaeology. Salmon, John. 1972. “The Heraeum at Perachora and the Early History of Corinth and Megara.” BSA 67:159–204. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0068245400021651. Schäfer, Jörg. 1991. “Das problem der Kultkontinuität im Falle des Heiligtums des Zeus Thenatas.” Pages 349–59 in La transizione dal miceneo all’alto arcaismo: Dal palazzo alla cittá. Edited by Domenico Musti. Rome: Consiglio nazionale delle ricerche. ———, ed. 1992. Amnisos: Nach den archäologischen, historischen und epigraphischen Zeugnisse des Altertums und der Neuzeit. 2 vols. Berlin: Mann. Schürmann, Wolfgang. 1996. Das Heiligtum des Hermes und der Aphrodite in Syme Viannou II: Die Tierstatuetten aus Metall. Athens: Athens Archaeological Society. Slingerland, Edward, et al. 2018–2019. “Historians Respond to Whitehouse et al. (2019) ‘Complex Societies Precede Moralizing Gods Throughout World History.’” Journal of Cognitive Historiography 5:124–41. https://doi.org/10.1558/jch.39393. Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane. 1993. “Early Sanctuaries, the Eighth Century and Ritual Space: Fragments of a Discourse.” Pages 1–17 in Greek Sanctuaries: New Approaches. Edited by Nanno Marinatos and Robin Hägg. London: Routledge. Sporn, Katja. 2002. Heiligtümer und Kulte Kretas in klassischer und hellenistischer Zeit. Heidelberg: Verlag Archaölogischer und Geschichte. Syriopoulos, Konstantinos. 1995. Η Προϊστορική Κατοίκησις της Ελλάδος. 2 vols. Athens: Archaeological Society of Athens. Tartaron, Thomas, Timothy Gregory, Richard Rothaus, Jay Noller, Daniel Pullen, William Caraher, Joseph Rife, David Pettegrew, Lita Tzortzopoulou-Gregory, and Dimitri Nakassis. 2006. “The Eastern Korinthia Archaeological Survey: Integrated Methods for a Dynamic Landscape.” Hesperia 75:453–523. Thomas, Julian, 2015a. “The Future of Archaeological Theory.” Antiquity 89.348:1287–96. https://doi.org/10.15184/aqy.2015.183. ———. 2015b. “Why ‘The Death of Archaeological Theory’?” Pages 11–36 in Debating Ar-

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chaeological Empiricism: The Ambiguity of Material Evidence. Edited by Charlotta Hillerdal and Johannes Siapkas. New York: Routledge. Turchin, Peter, et al. 2018. “Quantitative Historical Analysis Uncovers a Single Dimension of Complexity That Structures Global Variation in Human Social Organization.” PNAS 115:E144–E151. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1708800115. Van Leuven, Jean-Claude. 1978. “The Mainland Tradition of Sanctuaries in Prehistoric Greece.” World Archaeology 10:139–48. https://doi.org/10.1080/00438243.1978.99 79726. Vlachidis, Andreas, and Douglas Tudhope. 2011. “Semantic Annotation for Indexing Archaeological Context: A Prototype Development and Evaluation.” Metadata and Semantic Research Communications in Computer and Information Science 240:363–74. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-642-24731-6_37. Wallace, Saro. 2010. Ancient Crete: From Successful Collapse to Democracy’s Alternatives. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Watrous, W. Vance. 1996. The Cave Sanctuary of Zeus at Psychro: A Study of Extra-Urban Sanctuaries in Minoan and Early Iron Age Crete. Aegaeum. Liège: University of Liège Winner, Langdon. 1978. Autonomous Technology: Technics-out-of-Control as a Theme in Political Thought. Cambridge: MIT Press. Wright, James. 1994. “The Spatial Configuration of Belief: The Archaeology of Mycenaean Religion.” Pages 37–78 in Placing the Gods: Sanctuaries and Sacred Space in Ancient Greece. Edited by Susan Alcock and Robin Osborne. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wylie, Alison. 1985. “Putting Shakertown Back Together: Critical Theory in Archaeology.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 4:133–47. https://doi. org/10.1016/0278-4165(85)90007-8. Zeimbekis, Marika. 1998. “The Typology, Forms, and Functions of Animal Figures from Minoan Peak Sanctuaries with Special Reference to Juktas and Kophinas.” PhD diss., University of Bristol. Zuboff, Shoshana. 2019. The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power. New York: Public Affairs Books.

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Quantifying Thick Descriptions with the Database of Religious History M. Willis Monroe The Database of Religious History (DRH) is a new online tool for the study of religion. The project solicits entries from academic scholars on religious groups with expertise in the history and archaeology of religion. With a goal of serving as a digital reference tool as well as a platform for testing hypotheses, the project is highly aware of the need for a secure methodology behind its data collection. The key question is how primary historical and archaeological data can be interpreted by experts and converted into quantitative answers to discrete questions within the DRH. This chapter explores the role of thick description and quantitative historiography within the project’s aims. In particular, it emphasizes the reciprocal process through which the work of our experts refine and improve the project. The DRH aims to serve a wide range of audiences: academic researchers, quantitative analysts, students, and the general public; the project, therefore, needs to set out its methodology and ontologies in clear terms. Keywords: history of religion, databases, quantitative, qualitative, large-scale comparison

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he appeal of comprehensive theories in history is self-evident in the bestseller lists of local bookstores and the New York Times. Readers, both general and academic, are looking with genuine curiosity for writing that distills large swaths of the human record into digestible data and provides convincing theoretical frameworks. As soon as they are received by the reviewing public, however, these works are typically critiqued by academic fields that the grand narratives fail to adequately assess. In some cases, these grand theories and their critiques are a natural part of the progress of scholarship; in others, the rush to create or test grand narratives represents a gross misuse of the underlying data.1 The Database of Religious History (hereafter the DRH), based at the University of British Columbia, was created in order to offer a widely democratized and expert-sourced model for collecting and distilling large amounts of data about the historical record in a way that prioritizes the distinct qualitative differences between historical phenomena while bringing them together in a platform that enables quantitative research. Moving between qualitative and quantitative data is by no means an easy process, yet it is a core method 1. For an example of the ongoing dialog about grand theories and big data within the history of religion, the reader is directed to a pair of papers in a recent issue of the Journal of Cognitive Historiography (Slingerland et al. 2019; Whitehouse et al. 2019).

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within historical scholarship. By opening up the process of data creation and designing a flexible platform for contributors, the DRH remains agile enough to accommodate a wide range of data from across the globe. This chapter will survey the DRH, its contents, history, and methods, while at the same time offering a more detailed discussion of the processes behind distilling quantitative data from complex qualitative sources. The importance of qualitative and quantitative data in history is fundamental to how historians work with the historical record and form opinions about historical facts.2 All historical writing is by its nature reductionist and generalizing, as the historical record is both much larger than the history written and necessarily imperfectly preserved. Therefore, the process of reducing a swath of qualitative material, for instance a collection of historical documents, down to a particular statement in a work of secondary history involves the conversion of qualitative data into a form of quantitative data.3 The fidelity of this process is of the utmost importance and its absence is where the grand theories mentioned above frequently run afoul.4 Of course not all blame lies on the writers of grand theories, for as of yet no method allows for the querying of 2. It is worth a brief mention that the use of the terms “qualitative” and “quantitative” in regard to research data and method is a relatively recent phenomenon. It was not until the latter half of the twentieth century that qualitative was even used to specify a type of methodology. One interesting facet of the rise of qualitative as a descriptive term is that it might reflect a reaction to growing specialization in the 1970s of studying serialized societies, i.e., the growth of “quantitative” methods (Brinkmann, Jacobsen, and Kristiansen 2015, 20). So, in fact, as the growth of quantitative methods and data increased (or rather were called as such) there arose a need to label these two methods and the data they created separately and thus the divide was slowly borne out in the literature. 3. E.g., the clearly historical statement “Did x occur in y century?” is given an attempted answer by the historian with a binary result (“Yes/No”) for which is marshaled a collection of qualitative pieces of evidence distilled into this reduced form. Of course the responsible writer would offer caveats and pointed recognition of the incomplete picture behind the distilled answer, but without this process it would be hard to establish a series of historical events (even if they are in the end only provisional to a degree). 4. A good example of this is the “Axial Age,” a theory of societal and psychological development championed by the German scholar Karl Jaspers that argues that a fundamental shift in global consciousness at some point in the first millennium BCE heralded the production of modes of thought and governance that bear direct influence on the modern world. In order to argue for this highly opinionated reading of history, Jaspers distilled into quantitative terms certain criteria by which ancient civilizations could be measured as derived from a vast amount of qualitative historical sources. Not surprisingly the theory has been met with historical consternation from a wide range of angles, but perhaps the most relevant for the purposes of this article are scholars who pointed out issues in his data collection and in particular the process of historical summary (i.e., the qualitative to quantitative conversion). E.g., two articles by Assyriologists were able to offer competing evidence for assessing certain criteria in the positive in periods predating Jaspers’s focus in Mesopotamia (Machinist 1986; Michalowski 2005). By combining larger amounts of historical reflection on these topics other scholars have recently taken a more comprehensive approach to assessing the theory using wide ranges of gathered evidence and also found elements lacking (Mullins et al. 2018). These two approaches of criticism of Jaspers’s theory, narrow and wide, have been demonstrated in a large number of publications in the past few decades.

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all historians everywhere for their input on a given topic before a book is written. Nor should the ability to get 100 percent coverage of all working historians absolve theories from critique. The DRH offers a platform to find wide coverage for the data needed to assess, design, and (crucially) test larger theoretical ideas. By involving the experts who are integrally involved with studying the primary sources with the creation of the data, the DRH is able to offer a higher fidelity of conversion between qualitative historical records into quantitative answers (“Yes/No”). Additionally, by coupling the quantitative answers with qualitative comments, references, and even rich media, the appropriate and responsible caveats are included for the researcher, analyst, or reader alike. The practice of translating qualitative historical data into quantitative answers is even more complicated when dealing the history of complex cultural ideas like “religion,” a term absent from almost all ancient cultures. Here is where the DRH relies on developments in the theory of religion both new and old. Classically, the DRH borrows heavily from Émile Durkheim’s approach to studying the observable evidence of religious behavior in order to conceive religion as something built up of actions by members of a community. More recently, Ann Taves’s (2011) work on her “building block approach” has offered a more contemporary method for thinking about religion as composed of divisible units of analysis (often benefiting from cross-disciplinary conversations and research). Taves’s approach elicited one of the many flash points for debate around the term “religion” and its applicability especially in the ancient world. Critiques from scholars like Russel McCutcheon (2010) centered on the idea of taxa and whether or not a coherent unit of analysis could really be at the core of the theory, in other words, whether using a modern term like “religion” was in itself a false start. Much has been written about the anachronistic, sometimes ecumenical, and often inapplicable nature of the term, especially when applied to historical and nonwestern cultural spheres.5 While the DRH does provide a loose definition of what constitutes an ontological unit for the database, it expressly leaves much of the definition up to the scholar. In this regard the project is, in a way, strictly concerned with the data on religion provided by and from the scholar. This is very much in line with Jonathan Smith (1982, xi): “there is no data for religion. Religion is solely the creation of the scholar’s study. It is created for the scholar’s analytic purposes by his imaginative acts of comparison and generalization. Religion has no existence apart from the academy.” It is perhaps more apt to describe the DRH as a database of scholar’s ideas about individual histories of a shared concept that they call religion. The design of the DRH actually allows us to interrogate the taxonomic divisions and definitions by deconstructing the term itself (via a process similar to the building block approach) into constituent questions and then reassembling the 5. The literature is far too large to summarize here, but for a good starting point see the insightful commentary of Fitzgerald (1997).

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data as answered by a wide range of scholars to observe whether the term still holds for the reconstructed data.6 These are big questions about the work of history, and the DRH is attempting to provide a platform that enables the interrogation and exposure of this process at least within the study of the history of religion. Because the scope can be quite grand, for instance, questions about the relationship between religions across time and space, it might help to ground the discussion in a concrete example. The platform allows researchers to address much smaller areas of interest that fall outside of the sole remit of one field of cultural or historical studies, for instance, the interaction between religious group membership and the availability of in-group education.7 This query in particular might match a hypothesis that a researcher has developed around access to education as a motivating force for group membership. The platform enables the sharing of these queries, possible interpretations, and results; in a sense a form of open scholarship that enables the reader to participate in the exercise of comprehending the data. However, interpretations and queries are only as good as the underlying data, and that data is dependent on the accuracy of scholars interpreting historical sources. In the end the process of going from sources to binary answers involves transforming “thick descriptions” into zeros and ones. The underlying methods and approaches of the DRH offer unique solutions to long-standing questions in the field of the history of religion, while at the same time providing data for scholars interested in cross-cultural approaches. 9.1. The Database of Religion History (DRH) The Database of Religious History (DRH) is an international digital humanities project hosted within the Department of Asian Studies at the University of British Columbia.8 Its overall aim is to provide a platform for studying the history of religion throughout time and space. This, of course, is a large goal and one that is inherently open-ended, but serves as a guiding principle for how the project approaches its data collection and overall methodology. The project en6. A rough metaphor might involve giving a group of hobbyists radios, asking them to deconstruct them, trade parts, reassemble what they have and determine whether the category of radio is conceptually valid and if they still play music. Importantly, the hobbyists are not electrical engineers and do not suppose to have a scientific definition of a radio, only a passing familiarity (perhaps having used one in the past). Some of the initial radios might not even be radios, but once the pieces are laid out the similarity in forms and functions should make it clear how they are reassembled. Importantly, this does not prove that a “radio” is an inherent category of reality, only that everyone agrees what it is when they see one. 7. This example will appear later as well, readers curious about the current state of data can view this particular search query here: https://religiondatabase.org/visualize/1894/. 8. The author is the managing editor of the DRH; more details about the rest of the project’s team as well as past and current funding bodies can be found on our website (https://religiondatabase.org/).

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gages academic editors and contributors from around the globe in order to best understand the wide breadth of religious belief and practice in both the ancient and modern world. Started in 2013, the DRH began as a collaborative project under the auspices of the Centre for the Study of Human Evolution, Cognition and Culture and its research program entitled the Cultural Evolution of Religion Research Consortium (https://hecc.ubc.ca/). The DRH was originally designed partially in order to provide well-grounded data for a wide-ranging program of ethnographic, psychological, and historical studies focused on the evolution of religion and prosociality; it has since grown to provide a research platform for historians and scholars within the wider humanities.9 The database, in plain terms, consists of a series of polls organized around different analytic units, such as religious group, religious place, each of which contains a list of questions that range in specificity (some of which are shared in common between different polls). Entries within the database are made up of sets of answers to these questions pertaining to a particular region of the globe and a period in time entered by a historical expert on the topic. Authorship within the database consists of creating an entry that consists of answers to a particular poll. At the time of writing the database contains 489 entries by 252 academic experts, just over 88,000 discrete answers to questions about the history of religion. In order to archive and better disseminate the data produced by the project, the entries themselves are archived as PDFs (with a Creative-Commons license) and given a DOI by the University of British Columbia library within their open-access repository: cIRcle.10 It is worth briefly defining and differentiating the two main types of data contained within the entries themselves. Quantified data refers to data that come in a standardized form and are serialized, that is, the possible range of data points is bounded and shared across the range of inquiry. This might take the form of only two options, a Boolean result, “yes” or “no,” or it might take the form of a countable number like the size in area of a settlement or height of a monument. Within the DRH this takes the form of four possible answers to most of the questions: “Yes,” “No,” “Field doesn’t know,” and “I don’t know.”11 In quantitative terms, these four answers could be thought of as just the numbers from one to four. Qualitative data takes the form of expert-entered text or at9. In fact, in its origination the DRH was echoing the concerns mentioned in the introduction, namely that of nonhistorians creating large all-encompassing theories of social change without adequately engaging with the wealth of complex and contextually situated historical data. 10. A current catalog of archived entries can be found at this url: https://open.library.ubc.ca/ search?q=contributor:%20%22Database%20of%20Religious%20History%20(DRH)%22. 11. E.g., our religious group poll has the question “Does the religious group provide formal education to its adherents?” Experts are expected to assess the evidence from their specific field and answer that question with one of four options, “Yes,” “No,” “Field doesn’t know,” or “I don’t know.” In addition they are expected (when able) to add comments and sources backing up their choice and include rich media when available.

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tached media like images; it is nonstandardized and free-form. It cannot be easily reduced to a shared set of options across the entire data set. Rather, it represents the thoughts and observations of the expert. In many cases this is used to add more detail to the answer or to offer counterexamples that, while not the norm, introduce a level of uncertainty to the expert’s quantitative answer. The origin of the DRH’s theoretical approach can be traced in part back to the work of Durkheim and particularly his model of the elemental building blocks of religion (Slingerland and Sullivan 2017). He suggested that the study of religion itself should be defined by the use of observable data derived from ethnographies and historiographies. This data-driven approach scaled up to the scope of the DRH requires commensurable data sets, essentially a standard way to understand the elemental features of religious practice. Designing an ontology that is able to capture the diversity of data from ethnographic and historiographic reporting is no small task, but by creating a larger and interlinked database the DRH can answer bigger questions about the history of religion. The scaling up of scope helps to offset the limit with early functionalist approaches to religion, whose reliance on small data sets led them to conclusions unfounded in the wider evidence. Similarly the work by contemporary anthropological and ethnographic projects, in particular the human relation area files at Yale and the standard cross-cultural sample, offer a wider degree of data but are distinctly modernist in their focus.12 By combining the historical and the ethnographic the DRH is able to provide a wide scope of data for scholars interested in querying a resource for qualitative information as well as conducting quantitative analysis. In order for this large-scale data collection strategy to work however, the project needs a core set of principles that guide the collection and standardization of the source material. To that end, the project’s approach is best explained by describing the first poll designed for the database; the religious group poll focuses on the beliefs, practices, and traditions of a group of individuals in history that more or less express a similar religious identity. This ontological category ultimately derives from Durkheim’s (1995, 41) understanding that religious beliefs are made up of the people who “profess them and that practice the corresponding rites.” Durkheim makes it clear that his understanding of a group of believers is quite diverse and could encompass large institutions or small gatherings of worshipers; furthermore, groups could be part of a larger group and still be considered distinct for the purposes of historical analysis.

12. Currently, the DRH is in the process of integrating these existing data sets into our, up until now, primarily historical database. This, in fact, is a strength of the project, the fact that we incorporate current anthropological and ethnographic data alongside historical data sets. The result is a data set that can be queried for ancient or contemporary data to form certain conclusions or theses about the existing data. With a small tweak the query can then be expanded to incorporate the wider range of data, thus subjecting the initial thesis to a more rigorous body of testing.

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Early on the project created a broad definition of what was considered a religious “group”: A community or network of people (locatable in space and time) who share common practices, beliefs, and/or institutions, but who are not necessarily conscious members of an explicitly recognized group. The group can be an emic (indigenous) name or category or an etic (scholarly attributed) one.13

The definition is not bounded in any way by geographical borders or periods of time, which leaves the designation of those variables up to the researcher who is determining the scope of their group. This also means that groups can be conceived of in radical ways that may challenge our own concept of coherent religious communities or systems of belief and practice.14 A general rule of thumb followed by the project is that if the expert is able to satisfactorily answer the majority of the questions in a questionnaire for their chosen topic, then the entry meets the definition.15 While this method could potentially allow for entries outside of our stated research interest, we may find that they provide interesting data or a correction that needs to be applied as the project moves forward. For instance, a researcher might create an entry that challenges our concept of a “group” and pushes us to amend our definition to accommodate their topic. This approach can be characterized as polythetic, in that none of the characteristics of religious belief, tradition, or practice are by themselves necessary criteria for inclusion into the project. This approach to categorization follows from recent work Ann Taves on her building-block approach to religion, which was mentioned briefly above. Taves (2011, 29) outlines a method for thinking about religion as component parts or “religious things” that make up larger “religions,” all included in a “larger, more encompassing framework of special things and the methods deemed efficacious for engaging with them.” The building-block approach borrows from Durkheim but differs in that more attention is paid to the process of ascribing “specialness” to component parts and the integration with larger frames of reference. The end goal is to form a picture of religious groups as composite entities formed by a wide range of possible beliefs, practices, and 13. One editor for the project wrote a more detailed discussion of the implications of this definition as it pertains to the broad category of Mediterranean religion (Tappenden 2017). 14. E.g., a recent entry by one of our experts designates the chosen group as a “ transnational cybersect” with a “vast mediascape” (Christopher 2019). These terms were not necessarily at the forefront of the team members’ conceptions of religious groups during the creation of the project, but it is a testament to the initial design that the poll was able to accommodate the expert’s knowledge on the group. 15. The DRH’s approach to letting experts define the demarcating lines between religious groups borrows from an ascriptive model of religion (Taves 2011, 19–20), where historians with knowledge of groups in the past ascribe a religious nature to them based on their own understanding of the group and its relation to a working definition of religion. This approach is inclusive rather than exclusive, a more rigid definition of religion would limit contributions.

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behaviors, none of which are required for inclusion, but some combination of which form the shared understanding of what makes up a religious group. This composite approach is highlighted by Taves (2011, 164–65) as a way to understand and compare the experience of religion throughout history. The composite and ascriptive approach advocated by Taves is easily compared with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s (2009, §§66–71) concept of “family resemblances,” the various component features of a group of related entities that make up their shared relational identity. Wittgenstein originally uses this concept to explain the way in which we define what a game is and what activities make up the category “games.” He sums up the interaction between all the constituent properties that make up a category as “a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing: similarities in the large and small” (2009, §66). By using qualitative information about the history of religion we can identify areas of information that can possibly be gathered between different groups, perhaps they are not present in all, but present in some. These categories then form the basis of our quantitative data collection. Thus the idea of a religious group is made of multiple properties derived from examples of groups in history, yet because the properties are standardized across the database the derived data is quantitative in its nature. Or similarly a religious place has features shared with some other places and even with other groups, all of which suggest an overarching relational network. Returning to the ontology of the project, the core of the entry is the definition of a geographical area, range of time in years, and name (including additional alternate names).16 These are set as part of the first step in entry creation by the expert, and apply, by default, to all answers provided by the expert. However, it is crucial to note that for each answer the geographical area or time range can be changed to reflect a unique circumstance in which the answer is present. Similarly, each question in the questionnaire can be answered multiple times by the expert, changing the geographical area or time range for each answer. This flexibility lets the expert define with greater specificity the complexity of a particular element of the entry. For instance, if the overall group makes use of an in-group judicial system but there was a notable exception either in location or time during the history of the group, this exception could be noted by answering the question twice and modifying the answer’s default variables to reflect the change from the group’s norm. Similarly, the group poll structures each answer as pertaining to three general categories of society: “elite,” “religious specialists,” “nonelite (common people, general populace).” Just like 16. We also ask experts to choose (or create) representative tags from two different tagging trees. One tree represents geographic regions, and the other religious traditions. These trees serve as one of the many relationships between entries within the database. Experts are free to add tags to the tree where they see fit, which allows us to collect data on expert’s intuition about the relation between entries.

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the above default characteristics of the entire entry, each answer can pertain to a social status or to any combination of them. For example, group-sponsored food storage might be available only to religious specialists and thus the answer can be in the affirmative for that group, while in the negative for the other two. The specification allowed by assigning answers to different social groups within an entry combined with the flexibility of the geographical and temporal range per answer allows for a great deal of specificity for each entry. Crucially, behind the scenes this does not complicate the data model at all, because the database was designed from the outset to accommodate this level of complexity. An expert could in response to one question, provide different answers that pertain to a variety of geographical subregions within the overall area, subdivide the time range into meaningfully discrete periods, and tailor each of these to the relevant groups of society that pertain to the individual answer. From the project’s perspective, repeated usage of multiple answers to one question might suggest that the question itself is too broad and needs to be divided into a number of subquestions that pertain more narrowly to certain aspects. Most likely this behavior would also be indicated in the qualitative comments for each answer where the expert would record the need to subdivide a single question into multiple answers. In this way the project can remain flexible to the needs and behaviors of our experts as they input data. With the general default variables of each entry defined we can move on to the individual answer contained with an entry. We recognized early on that in order for theories to be tested against a large data set, the data itself had to be quantitative in nature, but at the same time needed to come from high quality, existing qualitative research. While answers at their most basic level are represented by a quantitative value to allow for statistical analysis, each answer also has room for qualitative commentary. These qualitative comments provide a familiar research data set for most historians, a trove of textual information that can be read, collected, and searched for illustrative passages of texts in support of a thesis. Because of the underlying quantitative nature of the answers, the database itself can serve as a rigorous test on those theories, allowing researchers to run their intuition against the collected data of the historical past of religions. This guiding quantitative research method requires data to be collected in a way that makes it suitable for statistical and mathematical modeling (Sullivan et al. 2017, 15). However, because the answers are encoded as binary oppositions (with qualitative backing), clarity of our ontological framework is paramount for any amount of stability or understanding between disciplines.17 The ontological pa17. The design of our questionnaires, as mentioned previously, is clearly contingent on our understanding of the global expression of religious beliefs, traditions, and practices. Likewise, the ability for information about these facets of the religious experience to be preserved in the present such that an academic expert somewhere in the world is able to transpose observations of those

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rameters of our questionnaire have to be embedded within the project such that they do not rely (overtly) on external systems of categorization and thinking derived from specific cultural background (a nigh impossible task). Yet, even still, the difficulty in setting out questionnaires with embedded ontologies is that they restrict access to the data by using field-specific language.18 The project’s initial method of data collection was based solely around the concept of a religious group. The term group was chosen to have the widest currency with scholars of religion both from historical as well as ethnographic backgrounds. However, this core ontological category privileges either living populations or historical groups who left behind evidence in textual records. We found that archaeologists attempting to use the group questionnaire to enter data about their particular projects or research found the types of questions and language used difficult to access.19 In response to this we created a second questionnaire, one focused on the “place,” a categorization of space rather than the (usually) textual reconstruction of past (or present) behavior. This new poll consists of a similar number of questions with a substantial amount of overlap with the group poll. Technical relations between the polls allow for data in one questionnaire to be shared with the other and vice versa. The process of creating a new poll allowed the project to take in data from a different field of expertise while still maintaining the underlying standardization necessary for the research aims and goals. From a practical standpoint the new place poll allows archaeologists and researchers concerned primarily with location-based evidence to enter data using questions that more readily conform to their ontological perspective. Many, but not all, of the questions are related to the preexisting group poll. For example, the group poll asks whether or not a particular religious group believes in supernatural monitoring; similarly the places poll asks the question, “Is supernatural monitoring present?” Within the underlying design of the database these two questions are explicitly linked. Since all answers are attached to both a date range and a polygon on a world map, a user might query supernatural monitoring and be able to find the existence of supernatural monitoring in their search results as the product of experts answering both the group and place poll. Obviously, the degree to which these questions are commensurable is up for debate, but we have tried to be relatively conservative in our linking experiences into the database is also contingent on a range of factors both culturally mediated and environmental, e.g., the degree to which an ancient religious group recorded its dogma on written media and the degree to which those texts survive (and are still intelligible) in the present day. 18. Speaking in wider terms, the project has general coverage for French and Chinese language translations of the entire site, with more planned in the future. This enables us to reach scholars who are outside of English-based academia. 19. In order to answer the “group” poll they would have to create a fictive set of historical actors who engaged with the religious place they were interested in and answer the group questions from the perspective of these (fictional) historical actors.

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of questions and researchers are free to exclude results from separate polls in their query. However, the ability to link data between polls does broaden our reach in terms of the type of data we can collect. At its core this process is guided by a thorough and reactive understanding of the cultures of data collection from a variety of fields. Since one of the core priorities of the project is to accommodate a wide variety of disciplinary lenses and achieve comprehensive coverage of the scope of scholarship, the team has taken very seriously the breadth of nomenclature and terminology used within the project. To this end, we need to be sure that our polls contain the relevant questions in the appropriate language for different fields of scholarship. As of now we anticipate adding more core polls to the DRH that tackle other related aspects of the religious experience, for instance, religious texts and objects (with substantial overlap) are both planned questionnaires for the near future. At the same time we are beginning to incorporate questionnaires designed by researchers external to the project within the database. These polls are primarily designed by a researcher for their experimental or research agenda, understanding that some aspect of their overall project is related to interrogating religion. The poll as designed can then be integrated into the DRH and where there is relevant overlap, linked to the appropriate questions within the core polls. By including external polls we are able to increase our own coverage while providing the technological resources already invested by the project in the form of our robust database, accessible interface, and relational data sets to external research projects. Creating multiple polls is just one way the project is trying to increase the scope of our audience. As we move from the data creation side of things to the audiences who are accessing the database the opportunities for engagement grow. While the statistical and mathematical approach, mentioned at the outset, may have been the initial goal of the project, the website has since taken on a much wider function as a resource for scholars and students.20 The fact that it allows for large-scale analysis is immaterial to the researcher who just wants to query the database for up-to-date information about religious groups around the world coupled with a current bibliography. Each entry within the database therefore can serve as an encyclopedic article on a particular religious group (or place) providing the reader with current information in the form of answers to our standard questionnaire as well as qualitative comments and media adding nuance and additional detail. Additionally, as mentioned above, each entry also contains a bibliographical section with recent sources for further reading. Furthermore, unlike a traditional work of printed scholarship, these entries are digital and therefore dynamic and can be changed and edited after initial publi-

20. The project has begun an initiative to create a range of pedagogical resources that will be made available on our website: https://religiondatabase.org/landing/about/pedagogy.

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cation. Experts can return to their entry to update sections or add resources as the field’s understanding of the topic of the entry changes. One recent addition to the project is the capability to search for answers to specific questions across the entire database and export a bibliography of all cited resources. This is immensely helpful for humanities scholars who are interested in comparative or related traditions. For example, returning to the query from the introduction, the interaction between group membership and in-group education, a researcher might have expertise in a particular religious tradition and want to interrogate the way these two cultural processes interact in a wider area. By querying the database they could immediately find the specific scholarly references that provide detail on this same general belief in neighboring regions.21 By filtering and restricting the search, the bibliography could become narrower until it matched the scope of their research inquiry. At this point they would have a handy reading list of sources directly relevant to the question they are interested in. Contrast this with time-intensive hunts for comparative material by starting at the top of general historical overviews and working through each source until they have figured out whether the resource provided any information at all to the questions they are interested in. Obviously, this does not replace a thorough background and extensive reading, but it does allow researchers to quickly identify areas and fields where the answers to their larger questions can be found. In the rapidly growing field of scholarly publications, being able to receive a bibliography of sources entered by scholars with expertise on other traditions with citations relevant to your own research interests is a huge advantage. This of course has the added benefit of helping students access high quality references for their own purposes in the classroom. 9.2. Writing Digital History and Testing Hypotheses At this point it is worth looking in more depth at the theoretical underpinnings of data creation in the DRH. How exactly does the project justify the conversion of qualitative thick descriptions of religious expression throughout time and space into a digital version that is browsable and (crucially) analyzable online? From the outset the DRH falls broadly under the umbrella of digital humanities, research and projects that are digitally native and interface with core fields in the humanities. Work within the digital humanities by its very 21. This query provides 939 answers as of January 12, 2023: https://religiondatabase.org/visualize/1894/. By navigating to the “Table View” and then clicking on “Export to Bibtex” the user will receive a bibliography file containing almost 30 distinct citations relevant to this query. The number of references is lower than the number of answers because this feature was added recently to the project and so many of earlier entries are not fully integrated into the rich-bibliography feature, but over time those references will be added as well. Users can still browse the answers in the “Table View” to see citations and references not yet available in the BibTex file.

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digital nature relies on quantitative forms of analysis, and while they may or may not be the eventual output, quantitative data and methods are certainly integral in some form during the process of research. Points of data necessarily need to be represented as countable units, or binary choices that show numerical quantities as components of objects of study. Despite any sort of filtering, processing, or reconfiguration into other forms, the data always remain quantitative at their core, in fact they could exist in no other form than on a computer.22 Therefore, in order to apply quantitative methods to the study of history, and specifically the history of religion, qualitative reporting on religious beliefs, traditions, and practices has to be quantified in some form so that a standardized understanding of practice as it relates to its human participants can be assembled. This process of converting qualitative understanding into quantitative data is fraught with difficulty and uncertainty.23 But it is important to note that even in our qualitative scholarship we make choices about the data from which we derive our conclusions. Historians often come down on specific answers about the existence of a fact of culture or religion during a time period or in a geographical area. We do not think of this explicitly as quantification, mainly because we often associate quantification with numbers, but the decision to answer yes or no to a particular question is in fact a quantifiable answer if taken in the aggregate. If quantification is not just using numbers, then what exactly is the practice of writing history from quantifiable information? In what way can historical research employ experimental hypothesis formation and testing that is the more common course of action in the quantitatively based fields of inquiry (i.e., the sciences)? Testing historical hypotheses against large bodies of data requires data sets that can accommodate such inquiry. Historians have been reticent or technically unable to make the product of their original source research available in ways that are intelligible to other historians in neighboring

22. It is important to stress than any digital data, even things we think of as more qualitative like images, are quantitative at the most basic level. For instance, when an image is scanned into the computer, at some point the resolution of the digital version has to be decided upon, which will necessitate the loss of some amount of information from the original. The point is that having a qualitative understanding of the nature of the source image, and its role in the study will inform the decision of how to quantify (i.e., scan) the image into a certain size relevant for later analysis (even if that analysis is of a qualitative nature). 23. In fact quantitative methods can serve to obscure an otherwise faulty or flawed data set. Nearly fifty years ago the historian William Aydelotte (1971, 3), who was generally in support of quantitative methods, recognized that they could be used to otherwise obscure faulty hypotheses, “employing [quantitative methods] when the evidence is inadequate or imprecise may, in effect, amount to nothing more than using the superficial trappings of systematic investigation to cover up loose thinking.” The classical economic historian Finley (1999, 71) later echoed Aydelotte with his own serious doubts that the existing numerical data could produce any meaningful interpretation of historical evidence, warning that “simple arithmetical rations may turn into number mysticism rather than systematic quantification.”

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fields. At its core this brings up some fundamental differences in how (certain fields of) science and historical research operate. Historians cannot change the factors involved in the experiment (or the lab, if you will) in order to attempt to falsify or exclude a particular auxiliary hypothesis.24 They must engage with the preserved data and any hypothesis put forward can only be measured by how well it fits the existing evidence as it has been observed and transmitted over time.25 This dichotomy is not however only left for the humanists to puzzle through. There are a number of “scientific” disciplines that often work with historical data and subfields of these disciplines that are wholly concerned with developing hypotheses from observations on past phenomena. Research areas like the Big Bang or the origins of life are both entirely reliant on historical data in its most extreme form. Within science there are disagreements about how the scientific method itself functions with hypotheses derived from and tested on historical data.26 Socio-cultural historians should take solace in the fact that there are hard scientists out there who are arguing for the validity in testing hypotheses on historical data. While the use of classic hypothetico-deductive reasoning might not apply, hypotheses can be constructed and assessed in their validity against a range of past evidence. There are different models for the type of reasoning that takes place in historical sciences, and by proxy in the scientific study of history. One option is to use a process of abductive reasoning (Inkpen and Wilson 2009). In essence, effects (or behaviors) are seen to indicate the possibility for a range of potential causes, and various hypotheses are applied to these connections in order to identify the most likely relationship between cause and effect. However, in many cases the effects are not observable or directly measurable so proxies are needed in order to measure effects, for example, the material remains of a particular human behavior such as burial or sacrifice. Thus the method could proceed with the following hypothetical: food remains in vessels around a shrine 24. Auxiliary hypotheses are the givens that we take for granted when dealing with a particular hypothesis under investigation, e.g., that autographed epigraphic evidence can correctly attribute its creation to an author. This statement is often true, but the certainty behind it might vary in different historical contexts where pseudo-epigraphic traditions or outright forgery are more common. 25. That being said there are of course always new discoveries and new data that come to light either through archaeological or archival work. This can serve as a check on existing hypotheses. A discovery like the textual material from Qumran or plentiful cuneiform evidence has occurred recently enough to deliver counter evidence to established theories. While these count as new “observations” they cannot be controlled in a lab setting; one cannot restrict new information to test a particular area of their hypothesis. 26. “Although the idea that all good scientists employ a single method for testing hypotheses is popular, an inspection of the practices of historical scientists and experimental scientists reveals substantial differences. Classical experimental research involves making predictions and testing them, ideally in controlled laboratory settings. In contrast, historical research involves explaining observable phenomena in terms of unobservable causes that cannot be fully replicated in a laboratory setting” (Cleland 2001, 987).

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serve as a proxy for the behavior of leaving offerings for a deity, which is caused by a belief that the deity needs sustenance, or to put in reverse, a belief that deities need sustenance affects people so that they practice the behavior of leaving offerings for that deity, which can be detected through its proxy, preserved food remains in vessels in the archaeological record. Abductive reasoning provides a method to create hypotheses from the gathered evidence, which can then be tested through inductive logic (i.e., by gathering more data).27 This, in effect, is the principal way we are able to come up with causal theories that explain historical evidence. By identifying proxies for effects and behaviors in the historical record we can hypothesize about their causes. The actual circumstances of the data and entities involved in a particular case are all static and frozen in (for lack of a better word) time. Furthermore, the preservation of the observables is necessarily less than perfect, resulting in theorizing from incomplete data. The researcher hypothesizing about causes in the historical record is doing so based on a collection of imperfectly preserved proxies for actual events related to their suggested cause.28 These hypotheses are, in effect, historical generalizations, taking incomplete evidence and inferring general causes or rules. Historians do this all the time, as it would be impossible to write history without the use of generalizations, because no set of data is complete. By outlining explicitly what parameters and data are used to construct generalizations, we not only buttress our own arguments but make them more intelligible to scholars outside of our fields: The point is not that historians fail to generalize. On the contrary, many do so in a fairly uninhibited fashion…. The criticism is, rather, that historical generalizations tend to be unsystematic and unconsidered, that they are often introduced carelessly or incidentally, that their assumptions are not made explicit, and that their implications are not fully explored. (Aydelotte 1971, 14)

This is precisely where projects like the Database of Religious History and others that share their method of providing quantitative aspects to supplement traditional forms of qualitative description can provide systematic and explicit data and method on which historians can test hypotheses. In order to better assess the connection between proxies, effects, and causes, a scholar needs to be able to understand the relationships between certain proxies and others and 27. Asprem and Taves (2018, 143) argue for something similar across all of the historical sciences, stating that the method of explanation is not the creation of encompassing “laws” but rather finding “co-dependent factors” essentially the proxies mentioned earlier. 28. “For past events and entities there is neither direct observation nor an ability to manipulate these entities to produce new effects by which their nature can be deduced. All we have are proxies (indirect indicators) of their existence. Identifying an event, as occurring in the past, requires that properties of that specific event that define its nature become proxies of the event that can survive, be transmitted to and interpreted by the researcher” (Inkpen and Wilson 2009, 330).

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how they cluster in order to support certain effects in the historical record. This is a task for which quantitative data is eminently suitable. However, it cannot be done in the absence of a thorough understanding of what proxies are actually quantifiable, recordable, or even relevant for the question at hand, and that is where a qualitative understanding of religion and history is necessary. In figure 9.1 the number of answers for all entries is charted by dividing entries into two groups, those that experts have recorded as having “written scripture” and those that do not.29 It should be abundantly clear that having some form of written scripture means that more information about their beliefs, traditions, and practices has been preserved in the historical record than if no such textual evidence is present. These are important considerations for not just historians working with this data (for whom this is most likely self-evident) but also for quantitative researchers without the specialist’s grasp of history. For the latter this type of graph can serve as an important check on the applicability of larger theories in the absence of predictable gaps in the dataset. Furthermore, there are many other factors that can contribute to the accurate retrieval of data about ancient religious groups that we cannot possibly account for from the outset. For that reason, we should characterize the potential deficiencies in our data set as reflecting systematic and nonsystematic variances in the data.30 The systematic differences may pertain to our known understanding of the degree to which data about a religious group addressing issues of belief, tradition, and practice either in primary or secondary sources were recorded. These parameters are generally known and find currency in crosscultural comparison, for instance, as in the figure above, the existence of scripture is often highly indicative of a textual witness to information about belief, tradition, and practice. Nonsystematic differences could involve the degree of preservation or the accuracy in the recording of data, or other unknown issues. These are contingent and unique to a particular religious group and generally only known to the experts who work in that field. While systematic differences can be accounted for in the design of questionnaires and behave with more regularity when quantified, nonsystematic differences cannot be anticipated. Thus the inclusion of qualitative comments alongside the quantitative answers in the database, by design allows us to accommodate nonsystematic differences and, through a process of responsive change, we can adapt to accommodate these unforeseen differences. 29. The project currently defines the term “scripture” thus: “Scripture is a generic term used to designate revered texts that are considered particularly authoritative and sacred relative to other texts. Strictly speaking, it refers to written texts, but there are also ‘oral scriptures’ (e.g., the Vedas of India).” 30. These categories were borrowed from the work of King, Keohane, and Verba (1994, 56) within political science. They form the core of what the authors refer to as a process of “descriptive inference,” in a sense the process of identifying what is systematic and what is nonsystematic within a study.

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Figure 9.1. Difference in total number of answered questions dependent on whether the chosen group has a written scripture.

9.3. Thick Description Much of the feedback about the applicability or relevance of our questions and terminology (mentioned above) and the nonsystematic variances in the data come from experts’ deep understanding of the source material. The deep understanding that experts bring to the DRH necessitates an engagement with the work of Clifford Geertz and his theorizing about descriptive language, in particular his concept of “thick description.”31 To Geertz thick description is a way to tackle the multitude of competing and conflicting aspects of a culture that are ever present in the work of the ethnographer and anthropologist. This is what allows us to get closer to understanding the systematic and nonsystematic variances in the sources for our data. According to Geertz, the researcher should endeavor to describe their individual place in the analysis and their own process of observation. Boiled down to its most basic level, the concept of thick description is one of providing the maximum context to acts of observation. Geertz’s (1972) most prominent example is his ethnographic treatment of cockfighting in Bali. In this article he reports on the role that he and his wife played 31. The term was not first defined by Geertz, it originated in the work of Gilbert Ryle (1971, 494–510) and was first set out in a lecture entitled “The Thinking of Thoughts: What Is ‘Le Penseur’ Doing?” However, Geertz (1972; 1973, 3–30) in his work has offered one of the fullest explanations and examples of thick description in practice.

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in the village, the event that led them to become accepted by their informants, and then a lengthy and contextually rich description (“thick” if you will) of the practice of cock-fighting and the betting that goes along with it. Geertz’s work has been used as the premier example of qualitative description, often in opposition to “thin” or quantitative descriptions.32 If Geertz’s method is seen as one of the origins of true qualitative reporting, then it must run counter to the idea that culture, and in our case religion, can be quantified. In fact Geertz himself sets up the opposition in various ways in his own writing. He writes in his chapter on thick description that the process of creating the deeply contextual work of the anthropologist or ethnographer lies in opposition to simple quantitative results that lack the interpretative mark of the researcher.33 The comparison of thick versus thin is a powerful dichotomy that has affected all subsequent research. Later, in the same piece Geertz seems to argue for a positivist, formulaic method of analyzing culture, in a section that calls for a return to rigorous theoretical models to more closely ally anthropology with the hard sciences. He then interrupts this argument and reasserts that the actual data points, or boundaries of a formulable method are ephemeral and potentially never attainable.34 Yet, Geertz’s work on Balinese cockfighting often makes mention of quantifiable categories of culture and a desire to be able to count or record the intricacies of a particular interaction of large groups of people (beyond the observational skills of one researcher). For instance, while observing the process of betting prior to a start of a particular fight Geertz notes that the sheer chaotic nature of the calling and answering of bets around the ring of the upcoming fight are too much for a single observer to capture, and that only a true or effective observation would need to be made with a video camera and multiple observers.35 He admits that his own recording of the events is imprecise and incomplete and therefore “hard to cast in numerical form” (Geertz 1972, 14). In fact, much of Geertz’s work in Bali involved describing the intricate rules of 32. E.g., see the table (1.1) included in Hesse-Bier, Rodriguez, and Frost (2015, 5), which assigns thick description to the qualitative side and in opposition to (among other techniques) statistical measurement on the quantitative side. 33. “It is not against a body of uninterpreted data, radically thinned descriptions, that we must measure the cogency of our explications, but against the power of the scientific imagination to bring us into touch with the lives of strangers. It is not worth it, as Thoreau said, to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar” (Geertz 1973, 16). 34. “There is no reason why the conceptual structure of a cultural interpretation should be any less formulable, and thus less susceptible to explicit canons of appraisal, than that of, say, a biological observation or a physical experiment—no reason except that the terms in which such formulations can be cast are, if not wholly nonexistent, very nearly so” (Geertz 1973, 24). 35. “The precise dynamics of the movement of the betting is one of the most intriguing, most complicated, and, given the hectic conditions under which it occurs, most difficult to study, aspects of the fight. Motion picture recording plus multiple observers would probably be necessary to deal with it effectively” (Geertz 1972, n. 15).

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betting and their role in creating and sustaining social networks. By tallying (or quantifying) the odds for both the central bet of a match and all the outside bets occurring on the margins Geertz could map out the social networks on display.36 In sum, thick descriptions serve to fully articulate a series of social and cultural behaviors within a particular context. The observations that go into providing the researcher with their reported data are also contextually dependent on the researcher’s own background and biases. Nevertheless, through the process of thick description they are able to identify the key factors, that is, actions or behaviors, that contribute to a deeper understanding of a facet of culture. At its core, there is an element of quantification contained within thick descriptions: among other things Geertz was quantifying the different types of bets (including standard deviations, e.g., 1.38 and 1.65), although this quantification is situated in a contextually rich structure. 9.4. Conclusion The Database of Religious History is striving to intentionally couple both qualitative and quantitative research in an explicitly mixed methodology to both increase the accessibility of our data, for researchers from diverse fields, and also to enhance the cumulative knowledge of the history of religion. However, this attempt at mixed methods and in particular the difficult work of quantifying existing qualitative data must be done in the sphere of public scholarship so that the sources, methods, and results are open to discussion and revision. In sum, the conversion of qualitative data into quantitative data is an inclusive and reciprocal process. A thorough understanding of the context and origin of the qualitative data is necessary to ameliorate and document the conversion itself. Qualitative data itself is fundamental to determining how to quantify and what is worth quantifying in the first place. After all the tabulation is done, however, the data of the DRH can then be used to think about the history of religion. Here is where theories from contemporary religious studies scholars like Taves provide support for the approach adopted by the DRH. Taves’s work highlights a key advantage of the DRH in that it allows for comparison between entries on “stipulated point[s] of analogy,” a term borrowed from William Paden (2005, 1880). The questions that make up the polls are broken down in a way that makes them discrete objects on analysis, comparing entries on a question level distances the com-

36. There are many conclusions about social relations drawn from betting patterns, but here is just one example: “The people involved in the center bet are, especially in deep fights, virtually always leading members of their group—kingship, village, or whatever. Further, those who bet on the side (including these people) are, as I have already remarked, the more established members of the village—the solid citizens” (Geertz 1972, 21).

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parison from top-down generalized approaches. Following Taves (2011, 123), this involves the creation of a “set of things … temporarily constituted for the purposes of research by a stipulated point of analogy.” Scholars of religion can take discrete elements of the poll and use those as their set in order to construct a research program comparative in scope. Yet, in forming those research programs it is important to note that claims made about the past are not all equal; fundamentally historians interpret evidence in a variety of ways and reach conclusions about past events from a variety of forms of evidence, some more secure than others. Robert Chapman and Alison Wylie (2018, 41) in a recent book examining the process of knowledge formation within the discipline of archaeology make the following point: It is a mistake to assume that the insecurity and open-endedness of inferences about the symbolic significance of the ochre staining distinctive of the Red Lady of Paviland is characteristic of all the evidential claims that can be made about her—the inferences by which her skeletal remains were dated, her sex determined, and her stratigraphic association with ivory artefacts was established—just because they are all “theory-laden.” It is, likewise, a mistake to assume that symbolic interpretations lack credibility altogether and to declare investigation of these dimensions of the cultural past off-limits because inferences about them typically do not rise to the level of security that can be realized with respect to physical dating and biological analysis.

Chapman and Wylie are saying here that not all claims and inferences can be judged in the same manner. Not all evidential claims are based on inference, and not all inferences are based solely on a dearth of evidence. Both qualitative and quantitative methods can produce forms of knowledge about the past, and while they may arise from a different basis in the historical record, they are both crucial to understanding history. Despite our claim in the title of quantifying qualitative data, the DRH is really presenting an attempt to merge methods, a reciprocal relationship where both types of data improve the overall aims of the project. The quantified data serves as a base level standard collection mechanism on which the qualitative data rests. The comments and sources filled in by our experts offer more detail and specific nuances on the overall structure. The qualitative data plays a crucial role in the design and development of our questionnaires. A qualitative understanding of the nature of one aspect of the religious experience is what guides the original design of a poll. And, likewise, it is through the experts’ interaction with the questions in the poll that we are able to understand from their qualitative comments whether a given poll is representative of their cultural area under study. In addition, there is an element of the quantitative understanding of our polls that also guides future development; for instance, we can see which sections of the poll are difficult for experts to answer by the number of questions that have more than one answer.

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The tension that was indicated at the beginning of this chapter between numbers and history and the justified reluctance of the historian to wade into these troubled waters is very real. But throughout this chapter the methods and theoretical approaches of the Database of Religious History were laid out in order to chart the potential for a responsible way to convert qualitative data and into quantitative data.37 In fact, as was illustrated in the previous section on Geertz and thick description, very often the two forms of data are actually already in play when historians employ different methods to write their history.38 That the stark division between qualitative and quantitative research does not hold either in the past or in current scholarship indicates even more importantly that the ideas that we hold about how a particular field of knowledge is indebted to one type of method is deleterious to our understanding of crossdisciplinary work. Not all of science is considered with solely quantitative data, and likewise the humanities are not entirely qualitative. Every research method is a combination of the two, and the better we can accurately depict the complexity of our own research method the easier it is to share and build upon results.39 This point was already made nearly half a century ago by William Aydelotte (1971, 11) when he remarked that any large-scale history must be built on “cumulative knowledge,” which is impossible without a thorough understanding of sources and methods. Aydelotte’s vision of a cumulative knowledge is much more complex than simply adding sources together; it requires engaging with experts in the relevant fields in order to collect data in ways that are responsible to the contextual differences between periods and source traditions. The DRH aims to make this broad swath of data about the history of religion available to researchers from a variety of disciplines. By making the data accessible as both qualitative and quantitative data the DRH enables the fullest picture of the record to be told and tested through the process of writing history. References Asprem, Egil, and Ann Taves. 2018. “Explanation and the Study of Religion.” Pages 133– 57 in Method Today: Redescribing Approaches to the Study of Religion. Edited by Brad Stoddard. Sheffield: Equinox. 37. The notion of responsibility, but also academic authority, is particularly important when considering evidence from religious groups in the historical past. McCutcheon (2006, 727, n. 11) argues this point when countering the claim by Robert Orsi that all studies of religion must seek consent from their informants, an impossible task when confronting historical evidence. 38. Slingerland (2008) argues for a mixed method of scientific inquiry and humanistic concern, one that involves an appreciation of quantitative as well as qualitative data in sketching a fuller picture of the human experience. 39. For a similar perspective from psychology, where the replication crisis is causing an introspective turn, see the work of Muthukrishna and Heinrich (2019) in laying out a strong theoretical program in order to produce better results.

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Aydelotte, William. O. 1971. Quantification in History. Addison-Wesley Series in History. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Brinkmann, Svend, Michael Hviid Jacobsen, and Søren Kristiansen. 2015. “Historical Overview of Qualitative Research in the Social Sciences.” Pages 17–42 in The Oxford Handbook of Qualitative Research. Edited by Patricia Leavy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199811755.013.017. Chapman, Robert, and Alison Wylie. 2018. Evidential Reasoning in Archaeology. Debates in Archaeology. London: Bloomsbury. Christopher, Stephen. 2019. “Supreme Master Ching Hai World Society.” The Database of Religious History. https://doi.org/10.14288/1.0385823. Cleland, Carol E. 2001. “Historical Science, Experimental Science, and the Scientific Method.” Geology 29:987–90. Durkheim, Émile. 1995. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. Translated by Karen E. Fields. New York: Free Press. Finley, Moses I. 1999. The Ancient Economy. Updated with a new foreword by Ian Morris. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fitzgerald, Timothy. 1997. “A Critique of ‘Religion’ as a Cross-Cultural Category.” MTSR 9:91–110. Geertz, Clifford. 1972. “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight.” Daedalus 101:1–37. ———. 1973. The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic Books. Hesse-Biber, Sharlene Nagy, Deborah Rodriguez, and Nollaig A. Frost. 2015. “A Qualitatively Driven Approach to Multimethod and Mixed Methods Research.” Pages 3–20 in The Oxford Handbook of Multimethod and Mixed Methods Research Inquiry. Edited by Sharlene Nagy Hesse-Biber and R. Burke Johnson. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199933624.013.3. Inkpen, Rob, and Graham P. Wilson. 2009. “Explaining the Past: Abductive and Bayesian Reasoning.” The Holocene 19:329–34. https://doi.org/10.1177/0959683608100577. King, Gary, Robert O. Keohane, and Sidney Verba. 1994. Designing Social Inquiry: Scientific Inference in Qualitative Research. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Machinist, Peter. 1986. “On Self-Consciousness in Mesopotamia.” Pages 183–202 in The Origins and Diversity of Axial Age Civilization. Edited by S. N. Eisenstadt. SUNY Series in Near Eastern Studies. Albany: State University of New York Press. McCutcheon, Russell T. 2006. “‘It’s a Lie. There’s No Truth in It! It’s a Sin!’: On the Limits of the Humanistic Study of Religion and the Costs of Saving Others from Themselves.” JAAR 74:720–50. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfj090. ———. 2010. “Will Your Cognitive Anchor Hold in the Storms of Culture?” JAAR 78:1182– 93. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfq085. Michalowski, Piotr. 2005. “Mesopotamian Vistas on Axial Transformations.” Pages 157– 81 in Axial Civilizations and World History. Edited by Johann P. Árnason, Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, and Björn Wittrock. Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture 4. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789047405788_011. Mullins, Daniel Austin, Daniel Hoyer, Christina Collins, Thomas Currie, Kevin Feeney, Peter François, Patrick E. Savage, Harvey Whitehouse, and Peter Turchin. 2018. “A Systematic Assessment of ‘Axial Age’ Proposals Using Global Comparative Historical Evidence.” American Sociological Review 83:596–626. https://doi. org/10.1177/0003122418772567. Muthukrishna, Michael, and Joseph Henrich. 2019. “A Problem in Theory.” Nature Human Behaviour 3:221–29. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41562-018-0522-1.

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Paden, William. 2005. “Comparative Religion.” Pages 1877–81 in Encyclopedia of Religion. Edited by Lindsay Jones. 2nd ed. 15 vols. Detroit: Macmillan Reference. Ryle, Gilbert. 1971. Collected Papers. Vol. 2: Collected Essays 1929–1968. London: Hutchinson. Slingerland, Edward. 2008. “Who’s Afraid of Reductionism? The Study of Religion in the Age of Cognitive Science.” JAAR 76:375–411. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/ lfn004. Slingerland, Edward, et al. 2019. “Historians Respond to Whitehouse et al. (2019), ‘Complex Societies Precede Moralizing Gods Throughout World History.’” Journal of Cognitive Historiography 5:124–41. https://doi.org/10.1558/jch.39393. Slingerland, Edward, and Brenton Sullivan. 2017. “Durkheim with Data: The Database of Religious History.” JAAR 85:312–47. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfw012. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1982. Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sullivan, Brenton, Michael Muthukrishna, Frederick S. Tappenden, and Edward Slingerland. 2017. “Exploring the Challenges and Potentialities of the Database of Religious History for Cognitive Historiography.” Journal of Cognitive Historiography 3:12–31. https://doi.org/10.1558/jch.31656. Tappenden, Frederick S. 2017. “The Database of Religious History and the Study of Ancient Mediterranean Religiosity.” Journal of Cognitive Historiography 3:32–42. https://doi.org/10.1558/jch.34448. Taves, Ann. 2011. Religious Experience Reconsidered: A Building-Block Approach to the Study of Religion and Other Special Things. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Whitehouse, Harvey, et al. 2019. “A New Era in the Study of Global History Is Born but It Needs to Be Nurtured.” Journal of Cognitive Historiography 5:142–58. https:// doi.org/10.1558/jch.39422. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 2009. Philosophical Investigations. Translated by Gertrude E. M. Anscombe, Peter M. S. Hacker, and Joachim Schulte. 4th ed. Chichester: WileyBlackwell.

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The Reign of Janus: Signs, Data Science, and Image Worlds in Third-Century BCE Italy D. Padilla Peralta Setting up shop at the crossroads of religion and numismatics, this contribution examines the symbolic content of the Roman Republic’s earliest numismatic iconographies through a combination of quantitative and qualitative methods. Its main focus is on the iconography of the god Janus in the third century BCE, and on the communication strategies that can be detected in the choice and (re)use of this iconography across different coin issues, and, in fact, across multiple media. With Janus as the guide, this contribution works toward the recovery of those image worlds whose real and hyperreal properties were sharpened through semiotic exchange, appropriation, and conflict. Keywords: Roman Middle Republic, coinage, iconographies, Janus, semiotics, quantification

I

n one of the most remarkable chapters of The Conquest of America, Tzvetan Todorov (1984, 123) savors an aphorism of the early Renaissance Spanish grammarian Antonio de Nebrija: “Language has always been the companion of empire.” For Todorov, Nebrija’s insight is crucial to the clear-eyed assessment of those semiotic camps on which the conquista of Aztec and Maya Mesoamerica was waged: the bellicose communications through which the Spaniards asserted their mastery of signs in conjunction with their mastery of physical violence.1 Todorov held that semiotic domination was no mere epiphenomenon of conquest but was in fact integral to its realization, reinforcing and amplifying the devastation of guns and disease at the same time that it laid the groundwork for a new epistemic matrix. The war of signs was fundamental to the war over knowledge (Rabasa 2011), and to the consummation of those epistemicides through which the conquista would define the relationship of victors and vanquished in perpetuity (Sousa Santos 2014).2

1. This article first took flight before audiences at Princeton University, the University of Washington, and Aarhus University; I thank audiences at all three institutions and Aalborg’s Carsten Hjort Lange for a spirited response to the third version. For welcoming and critiquing this piece, I thank Sandra Blakely and Megan Daniels, as well as the anonymous referees. None of them should be held responsible for my sins. Not all parts of Todorov’s argument have aged well; see Restall 2003, ch. 5 for a direct response; Townsend 2019, chs. 4–5 for an account of the conquest that is better versed in Nahua annals and cultural semiotics. 2. See Padilla Peralta 2020b for the idea’s application to the Roman world.

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Despite its numerous limitations, Todorov’s work can be a resource for students of early Roman expansion. It is hardly surprising that in the standard accounts of Rome’s transformation from city-state to empire, military exploits—and the constitutional and political arrangements that set the stage for them, or followed quickly in their train—loom large, and justifiably so. After all, it was on the physical battlefield that the expanding state’s fortunes were made. However, with the aid of a data-oriented approach, I will make the case for the existence, visibility, and social power of that different battlefield envisioned by Todorov: a semiotic one, in which images were indexed to messages that circulated up and down peninsular Italy throughout the middle Republican period, and especially over the course of the third century during which Rome confronted first Pyrrhus and then Carthage. This chapter thus approaches from a new direction a phenomenon whose importance was flagged by J. R. Green (2012) in his study of South Italian comic vases, “the development of a figurative language” (I am quoting this article’s subtitle). The main claim I will put forward and seek to develop in these pages is that the semiotic battlefield was a religious one, defined by and populated with religious concepts and practices. My secondary claim will be that the contours and terms of engagement that were specific to this battlefield can be effectively recovered by quantitative and iconographic study of one medium (coinage) and one motif (the god Janus). In substantiation of these claims, I will selectively unpack the symbolic content of Rome’s early numismatic iconographies, mining them for information about the shifting image worlds of third-century Italy. The focus will be on what coins can be made to reveal about the religious-communicative strategies that were being developed and implemented by Rome and other Italian polities during this period. I say “can be made to reveal” because my interest is in recovering both the communications that were consciously perceived and intentionally contested and the communications whose social meanings extended past the horizon of conscious perceptions. The communications that were inscribed on and disseminated through numismatic iconography entered into a religious conversation at once real and hyperreal: real in cases where individual iconographies were capable of being read and understood in isolation from each other; hyperreal in cases where the iconographies as an ensemble operated above any one individual’s or community’s capacity to read and understand. In all cases, these communications formed part of that rapidly evolving and multimedial artistic koine whose fluency in the language of hellenization has been the subject of several recent treatments (Coarelli 2011; La Rocca 2021). In lieu of concentrating exclusively on one iconography and its interpretation, this chapter attempts to paint with a broad stroke, but without losing sight of specific iconographic motifs.3 The broad-stroke aspect of this contribution is 3. For case-studies of iconographic themes, see, e.g., Cellini 2007 on Tyche in Hellenistic coinage. Cf. Yarrow 2018b for a wide-ranging investigation of a specific motif’s longue durée reception.

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its reliance on quantification as a tool for recreating the trends that characterized the Italian peninsula’s third-century numismatic landscape. After balancing the quantitatively focused exposition of these trends with a more qualitatively flavored treatment of the god Janus’s place within them, I will turn my attention to a cultural phenomenon that is finally coming in for sustained scrutiny in midrepublican scholarship: multimediality (Hölkeskamp 2015), as exemplified by the ease with which iconographies glided across different material platforms during the third century. 10.1. The Reign of Janus In his 1967 doctoral dissertation, John North (1967, 10) drew attention to the peculiarity that, were we to judge midrepublican religious practice exclusively on the basis of numismatic testimony, the god Janus would seem to have enjoyed a far more prominent cultural role than the nonnumismatic evidence might lead us to believe.4 Although a fixture in prayer prefaces (Cato, Agr. 134 and 141 and Q. Fabius Maximus Servilianus, FRHist F3), Janus does not seem to have been among the gods honored in the lectisternium of 217 (Ennius Ann. 240–41) and does not leave a deep mark on early Latin literature.5 And to judge from the extant epigraphic evidence, he was not usually a recipient of dedications.6 On coins, however, Janus is overrepresented. Unfortunately, North did not press this insight further, and scholarship on the god has not capitalized on it. For decades, discussions of Janus have either quested after the holy grail of archaic Roman religion (Wissowa 1912, 91–100; Dumézil 1947, esp. 97–109, and now Haudry 2005) or else attached themselves to the Augustan-era evidence and its play with the god qua literary conceit, and most memorably its incarnation as the super-signifying divinity of Ovid’s Fasti.7 More recently the extent of Augustus’s intervention in the cult of Janus has come under scrutiny; the Janus most familiar to classicists and ancient historians as a god of beginnings (Varro ARD frags. 230–234; Cardauns 2001), with his name etymologically linked to ianua and Ianuarius (De Melo 2019: 930–32 on Varro Ling. 7.27–28), is largely an Augustan adaptation and

4. The god does not feature in Rome’s earliest literary interactions with the Greek pantheon and Greek theology, on which see Feeney 1991, 120–27. 5. Other references to prayer prefaces at Richard 1988, 394 n. 30 (cf. R. Martin 1988, 300 on Varro’s omission of the god from the roll call of agrarian divinities); see Pironti and Perfigli 2018, 93–95 on the god’s place in Roman “hierarchies of rite.” 6. Janus is absent from the dedications collected by Degrassi in ILLRP (nos. 10–308), and Imperial-era dedications are rare. 7. Synthesizing studies include Schilling 1960; Holland 1961; Taylor 2000; note Gagé 1966 for the god’s connection to the gens Fabia. For Janus the king, see Catulus FRHist 32 F 7 (and n. 66 below). For Ovid, in addition to Holland’s (1961) discussion, see Hardie (1991) and Myers (1994, ch. 3); other discussions of the god’s appearance in the Fasti are cited below. For Janus in the Principate, see Syme 1979 and 1989.

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enhancement of Varronian theology.8 What is still lacking, however, is a study of Janus in his third-century setting, and in the medium by which he first attained tangible material circulation. My hope for the next few pages is to demonstrate that the god’s appearance on coinage marks the convergence of ideological and religious discourses that were aired and channeled numismatically. Even when the god traveled across media and into other representational formats, he was primarily and indelibly associated with coinage. The argument of this section will be that the worship of the two-faced Janus was an important mediating force in relations between Romans and their allies on the one hand and Rome’s adversaries on the other. The god’s binding efficacy was realized largely through his circulation as an iconographic motif on Roman coinage, which enabled Janus to be touched and seen by Romans and non-Romans alike. For this reason, as we will see, the traffic in images of Janus corresponds to the divinity’s surge in cultural importance in the century that opened with the Battle of Sentinum and closed with the Battle of Zama. But in order to focus and sharpen these claims, it will be necessary first to contextualize the numismatic iconography of Janus against broader trends, and to this end I will lay out a simple but clarifying technique for taking a quantitative snapshot of them. The technique does rest on an a priori presumption about the efficacy of coins as a medium for symbolic communication, a subject on which there is no firm consensus; although the iconographic content of early Roman coins was interpreted by Romans of later periods, skepticism about the range and comprehensibility of numismatic messaging has been raised.9 I limit myself here to asserting, first, that coin iconographies were frequently chosen with ideological agendas in mind, and that these agendas could be read, not always successfully but often with a measure of competent understanding, by those who handled the coins;10 and second, that coinage’s wielding of first-order monetary functions did not marginalize the secondary symbolic functions whose “orders of signification … no less real than the first” relied on multiplication and iteration to get their point(s) across (Yarrow 2013). Coins were good not only to transact in but to think with, in large part because they signified and embodied a complex of thought that could be replicated materially.11

8. For the god’s integration into Augustan time patterns and time maps, see the helpful chart at Flower 2017, 360; note also Roller 2009 and n. 34 below on the restoration of C. Duilius’s temple to Janus by the first princeps. 9. See Fenestella FRHist F6 (= Plut. Mor. 274F–275A) with commentary ad loc.; Krmnicek and Elkins (2014, 8) note two other instances of the (mis)interpretation of coin designs. For skepticism, see Crawford 1983, against which see the more guardedly optimistic takes of Ehrhardt (1984) and Levick (1999); see Kemmers 2019, ch. 4 for the latest synthesis. For a theoretically subtle treatment of numismatic iconography’s power, see Daniels 2017. 10. The elite self-credentializing that takes off in late-republican coinage (Hölscher 1982 and 2014; note also Farney 2007, chs. 2.2 and 3.2) is otherwise inexplicable. 11. I am paraphrasing a guiding premise of Kurke (1999). My approach differs from hers in

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Rome’s Janus issues are best understood by reference to the iconographically rich discursive environment of Italic coinages within which the Janus types circulated. Third-century Italy was home to a highly eclectic variety of local and regional coinages whose iconographic types have regularly been interpreted in relation to the peninsula’s shifting political and religious orientations under the double pressures of hellenization and the Roman conquest.12 But the dispersal of information about these issues across an ever-expanding number of publications has made systematic analysis and interpretation of general iconographic trends difficult. One straightforward, though by no means uncomplicated, method for surveying and assessing these trends is to quantify the appearance of distinctive types in the numismatic landscape. By generating data from the corpus of extant or attested Italic coin issues, we can create approximations of the image worlds and iconoscapes within which iconographic choices were made and the ideals that were associated with these choices disseminated.13 These iconographies were embedded within a system of broadly understood visual referents to civic and political status, piety, war, agriculture, and commerce/trade. What quantification enables is a sense, however impressionistic, of the volume of particular iconographies in relation to each other.14 To reconstruct the numismatic image world of third-century Romans and their peninsular counterparts, I have looked at the sixty-nine Italian hoards that are securely dated to the period 300–212 BCE. These contain 3,660 Roman and 3,188 non-Roman coins.15 I went through the published contents of the hoards, tabulated the appearance of iconographic types, and sorted the types into a number of categories: gods and heroes; animals; ornamental/religious

centering coinage not as metallic metaphor for civic relations, but as a visual platform for civic and extracivic communication. 12. See Burnett 1986 on the hellenizing iconography of early Roman coinage; Borba Florenzano 2005 on the religious messaging of select Sicilian types. For numismatic trends in third-century Italy, see Rutter et al. 2001, 7–9, with the reminder that “the relationship between the various coinages and events known from literary sources remains at many points very uncertain”; see too Burnett 2012, 297–99. Renewed interest in iconographic trends and their bearing on historical episodes has propelled the Lexicon Iconographicum Numismaticae project, which has published several volumes to date; see, e.g., Caccano Caltabiano, Castrizio, and Puglisi 2004; Pera 2012. 13. I borrow these terms from Poole (1997, 7), defining an “image world” as “a combination of … relationships of referral and exchange among images themselves, and the social and discursive relations connecting image-makers and consumers.” 14. The rich, if by now slightly dated, literature about divine iconographies on republican coinage (bibliography, see Zehnacker 1973, 2.1167–70; to which add Clark 2007 on divine qualities) is short on quantification. For the empire cf. Noreña 2011; with Hölscher 2014, 25 for comment on the direction of communication. 15. As published in Crawford 1969. New hoards have been published since Crawford put together his hoard-list, but their inclusion does not alter the distribution of the top iconographic motifs I provide below. I stop at 212 because the dating of hoards between 211 and 200 is complicated by Rome’s switch to the denarius system.

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a

b Figure 10.1a–d. Iconographies on Italian coinages, 300–212 BCE.

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decorations; and military emblems (fig. 10.1a–d).16 While Apollo leads the way among gods depicted on Italic coinage, the bull stands at the head of the animal pack, the thunderbolt darts out from the ornamental and religious grab bag, and the prow sails ahead of all other markers of military prowess. Each of these leading motifs outpaces its competition by a considerable margin: in every category, the leader appears at least twice as often as the runners-up. Merely taking inventory of the winners does not get us very far—and it should be borne in mind that quantifying numismatic trends in this way masks the difference between the iconographic inventiveness and variety of early Roman coinage and the more restricted motif ensembles of non-Roman coinages (see Burnett 1986). One obvious follow-up question is why the Apollobull-thunderbolt-prow grouping enjoys the prominence that it does. While no third-century source directly explicates these iconographies or their significance, we have enough literary and textual material from other Hellenistic and later Roman sources to contextualize the Apollo-bull-thunderbolt-prow group. Apollo’s importance to the cultural, political, and artistic enterprises of the Hellenistic Mediterranean needs little comment. The bull (or more precisely the bull-calf, the vitulus) was linked to a well-known aetiology for the name Italia that was already in circulation by the late fifth century, if not before. The thunderbolt enjoyed a double life as marker of divine power on the one hand and as index of the military success secured through divine power on the other. Finally, the prow came to denote not only naval warfare but—as spoil of war embedded in commemorative structures—success in naval warfare.17 As much as the winning motifs themselves, however, the diversity and variety of motifs are striking. This was a densely populated iconographic environment, with eighty-one distinct types capable of being mixed and matched in an assortment of ways. Although each of these motifs has a cultural and political story waiting to be told, I wish next to take up for more detailed study one that, while not leading the pack, does rather well for itself in the numismatic long run: the Janus 16. I did not track types in pairs, and I did not differentiate between obverse and reverse types; I also excluded visual motifs that were employed only as control-marks. I collected data on human heads (royal/dynastic, such as Hieron II of Syracuse) and implement/tool motifs; these were too infrequent to merit inclusion in fig. 10.1. 17. For Apollo in Italy and the Roman colonial program, see Carini 2009; cf. CompatangeloSoussignan 2012. For the bullock and Italia, see Hellanicus of Lesbos FGH 4 F 111 (= Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.35); see Evans 1996 on the bull in republican and imperial Roman coinages. Another animal of consequence is the pig: for its pairing with the elephant on RRC 9/1 see now Yarrow 2021. For the thunderbolt in Etruscan iconography and religion, see Turfa 2012; for the hellenizing semiotics of the eagle-on-thunderbolt, see Rowan 2016, 37. For the prow as signifier of naval success, see Kondratieff 2004 and Biggs 2017; for Roman state management of prow production, see Prag 2012; cf. Ambrosini 2010 on ceramic prows. For prow types among the silver tetradrachms and staters of Demetrius Poliorcetes at the end of the fourth and beginning of the third century, see Mørkholm 1991, nos. 162–165; Zehnacker 1973, 1.273–75.

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or Janiform motif. The aim in what follows is to demonstrate how one might go about telling the story of an iconographic type as a means of reconstituting not only the image world of third-century coins, but that image world’s keen attention to religious concepts and practices. Any discussion of the motif needs to be prefaced with contextualization of the god himself. Janus has posed problems, for ancients as well as moderns, because he is not an easy divinity to historicize. In recent years, studies of the mytho-historical structures of the republic have focused on the significance of paired contrasts and oppositions: patricians/plebeians, kingship/republic, Castor/Pollux, Romulus/Remus.18 That pairs are at the center of the scholarly action now, after a previous generation of scholars indebted to Georges Dumézil had fixated on triplets, deserves its own chapter in the history of Roman scholarship. Whether one is fond of pairs or triplets, Janus is a misfit: he belongs to no triadic grouping and is not (usually) paired with another god, yet he embodies a pair. But that embodiment is part of what afforded the god a distinctive semiotic flexibility, on full display in his numismatic appearances. The decisive step in this regard was the adaptation of bifrontal imagery as the primary visual language for his figural representation. Popularized in the Greek Mediterranean during the fifth and fourth centuries, bifrontality as a figural idiom became prominent in Italian image worlds with the popularization of bifrontal Janus during the third century, mainly on coinage.19 And it was through the mediation of currency that this form and the god himself morphed into an ideological currency. Heralded in the first appearances of the god on cast bronzes in the early decades of the third century, this metamorphosis accelerates with RRC 28/1 and 29/1 (fig. 10.2), Roman gold staters that were minted in the years 225–214 and circulated alongside quadrigati gold and silver issues from the same period (e.g., RRC 28/3, 28/4, 29/3, 29/4, 30/1).20 These gold staters sport a Janiform head on the obverse and, on the reverse, an oath-taking scene whose exact ritual referent has resisted easy identification. In an acute account of coniuratio on coins and gems, Jochen Bleicken (1963) proposed that this scene be interpreted 18. Note in this context Momigliano’s (1980, 461) remark that his model of archaic Roman society sought to show how “no contrasted pair of status-categories coincided completely with another.” 19. See, e.g., the fifth-century bifrontal Attic kantharos now in the possession of the Princeton University Art Museum (accession y1933-45; cf. the bifrontal vase in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s collections: #06.1021.204); or the fourth-century bifrontal rhyton made of silver with ibex handles in the George Ortiz Collection; Vickers, Impey, and Allan 1986, pl. 22. But exemplars of bifrontality range as far back as the Bronze Age; see Pettazoni 1956. Bifrontality flourishes as a figural idiom well into the empire; see, e.g., the early-imperial bifrontal herm dedicated to Diana at the lucus Nemorensis (CIL 14.4185 = Supplementa Italica Imagines 2005, no. 133); note Molinari 2014, 91 for a possible connection between two herms on the Pons Fabricius parapet and Janus. 20. For the early third century, see RRC 14/1 with Jaia and Molinari 2011; and Molinari 2014. For the metallic content and production of Rome’s early cast bronzes, see now Westner, Kemmers, and Klein 2020.

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Figure 10.2. RRC 29/1. Image compliments of American Numismatic Society.

as a uoluntarium foedus between soldiers sealed by the sacrifice of a pig, but Michael Crawford (1974) has objected on the grounds that there is no evidence for the conclusion of such foedera with a pig sacrifice. Whatever the case may be, this image of oath-swearing seems to have been intended at least in part to communicate Rome’s fides to its allies, steadfast as well as wavering. The scene reappeared on Roman coinage at another critical juncture for the alliance system, and the motif was subsequently co-opted during the Social War by the Marsic Federation (Bleicken 1963).21 Additionally, a version of this scene is engraved on a signet ring intaglio that has been dated to the third or second century.22 In general terms, this iconographic accent on oaths and vows is not surprising in light of Rome’s self-fashioning throughout the era of its most dramatic expansion as a polity uniquely preoccupied with fides, the best exemplification of which is the famous Pyrrhic-era Locriate issue on which the goddess Roma is crowned by ΠΙΣΤΙΣ (SNG 3.531; fig. 10.3).23 And Locri Epizephyrii was not the only ally to declare its loyalty to Rome through its choice of coinage iconography (see Roselaar 2019, 143–44). The specific contribution of Rome’s gold stater to a long-running discourse about oaths and trust comes into even clearer focus when we consider the Janiform type on the obverse. This type surfaces on contemporary coin issues 21. For the “oath-taking scene” as a “call to loyalty addressed to Rome’s allies,” see Thomsen 1957–1961, 2.285; Crawford, RRC 2.715; cf. Coarelli 2013, ch. 4; note also Tondo 1963 and Hinard 1993 on the institution of the sacramentum; for the argument that the scene on these coins is mythological in nature, see Koortbojian 2002, 44–45. For the reappearance, see the reverse of RRC 234/1, associated by Crawford with the Numantine foedus negotiated by Ti. Sempronius Gracchus; Stannard (2005, 58–60) downdates RRC 234/1 to Gaius Gracchus’s tribunate and to intensifying debates about migration to Rome in the 120s, but see, contra, Molinari 2016, 84–85. For the Marsic types, see Crawford 1985, fig. 68; Sydenham no. 621. 22. Furtwängler 1896, no. 1135 = Kunsthistorisches Museum IX.B.899. For discussion of intaglios with specific reference to this iconographic overlap see Yarrow 2018a. Gems are an underexploited resource for midrepublican cultural history; see Torelli 1997 for a sense of the possibilities and n. 42 below on one gem in particular. 23. For pistis and Roman fides, see Gruen 1982; Hölkeskamp 2000.

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Figure 10.3. ΠΙΣΤΙΣ and personified Roma, silver stater, Lokri Epizephyrii. Image compliments of American Numismatic Society.

minted by Roman allies, such as the cast bronze issues from the Etruscan citystate of Volaterrae whose obverses display a Janiform head topped off with a petasos, with a club encircled by the legend Velathri on the reverses (fig. 10.4).24 By the time of the Second Punic War, Volaterrae, which had been incorporated into Rome’s sphere of subjection after 298, was a civitas foederata contributing to the Roman war-effort.25 Volaterrae’s services became especially important to Rome in the aftermath of Hannibal’s invasion of the Italian peninsula. Well before the Carthaginian threat to the alliance system, however, Roman relations with the Etruscan city-states were under pressure. In the decade prior to the Second Punic War, the republic took on and defeated the Gallic onslaught in northern Italy that had been provoked by Rome’s viritane partitioning of the ager Gallicus. Extraordinary military and religious measures are attested for this period, most notoriously of all the first documented instance of human live burial at Rome.26 These religious measures were contemporaneous with an ideological-iconographic program that was structured around Jupiter and Victoria, as documented on the silver quadrigati from this period whose obverses reproduce the Dioscuri in Janiform guise (e.g., RRC 28/3; fig. 10.5; Feeney 1991,

24. For bibliography, see Krauskopf in LIMC, s.v. “Culsans,” Katalog A(3); see (2) and (4) for similar issues—HN3 Italy, 108 and 110, varying the iconography on the reverse—that date to either the third or first half of the second century. 25. For Volaterrae’s history, see Terrenato 1998, 94–95. For its coin issues, see Catalli 1971 (note fig. 2 there). 26. For human sacrifice in 228, see Plut. Marc. 3.3–4, with other sources gathered by Várhelyi 2007, 278 n. 2; Padilla Peralta 2008, 83; Ndiaye 2000. MacBain (1982, 60–65) argues that the live burials of 228 (which he prefers to date to 225) were originally an Etruscan practice. For the discourse surrounding these and other episodes of human sacrifice at Rome, see Schultz 2010, 531–34.

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Figure 10.4. Cast semis, Volaterrae, ca. 230 BCE. Image from Crawford 1985, fig. 12.

119; cf. Le Gentilhomme 1934, 22).27 In fact, the Janiform head on the gold stater obverses seems so closely modeled on Dioscuri heads on the quadrigati and on other non-Roman Italian coin issues that Crawford has insisted on reading this head as a representation of the twins, linked in Roman legend to the victory at Lake Regillus in or around 498 that secured a victory for the fledgling republic, compelled the previously belligerent Latin League to accept the terms of the foedus Cassianum, and resulted in the erection of a temple to their worship in the Forum.28 The quadrigati heads are also notable in lacking beards but featuring side-whiskers, a choice of facial hair reminiscent both of Rome’s Mars/ horse-head didrachms and of Alexander the Great’s numismatic iconography (Burnett 1986, 72–73).29 The Janiform gold staters harnessed myth and cult to reassert the simple but powerful proposition that the Roman alliance would prevail with the support of the same horse-riding gods who had come to its aid on a previous occasion of threats to Rome’s domination over its central Italian rivals-turnedallies. In this respect, then, the coinage’s semiotics worked to persuade those

27. Victoria’s cult on the Palatine may have involved a foundational act of human sacrifice, at a crucial moment in the 290s that shares some parallels with events in the 220s; see Wiseman 1995, 118–25 for the grave discovered in the temple’s precinct; Padilla Peralta 2008, 50–52 for an attempt to tease out the implications. Coarelli’s (2013) redating of the silver quadrigatus to the 260s cannot stand, for the reasons laid out in Bernard 2017; note also the comments at Molinari 2014, 89 n. 1. 28. For the twins as tutelary gods of the cavalry-riding nobility, see Sordi 1972; cf. Schilling 1960, 109–10 on Janus Curiatius, the curiae, and military enrollment in archaic and early republican Rome. For the cult of the twins in Latium, see CIL 12.4.2833, conventionally dated to the sixth or early fifth century. For Lake Regillus as a pilgrimage site, see Cic. Nat. D. 3.5.11, with Padilla Peralta 2020a, ch. 5 on republican pilgrimage. For the republican phases of the temple in the Forum, see Nielsen and Poulsen 1992. For the Dioscuri iconography on the first generation of denarii, see Hollstein 2008. 29. For similar facial hair appears on the coinage of Pyrrhus, see the bronze half-litra (Hirsch Collection 1190) reproduced in Borba Florenzano 1992, 211.

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Figure 10.5. Roman silver quadrigatus, 225–212 BCE. Image compliments of American Numismatic Society.

who handled the coins not so much of the present merits of remaining in alliance, but of the weight of the past.30 Except that the past was never past: it was also the future; and for that communication, the two-faced god was the perfect messenger. The god Janus as represented on these staters exerted communicative force through visual affinity with the Dioscuri and stood as a mediating icon in his own right, as a talisman for prediction and futurity. These discursive elements of the iconography are differentiable under two headings—the thirdcentury itinerary of Janus within the Roman religious imagination on the one hand, and the relationship of that itinerary to trends in Rome’s Etruscanization on the other—and draw additional vigor from the iconographic distinction between the nonbearded Janus and his bearded counterpart. Appearing on the first aes grave of 280–260 BCE, the nonbearded Janus who shared affinities with Etruscan Culsans (see n. 40 below) and (possibly) the Janus quadrifons captured from Falerii was a terrestrial figure (see Molinari 2014, 90–91; and Padilla Peralta 2018, 291 n. 95 for references and discussion). As for the bearded god whose close association with Portunus betokened Rome’s surging interest in maritime matters, the vowing and dedicating of a temple to Janus near the Forum Holitorium by the naval triumphator Gaius Duilius during the First Punic War marked a decisive turning-point.31 Erected in one of the most frequented areas of the midrepublican city, this temple offered a visible 30. Meadows and Williams (2001, 49) make this point with reference to second- and first-century coinages; there is no reason why it should not also apply to their third-century predecessors. 31. The timing of this vow emboldened Palmer (1997, 57–60) to argue that Janus was in fact a Punic god, or represented a Roman takeover of a Punic cult. But the evidence of Janus’s ties to North Africa is meager and late, even if the evidence for Roman-Carthaginian religious exchange is strong; see García-Bellido 1989.

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reminder of Roman piety, and the relevance of that piety to Rome’s military attainments, to those out-of-towners coming into the city for commercial and religious reasons.32 Duilius’s structure, possibly commemorated in an as issue from the period of the First Punic War with a Janiform head on the obverse (RRC 25/4), complemented the main temple of Janus in the Forum at a time when the notion of the god as protector of the Roman state and overseer of “the initiation and prosecution of war” (Taylor 2000) was steadily gaining traction.33 Founded according to legend by Rome’s second king, the temple of Janus whose gates were opened in war and closed in peace comes into historical focus during this period, with its second (brief) closure credited to the consulship of one of the Manlii Torquati who held office after the First Punic War.34 Beginning with the minting of RRC 35/1 (fig. 10.6), which had been in circulation for approximately a decade by the beginning of the Second Punic War, the bearded Janiform obverse and prow reverse type became a staple of the as coinage.35 This choice of Janus as the signature motif on the set of coins that was most likely to circulate widely—among Romans and neighboring non-Romans, nonelites and elites—ramped up the Roman state’s projection of a theology of victory.36 The Janus-Castor-Pollux complex, centered as it was on sibling gods who were patron gods of seafaring, reflected and amplified Rome’s emergent sense of itself as a sea power and its commitment to and increasing sophistication at projecting power across the waters. At the same time, the god occupied space within the ideological complex that justified Roman military action, and not only because the opening and closing of his temple’s doors signaled the initiation or termination of military hostilities.37 The aforementioned visual slippage between the unbearded Janiform 32. For further on the signaling effects of this temple, see Padilla Peralta 2020a, ch. 3. 33. For naval success on the aes signatum issues from this era, see Crawford, RRC 2.718 with n. 2 on RRC 12/1; Lévêque 1980, 6. 34. Varr. Ling. 5.165 assigns the closure to the consular year of T. Manlius Torquatus (235), but as his brother A. Manlius Torquatus held the consulship in 241 the latter is probably meant: the number of brothers in high magistracies for this period seems to have caused confusion in the later annalistic tradition; see the commentary on L. Calpurnius Piso FRHist F 11 and Padilla Peralta 2018, 294–95. For the literary and cultural significance of Janus’s gates, see DeBrohun 2007; Augustus, RG 13 with Cornwell 2017, ch. 3. For the temple, see Tortorici in LTUR 3.92–93, s.v. “Ianus Geminus, aedes.” 35. Only the larger denomination (as, semissis, and triens) prow-types feature Janus; the obverses on the quadrans, sextans, and uncia issues are decorated with heads of Hercules, Mercury, and Dea Roma respectively; Calciati 1978, Tav. 1; exposition of RRC 35 in Crawford RRC. This iconographic stability for the bronze as “insistait ainsi sur la continuité de l’experience monétaire romaine” (Suspène 2020, 44). 36. Note Crawford, RRC 2.627 table 49 for the number of known specimens of RRC 35/1. For Ovid’s allusion to this type at Fast. 1.229–230, see Hollstein 2011; Suspène 2020, 44; cf. Calciati 1978 for a detailed study. 37. Molinari (2014, 90) follows Le Gentilhomme in seeing the Janus type on the quadrigatus and sublibral as as a reference to the celebration of the closing of the temple’s doors (see n. 34 above).

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Figure 10.6. RRC 35/1, bronze as 225–217 BCE. Image compliments of American Numismatic Society.

and the heads of Castor and Pollux contributed to the promotion of the idea that dissension within or attempted defection from Rome’s alliance network was tantamount to impiety.38 That numismatic iconography could be successful at conjuring this specific dimension of fides Romana is perhaps best borne out by the appearance of an enemy counterdiscourse, about which I will have more to say in a moment. The second aspect of Janus the mediator moves to the foreground in connection with a process of religious Etruscanization whose impact is evident in other aspects of midrepublican culture.39 Earlier I commented on the echo of the Roman Janiform on the cast bronze dupondius from Volaterrae. But this claim contained an embedded assumption: that the dupondius from Volaterrae echoes an (implied as chronologically antecedent) Roman Janiform. With contemporaneous representations of the Etruscan god Culsans from the third and early second centuries all depicting him as bifrontal, however, it is not easy to determine which of Latium or Etruria first imagined a bifrontal divinity.40 To insist that the iconography of Janus was simply lifted from that of Culsans or vice versa would be poor method; it is more productive instead to appreciate how the iconographies of the two gods interacted with and structured each other’s social and intercultural legibility. Janus in the eyes of some, Culsans in

38. For the Janus-prow type and “les nouvelles prétentions de Rome qui, de puissance terrestre et côtière, cherche à devenir … une grande puissance maritime,” see Zehnacker 1973, 1.275. For Rome’s nascent naval power in the third century, see Bragg 2010; cf. Leigh 2010 for that projection’s bearing on the emergence of Latin literature. 39. For comment on and bibliography for this process, see Padilla Peralta 2018. Etruscan religion is overdue for a theory-informed intervention; see Smith 2019 for pointers. 40. See Pettazoni 1956, 85–88; the Katalog ad Krauskopf in LIMC, s.v. “Culsans”; and the discussion in Molinari 2014. For skepticism regarding the identification of some of these Katalog items with Culsans, see Comella 2005, 48–50; cf. Di Fazio 2021: 71 on “cases of iconographic ambiguity” in LIMC.

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the eyes of others: the popularization of the bifrontal divinity unfolded within the cultural and religious traffic that took place between Rome and Etruria throughout this period. One might even plausibly relate the two-faced icon to the discourses of the “head,” and the competition between Roman and Etruscan claims to culturally and religiously sanctioned precedence that these discourses—whose origins are traceable to the archaic and early Republican periods— enacted.41 The bifrontal head characteristic of both Janus and Culsans expressed in visual form the “double identity” at the center of Etrusco-Roman relations; particularly for midrepublican Roman elites with connections to Etruria, this bifurcation of identity was no trivial matter. Crucially, the motif encompassed not only coins but gems and terracottas, exemplifying the multimedia versatility and plasticity that I will revisit at chapter’s end.42 How can we know for sure that the Janiform motif had this communicative content, and that the messages teased out in the preceding paragraphs found a receptive audience among those who handled the coinages? We do not have explicit literary testimony as to how this specific numismatic motif was viewed and read in the third century. Nonetheless, a number of non-Roman coin issues offer indirect evidence for the degree to which the Janiform came to be understood as a signifier of Roman identity politics, both during and after the Second Punic War. In the war’s immediate aftermath, the minting of a series of Agrigentine bronze litrae that bore the Janiform and hewed closely to the style of the Roman as coinage illustrates how the motif was incorporated into local Sicilian numismatic practice following Akragas’s forcible reincorporation into the Roman state (fig. 10.7). The Agrigentine Janiform coins document a community’s response to and engagement with Roman power in the aftermath of conquest, and for this reason alone the issues offer a tempting opportunity for exploring the visual-discursive operations of Romanization. Interpreted in this light, the use of the Janiform falls in line with Sicilian identity discourses on other island coinages from the third and second centuries.43 Janus’s legibility as an emblem of Roman power would extend further afield over the course of the second century. In the aftermath of the Battle of Pydna and Rome’s conquest of Macedonia, coin issues with variations on the Janiform appeared in the Balkans, in another attestation of the type’s importance to the various “ways

41. See, e.g., the glossing of Capitolium as Caput Oli and the aetiological narratives that emerged around the shadowy figure of the mythical Olus: Varro Ling. 5.41–42 and Livy 1.55.5–6, with Neel 2019, 123 n. 149 for a full list of other primary sources. For the place of Janus in the evocatio of gods from Etruscan city-states to Rome, see H. G. Martin 1987, 52. 42. See Molinari 2014, 91 for the suggestion that a corniola at the British Museum features a representation of the Janus statue looted from Falerii. 43. For presentation, dating, and discussion of the Agrigentine litrae, see Frey-Kupper 1992; the Janiform issues are nos. 1–22 and 24–25 in her catalog. For Sicilian coinages as sites for the arbitration of local identity claims, see Prag 2014, 37–40.

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Figure 10.7. Bronze litra, Agrigentum, first half of second century BCE. Obverse drawn after Frey-Kupper 1992, Taf. 19.1.

in which Roman Republican imperium was presented or negotiated” (Rowan 2016, 24) throughout the empire’s overseas holdings.44 But the most charged and suggestive instance of the Janiform motif’s appropriation occurred during the Second Punic War itself, and it involved Rome’s chief adversary. It is Carthage’s manipulation of the Janiform that sheds the most light on how the Janiform was received and read. Carthaginian tweaks to the motif redirected its ideological thrust, minimizing and mocking the messaging of Roman-allied solidarity that was encoded in Rome’s issues. These tweaks are on full display in the first group of Carthaginian types minted primarily for use in Italy, the electrum three-eighths shekels that were struck in the area of Bruttium or Apulia sometime after Cannae (fig. 10.8).45 On these issues, a female Janiform with corn-ears appears on the obverse, and Jupiter with quadriga on the reverse. The selection of the quadriga as a motif is undeniably a response to the Roman silver quadrigati that, by the time of the Carthaginian issue, had been circulating throughout the Italian peninsula for a decade. By co-opting the motif that affirmed Jupiter’s support for Roman military success, the shekels emphatically declared an opinion as to whose side the Roman Jupiter was in fact taking. This numismatically mediated exchange becomes all the more poignant in light of Livy’s report that ransoms for the Romans captured at Cannae were negotiated in quadrigati: the coinage through which Romans trumpeted their claim to divinely assisted victory became the currency of their surrender.46 No 44. For the Janiform on bronze issues from Amphipolis and Thessalonica and on Geto-Dacian coinages, see Mitrea 1981. 45. Full bibliography on these issues at Rutter et al. 2001, 161. For what follows I rely mainly on Visonà 2009, esp. 175–76. Crawford (2002) locates the mint in Bruttium/Apulia. 46. The ransoms: Livy 22.52.3 (pacti ut arma atque equos traderent, in capita Romana trecenis nummis quadrigatis, in socios ducenis, in seruos centenis) and 22.58.4 (itaque redimendi se captiuis

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Figure 10.8. Carthaginian shekel, Campania, ca. 216 BCE. Image courtesy of American Numismatic Society.

less important in the ideological weaponizing of these shekels was the female Janiform on the obverse.47 This image will have been intended for circulation among and appreciation by Rome’s south Italian allies, several of which defected from the alliance after Cannae. If Carthaginian appropriation of the Janiform proceeded from the recognition that the type acted as a signifier of Roman power, the deployment of the motif on shekels was an unmistakable assertion that Carthage, not Rome, was in control.48 Seeking to displace Roman messaging, Punic modifications to the Janiform conveyed a new and distinctive ideological program of alliance. While the female heads on the Janiform call to mind the Tanit/Demeter iconography specific to Punic coinage, the corn-ears reference a numismatic motif that had long been associated with the Greek city-states of southern Italy.49 Taken together, the types on the obverse and reverse encode a proposal for the creation of a new Italian order in which Hannibal’s Carthage, in its guise as a hellenized city-state under the protection of Tanit/Demeter, would stand at the head of an alliance embracing those areas of Magna Graecia that had previously chafed under Roman rule.50 copiam facere; pretium fore in capita equiti quingenos quadrigatos nummos, trecenos pediti, seruo centenos). 47. Female Janiforms on coinage were rare; one of Demeter appears on a Syracusan silver denomination ca. 340 (SNG ANS 5.518 with Borba Florenzano 2005, 18); there is no evidence that any exemplars of this issue were in circulation at the time that the Carthaginian shekels were struck. 48. Romans were hardly unfamiliar with this semiotic game; see Frey-Kupper 2006, 35–36 on the First Punic War bronze issue that circulated in Sicily with a head of Minerva/head of horse iconography that was modeled on the Punic head of Tanit/head of horse. 49. This iconography circulated in shekel form throughout southern Italy during the Second Punic War; see, e.g., the obverses of HN3 Italy 2014–17. 50. Cf. the Hannibalic bronzes with head of Apollo on obverse and a horse/female head (Demeter? Hera?) and horse on reverse, with Visonà (2009, 177) on the intended messaging: “that the Carthaginians honored the same deities worshiped by the different ethnicities of Magna Graecia.” How, if at all, Hannibal’s looting of Italic sanctuaries fits into this picture is difficult to gauge; see the remarks of Lacam (2010, 25).

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Carthaginian adeptness at this kind of ideological warfare is familiar from other contexts. Richard Miles (2010, 241–55) has documented how the Carthaginian state, through the mediation of Greek intellectual interlocutors, assembled and put to effective use a “propaganda machine” that troped Hannibal as a second Heracles (see Miles 2011 for a concise exposition). The perceived as well as actual success of this machine likely accounts for the decision of one of the Roman senators most involved in maintaining a rapport with the Greek world to write his pioneering history of the Roman state in Greek, with one of its opening episodes recapitulating the myth of Heracles’s arrival in Italy (see Fabius Pictor frag. 1 Chassignet = FRHist 1 T7). In the Mediterranean world of the late third century, the Carthaginian adoption of the Janiform represented a meaningful escalation of the symbolic-ideological war that was waged for the minds and hearts of those Italians who were caught between two superpowers. The Janiform’s adoption was, of course, far from being the only instance of explicit numismatic discourse during this period. After the finalization of the pact between Hannibal and Philip V of Macedon, the Brettian League that supported Hannibal struck coins with a Zeus modeled on the Macedonian Poseidon on their reverse (see HN3 Italy 1969; with Günther 2008). Rome did have one solution up its sleeve: as part of the denarius reform of 212 or 211, the republic pursued “an aggressive policy of taking all previous silver out of circulation” (Burnett 2012, 308), less from economic motivations than by the desire to impose order on those ideological communications that were transacted through the exchange of coins (see also Burnett 2000, 102; and the comments of Rowan 2016, 29). But by the time Roman moneyers appropriated Punic iconographies for their own use, the Second Punic War was a distant memory.51 At this stage in the argument, what is needed is more concrete evidence that the Janiform motif reflected and embodied a set of religious attachments and practices that were taken as seriously as the fighting on the battlefield. The risk in any exposition of this kind is that the signs and symbols in play come off as purely ludic, or as commodities trafficked in a semiotic game that was more or less disconnected from the actual outcomes of war itself. After all, it is not a given that the appearance of a divinity on coin issues automatically translated to a high degree of prominence in the cultic life of the polity; evidence from other corners of the Mediterranean confirms that this was not invariably the case.52 But attention was devoted to a Janus-centered semiotics for communicating Rome’s sacred commitments precisely because it was an effective visual language for signaling the amplification of these commitments. Nowhere is that escalation more tangible than in the multiplication of religious signs across media platforms. 51. For the Punic iconographic ensemble of M. Plaetorius Cestianus’s denarii in the 60s, see García-Bellido 1989. 52. See, e.g., the disconnect between the strength and duration of the Demeter and Kore/Persephone cults on Sicily and the frequency of their appearance on coinage (Borba Florenzano 2005).

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10.2. Multimedia Strategies At the beginning of this chapter, I proposed to locate Roman appropriation and deployment of numismatic motifs within the world of semiotic conflict. Framing this conflict of signs through political and cultural contextualization, I suggested in the preceding section that over the course of the third century, and in particular the last third of the third century, the Roman state devised a vocabulary of signs for communicating Roman identity and adherence to Rome that made selective use of signs and iconographies in circulation within Greek and Hellenistic Etruscan image worlds. This vocabulary was strongly religious in nature; its mobilization mirrored the fundamentally religious self-fashioning of the Roman state and Roman society within the peer-polity system of the Hellenistic Mediterranean. But the signs and iconographies examined in §10.1 were hardly confined to one medium. As they gained momentum in the numismatic realm, some iconographies seeped into other material domains of Roman and Italian life. Therefore, in order to understand the reach and signification(s) of these numismatic iconographies, it will be necessary to monitor the extent of their multimedial distribution. One point of departure for reconstructing this traffic is the relationship between the iconographies on some of the earliest Roman aes grave issues and the designs on the ceramic stamps that were employed by the so-called Atelier des petites estampilles, a workshop specializing in black gloss ceramics whose activity and productions were reconstructed by Jean-Paul Morel in a classic 1969 article. The stamps on the Atelier’s ceramics share several iconographic motifs in common with Roman aes grave issues (fig. 10.9): helmeted Athena/Minerva, an opened left or right hand, Pegasus, the dolphin, and the shell. While the religious focus is clearest with the first, the cultic inflection of the other motifs calls for some brief comment. The association of Pegasus with Jupiter has a nice Hesiodic pedigree and is well documented on Greek coin issues of the Classical and Hellenistic period, especially those of Syracuse and Corinth; in the issues of these city-states, Pegasus is also paired with Athena (Hesiod Theog. 285–286, cited in Crawford, RRC 2.716). The shell forms part of the metonymic assemblage that was associated with Mercury; both shell and caduceus appear on Roman issues, such as RRC 25/8, a sextans datable to the 230s.53 Because the shell and the dolphin are also motifs in Tarentine numismatic iconography, their presence in this repertoire has been taken to indicate this Atelier’s possible origins in Tarentum and subsequent expropriation to Rome in the 270s.54

53. Mercury’s prominence in the Roman religious imaginary rivals that of Janus for our period; for an orientation to the evidence, see Biggs 2019. 54. While the production of petites estampilles pottery began before the conquest of Tarentum, numismatic iconographies appear on the pottery after the conquest; see Ferrandes 2006 for details of the chronology.

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Figure 10.9. Comparison of aes grave iconographies and Atelier stamps. From Morel 1969, fig. 28.

Whether or not Morel’s Atelier was in fact staffed with forcibly displaced Tarentine artists, what matters most about the reworking of numismatic motifs as ceramic stamp designs is their place within the emergence of a visual koine that bound Rome to the representational traditions of southern Italy and whose ideological ramifications become even more salient when we bear in mind that, even after Tarentum’s subjugation, eastern Magna Graecia and southern Lucania remained areas of “tenuous loyalty” (Fronda 2010, 188–233). While the presence of religiously inflected “speaking” signs on ceramic productions of the empire has benefited from some study, comparable work on midrepublican antecedents is still needed.55 One exceptionally rich example of the transit of specifically religious images across media—one that makes plain the ambitions to which the third-century visual koine was staked and the semiotic circuits that Italian communities traveled—concerns an iconographic motif that we earlier saw paired with the figure of Janus on the bronze aes: the prow. Above, we remarked that the appearance of this Janus-prow bronze series is usually interpreted by reference to the First Punic War, and to Rome’s formulation and projection of a theology of victory that was predicated on its newfound sense of naval mastery. From its earliest iterations, the prow design is modeled on Hellenistic depictions of the prow on coins, such as the tetradrachm issues of Demetrios Poliorcetes that were minted in the aftermath of his naval victory at Salamis in 306. Crucially for my purposes, the prow design also travels across media, appearing in the relief-work of a Calene kylix from the 230s or 220s that is currently in the collections of the University of Missouri’s Museum of Art and Archaeol-

55. See, e.g., Steinby 2016 for speaking signa on dolia, with citations to earlier bibliography. Reflecting on “waves of fashion” during the transition from republic to empire, Wallace-Hadrill (2008, ch. 8) comments on the tendency of decorative representational and figurative schemes to slide across multiple media.

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ogy. As explicated in the publication of the cup by James Terry and elucidated in a more recent assessment by Filippo Coarelli, the prow relief on the kylix nods to Roman naval success and might even be interpreted as a celebration of Roman naval success: “drinking a toast to Roman victory,” in the words of Terry’s (1992) article title (for publication and discussion, see Coarelli 2013, 67–68). But the story does not end there. By the time the kylix was produced, the prow type could no longer be read in isolation; it was semiotically marked on account of its association with Janus on coinage. Therefore, the prow type was evocative not merely of Roman naval success, but of the range of Roman religious observances that enabled and sustained this success—among them the libation and drinking rituals that may have defined this specific kylix’s object biography—and of the circulation of knowledge about those ritual commitments on coinage. Among the most curious aspects of this traffic of images on coins and ceramics is that the distributional networks of third-century Roman ceramics and third-century Roman coinage do not overlap. The hoard evidence situates the circulation of silver coinage in south Italy; the ceramic distribution, on the other hand, clusters in central and north-central Italy with extensions to southern Gaul and northern Africa (fig. 10.10). A commercial explanation is not hard to find: the early and middle third century saw the rise of central Italy as an exporter of goods to the north and west, as borne out in the geographic scatter not only of the Atelier des petites estampilles but of the socalled Campanian ceramics more generally (Morel 1969, 1981); meanwhile, Roman coinage was dragged southward by the gravitational pull of Magna Graecia’s monetized economies.56 For this reason alone, then, the vocabulary of religiously coded signs had a geographic range not limited to coins themselves. In the areas of the Mediterranean littoral that were touched by or entering into regular commercial interaction with Romanized central Italy, this vocabulary was active and embodied. One vital transitional agent and interlocutor in those Roman discourses of commodity exchange that took shape under the sign of the religious was a divinity whose receipt of a midrepublican temple confirms his cresting cultural significance during our period: Vertumnus.57 Another divinity who received a midrepublican temple in the course of zipping along these circuits of mobility and meaning was Fides; the deification of good faith was freighted with economic significance, as Plau56. For the significance of Campanian ceramics for the economic history of midrepublican Italy, cf. Roth 2006 and Morel 2007; on the question of the city of Rome’s salience as a center of ceramic production, see now Jolivet 2019, 214–18; for cautions about tying ceramic evidence to Romanization, see Roselaar 2019, 79–84. For Peninsular economies and the advent of Roman coinage, see Bernard 2018; Roselaar 2019, 138–47. 57. See Bettini (2010, 2015) on the god’s cultural significance. Janus and Vertumnus shared a neighborhood in Rome; see Hor. Ep. 1.20.1, with Myers 1994, 127–28 for the close association of the two gods in Augustan literature.

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Figure 10.10. Findspots of Roman fine pottery (dot) and Roman silver coinage (x), early third century BCE. Burnett 1989, map 1 (modified).

tine comedy’s play with credit and fides emphasizes.58 But it was in Janus’s wake that religion, commerce, and media played off each other in novel and arresting ways. The geographically differentiated scatter of artifacts takes on still another level of significance if we look to the Janus-prow pairing not merely as a numismatic motif but as a message about media. While many of the motifs that populated the Italian image-worlds of the third century convey messages in themselves, the Janus-prow coupling holds the rare distinction of communicating a multidimensional message about the process of messaging: successful transmission depended not only on coins themselves but on the modes of conveyance—most notably ships—that carried both coins and ceramics; and it operated not only along a geographic axis but a temporal one as well. I will have more to say about Janus and temporality in the final section of this chapter. For now, one important takeaway from this analysis of the Janus-prow’s semiotics is that, as stamped on a coin, the motif modeled what media theorists have termed “discourse on discourse channel conditions” (Kittler 1990), functioning “as both a communicative object and an object that comments upon its own communicative power” (Platt 2020).59

58. See Feeney 2010 on the Pseudolus. For Fides = Pistis see n. 23 above. 59. See Platt 2020 for application of Kittler’s theory to the study of ancient seals.

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10.3. The Miraculous Coin: Envoi to the Future So far, this chapter has adopted a largely positivistic stance in its attempt to relate the circulation of coins and the images upon them to the general narrative of Roman cultural and political contestations during the third century. A subjectivizing approach to this material that tries to reconstitute the experience of handling and feeling these coins and ceramics remains a desideratum.60 In a gesture to the potential payoffs of such an approach, I want finally to take up the matter of subjectivities, individual, familial, and collective, by considering one ritual practice that took as its main focus an unusual coin: the Servilian triens. Our main source for this legend is Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, which reports the miraculum of the coin in the midst of a lengthy exposition of copper and its alloys (34.38.137): Unum etiamnum aeris miraculum non omittemus. Servilia familia inlustris in fasti trientem aereum pascit auro, argento, consumentem utrumque. origo atque natura eius incomperta mihi est. verba ipsa de ea re Messallae senis ponam: “Serviliorum familia habet trientem sacrum, cui summa cum cura magnificentiaque sacra quotannis faciunt. quem ferunt alias crevisse, alias decrevisse videri et ex eo aut honorem aut deminutionem familiae significare.” Let us not overlook one other miracle pertaining to copper. The Servilian family, distinguished in the records of magistrates, feeds a bronze triens with gold and silver, and the triens consumes both. The origin and nature of it I cannot ascertain. I’ll set down the words about this matter of old Messalla: “The family of the Servilii has a sacred triens, to which they perform sacrifice every year with the utmost care and magnificence; they report that the triens sometimes seems to grow, sometimes seems to shrinks, and that this signifies either the honoring or the diminishing of the family.”

The notice for this obscure ritual, isolated for special discussion in Mario Fiorentini’s (1988, 120–30 and 2007–2008, 1002–4) research into gentilician cults, has been probed from historical and anthropological angles for information about Roman attitudes to the symbolic power of coinage. For the numismatist Hubert Zehnacker (1987), the most pressing issue was to nail down the meaning of the term aereus triens. Was the object in question a third of a pound of copper-bronze, or a third of an as with a value corresponding to a weight of a third of a pound of copper bronze, or a third of an as of the kind minted at Rome from the third century onward—most famous in iconographic terms for its use of the Janus-prow series? More recently, Cristiano Viglietti (2012) has taken up the question of the ritual’s bearing on the fluctuating fortunes of the gens Servilia during the middle republic, and the articulation of these fortunes

60. Cf. Swift 2017 for a design-oriented treatment of Roman artifacts; Hamilakis 2014 for a primer on sensory archaeology.

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in a symbolic and visual language according to which the “honoring” and “diminution” of the family came to be embodied in a coin.61 Pliny’s use of the word miraculum is notable. The choice of this term in connection with the triens is relatable to an escalating interest in prodigies and their resolution that reached critical mass during the Second Punic War, when prodigy reports included news of talismanic objects shrinking, such as the sortes at Caere. It has been speculated that the cult of the Servilian triens arose in the third century, taking shape within the same cultural milieu as the Caeritan sortes.62 If this triens was in fact a struck coin and not simply a stamped weight of bronze (Zehnacker 1987; I am not persuaded by Viglietti’s 2012 criticisms), it will have featured as its iconographic motif not Janus, but another signifying iconography in the image world of the third century whose hellenizing and Etruscanizing intertexts are hard to miss: the thunderbolt, a mainstay of triens iconography from the first generation of the denomination’s production (see, e.g., RRC 14/3). The Servilii may have cultivated a connection to Janus in their onomastics, if the decision of several members of the gens to sport the cognomen Geminus derived any inspiration from the god’s Forum temple.63 But what most meaningfully binds the Servilian cult with its thunderbolt-decorated triens to the semiotic networks of the Second Punic War, and to the image worlds of the preceding decades, is the shared interest in anticipation and futurity. In the same generations that saw Cn. Naevius’s composition of an epic poem in which notions of divinely ordained fate moved to the literary forefront, this interest participated in a broader artistic and religious dialogue through which Romans collectively negotiated their sense of the future.64 An important route for this negotiation was opened up by the intercultural interactions that molded Rome’s signifying numismatics, from the taste for Janus to the vogue of the thunderbolt. In a late-antique source stocked with information about Etruscan cosmology, Janus occupies a position in the prima sedes of the sky, alongside Jupiter. Did he have access to thunderbolts as well?65

61. Cf. Osgood 2019, 136–37 for the coin’s wax and wane as reflecting “aristocratic anxieties.” For a richly layered exploration of the shifting landscape of exchange against which the Servilian triens accrued meaning, see now Smith 2020, esp. 169–72. 62. See, e.g., Livy 21.62 on the prodigies of 218. For discussion of the notice, see Padilla Peralta 2020a, 234–36; for the history of sortes and lot divination in Republican Italy, see Klingshirn 2006. For the Servilian triens in its third-century settting, see Zehnacker 1987, emphasizing the cult’s connection to the midrepublican census and the changing fortunes of the Servilii; Fiorentini 1988, 124, but cf. pp. 128–29 for the claim that the cult is a survival from the archaic period. 63. This temple was the aedes of Janus Geminus; see n. 34 above. Among Servilii with the cognomen Geminus, note P. Servilius Q. f. Cn. n. Geminus (consul 252, 248) and his probable son Cn. Servilius P. f. Q. n. Geminus (consul 217). 64. For Naevius and the Bellum Punicum’s cosmic sweep, see Feeney 1991, 108–20. 65. The source is Martianus Capella De nuptiis 1.45–60, whose value for the reconstruction of Etruscan theology remains debated; for an introduction to the complexities, see Weinstock 1946.

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Within a few years of the First Punic War’s conclusion, the brothers L. and M. Publicii Malleoli, novi homines who in their term as aediles dedicated a temple to Flora, seized on a visual motif of their own for the integrated expression of imperial domination and religious community: the hammer, closely associated with the metallurgical work not only of hammering ship-rams but of striking coins (Padilla Peralta 2018, 271–75). Ship-rams and struck coinage became so intimately associated with each other at the same time that Rome’s foundation narratives (and a fortiori its communally brokered sense of the deep past) were evolving in new directions. At some point in the mythological embroidering of Italy’s prehistory, the god Janus came to be credited not only with kingship over the peninsula but with the invention of coinage. As a memorial to his invention, the story went, he had stamped on the first bronzes his image on one side and an image of the ship on which his coruler Saturn had arrived to Italy on the other; hence the origin of the expression capita aut navia, the Roman equivalent of heads or tails.66 It would be a boon to know whether everyday routines of coin-flipping took on a significance analogous to that of games of chance, around which a system of allegorical thinking about the future did ultimately emerge (Purcell 1995, 33);67 and whether the handling of Janus coinages boosted the elucidation of the god’s mythological backstory in any way—whether, in other words, the coinage did double work as a technology for inventing the past. Lacking any firm testimonies to this effect, we can only fall back on informed speculation. There is no question that the god’s bifrontality came to be ascribed theological properties by the early empire.68 Interpreted in this light, the numismatically circulated Janus is an important player in the emergence of a theopolitical monetary economy at Rome, a process still in need of comprehensive treatment.69 In any case, if the imagery of Janus in coin form did become an aide-à-penser for Romans as they developed not only a concept but a theology of futurity, the most conspicuous property of Cf. Varro’s report that in Etruscan cosmology Janus was Sky: frag. 134 GRF Funaioli = frag. 201 ARD Cardauns. 66. Macrob. Sat. 1.7.19–23, citing the grammarian Hyginus by name as a source (frag. 17 GRF = FRHist F 10); it is unclear whether this is the Augustan-era librarian and freedman of Augustus or the early imperial mythographer; see Richard 1988, 389 n. 11. The legend of Janus’s rule, first attested in the late-republican Communis historia of the freedman Q. Lutatius Daphnis (see FRHist 32 F 7 with commentary ad loc. (and Flower 2022 for the biography of this writer), gains traction in the empire; see Ov. Fast. 1.229–240; Pliny NH 33.45; Minucius Felix Oct. 21; and Lactant. Div. inst. 1.13.7. Alternatively, the ship could refer to Janus’s own flight from Greece to Italy; for the etymologized link between Janus and Ion of Athens see OGR 2.1–4, in a notice perhaps traceable to Varro, with Richard 1988 and Deschamps 1994. 67. For brief comment on Roman Münzspiele, see Thüry 2016, 146 with n. 30. 68. Ovid is not the only authority; see Gavius Bassus frag. 9 GRF Funaioli on bifrontal Janus quasi superum atque inferum ianitorem; cf. Cassius Dio apud Cedrenus Comp. hist. 1.168b (= p. 235 Bekker) on Janus’s knowledge of the past and future. 69. For theopolitical monetary economies in the High Roman Empire and Late Antiquity, see Singh 2018. Nothing comparable to this work exists for pre-Christian Rome.

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this futurity was its fusion with the past.70 Under the sign of Janus, Rome’s past and future were two heads sprouting from the same body. References Ambrosini, Laura. 2010. “Sui vasi plastici configurati a prua di nave (trireme) in ceramica argentata e a figure rosse.” MEFR 122.1:73–115. https://doi.org/10.4000/ mefra.336. Bernard, Seth. 2017. “The Quadrigatus and Rome’s Monetary Economy in the Third Century.” NC 177:501–13. ———. 2018. “The Social History of Early Roman Coinage.” JRS 108:1–26. https://doi. org/10.1017/S0075435818000497. Bettini, Maurizio. 2010. “Vertumnus: A God with No Identity.” I Quaderni del Ramo d’Oro On-line 3:320–34. ———. 2015. Il dio elegante: Vertumno e la religione romana. Torino: Einaudi. Biggs, Thomas. 2017. “A Second First Punic War: (Re)spoliation of Republican Naval Monuments in the Urban and Poetic Landscapes of Augustan Rome.” Pages 47– 68 in Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Roman Appropriation. Edited by Matthew P. Loar, Carolyn S. MacDonald, and Dan-El Padilla Peralta. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2019. “Did Mercury Build the Ship of Aeneas?” Pages 209–24 in Tracking Hermes/ Pursuing Mercury. Edited by John F. Miller and Jenny Strauss Clay. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198777342.003.0014. Bleicken, Jochen. 1963. “Coniuratio: Die Schwurszene auf den Münzen und Gemmen der römischen Republik.” JNG 13:51–69. Borba Florenzano, Maria Beatriz. 1992. “The Coinage of Pyrrhus in Sicily: Evidence of a Political Project.” Pages 207–23 in The Age of Pyrrhus: Proceedings of an Internation Conference Held at Brown University, April 8th–10th, 1998. Edited by Tony Hackens, Nancy D. Holloway, R. Ross Holloway, and Ghislaine Moucharte. Providence: Center for Old World Archaeology and Art; Louvain-la-Neuve: Département d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’art. ———. 2005. “Coins and Religion: Representations of Demeter and of Kore/Persephone on Sicilian Greek Coins.” Revue belge de numismatique et de sillographie 151:1–28. Bragg, Edward. 2010. “Roman Seaborne Raids during the Mid-Republic: Sideshow or Headline Feature?” Greece & Rome 57:47–64. https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0017383509990271. Burnett, Andrew McCabe. 1986. “The Iconography of the Roman Coinage of the Third Century BC.” NC 146:67–75. ———. 2000. “The Silver Coinage of Italy and Sicily in the Second Punic War.” Pages 102–13 in Metallanalytische Untersuchungen an Münzen der römischen Republik. Edited by Wilhelm Hollstein. Berliner Numismatische Forschungen 6. Berlin: Mann. ———. 2012. “Early Roman Coinage and Its Italian Context.” Pages 297–314 in The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage. Edited by William E. Metcalf. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780195305746.013.0017. Caccano Caltabiano, Maria, Daniele Castrizio, and Mariangela Puglisi, eds. 2004. La tra70. Cf. Shaw’s (2019) investigation into how Romans thought about the future.

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Agency, Affect, Games, and Gods: Archaeogaming and the Archaeology of Religion Sandra Blakely Game play and religion are both interactive, relational, and agentive; agency theory provides a helpful lens for exploring the heuristic potential of video games for religion in archaeological and historical contexts. Serious games have a significant history of use for generating data relevant to problems in lived contexts. This recommends the potential for archaeological games to test research questions in ancient religion from a ground-up perspective. At the most reductive level, consonant with earliest applications of agency theory in archaeological contexts, this may be seen as an attempt to restore the voices of the “missing individual.” The crowd-sourced data, however, come from modern players, whose value as a source for thinking about religion must address the questions of the programmer’s hand and the gap between reality and the virtual world. These questions have drawn particular attention in the growing scholarship in video games and religion. Two concepts from agency theory—habitus and affect—offer productive responses to those concerns. An agentive reading of two virtual reconstructions of archaeological worlds, Palenque and the proxenia networks of Hellenistic cities, outline an approach to agency less focused on the elusive and unrestorable individual than on the dynamic relationships between structure, action, and affect that constitute the domains of religion. These readings yield models of agency, and an approach to ancient religions, more consonant with the study of complexity as a cultural phenomenon, in which the bonds between gods and men engage with economic, environmental, political, and geographic realities as well as shared cultural imagination. Keywords: agency, affect, habitus, doxa, video games, serious games, archaeogaming, presence, Palenque, Maya, Hellenistic, maritime, network

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eligion is relational. Anthropologies and archaeologies of agency have proposed that those relationships extend beyond the interactions of humans with each other and their gods to engage the multiple exchanges behind mate-

Sailing with the Gods is made possible by the generous support of Emory University’s Center for Digital Scholarship, and the creativity, energy, and diligence of Joanna Mundy, PhD, Digital Projects Specialist, and Kevin Dressel, developer, founder of Shiny Dolphin Games LLC (http://www. shinydolphin.com/). Contributions in 2020 by Kylie Gilde (user interface and game design; https:// gamesbykylie.weebly.com/), Donovan Fain (game design and programming; https://donovanpanian.wixsite.com/donovanfainportfolio), and Timmy Hawkins (game design and programming; https://www.linkedin.com/in/timothy-hawkins-dev) have made the interactive sequences of this game a reality; we offer warm thanks to Dr. Joy Li and Dr. Rongkai Guo of Kennesaw State University for their support of these efforts. Phoebe Han, of Emory University, has provided illustrations for the Telones in all his moods. A full list of the many students and volunteers is available at https://scholarblogs.emory.edu/samothraciannetworks/introduction-2/credits/.

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rial objects. These are nested cycles of complexity, in which are entangled all the choices and actors engaged in the life history of the object. Behind a votive pinax are the workers who collected the clay, the ceramicist who formed it, the artisan who painted it, the slave who made the charcoal for the kiln, the purchaser who offered it to the god, and the visitors to the sanctuary who recognized the myths it depicted. Stele recording sacred laws link civic tradition and cultural memory to the decisions of local priests and the human activities they regulate, from tanning the skins and disposing of the dung of sacrificed animals to the organization of calendars that shape the annual traffic to the sanctuary (Dornan 2002). The heuristic potential of agency is rendered especially acute by the ubiquity of religion, as conversation with the divine engages levels of society from high to low, traverses the boundary of foreigner and citizen, and casts down the gauntlet for investigators to separate their own conceptions of religion from those they study. Agency, in the form of “presence,” figures large as well in the scholarly literature on virtual heritage environments, archaeogaming, and historical games.1 These are interactive experiences, defined by the capacity of the player—the modern, etic agent—to undertake choices and actions in a simulated world, choices that balance skill and strategy with affective intensity. The principles of serious games confirm the value of these choices for historical questions, even as the volume of video games indexes the data the virtual worlds may generate. The number of virtual reality users was estimated at 171 million in 2018; consumer data traffic in 2020 was estimated at 7 exabytes per month; the value of the global video game market was projected to exceed 138 billion dollars by 2021.2 One quarter of all games that sell over a million copies are based in historical or archaeological settings. Those simulated worlds engage levels of agency that make the archaeological pale by comparison. Armies of coders and designers lie behind the games, the game engines, and the hardware on which they are played, from consoles to iPhones; behind these are the human lives and blood spent in mining, manufacturing, transporting, and marketing (Graham 2020b, 8; Crawford and Joler 2018). The players are only the final layer of the agencies engaged in these digital pasts. Serious games are predicated on a high degree of player agency, as they are defined by the transferability of in-game and out-of-game behaviors. So too are games with particular reliance on movement through space. Karla Theilhaber (2019), drawing on Michel de Certeau’s definition of space as a location in which something is done, identifies digital spaces as the manifestation of player movement;3 Günzel (2019, 20, 22; Löw 2009) argues for the applicability 1. Weibel and Wissmath 2011; Michailidis, Balaguer-Ballester and He 2018; Baños et al. 2004; Riva, Waterworth, and Waterworth 2004; Champion 2017, 108; Kee et al. 2009. 2. Chapman, Foka, and Westin 2017; Statista 2018, 2020a, 2020b; Grieve, Radde-Anteweiler and Zeiler 2015; Rollinger 2020; French and Gardner 2020. 3. Sicart (2009, 9, 11, 160–63) notes that not all games offer equal degrees of agency.

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of Henri Lefebvre’s and Edward Soja’s first, second, and third spaces (natural, cartographic, and symbolic) to game spaces. All three are constituted by human practice and perception; spaces outside as well as within game worlds are a manifestation of human agency. Video games and virtual heritage sites are thus promising foci for agencyrich explorations of the archaeological spaces of ancient religion; agency, in turn, provides a productive critical paradigm for exploring the caveats and potentialities of data gleaned in virtual worlds. The exploration offers a new chapter in the conversations on emic and etic and the comparative study of ancient and contemporary phenomena that have been part of theory and method for the study of ancient religion; it exemplifies Alison Wylie’s (2017) call for recontextualization of old data in new simulations. The data from digital worlds, generated at the human-computer interface, are clearly not to be cut and pasted into antiquity. But the principles of probabilistic modeling that underwrite serious games highlight the value of what can be learned and the potential to form more nuanced hypotheses. The data are crowd-sourced, consonant with the emphasis on distributed knowledge, decentralized control, and selforganization that is emerging from complexity studies as a model of human social dynamics and evolution over time. These are factors that eluded earlier historical and archaeological studies that, focused on the best preserved data, naturally yield a top-down model of history (Brughmans et al. 2019). The data from virtual worlds have the potential to foreground the social forces that arise from workplace, street, and subculture as well as from the powerful individuals who provided the cast of characters for history focused on the Great Men who funded the monumental spaces of ritual practice, and inscribed their rise and fall in the vocabularies of the reigning cosmologies. This chapter begins with an introduction to serious games as a framework for virtual heritage, archaeogaming, and the intersection between religion and video games. The natural caveats on the value of data gathered from virtual worlds have productive responses in the concepts of habitus and affect as developed within agency theory. Two virtual reconstructions of archaeological worlds, Palenque and the proxenic networks of Hellenistic cities, demonstrate approaches to agency less focused on the elusive and unrestorable individual than on the dynamic relationships between structure, action, and affect that constitute the domains of religion. 11.1. Serious Games: Generating Data and Changing Minds Serious games are “carefully thought out games with a purpose,” building on Johan Huizinga’s (1955) principle that play helps constitute religion, politics, and warfare, all solemn and serious matters (Bogost 2007, 54). These games focus on ecology, epidemiology, behavioral economics, military training, and cognitive science, and offer outcomes for education, training, and policy analy-

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sis (Bainbridge 2010; Balicer 2005; Smith 2014). Fiscal Ship, part of the Serious Games Initiative of the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, is designed to have users “steer the nation out of debt while adhering to their values” (https://www.wilsoncenter.org/about-the-serious-games-initiative); Hidden Agenda, a civilization-type game, is used to train CIA agents (Uricchio 2005, 330). Alternate Reality Games (ARG) enable crowd-sourcing for responses to real world issues: examples include Jane McGonigal’s (2011) World without Oil and Mary Flanagan’s POX: Save the People (Bogost, Ferrati, and Schweizer 2010). These games invite player input to solve problems in an alternative but plausible world. These games seek not the training of specialists but the crowdsourcing of ideas that respond to real-world problems. Their value is directly correlated to the creativity and multiple perspectives of the players, rather than the designers. Their importance derives additionally from their power to help the participants critically examine their own assumptions. Of war games, Vice Admiral Ann Rondeau emphasized that they illuminate what the players do not know, and so help explore nonconventional challenges (https://paxsims. wordpress.com/2011/08/05/connections-2011-aar/). Today’s war games include Kandahar, emphasizing military staff management of counterinsurgency operations; Algeria, Labyrinth, and Andean Abyss focus on the causes and dynamics of terrorism. Though visually sophisticated, their playing relies heavily on collaboration, feedback and verbal interaction, and problem solving (colloquially known as BOGSAT: Bunch of Guys Sitting around a Table). The data they yield on human choices are the first step in further analysis and debriefings (Smith 2014). Studies of Tetris suggest the potential for games to actively reshape the epistemic pathways of their players (Bikic et al. 2017; Latham, Patston, and Tippett 2013). Religion is among the cultural practices that have been brought into the orbit of serious games. This is the latest chapter in a long-running connection between games, ritual celebrations, and religious communities.4 Early church fathers invented games such as the Judicio dei contests to celebrate church holidays and teach Christian principles, an invention that acknowledges the effectiveness of the pagan games (Bornet and Burger 2012, 17; Anthony 2015). Scholarly focus on gaming and religion is increasing: journals devoted to the topic include Heidelberg Journal of Religions on the Internet (since 2005; https:// heiup.uni-heidelberg.de/journals/index.php/religions/) and Gamevironments (since 2014; https://www.gamevironments.uni-bremen.de).5 Research foci include the uses of religious symbolism within games, such as construction of temples, games focused around the teachings of Christ, and the role of myth in

4. Steffen 2012; Bornet and Burger 2012; Burger 2012; Campbell and Evolvi 2020. 5. Grieve, Radde-Anteweiler, and Zeiler 2015; Geraci 2015; Heidbrink and Knoll 2014; Anthony 2014.

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games.6 Ethnographic studies of player communities explore the generation of religious experience in games as well as the responsiveness of player groups to social, psychological, and spiritual needs. Other studies explore educational and communication functions of games within established religious communities.7 11.2. History, Archaeology, and Agency in Virtual Worlds Historical games, archaeogames, and virtual heritage environments all emerge from the robust tradition of presenting the past in online worlds, and some are more serious than others. The earliest online worlds were based in the ancient Near East: players of The Sumerian Game (1963–1978) interacted with green text on a black screen as they assumed the role of Hammurabi, strategizing ways to manage his lands and resources (Mol et al. 2017, 9). The game’s long success emphasizes the power of storytelling to engage the player, even without sophisticated graphics. The initial version of the game, entirely serious, eventually yielded to a more playful version as modified by David Ahl in 1974–1978, Hammurabi. The text style in the later version is both simple and comical: the player learns “You’re an excellent king but your neighbors call you an imperialist pig. Watch out for War,” and “Due to this extreme mismanagement you have not only been impeached and thrown out of office, but you have also been declared ‘National Fink!!!’ So long for now.” Advances in technology have transformed the aesthetics as well as the complexity of interactive games since Hammurabi, yielding the superresolutions of Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed and a profusion of scholarship devoted to human interactions in online worlds.8 Archaeogaming covers a significant range of phenomena, from the excavation of early video game cartridges to games that let users role-play as archaeologists, operating in virtual environments set in archaeological pasts. It also includes games that challenge players to use an archaeologist’s lens on social practices and their virtual material signatures, whether the virtual world is set on a fantasy planet or in Pompeii. Players of No Man’s Sky, which Andrew Reinhard (2018, 1) describes as a “digital Vesuvius,” may engage in fieldwalking, artifact collecting, or the establishment of typologies (Mol 2014; Morgan 2016). Outcomes include education, cultural preservation, research and activism, and a framework for the voices of descent communities.9 Virtual heritage environ6. Aupers 2007; Bosman 2016; Bittarello 2013; Bainbridge and Bainbridge 2007; Steffen 2006, 2008. 7. Boellstorf et al. 2013; Høsgaard and Warburg 2005; Bainbridge 2010; Stam and Scialdone 2008; Highland and Yu 2008. 8. Uricchio 2005; Mol et al. 2017; Champion 2011, 2015; Rollinger 2020; Reinhard 2018; Willaert 2019; https://www.atariarchives.org/basicgames/showpage.php?page=78. 9. Heath 2020; Champion 2017; Anderson 2004; Anderson et al. 2010; Huvila and Kari 2018; Cook Inlet Tribal Council 2017; Emery and Reinhard 2015; Mortara et al. 2014.

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ments such as Çatalhöyük and the Anglo-Saxon village Hiriart make existing sites explorable: Çatalhöyük also provided a virtual platform for experimental archaeology, gauging the effect of smoke from the ovens on living conditions (Morgan 2009; cf. Copplestone 2014; Stanco and Tanasi 2013). Minecraft was used to crowd-source a collaborative rebuilding of the Temple of Bel in Palmyra, Syria (Mol et al. 2017). Historical processes replayed in games include catastrophic events such as the eruption of Vesuvius and ancient battles from the Punic Wars to the campaigns of Alexander. These let players explore outcomes that depart from the historical record: there are, for example, forty-four different simulations for Napoleonic battles and forty-seven from the American Revolution, each affording different outcomes (Uricchio 2005, 328). Historical games such as Oregon Trail or Civilization make their players the actors of particular theories of social development, usually evolutionary. Other games, such as Rosewood, are archaeological walking simulators, not linear narratives, which enable exploration of virtual spaces without scorekeeping, combat, or the ability to win or lose (Champion 2011, 68). The capacity to generate alternative outcomes foregrounds the role of agency in these experiences (Copplestone 2014, 91; Rollinger 2020). Games, as opposed to cinematic versions of antiquity, are defined by the role of the players in shaping experience and outcomes. Adam Chapman (2016, 231) has coined the term “historying” for this phenomenon (Rollinger 2020, 7); Shawn Graham (2017) characterizes it as “cultural habitation in digital form.” The most traditional scholarly frameworks for the past emphasized the conclusion of the story, archaeologists in terms of monuments, historians in terms of outcomes, as Rankean singularities, “wie es eigentlich gewesen ist.” Game designers, in contrast, approach past worlds as systems, interactions, and multilinear narratives. This positions games in the postprocessual side of archaeology and the poststructural side of history, which emphasize the multiple agencies that drive historical processes as emergent, tentative, multilinear narratives (Kappell and Elliott 2013; Morgan 2016; Uricchio 2005, 332). Graham (2020b) describes the practical necromancy of games that invite the players to cowrite the past with our digital homunculi, whose identities the players assume, but to which they bring twenty-first century perspectives. These agencies work within and emerge from the rules established within the game by its designers. Dialogues are programmed in branching rather than linear forms; Ian Bogost (Bogost, Ferrari, and Schweizer 2010, 3) calls the emphasis on process and interaction, as opposed to predetermined outcome, “procedural rhetoric.” Tara Jane Copplestone has designed games that engage the players in postprocessual archaeological approaches: Buried (2014) takes the player through the multilinear narratives that emerge from the archaeological records of burials; players of Adventures in the Gutter (2017) interpret objects from the perspectives of a field archaeologist, who sees the world from “the trowel’s edge,” and an archaeologist based in the British Museum, with an eye on the logistics and

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interpretation of excavations; Fragments (2016) is a 4D puzzle game exploring alternatives for the combination, examination, and explanation of fragmentary evidence (Copplestone 2017b). These games engage the player in the formation of multiple hypotheses that emerge naturally in the movement from first excavation to final publication, a digital experience of the principle that the meaning of sites change as they shift from loci of habitation to loci of commemoration, contestation, and interpretation. The audiences doing the interpretation are nonspecialists, as indeed were those who inhabited these spaces. 11.3. Caveats and Counters Doubts are abundant, however, on the scholarly value of historical and archaeogames. The critiques are inspired in large part by the games written without the consultation of archaeologists, but which turn to antiquity and the cinematic portrayals of archaeology to find stories to engage their players (Copplestone 2017a). Swashbuckling, heroically solitary archaeologists, exotic locations, and lost treasure are far removed from the faculty and funding agencies, international collaboration, and painstaking planning of real archaeology (Champion 2017, 109–10; Graham 2020a). Gun-toting archaeologists also represent serious ethical issues: Lara Croft, who loots and explodes her way through archaeological sites, models destructive archaeological methods, alarmingly void of consequences for the player.10 Stereotypes and fantasy pasts usurp the indigenous traditions that other archaeologies and indeed archaeogames strive to recover and preserve; archaeology, as a discipline and an epistemology, is analogously distorted. Archaeology’s roots in romanticism, nationalism, and colonial contexts encourage us to take such distortions seriously (Knapp 1996).11 Two cornerstones of agency theory—habitus and affect—offer productive responses to two of the key criticisms of serious games: the hegemony of the programmer, and the inaccuracy of reconstructions. Programmers may be characterized as the invisible hand that determines the outcomes for individual choices made in the virtual world: players, in the end, are simply engaging with the algorithms others design. This view reduces historical settings and archaeological artifacts to stages and props, “Easter eggs” that may or may not be encountered and considered during game play. In the end the players compete only against a rule-based system that does not change in response to player choices and interactions. This concern for the hegemony of structure as opposed to agency was foundational for models of habitus, praxis, and fields of action in archaeological theory. These began with Pierre Bourdieu’s and Anthony Giddens’s critiques of the structural functionalists, whose totalizing 10. Zarandona, Chapman, and Jayemanne 2018; Fuchs 2017; Emery and Reinhard 2015; Graham 2020a. 11. For the integration of pseudoarchaeology in video game design, see Card 2019.

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models of human behavior left little room for social or individual agency (Robb 2010; Dobres and Robb 2000). Giddens’s structuration asserted a constant dialectic between structure and action. Bourdieu’s habitus asserted an analogous integration of structure and action, as deeply instilled cultural structures generate systems of dispositions through which individuals successfully negotiate their landscapes of action. History is reproduced in the actor, not as merely a system of restrictions, but as the scaffolding through which individuals are able to act as socially situated beings. These concepts, brought to archaeological studies, fell unfortunately short of putting people back into the past. They offered little space for resistance, irony, or critique, and ideas that could have led to an investigation of agency were sidetracked into the search for the individual (Dobres and Robb 2000; Robb 2010; Navaro-Yashin 2009). Given the tendency of the archaeological record to preserve best those who acquire the most, the search for the individual often translated into a focus on exceptionally ambitious individuals who, accumulating more food, more symbolic accoutrement, and more obligations, emerged from the horde of their fellows. Such individuals leveraged symbols for practical ends, to accomplish their tasks within their social structures. But the practical logic of agency is not limited to kings, it is exercised within multiple fields of action, spheres of discourse from kingship to cooking, ceramic production, warfare, ritual, and burial.12 Each of these may provide a test case for actions that reflect the combination of cultural patterning, strategic, ad-hoc response to the exigencies of the moment, and the emotional, subjective choices of the individual. The emotional and affective turns in the social sciences offer constructivist frameworks that emphasize the cultural specificity of these emotional responses. Affect, a convergence of the psychological and the social, focuses on the social articulation of and response to emotions (Winnerling 2014; Tarlow 2000, 2012; Harris and Sørensen 2010). The ongoing dialectic between structure and agency renders historical worlds analogous to game worlds precisely by their shared reliance on systems of rules (Kücklich 2010). Copplestone (2017b), Reinhard (2018), and others (e.g., Champion 2011, 67) have called for programmers, archaeologists, and historians to work in tandem, so that the rule structure within games reflect the structuring principles in the cultures we explore. This translates the critiques of games such as Civilization and Oregon Trail, in which players enact models of cultural evolution that are now out of favor, into the potential to test more nuanced historical models. Ritual is equally defined by a reliance on rules and structure: these, Michael Houseman (2015, 63) notes, are what separate both rites and games from the mundanity of everyday life. The rules impose an artificial simplicity at the same time that they create the circumstances for disorder and uncertainty. In the context of games, the latter are what constitute

12. Dornan 2002; Gardner 2004; Gillespie 2001; Joyce and Lopiparo 2005.

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its fun, further its emotional engagement, and create the conditions for the emergence of meaning. Julian Kücklich (2009) has coined the term deludology to characterize the reliance on rule-bending for a game to succeed (Droogers 2012, 105–41). The analogy between game worlds and historical worlds as rule-based systems foregrounds the question of agency in gaming spaces. The most glaring distinction between a game and a cultural or religious site is that the individual exercising agency is the player, the etic community member who is separated from the object culture both by the cultural lenses she shares with the investigator and the ultimate inaccuracy of the reconstructed world. This inaccuracy is the second major critique of archaeogames. Game worlds are necessarily simplified. Views of the relationship between simulation and reality may be divided broadly into two camps, characterized as simulationist and dynamicist, or accurate and authentic.13 Simulationists dig deep into the increasing accuracy made possible by advances in digital technologies. Such accuracy demands armies of skilled programmers, years of labor, and a capacity for data storage beyond the level of home or school computers; it also assumes levels of data that exceed what is available for archaeological and historical questions (Champion 2011, 17–24). The realism of the constructions, in the end, masks the unevenness, partiality, and complexity of the ancient materials; it also raises the stakes for effective collaboration between digital and scholarly contributors. These criticisms are balanced, on the one hand, by the potential to generate new insights regarding materiality of objects in context, interactions within built environments, and the potential for public outreach and pedagogy. Multiple perspectives and alternate narratives can emerge from even the most the hyperrealistic of games (McCall 2011). Dynamicists, in contrast, assume a Gestalt view, focused on how we acquire meaningful perception in an evidently chaotic world. Our perceptions of the world begin with the body, and are always only partial; this renders the cognitive limitations of the online environment consonant with lived experience (Champion 2011, 66; Somerseth 2007; Svanaes 2013). That consonance informed nineteenth-century Prussian Kriegspiele, iron bars laid on a map to contemplate military strategy. These offer a high degree of “ground truth,” revealed through interaction rather than illustration: they are a striking reflection of the long recognition of the permeability between game worlds and the real world (Smith 2014). Greg Costikyan (2013) has noted that simulation is actually improved by simplicity, as this allows players to focus on the actual issues and concerns of the situation. Erwin Rommel and Bernard Montgomery didn’t focus on the buttons on the uniforms as much as on water for battalions. Proponents of the Gestalt approach may dismiss simulationists as “hobbyists”

13. Rollinger 2020; Copplestone 2017b; Champion 2011; Kappell and Elliott 2013.

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and “rivet-counters.” The dynamicist view also embraces the Brownian motions, neither rule bound nor predictable, that arise in the course of game play as a result of player agency. That unpredictability arises in response to the emotions and perceptions of the player as well as the quantitative benefits of “leveling up.” This is consonant with the argument that the ability, and indeed need, of players to make choices constitutes one of the most significant realities in this context: the interactivity of games yields an authenticity of experience that goes beyond the questions of representation, and renders historical games more authentic than historical movies (Copplestone 2017a; Bittarello 2013; Rollinger 2020). This focus on perception and cognition is part of the discussion of presence that provides, in game design, an analogue to agency and affect in archaeological contexts (Champion 2015, 100–104; 2011, 19–22). Visual renderings are only part of virtual worlds: those worlds rely as well on the capacity of the player to interact with objects, the environment, or other players, and to engage them at mental, emotional, and subjective levels (Slater 2003, 3; Saari et al. 2004; Harms and Biocca 2014). There is no unitary definition of presence. Proposals distinguish spatial, social, and cultural presence, and range from a numinous sense of otherness to successfully supported action in the environment and the illusion of nonmediation.14 There is significant overlap between presence and Bourdieu’s habitus: Giuseppe Riva, John Waterworth, and Eva Waterforth (2004, fig. 4; Saari et al. 2004) define core presence as the internal state of the participant, the locus for internalized social memory, norms, beliefs, and ideas.15 An increased sense of presence is fundamental to the capacity for interaction, increasing the possibility of establishing emotional links with both human agents and material elements within the simulation. While emotional engagement is not identical with presence, recognition of the role of emotions in simulated environments has increased. Rosa Baños and Cristina Botella (Baños et al. 2004; Slater 2003) draw on mental health applications in virtual reality that demonstrate that emotions are vital to establishing the relevance of the virtual environment, and thus the diagnostic significance of choices made within them. Timo Saari et al. (2004) note emerging proposals for emotionally adapted games, responding to the demonstrated impact of the game on the player’s emotions and hence the game outcomes. Laia Tost and Erik Champion (Tost and Champion 2007; Riva, Waterworth, and Waterworth 2004, 416; Champion 2011, 72–73) include emotions among the factors raising

14. Tost and Champion 2007; Slater 2003; Tamborini and Bowman 2010; Lombard and Jones 2015; Biocca, Harms, and Burgoon 2003. 15. Mantovani and Riva 1999, 540: “presence in an environment, real or simulated, means that individuals can perceive themselves, objects, and other people not only as situated in an external space but also as immersed in a sociocultural web connecting objects, people, and their interactions.”

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the efficacy of virtual cultural heritage projects. Presence is facilitated by the inclusion of the ideas and belief in virtual systems, the most explicitly nonobjective aspects of human culture; these include faithfulness to interpersonal obligations, the cultural rules and mores that define cultural boundaries. Digital games engaging historical religions thus include elements of the uncanny as well as the rule-bound. 11.4. Studies in Virtual Agency: A Maya Site and Mediterranean Networks Two different games provide case studies for this exploration; both of them are single player games, in which individuals make their choices not with reference to what other contemporary players do, but in interaction with digitally constructed worlds, the ritual buildings and a carefully planned site of the Maya, the socially networked and ritually solemnized sea of the Hellenistic Greeks. Both are in the category of archaeogames that focus on the construction of modern understanding of ancient remains (Reinhard 2018, 3). The first, Palenque, keeps the player in the present day, as a visitor to the digital reconstruction of an actual archaeological site. The second, Sailing with the Gods, invites the player into the mythical skin of an ancient avatar, moving about the digital geospaces of the ancient Mediterranean while responding to the social networks reconstructed from epigraphic materials. The archaeologies of the games are thus based on architecture on the one hand, social networks reconstructed from epigraphy on the other. Agency in both of these settings is shared between human and nonhuman entities—the player, and the elements of digitally realized worlds. Palenque gauges the degree to which monuments and landscapes shape the choices players make during their visit; Sailing with the Gods incorporates the affordances of the social network reconstructed from epigraphic materials into the choices players encounter in port and on the high seas. Archaeological and anthropological discussions of the multiple agencies that inform built objects and landscapes, which renders human action within them into interactions with agentive forces, are thus fundamental to both games. Both games, moreover, rely on movement through space—and it is in these spaces, and their accompanying cosmologies, that the games most diverge.16 One is a ritual complex in which the physical layout of the site, the form of the buildings, and iconography rely on Maya cosmologies; its meanings are generated in no small part through its intricate relationship with the surrounding ecoscape. The other is the extensive and expanding seascape of the Hellenistic Greek world, an arena in which maritime risks both natural and anthropogenic had an effective counter in human relationships underwritten by divine authorization. These ties add social weight and divine agency to the factors that 16. See Domsch 2019, 105–6 on the narrative potential of spaces traversed in virtual worlds.

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made ancient travel a continual calculation between the traveler and the forces of nature. While they differ in scale, both virtual worlds reflect a model of religion in ancient worlds as a phenomenon distributed over multiple interactions, a saturation of the human relationship with the gods into political as well as ecological realities. And both have as their goal to engage the players with a cosmology distinct from the players’ own. This means that the emic-etic divide between players and virtual worlds is productive with respect to research outcomes. The Maya is rooted in the mythically distant past, when gods and cosmic turtles shaped the topography of the ecosystem, in which human history would unfold most productively if it were in continual interaction with the divine and with the memory of past kings. The hypothesis being tested in the game is the degree to which the players, in their capacity as modern visitors, apprehend those cosmologies and histories as they move through these virtual spaces. That understanding is directly shaped by the agency exercised in constituting these spaces. The research goal of Sailing with the Gods is twofold. The first goal is the generation of data relevant to how the social networks authorized by the gods shaped itineraries through an ancient sea. This is measured in the cumulative outcome of choices made, which elevate certain sites as central in the flow of information and collaboration. The second is the evidence for long-term shift in individual player choices over repeated play-throughs, to see if patterns of learning and preference index the capacity for players to acculturate to the socially networked ancient world. The first, cumulative data type, will provide a basis for comparative analysis with the data drawn from the ancient inscriptions, on which the research team’s model of the Samothracian network has been based (Blakely 2018). The specificity of questions for both games comports with a key principle of Agent Based Modeling (ABM): as Graham (2020b, 50–68) has articulated, an effective ABM makes narrowly delineated slices of the ancient worlds in question, and the possible choices for players are accordingly limited. The choice of games as a research mechanism, rather than ABM, increases exponentially the degree to which factors that are part of these etic realities, from player background and education and interest, to their attentiveness and focus and time and mood in the moment they play the game, shape the choices made. 11.4.1. Palenque Palenque sits like a jewel against the Chiapas Mountains of Mexico, surveying the broad plain that stretches beneath it out to the sea. Palaces, temples, and houses occupy natural and manufactured terraces that ascend the northern slopes. The Maya named the site Lakam Ha, “Big Water,” a reflection of its intimate connections with the streams that flow down the mountains and into its aqueducts; the most important of these rises in Toktan Valley, “Cloud Center.” Later Mesoamericans knew the site as Nonowal and Xicalanco; Palenque is the Spanish word for “Palisade,” an index of the thick accumulation of Western

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perspectives on one of the most beautiful and frequently visited Maya sites (Schele and Mathews 1999, 20, 95). The jungle protected its buildings and sculptures from plunder, as vegetation overtook the site soon after its ninth-century abandonment. For nineteenth century European visitors, the invading vegetation evoked the romantic oneness of man and nature, and indicted the indolence of the contemporary locals (Robertson 1983). Visitors today range from the tourists who wonder where the Maya went to descent communities who speak languages rooted in ancient Maya, and summon their ancestors in rituals that parallel ancient practice (Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012; Fox et al. 1996). The site is exceptional for its contributions to the study of Maya writing, cosmology, and ritual. The Temple of the Inscriptions preserves the longest extant Maya hieroglyphic text; buried beneath it is King K’inich Janab Pakal I, 603–683 CE, his dynastic sequence recorded in hieroglyphs, and his ascent up the portals of Maya cosmography carved into the lid of his extraordinary sarcophagus. The site exemplifies the creation of meaning in city planning and built spaces that is a particular focus in Maya studies (see caveats, Smith 2003). Seventeeth-century CE texts, excavations, and ethnographic studies have enabled a scholarly construction of Maya spaces in which the natural world, the human body, cosmology, gods, and history are compressed into what Bourdieu would deem doxa (Robb 2010, 500). These are the entrenched meanings, distributed across many domains of social life, that enable more immediate and emergent meanings. Glyphs depict mountains as zoomorphic, earring-wearing living beings; the pyramids on which temples were built recreated the mountains, and the plazas beneath them the primordial waters in which life began (Lucero 2018, 349–50; Schele and Mathews 1999, 43). Temples were associated with the kings who financed them and the wars through which they assured the flow of tribute that was fundamental to their prestige; glyphs confirm the association of kings with the buildings their rules enabled (Schele and Mathews 1999, 22; Freidel, Reese-Taylor, and Mora-Marín 2002). Maya architects inscribed their bodies and their gods into the buildings. Offerings under ancient Maya floors include material identified with k’uel, the living soul force that infuses the universe; ethnographic accounts describe the conception of the house as a human being, and its dedication as the act of giving it a soul. The ancient Maya measuring devices—a cord cut to a body measure—replicate those their gods used to lay out the cosmos, as the cardinal orientation of their cities replicated that of the universe (Mendez and Karasik 2014; Schele and Mathews 1999, 36). The triangular forms in Maya architecture echo the three stones of the cosmic hearth that centered the world, the four sides of the plazas the four sides of the cosmos. Trees in the plaza centers invoke the tree raised by the gods at the completion of creation, recalled in the glyph called quincunx. As loci of communication, the buildings relied on human performance and interaction rather than simple acts of reading. The hieroglyphs of the Temple

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of Inscriptions express in written form the cosmic doxa of Maya spaces: they align Pakal’s dynastic history with cosmological order, placing his birth and accession in mythic time, and the six piers that front the building depict his son’s investiture as proof of his divine nature (Schele and Mathews 1999, 99, 104). Ordinary citizens could not access the hieroglyphs, as entry to the temple interiors was limited to gods, ancestors, and ritual specialists. The priests read out the inscriptions, so that the listeners engaged with social hierarchies while accessing the mythic structures that undergirded them. The buildings also functioned as articulate backdrops for performances that remade the space and time of creation in public dramas. The stakes for the ancient performers were extraordinarily high: the reordering of the cosmological, and thus the political, state of affairs (Fox et al. 1996). Those performances exemplify the generation of fresh meanings against the background of cultural doxa; that the site has evoked a series of meanings after its ninth-century abandonment is clear in the line of responses from romantics to descent communities. The Palenque project opens the question of how digital visitors to the site may become analogously culturally situated, a task of education rather than the evocation of existing knowledge in the participants, and one that relies on the capacity of a digital game to afford interaction as well as emergent pathways of knowledge. The game enables three different modes of interaction, visual, eye-hand coordination, and listening and absorbing, in order to create player presence. These enable a test of the effectiveness of different forms of interaction in virtual spaces for cultural learning, including whether increased task performance is correlated to that learning (Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012; Champion 2011, 91–99, 190–93; 2015, 42–47). The design of the project emphasizes interactive engagements with material remains, avatars, cultural narratives, and environments. The latter consist of three archaeological settings—the Palace, the Cross Precinct, and the Temple of Inscriptions—and four imaginative worlds—a village, the primal mountain, a cave world, and a ballcourt. Visitors undertake, in each virtual environment, one of three interaction modes: activity, observation, or instruction. Activities involve moving objects out of the way and positioning the avatar properly for transport to the next environment. Observations generate information when users click on objects; instructions take place through both clickable objects and chatbots (fig. 11.1; Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012, 124). Previous digital reconstructions of Maya buildings, while architecturally accurate, lacked the authenticity afforded by avatars, accurate terrain, scale, or spatial relationships. They did not address the social roles or semantic density of the structures, nor the relationship between the buildings and their ecosystem (Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012, 122–23). Palenque designers began by placing the site in its mountainous terrain and adding fog, a factor with mythic, historical, and practical resonance. Archaeologists have noted that the site’s early morning mists resemble the mythic origin of the Maya world, the

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Figure 11.1. Activity, observation, and instruction; Champion 2012, fig. 2.

emergence of mountains from a primeval sea. Rivers were laden with religious symbolism: Maya rulers impersonated the watery river serpent, which in turn personified the calendrical period of the “tun” and the spirit of active water or “Witz” (Coltman 2015; Champion 2015, 43; 2012, 123). Palenque’s hydraulic engineering is considered among the most distinctive and intricate in the Maya lowlands, key to the site’s capacity to support a population of some six thousand people (French, Duffy, and Bhatt 2013). This fog affects the players directly, obscuring their field of vision and marking their passage of time inside the game (fig. 11.2). Fog informs the cave world as well (fig. 11.3), rising as the participants attempt to gather artifacts and position them in a shrine in order to be rewarded with the revelation of the Sky Snake against the line of the mountains (fig. 11.4). Its complement is the use of dynamic light and glare as navigational tools. In the imaginative world of the primal mountain, glare guides visitors to spiritually significant artifacts; dynamic lighting at the Temple of the Cross Group and the Palace is key in revealing the building’s sculptures. The process of game play renders buildings into loci of interaction rather than simply sites of observation. At the Palace and the Temple of the Cross, Maya avatars are the means for the player to interact with specific sculptures. Two avatars are models of kings; all of them reflect the historical size of Maya, who rarely exceeded five feet. They afford a mediated, interpersonal interaction with the contents of the inscriptions, and get angry or fall over if players run into them. They are also part of the player experience of building scale: touristsize avatars are too large to enter the buildings. That inability replicates the Maya prohibition against entry for any but ritual specialists; they also engage the player with the Maya use of size as a communicative strategy (fig. 11.5). The monumental scale of some Maya steps have been seen as deliberate attempts to impress and unnerve foreign visitors. Players are able, however, to enter one important architectural pathway: the trapdoor through which Alberto Ruz Lhuillier, in 1948, entered the stairway leading to the tomb of Pakal in the Temple of Inscriptions. Players who descend may push away the lid of the

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Figure 11.2. Fog on landscape; Champion 2015, fig. 2.4.

Figure 11.3. Cave; Champion 2012, fig. 11.

sarcophagus, and find themselves surrounded by swirling lights that index an encounter with the supernatural (Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012, 126). That trapdoor is typical of one of several interactions the game affords with portals, passageways linking earth, sky, and underworld, gods, men, and ancestors. Portals are among the most key Maya metaphors, experienced in architectural spaces, city layouts, iconography, and hand-held mirrors (Champion 2015, 42; Taube 2010; Blainey 2016). The lid of Pakal’s sarcophagus combines more than five images of the portal: the maw of the white bone snake, a sacrificial plate, the flowering tree that links earth and sky, and the two tokens that identify Pakal with the maize-god and his emergence from the crack in the back of the cosmic turtle (Mendez and Karasik 2014; Schele and Villela 1996). A psychoduct, a conduit for the soul’s movement that linked the tomb to the outer temple wall, materializes the portal metaphor in architectural form.

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Figure 11.4. Sky snake; Champion 2012, fig. 12.

Pakal’s sarcophagus itself becomes a portal for players: those who succeed in pushing back its lid enter a portal that leads to a reconstruction of Palenque’s ballcourt (Champion 2006, 20; 2015, 46). Here the players are turned into Maya ball players, and try to kick a rubber ball into the hoop (fig. 11.6). A successful kick triggers thunder and lighting. The connection thus forged between player performance and cosmic responses is an apt gamification of the ballcourts, where performances reordered the political world along cosmic patterns. The ballcourts were at once the primordial sea, the underworld, the portal opening up from the cosmic turtle, and an aitiology for human sacrifice. In architectural terms, they were also defined by the backdrop constituted by the surrounding temples and pyramids. The primordial sea was suggested by the filling of the plastered surfaces with rainwater, the underworld and sacrifices through a range of myths. One myth details how the twin maize gods disturbed the lords of Xibalba, the Maya underworld, with their boisterous ballplaying. The lords summoned them beneath the earth, where they tried, killed, and buried them in their own ballcourt. Resurrected by their posthumous offspring, who defeated the lords of death, these maize gods then sprang from the crack in the back of the cosmic turtle, also homologous with the ballcourt, to begin a new creation. An alternative cosmogony associates these spaces with the ballcourt built by Huitzilopochtli at the base of Snake Mountain, Coatepec, near the place of reeds, Tollan; here transpired the slaughter of the four hundred southerners who had sought to migrate north to found the Aztec state (Fox et al. 1996). Another portal to the netherworld is provided in the game’s cave, which evokes

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Figure 11.5. Avatar interacts with Maya king; Champion 2012, fig. 4.

the cenotes, natural limestone sinkholes in which the Yucatan abounds. The sinkholes were vital historical actors for the Maya: critical sources of fresh water, portals to the underworld where the rain gods lived, and access to the world of the dead. They were, accordingly, the arenas for exchange between the divine and the mortal, in the form of sacrifices both human and material. Eventually they provided safe spaces in which to protect sacred Maya artifacts from disapproving Catholic fathers (Munro and Zurita 2011). The players’ focus on artifact collection in these caves engages them with this function of the cenotes as loci for the accumulation of material evidence of human intentionality, and the reliance on human activity to generate meaning. Maya believed that the passage of every spiritual being through the portal increased its k’ulel, or spiritual force: the power of the portals was agglutinative, expanding and unfixed (Schele and Mathews 1999, 50). Palenque’s designers unleash an array of the interactive modalities possible in video games—visual, verbal, and physical—for augmenting player presence in the agency-rich habitus of Maya spaces. The users’ embodied experience of play overlays spaces and structures in which the performances of ancient Maya, intersecting with the rule structures embedded in narrative, iconography, and cultural memory, could bring new meanings into being. A test group of players took quizzes after their gameplay experience, designed to measure the effectiveness of the various interactive modes the game employs in stimulating player presence. These interactive modes are clearly sig-

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Figure 11.6. Ballcourt; Champion 2012, fig. 13.

naled: players in observational mode click on artwork or tablets for more information; players in instructional mode interact with chatbots; players in activity mode move objects and position the avatar—climbing up stairs, down passageways, pushing back lids and entering swirling lights. Out of these three interactive modalities, environment outweighed interaction in aiding player presence; indeed, adding guides seems to have actually impeded task performance, even though the guides make the location of the task more obvious (Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012, 133, 135). This is an intriguing recommendation of the Gestalt approach to game worlds. While Palenque is a significant step ahead of previous digital renderings in establishing spatial relationship among buildings, placing them in an accurate terrain, and introducing an atmospheric fog, it lacks the photorealism of games such Assassin’s Creed Odyssey. The ecosystem manifests, however, a responsiveness to player performance that highlights the presence of multiple agents in the physical environment. Players who successfully position artifacts in the cave are rewarded by the appearance of the Sky Snake; players who kick the rubber ball through the hoop in the ball court are rewarded with thunder and lightning; players are asked whether or not they noticed the revelation of the crocodile shape in the Primal Mountain. The agency of the player is thus entwined with that of the environment, and the process of accessing those more than visually apparent realities, connected to sacred propositions, seems a significant affective allure. 11.4.2. Sailing with the Gods Sailing with the Gods shares with Palenque a concern to invest a digital landscape with multiple agencies and build an affective player presence in those spaces. The landscape in question is defined by the sea as a locus of Greek

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identity, experience, emotion, and exchange, in which men, gods, poets, and the moral imagination were cotravelers. The Greek literary record offers a significant tool in building game presence: it reflects the deep cultural ambivalence regarding maritime travel that engaged the emotions of both gods and men. Hesiod dwells on the rough gales of the sea and the fierce storms the gods, should it suit their mood, may send on those misguided souls who travel (Op. 618–694). Homer’s warriors delighted, along with the god, at the feast and dance they offered Apollo before putting to sea (Il. 1.474–479). Ancient voices from the literary canon offer the game a high degree of authenticity, as the normative voices through which the Greeks identified themselves. Connectivity through successful sea travel was a fundamental Greek response to life in a landscape characterized by irregular yields and limited arable land: the cultural investment in ritual, symbolism, and narrative around the sea is directly proportional to its centrality in economic and political strategies. The rule structure of Sailing with the Gods derives from the social networks forged in proxenia grants. Proxenia was a civic honor, granted by one ancient city state to a citizen of another in recognition of services rendered, such as offering grain at a low price in times of shortage, or hospitality for its citizens when they pursued business in their ports. It carried as well an expectation of future good behavior. Recipients enjoyed a range of benefits that facilitated movement, political access, information flow, and economic activity. Max Weber was the first to see in this catalog of benefits the relevance for maritime safety, so that proxenia extended the human relationships of cooperation from cities into sea-lanes (Chamoux 2008, 200–209; Davies 1984, 288). Proxenia is profoundly relational, mobilized in the interactions between individuals who chose to share information, abstain from charging fees and taxes, or grant access to city councils. It was bestowed by councils who reflected the conglomerate voice of the city and the people of the town; inscriptions note the emotional eagerness of the recipient (Mack 2015, 81–89). Privileges could extend to affiliates and descendants of the recipient, creating a habitus of interaction that engaged participants in acts of memory and tales of kinship.17 Proxenia was one among many interstate mechanisms that linked scattered Greek cities to each other; it was frequently combined with theoria (Mack 2015, 168–69, 173, 208 and n. 65, 242 and n. 8), the sending of exceptionally worthy citizens to represent their home cities at festival gatherings. Here, under the aegis of the gods, they interacted with their analogues from other Greek cities, rendering the festivals as productive for commerce and politics as they were for celebration of the gods; the combination with proxenia afforded an explicitly religious aspect to a civic institution (Mack 2015, 207, 257).

17. Most famously in the model of the xenia of Glaukos and Diomedes, Il. 6.118–237.

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The island of Samothrace in the northeastern Aegean is especially rich in ritual promises of maritime safety and in the evidence for proxenia grants, with over 900 names and 116 cities, located mostly in Asia Minor, dating between the second century BCE and the first century CE. The mysteries for which the island was most famous offered safety in passage at sea, attributed to a range of daimones, Olympian gods, and local heroes, and connected with ritual practices from magic to apotropaic ship ornaments to St. Elmo’s fire (Blakely 2019). Inscriptions from within the city walls detail the maritime benefits afforded by proxenia grants; thirteen block grants specifically link proxenia to theoria, tying civic benefits to attendance at the island’s festivals (Mack 2015, 330–32; Blakely 2018). Those festivals were distinct from the mysteries, though likely held in the sanctuary used for initiation. Network analysis of that record has identified promising nodes for the investigation of strong ties between political fortunes, local tradition, economic strategies, and the Samothracian rites; these, in the cases of Delos and Mylasa, offers insight into the usefulness of the rites for exceptionally ambitious individuals (Blakely and Mundy 2022). These glimpses of the calculated use of Samothracian connectivity recommend a gamification to offer insight into how proxenic networks could have been used more broadly, as strategies for maritime success, than the few well-preserved cases attest. Sailing with the Gods, now in version 5.4, situates the Samothracian decrees in the larger environment of proxenic networks (https://scholarblogs. emory.edu/samothraciannetworks/the-game/play-the-game/; Blakely 2018, 2020). This has created a vast geospatial extent for the game, reaching from the Adriatic to the north coast of Africa. Player engagement was strategized first through the imposition of a narrative and avatar, in the form of the hero Jason from the Hellenistic Argonautica. As the mythic first voyage of the Greeks, the story affords a paradigmatic quality appropriate for testing cultural maritime norms; the Hellenistic text is especially rich in affect, its heroes prone to paroxysms of fear, love, anticipation, and uncertainty. While Jason provides the digital homunculus for our players, the goal of the game is not the reproduction of the Argo’s voyage, but presence in the Greek heroic paradigm of kleos, identified as “klout.” Kleos is reputation, wealth, and lasting memory, the epic poetic counterpart to the ambition of Hellenistic cities. In the game, this translates into the players’ challenge to get rich, get famous, and not die. Their capacity to level up is directly proportional to the degree to which they move through space and encounter cities, fight pirates, and survive storms, events in which they exercise their agency vis-à-vis the interventions of gods as well as the benefits of their social network. The game is designed to track the degree to which players choose to depart from the Argonautica’s quest in response to proxenic networks. This is consistent with the historical reality of myth as emergent, adaptive, and polyform, in contrast to the literary canon; it is also resonant with the open flexibility of proxenia as a cultural institution enabling

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the unfolding of relationships in an intricately networked Hellenistic world. The cultural meanings, for example, of both myth and proxenia emerge at the point of use, not in structure or canon. Players encounter their avatar Jason in visual and narrative form; they encounter proxenia in the “network” discussion in pop-ups and the algorithmic structures of the game. Sailing with the Gods shares with Palenque a concern for cultural and historical accuracy, even in the absence of visual photorealism. Ancient texts encountered in game play offer a cultural authenticity and emotional presence that complements the historical accuracy of resources used in the game’s programming. The topographic map is scaled and georeferenced using satellite imaging data, and city placement taken from Pleiades (Blakely 2020, 107; https:// pleiades.stoa.org/). Players experience the curvature of the earth as viewed from a height of ten meters; fog fades in at about fifteen kilometers, appropriate for the experience of movement over the surface of the sea. The stars were programmed to be in the appropriate positions for the year 200 BCE, using a predictive model of axial precession set by NASA.18 Crewmen experience fatigue and dehydration in accordance with data from the National Academies Institute of Medicine and NASA, increased slightly in order to reflect the hard labor of rowing and managing sails in direct sunlight and high winds (Blakely 2020, 107 and n. 4). Interactive sequences in storms, pirate encounters, and at port provide the framework for players to speak and be spoken to in ancient voices. Storms are announced with pop-ups, texts that emphasize that the sea on which the player sails is animated by divine will, potentially responsive to ritual performance, and full of the metaphoric forces behind dolphins, seabirds, and cuttlefish (fig. 11.7). These may anthropomorphize the sea, as Archilochus’s “streaming hair of the gray salt water” (F 12, Lattimore 1960) or Hesiod’s description of one constellation fleeing another in an ominous sky (Op. 620–621). Players have the option of trying to calm the sea with ritual means: the seers with whom they interact introduce them to the broad panoply of ancient gods linked to the sea, including Apollo and Aphrodite, harbor gods, Melikertes, Ino-Leukothea, and the Old Man of the Sea. Among their options for action are the performance of hymns and the promise of votives (fig. 11.8). Lyric poetry offers a wide range of emotions for these. Players may find themselves speaking in the voices of humble fishermen from Hellenistic epigram, offering mullet and hake fish, handkneaded barley cakes, little libation cups, and tiny bits of oil; the same voices offer an array of gloomy reflections on the uncertainties of ritual as guarantors of success (Apollonides, AP 6.105, Gow and Page 1965, #1; Antiphilus, AP 10.17, Gow and Page 1965, #11). Selections from epic poetry let players contemplate 18. The constellation maps were taken from NASA’s Tycho Catalog Starmap and Deep Star Maps. The formula for axial precession used is referenced from Capitaine, Wallace, and Chapront 2003, 581.

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Figure 11.7. Pop-up storm text, Sailing with the Gods.

the permeability of the divide between mortal and divine in the context of the sea (Od. 5.333); an Orphic hymn summons the mysteries of Proteus, capable of transmuting matter (Orphic Hymn 25, Athanassakis 1977). Should a watery death seem imminent, the players engage with the most mournful of genres, the grave epigram: the cenotaph for a man whose remains never reached the shore, a bitter image of the ships who sailed on while the tomb’s inhabitants drowned (Theodoridas AP 7.282, Gow and Page 1965, #19), or the exasperated atheism of Aristagoras who tells the reader “go ahead and pray for safe passage: Aristagoras, who is buried here, knows that the sea is the sea is the sea.”19 The range and specificity of emotions as well as gods offers a player’s glimpse into an ancient sea as full of human voices and memories as divine powers and possible outcomes, one that invites their own emotional investment. Pirate encounters take simplified form: a card game in which the players pit members of their own crew against pirates of Aetolian, Illyrian, Cretan, or Etruscan origin (fig. 11.9). The dialogue texts engage affective responses distinct from those of the storm sequence; the interactions also offer player experience with the practical benefits of their social proxenic networks. A pirate pop-up (fig. 11.10) initiates the encounter; these include an ancient text emphasizing the ambivalence regarding piracy, which was condemned on the one hand as lawless and impious, respected on the other for the warrior ethos of its practitioners.20 Players make one of three choices: run away, fight, or bargain with the pirates. Each option engages the player with interactions via ancient texts 19. Aristagoras in Antipater of Thessalonica, AP 7. 639, Gow and Page 1965, #59; other selections are drawn from Posidippus, see Di Nino 2006. 20. Examples include Polybius 4.67; Augustine De civ. D. 4.4; Plutarch, Pompey 24.

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Figure 11.8. Votive text after storm, Sailing with the Gods.

and the emotions those involve. First encounters are a poetry slam of insults: the players may declare, using epic poetry, “You are a drunk, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer!” (Il. 1.225); the pirates may respond with lyric, “a towering captain with the spraddly length of leg … who swaggers in his lovelocks and cleanshaves beneath the chin!” (Archilochus F 7, Lattimore 1960). Should players choose to fight, either side may brag in the voice of Homer, “I will strip you naked and whip your ass out of here, / And send you back to your ships, howling and bawling!” (Il. 2.243–244) or suggest, like the Athenian comic Aristophanes, that they grunt like piglets and go run after their mother (Plutus 305) They may encourage the nonplaying characters of their crew with didactic poetry “Strife is good for mortals!” (Hesiod Op. 24) or lyric bravado, “Bare your chest to the assault of the enemy, and fight them off!” (Archilochus F 9, Lattimore 1960). They may also dissolve into self-reflection, contemplating their weary hearts, the physical affects of fear, or hallucinations of death: Heart, my heart, so battered with misfortune far beyond your strength, Up, and face the men who hate us! (Archilochus F 9, Lattimore 1960) A sudden copious sweat flows down my flesh and I tremble. (Mimnermus, Nanno, CURFRAG tlg-0255.5) Here beside us stand the black Death-Spirits…. The harvest of youth is as quickly come as the rising Sun spreads his light abroad. (Mimnermus, CURFRAG.tlg-0255.2)

The maritime landscape is as full of emotion as it is of gods, mortal enemies, storms, cliffs, and mountains that occlude the view. Players may emerge from their pirate encounters in a range of conditions, either robbed, sold into slavery, or conscripted into the pirate’s ranks. Proxenia

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Figure 11.9. Pirate attack and play instructions, Sailing with the Gods.

networks in the game offer a significant counter to these risks, consistent with historical arguments that asylia clauses in proxenia decrees rendered illegal the practices of seizure which were fundamental to piracy.21 Every crewman brings with him the proxenia network of his home city; players access these by clicking on the tiles of each nonplaying character. These networks shape piratical outcomes only when players actively choose to bargain, rather than 21. The number of states eager for proxenia with Aetolia, famous for its piratical skills, has been seen as a manifestation of this pattern: Davies 1984, 285–90; Chamoux 2008, 201–9, contra Grainger 1999, 4–25, 24.

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Figure 11.10. Pirate pop-up, Sailing with the Gods.

Figure 11.11. Portside with Telones, Sailing with the Gods.

fight or run away. Arrival in port offers another chance to deploy proxenia to one’s own benefit, and experience interactions in the emotive language of ancient poetry. Ports are critical loci for leveling up. Here players may repair the ship, engage in trade, build monuments to themselves, and gain strategic information. They must first, however, encounter the Telones, the tax farmer whose own well-being relied on extracting taxes and fees from incoming ships (fig. 11.11). The Telones manifests greed, patriotism, suspicion, and nervous uncertainty in his interactions with the Jason avatar, signaled through varying facial expressions as well as their dialogue (fig. 11.12). That verbal exchange

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Figure 11.12. Moods of the Telones: suspicious (left), shocked (center), and patriotic (right); drawn by Phoebe Han.

is thick with comic insults, civic pride that borders on narcissism, and cynical reflections on the greed of both sides. These draw on Pindar, Bacchylides, Hesiod, and Aristophanes as well as Theophrastus’s Characteres. The negotiations about fees and taxes, and the degree to which the benefits of proxenia may lessen these, include discussion of the multiple civic functions—cults, festivals, war, and politics, as well as upkeep of docks and shipyards—for which the ship may be charged. These are the financial manifestation, with direct bearing on the player’s ability to level up, of the complex relationship into which ancient actors were drawn at the point of entering and exiting a port. The interpenetration of the civic and maritime that informs proxenia decrees becomes part of the embodied experience of play, articulated through affective ancient voices. Palenque offers an exceptionaly helpful model for testing the impact of these affective elements on player choice. Sailing with the Gods anticipates tests of at least four kinds, once a suitably bug-free version of the game has been achieved. Simple quizzes can gauge retention of cultural information learned in different ports. Comma delimited spreadsheets, created with player consent, may support three different tests. These spreadsheets store the data generated by player choices in a system of temporally distinct linear routes; data include latitude and longitude, cargo manifest, names of crewmembers, and the health

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of the crew in terms of hydration and nutritional needs. Uploaded spreadsheets can be imported as layers into a GIS program to create a visual record of the different routes taken by different players: these provide the basis for measuring departure from or consistency with the Argonautica’s path, to be accompanied by information on the player’s earlier familiarity with the epic. The record of ports and routes, derived from the same CSV files, can be converted to nodes and edges for a network graph, ultimately enabling comparative analysis of the networks formed in the digital world with the networks reconstructed from the epigraphic record. Analysis of the evolution of routes taken by individual players over time will be combined with surveys to gauge the degree to which players engage with their social networks to lower costs, reduce risks, and increase their access to information. 11.5. Conclusions: Studying Games, Studying Cultures Religion generates and is articulated in a broad array of interactions: with landscapes, with people, and with material objects. Those interactions access supernatural, magical, and narrative propositions that may be as materially invisible as they are culturally powerful. In the Maya and Greek contexts explored in these two games, those interactions between operational and cognized realms enable cultural functions of politics, mobility, and economic exchange. The games designed to explore these worlds foreground the agency of players. To the extent that players must interact successfully with the elements in the material and cultural environment—the built structures and multiple portals of Palenque’s universe, the social networks and ritually responsive seascapes of the Greek Mediterranean—the agentive forces of these cultural universes becomes part of the experience of play. The Palenque project engages a raft of interactive forms focused on player interactions, including inquiry and simulated movement through architectural spaces. Interactions in Sailing with the Gods make particular use of the emotional, affective voices of the ancient Greek world to situate players in the world of the game. The games raise three distinctive potentialities for the study of religion in virtual spaces. The first is the heuristic value of Gestalt approaches to digital worlds. Both Palenque and Sailing with the Gods, in their focus on human interactions in landscapes in which gods are one form of agency, suggest that an archaeogaming of ancient religions relies less on photorealistic renderings than player engagement with cultural factors that lie beyond the surfaces of artifacts. The second arises from the educational, outreach, and heritage goals of games focused on the ancient world, the ambition to render players conscious of the habitus that was inherent and unexamined in ancient contexts. This positions the data generated in the game in etic spaces, which are the interpretive edges that define the anthropological contribution to religion. Paradigms for using these data may draw, on the one hand, from the anthropological tradi-

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tions of participant observation. They should also, however, be placed in conversation with theories of procedural rhetoric and the evidence from studies of games such as Tetris. These highlight the potential for game play to rewire the cognitive pathways of players, so that they move beyond conscious calculation and acculturate to the world of the game. Palenque demonstrates the challenge of this acculturation. Analysis of player outcomes suggested that self-identified gamers interacted differently than those who were relative newcomers to virtual spaces. The more experienced the gamers, the less they focused on exploration of the environment, and the less seriously they took the most interactive portions of the game (Champion, Bishop, and Dave 2012, 138). To the degree that these interactions drew from conventional game-style interactions, these options allowed the players to focus on the completion of tasks rather than cultural exploration. This is consistent with studies demonstrating the effect of previous computer gaming experience on perception and navigation within virtual environments.22 It also underscores the divide between the modern players in virtual worlds and embodied, material engagement in historical and archaeological spaces.23 This risk, that the game may overtake the antiquity, points to third potentiality for an archaeogaming of religion, building on Michael Caulfield’s (2018) observations on information literacy. Caulfield draws on Jean Baudrillard’s concept of hyperreality: in the age of simulation, signs are increasingly detached from their referents. As the outside world separates from the digital infosphere, digital experiences become themselves a form of information, more compelling than the ancient sites and cultural data to which archaeogames refer. Hyperreality thus sets a challenge to the core proposal of archaeogames as serious games, the transferability of skills and cultural knowledge from the game to the outside world. Baudrillard’s hyperreal has been faulted, however, specifically for its inadequate attention to agency (Ryan 2007; Kellner 2020). The dynamic relationship between agency and affect encourages the hypothesis that an increased cultivation of affect in game worlds, through elements grounded in the cultural norms of the subject culture, may stimulate a reaction more empathetic than task-oriented, and with it a reflection on the relationship between digital experience and ancient realities. Multiple studies of games and empathy confirm the potential for digital experiences to build empathy expressed in social contexts in real time (Belman and Flanagan 2010; Jerrett, Howell, and Dansey 2020). That same empathy informs the best explorations of the human lives conducted in the archaeological past; this is a promising outlook for an archaeogaming of religion. The capacity for varying degrees of discernment between the hyperreal and the deep past means that the value of 22. Smith and Du’Mont 2009; Basu and Johnsen 2018. On differing levels of skill and engagement, see Mäyrä 2008, 165–67 and 14–21; Aarseth 2003. 23. For the role of cultural context in shaping the meaning of game play, see Upton 2015, 9–22.

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Smith, Shamus P., and Sam Du’Mont. 2009. “Measuring the Effect of Gaming Experience on Virtual Environment Navigation Tasks.” 2009 IEEE Symposium on 3D User Interfaces 2009:3–10. https://doi.org/10.1109/3DUI.2009.4811198. Sommerseth, Hanna. 2007. “‘Gamic Realism’: Player, Perception, and Action in Video Game Play.” Pages 765–68 in Proceedings of the 2007 DiGRA International Conference: Situated Play, vol. 4. Online: http://www.digra.org/wp-content/uploads/ digital-library/07311.57232.pdf Stam, Kathryn, and Michael Scialdone. 2008. “Where Dreams and Dragons Meet: An Ethnographic Analysis of Two Examples of Massive Multiplayer Online RolePlaying Games (MMORPGs).” Heidelberg Journal of Religions on the Internet 3:61–95. https://doi.org/10.11588/rel.2008.1.389. Stanco , Filippo, and Davide Tanasi. 2013. “Beyond Virtual Replicas: 3DModeling and Maltese Prehistoric Architecture.” Journal of Electrical and Computer Engineering 2013:430905. https://doi.org/10.1155/2013/430905. Statista. 2018. Number of Active Virtual Reality Users Worldwide from 2014 to 2018 (in Millions). https://www.statista.com/statistics/426469/active-virtual-reality-users-worldwide/. ———. 2020a. Value of the Global Video Games Market from 2011 to 2020 (in Billion U.S. Dollars). https://www.statista.com/statistics/246888/value-of-the-global-videogame-market/. ———. 2020b. Data Volume of Global Online Gaming Traffic from 2015 to 2020 (in Petabytes per Month). https://www.statista.com/statistics/267194/forecast-of-internet-traffic-by-subsegment/. Steffen, Oliver. 2012. “Introduction: Approaches to Digital Games in the Study of Religions.” Pages 249–59 in Religions in Play: Games, Rituals and Virtual Worlds. Edited by Philippe Bornet and Maya Burger. Culturel 2. Zurich: Pano. Svanaes, Dag. 2013. “Interaction Design for and with the Lived Body: Some Implications of Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology.” ACM Transactions on Computer-Human Interactions 20.1:article 8, pp. 1–30. https://doi.org/10.1145/2442106.2442114. Tamborini, Ron, and Nicholas Bowman. 2010. “Presence in Video Games.” Pages 87–109 in Immersed in Media: Telepresence in Everyday Life. Edited by Cheryl Campanella Bracken and Paul Skalski. New York: Routledge. Tarlow, Sarah. 2000. “Emotion in Archaeology.” CA 41:713–46. https://doi. org/10.1086/317404. ———. 2012. “The Archaeology of Emotion and Affect.” Annual Review of Anthropology 41:169–85. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-anthro-092611-145944. Taube, Karl. 2010. “Gateways to Another World: The Symbolism of Supernatural Passageways in the Art And Ritual of Mesoamerica and the American Southwest.” Pages 73–120 in Painting the Cosmos: Metaphor and Worldview in Images from the Southwest Pueblos and Mexico. Edited by Kelley Hays-Gilpin and Polly Schaafsma. Museum of Northern Arizona Bulletin. Flagstaff: Museum of Northern Arizona. Theilhaber, Karla. 2019. “From Background to Protagonist: Spatial Concepts in ‘Portal’ and ‘Echochrome.’” Pages 61–74 in Ludotopia: Spaces, Places and Territories in Computer Games. Edited by Espen Aarseth and Stephan Günzel. Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783839447307-004. Tost, Laia Pujol, and Erik Malcolm Champion. 2007. “A Critical Examination of Presence

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Applied to Cultural Heritage.” Pages 245–56 in Presence 2007: The 10th Annual International Workshop on Presence. Edited by Lara Moreno. Barcelona: Starlab. Upton, Brian. 2015. The Aesthetic of Play. Cambridge: MIT Press. Uricchio, William. 2005. “Simulation, History, and Computer Games.” Pages 327–38 in Handbook of Computer Game Studies. Edited by Joost Raessens and Jeffrey Goldstein. Cambridge: MIT Press. Weibel, David, and Bartholomäus Wissmath. 2011. “Immersion in Computer Games: The Role of Spatial Presence and Flow.” International Journal of Computer Games Technology 2011:282345. https://doi.org/10.1155/2011/282345. Willaert, Kate. 2019. “The Most Important Video Game You’ve Never Heard Of.” https:// www.acriticalhit.com/sumerian-game-most-important-video-game-youve-never-heard/. Winnerling, Tobias. 2014. “The Eternal Recurrence of All Bits: How Historicizing Video Game Series Transform Factual Accuracy into Affective Historicity.” Eludamos: Journal for Computer Game Cultures 8:151–70. https://doi.org/10.7557/23.6432. Wylie, Alison. 2017. “How Archaeological Evidence Bites Back: Strategies for Putting Old Data to Work in New Ways.” Science, Technology and Human Values 42:203– 25. https://doi.org/10.1177/0162243916671200. Zarandona, José Antonio González, Adam Chapman, and Darshana Jayemanne. 2018. “Heritage Destruction and Videogames: Ethical Challenges of the Representation of Cultural Heritage.” Transactions of the Digital Games Research Association 4:173–203. https://doi.org/10.26503/todigra.v4i2.93.

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EPILOGUE Ancient Religion and Modern Science: A Coevolution Ian Rutherford

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his volume is an ambitious exercise in bringing together three disciplines: on the one hand the study of ancient religion and on the other hand two interrelated forms of science, human science and data science. “Human science” includes various disciplines that have come to be grouped under that name in modern universities such as psychology, including evolutionary psychology and behavioral science. And data science covers mathematical and statistical techniques, greatly enabled by digital technology, which open up new possibilities in the analysis, organization, and presentation of information. These two are conceptually distinct, but in practice mutually dependent: it seems obvious that human science, like any theory about the world, needs a supply of good data; but data in the human sciences is not just a given in the physical universe; it is something that researchers have a role in identifying and organizing into an intelligible form.1 For students of ancient religion, the challenge is bringing science and historical data together into a fine-tuned methodological harmony, a process of “consilience,” to use Edward Wilson’s (1998) term. Students of ancient religion can draw on human science and data science individually or in combination or themselves find a way of combining them. Scientific approaches are nothing new for the study of ancient religion. A century ago (as the introduction showed) it was drawing on insights from anthropology and sociology, work that went on to become mainstream in the second half of the twentieth century. In fact, scholars working on ancient religion seem to have had a particular fondness for these approaches, perhaps because religious systems resembling Greco-Roman polytheism seem to be universal in early cultures, not just within the broader region of the ancient Mediterranean and Western Asia, but more broadly in the tribal cultures studied by early anthropologists. This insight actually goes right back to the ancient Greeks (e.g., Herodotus). Such parallels naturally raise broad questions about why these beliefs and practices seem to be so widespread, and how things came to be that way, whether it’s a matter of human nature or something else. And it seemed logical to join forces with scholars in other disciplines to explore such

1. See Johanna Drucker’s distinction between data and capta mentioned by Mazurek, Langenfeld, and Gorham, ch. 7 in the present volume.

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questions. Religion has thus been good to compare with and good to theorize with for a very long time. The disciplinary dynamics are similar, then, but the science has changed. The emphasis now is on the human mind: how it works, how it understands the world and relates to other people; how it is organized; what its main components are—emotions, sense, memory, language, sense of self—and how it came to be that way. And to answer these questions scientists have fine-tuned methods of analyzing data beyond anything known in the nineteenth century. For students of ancient religion this means a shift away from a focus on sociology, which dominated the twentieth century, and toward individual experience, agency, and belief. The volume of new research being published all the time can seem daunting, particularly for scholars in the humanities who don’t necessarily have experience with scientific techniques of proof and analysis. But it is important that they keep abreast of new approaches; the alternative is the tendency, still often found in the humanities, including ancient religion, to hang on to old and long outdated work.2 The papers in this volume set out to explore how scholars of ancient religion use and often combine human sciences and data science in their work. Some papers focus on explanatory models drawn from the human sciences. Maggie Popkin’s (ch. 4) data are statues that she takes to be festival souvenirs from Roman Cologne, and she illuminates these by applying the concept of memory studies from psychology. She shows how the implied social use of these figures implies both retrospective memory (episodic, semantic) and probably also prospective memory. For Dan-el Pedilla Peralta (ch. 10) the data are the images on Roman coins from the third century BCE to which he applies Baudrillardian semiotics, seeing them as embodying “hyperreal” image worlds that reinforce the ideological message of the Roman state. Megan Daniels (ch. 2) looks at archaeological evidence for communal feasting in Early Iron Age, interpreting this through the lens of recent work on ritual and state formation that is based on the model of evolutionary game theory developed by economists. In his contribution Jacob Latham (ch. 5) interrogates the evidence for one of the great Roman festivals, the spectacular Pompa Circensis, using analytic tools derived from anthropology (“liturgical order”), religious studies (“ritualization”), and social theory (“habitus”). Other papers address the equally complex issue of data. First, there is the problem of uncritical use of data. In her analysis of the location of sanctuaries in Crete and Greece Sarah Murray (ch. 8) shows how the crude use of published 2. Joseph Carroll in the introduction to Darwin’s Bridge (2016, xxii) mentions a number of such cases. An example of an outdated model in the study of ancient religion might be the notion of “rites of passage,” the canonical statement of which was by Arnold van Gennep in 1908 (drawing on even earlier anthropological work).

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archaeological data without consideration of how it was acquired can result in widely misleading conclusions. Lindsey Mazurek, Kathryn Langenfeld, and Benjamin Gorham (ch. 7) make a related point in their study of the rich epigraphical evidence from Roman Ostia; they warn that this is not strictly objective data available to researchers in the natural world, but rather something doubly shaped by human agency, first when it was created, and then when it was put to use by modern researchers. Second, digital technology enables us to find patterns in data and visualize it in ways that give us new insight into how ancient people experienced their world. In the chapter on Ostia Mazurek, Langenfeld, and Gorham (ch. 7) show how the inscriptions allow them to reconstruct and visualize social and religious networks there, mapping them onto the topography of the town. Similarly, Sebastian Heath’s (ch. 6) dazzling analysis of the spatial distribution of amphitheaters in the Roman Empire yields new insight into the significance of relative positions and its implications for human interactions. Sandra Blakely’s (ch. 11) case study shows how by engaging interactively with a simulation of the past by a video game, players can get more authentic experience than is available from other sources (e.g., either reading about in in a book or watching a film). She illustrates this with examples from Mayan culture and from the religious networks round Samothrace in the Aegean. In both of these the players have to make decisions and engage emotionally in the situation, experiencing something of the individual agency that must have been involved in the original situations. The elephant in the room is the emergent field known as the cognitive science of religion (CSR), which uses both these approaches (see, e.g., Geertz 2016, 2020). It applies cognitive science and psychology to understanding religion and its origins, debating whether it is a natural, adaptive capacity of some sort (because religion is prosocial), or a byproduct of some natural capacity, or a cultural response to the emergence of the earliest complex societies. It also uses data from different cultures to support these arguments. As has often been observed, this is not entirely new: broad questions about the origin of religion have been asked since the nineteenth century, and people were compiling religious encyclopedias then as well (Strenski 2018, Smith 2009, 41). Still, rapid advances in cognitive science in the last few decades allow these questions to be asked in new ways. Thus far, it must be said, CSR has done no more that sketch out general possibilities, and there is little agreement, except perhaps that however it came about religion was in some sense an asset to early humans. Cognitive science of religion is by this point well known to students of ancient religion (see in particular Jennifer Larson’s 2016 monograph on Greek religion, or Brett Maiden’s 2020 book on Israelite religion). While the present

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volume inevitably engages with some of the key issues of interest to CSR (e.g., the origin of religion: Daniels [ch. 2], Larson [ch. 3]), the range of topics covered are not limited to those, and the emphasis is more on the psychological and social processes that religion uses and instantiates. One issue in CSR that is addressed here is the controversial hypothesis that belief in an “all-seeing moralistic god” was crucial condition for the development of complex societies (i.e., societies post-Neolithic; Norenzayan 2013). This has become intensely controversial recently: an article published in Nature in 2019 (Whitehouse et al. 2019) seemed to have established the reverse position, that complex societies precede the emergence of all-seeing gods, but this thesis has in turn been challenged because of gaps in the big-data repository used (http://seshatdatabank.info/) and the article retracted (see Beheim et al. 2021). This hypothesis of the “all-seeing moralistic god” is discussed by Jennifer Larson (ch. 3) in this volume, showing that the data (mostly literary texts) for early Greece don’t fit any formulation of it: big gods seem to be active in some areas, but not in others. There could be no better illustration of a theme of central concern to this volume: the need for a rigorous methodology combining control of theory and engagement with data. We are clearly living at the start of a new and very intense phase of scientific research, perhaps even a new age, as it has been called. People might be understandably alarmed. Data science in particular has even been presented as a threat to humanity—and so presumably to the humanities as well (Harari 2016). In fact, of course, it’s a massive opportunity and the potential seems almost unlimited. How things will develop in the next few decades is anyone’s guess. Even if we don’t swap the library for a metaversal simulation anytime soon, it seems likely that we will be accessing, processing, and visualizing data faster and in greater quantities than we ever imagined. Meanwhile, interactive digital visualizations of rituals and sacred places could play a transformative role in teaching and research. It is also to be expected that human sciences will have a bigger profile. People in the humanities sometimes resent interference from science because they see it as reductive or because the humanities is supposed to have its own methodologies (i.e., they reject the idea of consilience). But this seems misguided: we are not going to be pressured into accepting some monolithic scientific ideology. Rather, the human sciences will continue provide a rich discourse of ideas, models, arenas of intense speculation and debate. It is obviously desirable that research and teaching on ancient religion should include some general familiarity with the forms of science discussed in this volume. In the same way, perhaps, that people working on literature and other aspects of the humanities presuppose familiarity with various forms of theory, the study

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of ancient religion needs an agreement on terminological language and on the sort of methodologies that can be used.3 As this work proceeds, it seems likely that we will want to establish crosscultural databases of religious practice—of the sort that M. Willis Monroe (ch. 9) discusses in his paper—with a common system of categories (ontologies, as they are sometimes called) to make it easier for people working in different fields to share knowledge. It would not be surprising if there is a resurgence of interest in comparing cultures, both ancient and modern. Some things may turn out to be more or less panhuman and universal, while other things vary from one region to another. A second form of variation is chronological: we need to understand how forms of religion map onto changing political and social systems, but also why some religious elements seem to be stubborn skeuomorphs from earlier stages. It would be too much, perhaps, to imagine a new form religious history on a panhuman scale, along the lines of Michael Witzel’s work on panhuman mythology. A more manageable outcome, perhaps, is that we come to understand our own field, ancient Mediterranean religion, better. One question that might be raised, for example, is to what extent the religions of the ancient Mediterranean and Western Asia constitute a sort of religious “koine,” being more similar to each other than they are to religious systems elsewhere in the world. Are there greater differences between, say, Mediterranean and Chinese culture, of the sort recently discussed by Geoffrey Lloyd (2018)? And how can we begin to quantify this sort of difference? In that case, just as we have come to think of modern Western cultures as WEIRD (western, educated, industrialized, rich, and democratic) and thus different from other cultures, could it be argued that we have a distinctive ancient MediterraneanWestern Asiatic (AMWA) religious zone? Finally, in all of this, it is important to remember that consilience is a twoway street: as well as importing theoretical models from the sciences, scholars of ancient religion could in principle help to shape those models, or even be contribute theoretical models of their own. A good example of this is the late Walter Burkert, who developed his own methodology, drawing on a wide range of theoretical sources; it has been suggested that Burkert’s approach is as good as anything offered by CSR, and one could even see it as an early form of CSR.4 This should not be an exception. Scholars of ancient religion need to be exporters of theory: cognizant of current work in the sciences, marrying this to data from their own discipline in which they have unique expertise, and so coming up with theoretical models that are at once psychologically and histori-

3. It is disappointing that the recent Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum (2004–2006) doesn’t contain an entry on theory, science, etc. 4. Smith 2009, 49–54, thinking in particular of Burkert 1996.

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cally realistic. Is it too much to dream that they should be thinking beyond the narrow comfort zone of their own discipline, and aiming as well to have an impact on more general intellectual debates? References Beheim, Bret, et al. 2021. “Treatment of Missing Data Determined Conclusions Regarding Moralizing Gods.” Nature 595:E29–E34. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-02103655-4. Burkert, Walter. 1996. Creation of the Sacred: Tracks of Biology in Early Religions. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Carroll, Joseph. 2016. “Introduction.” Pages xix–xlvi in Darwin’s Bridge: Uniting the Humanities and Sciences. Edited by Joseph Carroll, Dan P. McAdams, Edward O Wilson. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Geertz, Armin W. 2016. “Cognitive Science.” Pages 97–111 in The Oxford Handbook of the Study of Religion. Edited by Michael Stausberg and Steven Engler. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780198729570.013.7. ———. 2020. “How Did Ignorance Become Fact in American Religious Studies? A Reluctant Reply to Ivan Strenski.” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 86:365–403. van Gennep, Arnold. 1908–1914. Religions, moeurs et légendes: Essaie d’ethnographie et de linguistique. 5 vols. Paris: Société du Mercure de France. Harari, Yuval N. 2016. Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow. London: Signal Books. Larson, Jennifer. 2016. Understanding Greek Religion: A Cognitive Approach. London: Routledge. Lloyd, Geoffrey E. R. 2018. The Ambivalences of Rationality: Ancient and Modern CrossCultural Explorations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Maiden, Brett E. 2020. Cognitive Science and Ancient Israelite Religion: New Perspectives on Texts, Artefacts, and Culture. Society for Old Testament Study Monograph Series. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Norenzayan, Ara. 2013. Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Smith, Barbara Herrnstein. 2009. Natural Reflections: Human Cognition at the Nexus of Science and Religion. Terry Lectures. New Haven: Yale University Press. Strenski, Ivan. 2018. “What Can the Failure of Cog-Sci of Religion Teach Us about the Future of Religious Studies?” Pages 206–21 in The Question of Methodological Naturalism. Edited by Jason N. Blum. Supplements to Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 11. Leiden: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004372436_010. Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum. 2004–2006. 7 vols. Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Unit. Whitehouse, Harvey, et al. 2019 (retracted). “Complex Societies Precede Moralizing Gods throughout World History.” Nature 568: 226–29. https://doi.org/10.1038/ s41586-019-1043-4. Wilson, Edward O. 1998. Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge. New York: Knopf.

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Subject Index

Page numbers in italics refer to figures; t after page number refers to table; n after page number refers to note

Abrahamic religions, 72, 77, 82, 89 Achaea, 43, 44, 153, 164 Actaeon, 15, 157 aes grave. See coinage Aetolia, 41n17, 51, 307n21 affect, definition of, 20, 290 Africa Proconsularis, 15, 137, 138, 142, 153–54, 153, 162–67, 164 agency big data approach and, 214–15 cognitive and evolutionary models for, 11, 12, 13, 108 divine, 76, 293 of epigraphic texts, 176, 178 individual, 7, 10, 76, 188n13, 214, 290–92, 323 of objects, 13, 20, 94, 108 of research designers, 16 within social networks, 181 theory, 18, 19, 284–85, 289–90. See also habitus (political) transformation and human, 33, 48–52 Agent Based Modeling (ABM), 294 aggrandizers, 39, 48, 51–52 Agios Dimitrios cemetery (Fthiotis), 50 Alexander the Great, 258, 288 Alternative Reality Games (ARG). See games Amnisos (Crete), 208n6, 210 amphitheater definition of, 137, 141 minimum and maximal view on importance of, 138–39 riots at, 146, 155, 156, 166 seating capacity of, 136, 137, 140, 147,

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161–65, 164, 165, 167 and urbanism, 138, 167 Amyklai, 40, 48 ancestors, 41, 107, 124, 295, 296, 298 Anfiteatro Campano (Capua), 140, 156–58, 157, 158, 163, 165 animals, fighting involving, 137, 155, 159, 160, 161 Anubis, 185n11, 194, 197 Apollo. See also Kalapodi, Apollo sanctuary (Abai) Daphnophoros temple (Eretria), 48 depicted on coins, 254, 264n50 Hyakinthos (Laconia), 212n15 musical contest with Marsyas, 156 sanctuary at Amyklai, 48 sanctuary at Delos, 194n20 in the Iliad, 73, 81, 302 in Sailing with the Gods, 304 apophoreta. See gift: apophoreta apsidal building, 33n4, 48 Arcadia. See Mount Lykaion (Arcadia) archaism (primordialism), 121–24, 127 Argos, 44n22, 51 Artemis Elaphebolos. See Diana (Artemis) Artemision (Ephesus). See Diana (Artemis) as, 260, 261, 262, 270 ash altars, 41, 44, 210 asulia (also asylia), 13, 86–87, 307 Atelier des petites estampilles, 266–67, 267, 268 Athena (Minerva), 55n40, 96, 101, 105, 252, 264n48, 266 Augustus, emperor amphitheaters during reign of, 141

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Augustus, emperor (continued) archaism during reign of, 121–22 and cult of Janus, 249–50, 260n34 festivals connected to house of, 104n15 authority. See also palace centralized, 12, 33, 49, 55–56 divine and human, 85 feasting and, 39, 49–52 hereditary, 34–35 legitimate, 39 noncentralized, 35, 49 numinous, 19 religious and political, 55, 119, 124 Roman, 15 tripods and, 53–54 Aydelotte, William, 235n23, 237, 243 Baetica, 140, 153, 154, 164 behavior, prosocial. See prosociality belief, religious of divine punishment, 11, 75–77, 80–81, 82n19, 87n26 in omniscient moralistic god(s), 13, 36, 72, 77, 83, 89, 324 and practice, 7, 227, 228–30, 235, 236–38, 321–22 bifrontality, 255, 261–62, 272 Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict. See Norenzayan, Ara Bourdieu, Pierre doxa, 295 habitus, 14, 17, 128–29, 289–90, 292 “social alchemy”, 39 Britannia, 94, 142, 153, 154, 164 building block approach, 225, 228–30 bull(-calf) motif. See coinage: bull motif; iconography: bull motif burial. See also tombs in ancient literature, 73, 75–76, 88 (feasting and) elite, 41, 47–48, 51 epigraphic display related to, 191–94 Mycenaean, 34, 41, 43 practices, 41, 47–48, 51, 236–37, 257n26, 290 in video games, 288 warrior, 43, 51

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calendar Codex-, 100 Fasti Praenestini, 103, 104 Feriale Duranum, 103 festival, 13–14, 94, 99–100, 103–4, 107 Maya, 297 religious, 284 Cannae (Italy), 263–64 Capitolia, 167, 168 capta, 16, 20, 187, 321n1 Carthage (Tunesia) amphitheater of, 137, 163 confrontation with Rome, 248, 263 manipulation of the Janiform motif by, 263–64 Castor and Pollux. See Dioscuri CCAA. See Cologne, Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (CCAA) Centauromachy, 15, 157 chariot figurine of, 43, 48 plaustrum, 127 in processions, 118, 127, 128, 131 tensae, 127, 128 choreography, ritual, 118, 120, 122–24, 127–28, 130, 131 circus procession. See pompa circensis city-state. See also polis (poleis) Carthage as hellenized, 264 development of, 33, 53, 72, 74, 83 Etruscan, 257, 262n41 Greek (polis), 79, 81, 83, 88, 207, 264, 266, 302 mercantile, 31 Rome, 248, 257, 262n41 treasuries dedicated by, 55 Civilization (video game), 288, 290 cognitive science of religion (CSR), 7–13, 17–19, 36–37, 72, 323–25. See also evolutionary science of religion (ESR) coinage. See also iconography; power: of numismatic iconography aes grave, 259, 266, 267 Agrigentine bronze litrae, 262, 263 as, 260, 261, 262, 270 of the Brettian League, 265 bull motif on, 252, 254 Carthaginian shekel, 263, 264



Subject Index

to commemorate, 20, 111 didrachms, 258 Dioscuri (Castor and Pollux) on, 252, 257–61 dupondius, 257, 258, 261 Janiform, 17–18, 248–51, 252, 255–65 Janus-prow motif, 260, 261n38, 267–70 Locriate issue, 256, 257 oath-taking motif, 255–56 prow motif, 253, 254 Punic, 264 quadrigati, 255, 257–58, 259, 263 Servilian triens, 260n35, 270–71 sextans, 260n35, 266 stater, 255, 256, 257, 258–59 symbolic power of, 270–71 Tarentine, 266 tetradrachm, 254n17, 267 thunderbolt motif on, 253, 254, 271 Cologne Ara Ubiorum, 94, 101 Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (CCAA), 93–94, 104 cult of the Matronae, 103 festivals at, 13–14, 94, 100–103, 105–9, 111–12 medieval pit near Neumart, 98, 100 pottery manufacture, 94–103, 95, 97, 98, 105–6, 109–10 Roman potters’ district at Rudolfplatz, 95–96 combat gladiatorial 137–40, 146, 155, 156, 159, 162 maritime, 47 communication buildings as loci of, 295–96 of and with the divine, 11, 37 function of games, 287 heralds and, 80–81 imperial, 17, 247 numismatic, 248–49, 258–59, 262–65, 322 of political power, 12, 38–39 represented in network analysis, 145, 147–48 Roman road system and regional, 144 symbolic, 250

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community, religious, 181–83, 188n13, 229, 272, 286, 2877 comparative approaches, 1–8, 17, 49, 234, 238, 285, 325 complex societies, 12, 36, 39–40, 88, 323, 324 computational analysis, 15, 136, 144–45, 147, 155, 168, 213 consumption drink, 41, 48 conspicuous, 54 of meat, 44, 46, 52, 55 ritual, 32, 34, 37–44, 46–52, 53, 78 cooperation engendered by religion, 8, 11–12, 36–37, 50, 71–72 fostered by feasting, 32, 39 intragroup and “out-group”, 79, 81, 89 proxenia and, 79, 302 Corinth (Greece), 44, 48, 148, 151, 266 cosmic turtle. See turtle, cosmic cosmology Etruscan, 271, 272n65 Maya, 18, 293–301 religious activities and the order of the, 37 in virtual worlds, 285, 293–94, 297–301 craft production, 35, 40 Crete amphitheater on, 148, 153, 164 historiography of archaeology on, 211–12, 322–23 iron ore, 51 Minoan, 16 pirates from, 305 ritual landscapes of, 209–11, 209t, 322 ritual practices in, 16, 207, 208–10 CSR. See cognitive science of religion CSV (comma-separated values) database, 178–79, 185, 188 files, 178n4, 181, 310 Gephi visualizations of, 187 Culsans. See iconography: Culsans cult(s) civic, 121 connection between disparate, 183–85, 186, 197 Cybele, 181, 184–85, 186, 194, 195, 197

330

Indexes

cult(s), (continued) foreign, 19 imperial, 94, 100, 101, 103–4, 107–9, 111 Isis, 184–85, 194, 195–96 Janus, 249–50, 260 of the Matronae, 103 Mithras, 14, 184–85, 186, 194, 197 mystery, 18, 77, 185 of Roma and Augusta, 101 Serapis, 184 of the Servilian triens, 270–71 Victoria, 258n27 curses, 13, 76, 81–82, 85, 87, 88 Cybele cult of. See cult: Cybele figurine. See figurine: of Cybele Cyprus, 12, 42, 51, 148, 153, 164 dance, 123, 302 Database of Religious History (DRH). See also qualitative data comparative research, 234, 242 concept of religion, 225 converting qualitative into quantitative data, 224, 225, 235–42 data creation, 234–38 polls of analytic units, 227–33, 241–42 qualitative data within DRH, 223–25, 227–28, 230–31, 233, 234 quantified data within DRH, 223–24, 227–28, 230, 231, 235, 237–38 dedication of a building, 157 of inscriptions in Ostia, 179n5, 192–97 to Janus, 249 of the Maya house, 295 metal, 44n22, 47 of “sacrificial grain”, 52 of tripods, 47, 48, 53–55 Delphi, 86, 207, 210, 211, 212n15 deposition of votives, 12, 55, 210 Diana (Artemis) Artemis Elaphebolos, 44 dedication to, 255n19 depicted on Magerius mosaic, 160, 161 figurine. See figurine: of Diana sanctuary (Artemision) at Ephesus, 84, 105n17

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didrachms. See coinage digital humanities, 17, 20, 177, 187, 226, 234–35 dikē (righteousness), 73, 74, 76 dining, deposits indicating (ritual), 12, 34, 47–48, 49. See also feasting Dioscuri (Castor and Pollux), 195, 252, 255, 257–58, 259, 260–61 doxa. See Bourdieu, Pierre drinking extraurban sanctuaries and communal, 35, 37, 40 ritualized, 49, 117, 268 standard sets for, 34 vessels for (ritual), 42, 43, 50, 52, 268 dupondius. See coinage Durkheim, Émile, 4, 5n11, 6, 225, 228, 229 dynamicist view, 291–92 East Lokris, 44, 45n24, 47 Elateia, 45, 47, 53n36, 54n38 Eleusis, 35n8, 207 Elis, 43, 44, 54n38, 84, 207 emic and etic, 20, 185, 229, 285, 294 Eretria, Apollo Daphnephoros temple. See Apollo ethne, 35, 40 ethnography data derived from 2–5, 17, 36, 227, 228, 239–40 on feasting, 32 of game player communities, 287 of the Maya, 295 Etruria, 51, 261–62 Etruscanization and Etruscanizing, 259, 261–62, 271 Etruscans. See also iconography: Etruscan city-states of the, 257 and live burials, 257n26 pirates, 305 religion of the, 259, 261–62, 271–72n65 “Euboean koine”, 45 evolution biological, 71 human social(-cultural), 1–6, 83, 88, 285, 288, 290 of morality, 12, 71, 83, 88 of religion and prosocial behavior, 8–9,



Subject Index

11–13, 17, 36–37, 227, 323 socioeconomic and political, 12–13, 33 evolutionary game theory, 322 evolutionary science of religion (ESR), 11–14, 17, 19, 36–37. See also cognitive science of religion (CRS) exchange. See also trade extraurban sanctuaries and, 35, 39–40, 48, 55, 84 feasting and, 12, 13, 38, 40, 48, 51–55 gift-, 2, 51, 53, 54, 79 state-controlled, 31 transegalitarian societies and systems of, 35 of votives, 20 executions, 137, 148, 155, 159, 162 Fasti Praenestini. See calendar: Fasti Praenestini Faynan mines (Jordan), 54 feasting. See also dining; exchange: feasting and anthropological research in 2, 12, 32, 34–35, 38, 39 economic processes and ritual, 13, 38–40, 48, 52–56 equipment, 34, 40–43, 45–49, 51, 53, 56n42 funerary, 34, 37, 51–52 in Homeric epics, 51, 55n41, 302 memory and, 20, 38 ritual, 33–36, 44, 46, 49, 51–52, 55–56 in (extraurban) sanctuaries, 12, 33, 35, 37, 40–47, 48, 50–52 sponsored by (ruling) elites, 34, 38–39, 43, 48, 49–52 festival. See also Cologne: festivals at Agrippinensian, 101 annual, 100, 111 calendars, 13–14, 94, 99–100, 103–4, 107–9 cyclical 111–12 decennalia, 107 dies natalis, 100, 101, 107 faunal remains of, 16 Latin, 119 Ludi Romani, 100, 101 panspermion, 52

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as productive for commerce and politics, 302 public, 102–3, 122 religious, 102–3, 302 on Samothrace, 303 Saturnalia, 103n14, 105–6, 110 vicennalia, 107 Fidenae, 146 figurine cattle, 43, 48 chariot, 43, 48 of Cybele, 95, 96, 96, 99–100, 101 of Diana, 96, 99–100, 103, 109 of Hercules, 105 horse, 43, 48 of Mercury, 97, 100, 103 metal (anthropo- and zoomorphic), 43, 48, 210 of Minerva, 96, 101 terracotta, 13, 43, 48, 93–111, 97, 98, 107 Flavian amphitheater (Rome), 139, 140, 142–44, 156, 162 functionalism, 4, 6–7, 8, 228. See also structural functionalism games Alternative Reality (ARG), 286 funerary, 53 and religion, 286–87 serious, 285–87 Gaul, 138, 142, 268 Geertz, Clifford, 4, 8n19, 239–41, 243 gender, 128, 178 Gephi, software, 176–77, 178, 180–89, 194, 197, 198 Germania Inferior, 94, 101–12, 153, 164 Gestalt approach, 291–92, 301, 310 Giddens, Anthony, 7, 289–90 gift apophoreta, 105–6 commemorative, 101–2, 105 -exchange, 2, 51, 53, 54, 79 giving, 2, 110 in Homeric epics, 53, 79 as symbolic capital, 39 tripods as, 53, 54 votive, 83

332

Indexes

GIS mapping, 176, 177, 188–94, 197, 198 platform, 178 use of, 16, 207, 209–10, 213, 310 GitHub, 15, 141 gladiators. See combat: gladiatorial globalization, 32, 175–76 god(s), omniscient, 13–14, 36, 72, 77–78, 83, 89, 324 Granovetter, Mark, 7, 179 graph theory, 180–81 graphē, 76 Great Tradition, concept of the, 3–4, 9, 10 Gryllos, 43 guest-friend(ship), 72, 73–74, 77, 78, 79–80. See also hospitality; xenia habitus agency theory (affect and), 20, 285, 289, 300, 302, 310, 312 defined by Pierre Bourdieu, 14, 17, 128–29, 289–90, 292 ritual, 131 Hannibal, 257, 264, 265 heralds, 74, 80–81, 161 Hercules (also Heracles/Herakles) arrival in Italy, 265 Charops sanctuary (Koroneia), 86 colloquial “oaths”, 83 depicted in amphitheaters, 15, 157 depicted on coins, 260n35 figurine of, 105 as son of Cretan Ida, 210 hierarchy institutionalized, 39 palatial, 34, 49 postpalatial, 40, 44, 52 settlement, 47 social(-political), 15, 34, 39, 43, 48, 167, 296 hierosulia. See temple: robbery hiketeia (supplication), 13, 74, 80, 81, 88–89 Hispania Tarraconensis, 153, 154, 164 Hispania, 142, 146 historiography, 10, 211, 228 hoards of coins, 17, 251–54, 268

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of feasting equipment, 51 with tripods, 41n18 Homer feasting in, 51, 55n41, 302 gift-exchange between guest-friends, 51, 53, 79 moral supervision of the gods in, 12–13, 72–75, 77, 78 in Sailing with the Gods, 302, 305, 306 Horden, Peregrine and Purcell, Nicholas, The Corrupting Sea, 10, 32n2, 144 horse faunal remains of, 46, 51 figurine, 43, 48 iconography, 53, 252, 258, 264n48, 248n50 in Roman religious parades, 118, 122, 124, 127, 129, 130 hosiē, 76 hospitality, 38, 72, 74, 76, 78–79, 302. See also guest-friendship; xenia hunts, animal elite activity, 46 panspermion festival celebrating, 52 staged in amphitheater, 137, 148, 158, 159 hyperreality, 17–18, 248, 311–12, 322 Icarus, 15, 157 iconography. See also coinage Alexander the Great’s numismatic, 258 Apollo, 252, 254 Athena/Minerva, helmeted, 252, 266, 267 bull motif, 252, 254 corn-ears motif, 253, 264 Culsans, 257n24, 259, 261–62 Dioscuri (Castor and Pollux) motif, 252, 255, 257–61 dolphin, 252, 266 Etruscan, 254n17, 257n24, 259, 261–62, 266, 271 female Janiform motif, 263–64 hammer motif, 272 horse, 252, 258, 264n48, 248n50 Janiform motif, 17–18, 248–51, 252, 254–65 Janus-prow motif, 260, 261n38, 267–70



Subject Index

Jupiter and Victoria, 252, 257, 266 Mars, 252, 258 Maya. See Maya: in video games Mercury, 252, 266 oath-taking motif, 255–56 Pegasus, 252, 266, 267 prow motif, 253, 254 Punic, 263–65 quadriga motif, 253, 263 shell, 266, 267 Tanit/Demeter, 252, 264, 265n52 Tarantine numismatic, 266–67, 267 thunderbolt motif on, 253, 254, 271 identity civic, 157, 165 discourse on coinage, 262–63, 266 ethnic, 145, 178 European, 20 gender, 128 Greek (ancient), 301–2 group, 35, 38, 94, 110 as performance, 118, 128–29, 131–32 regional (political), 35, 53, 157 religious, 228, 230 Roman, 121, 131–32, 139, 262, 266 Sicilian discourses on, 262 social, 55, 118, 128, 129, 131 inequality, 38n14, 39, 47 infantry, 122, 130 inscription(s) confession, 13, 85n23, 87–88 cultic, 181, 188 Fasti, 103 funerary, 15, 147, 181, 189, 191–94 honorific, 181 on Magerius mosaic, 161 Maya, 295–96, 297 monumental, 111 of Ostia, 15, 177–98, 323 of proxenia grants in Samothracian network, 294, 302–3 sacrifice listed in, 128 on terracotta figurines, 93–102, 95–99, 103, 106, 108 tracing social and religious networks by studying, 145, 176–88, 194–98 instauratio, 119–20

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333

institutions. See also asulia, hiketeia; proxenia; xenia (non-)centralized, 33–34, 35, 50 civic, 14, 302 of the polis, 13, 19 prosocial, 13 religion embedded in, 5, 7 religious, 86–87, 89, 207, 208, 228–29 social, 11, 13, 19, 83, 177 weakened, 33–34, 39, 50, 54 Isis and Anubis, 194, 197 cult of, 184–85, 194, 195–96 Isis Regina, 194, 195–96 Isthmia, 40, 43, 47–48 Janus (Janiform). See also entries under iconography; myth and mythology; semiotics; temple(s); worship bearded, 259, 260 -Castor-Pollux complex, 257–61 cult of, 17, 249–50 as emblem of Roman power and sacred commitment, 262–63, 265 in Etruscan cosmology, 271 female, 263–65 inventor of coinage, 272 nonbearded, 259, 260 -prow motif on coins, 260, 261n38, 267–70 quadrifons, 259 representing past and future, 259, 271–73 temple (Rome), 259–60, 271 Jequetepeque (Peru), 49 Juno (Iono) Regina. See temple(s): of Juno Regina Jupiter (Iuppiter), 120, 127, 252, 257, 263, 266, 271 Jupiter Liber. See temple(s): of Jupiter Liber Jupiter Optimus Maximus, 100, 101, 127, 167 Jupiter Sol Serapis, 184 Jupiter Tonans. See temple(s): of Jupiter Tonans Jupiter Victor. See festival: dies natalis

334

Indexes

Kalapodi Apollo sanctuary (Abai), 12, 40, 41n17, 43, 44–47, 207, 212 bronze tripods, 47, 48, 53, 54 as hub for food processing and storage, 53 regional metal production center, 47, 48, 53 ritual feasting and economic processes, 48, 51–52, 55 small-scale leadership at, 47, 48, 51–52 Kavousi, 51, 210n9 kērux. See heralds K’inich Janab Pakal I, 295–99 kleos, 303 Knossos (Crete). See tomb(s): Knossos kraters, 41, 42, 43n20, 45, 46, 47 kylix, 42, 49, 51, 267–68 Lasteïka, 43 leaders(hip) in “big men” societies, 34–35, 39 (ritual) feasting and, 38–41, 48–55 in Homer, 53 LH IIIC local, 33n4 political, 10–11, 50, 55 small-scale, 47 in state-level societies, 39 Lefkandi (Toumba), 41, 43n20, 46n28, 47, 51 libation, 74, 117, 119, 123, 268, 304 lictors, 126–27 Linear B texts, 34, 49, 211 lion, 46, 48, 96 litrae, Agrigentine. See coinage liturgical order, 131–32, 322. See also performance: ritual ludiones (or ludius), 118, 119, 120, 123, 124 Magerius mosaic, 158, 160, 161, 167 Magna Graecia, 264, 267, 268 Malinowski, Bronislaw, 3, 4, 6 manumission, 13, 85–86 Marsyas, myth of. See myth and mythology: of Marsyas materiality, 1, 7, 11, 12, 188n14, 291 Maumbury (England), 140–41 Mauretania, 142, 153, 164

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Mauss, Marcel, 2, 6 Maya ball players, 299 religion, 18, 293, 294–300 Spanish conquest of the, 247 in video games, 293, 296, 297–301, 310 Medeon, 45, 47 Mediterranean Connectivity Initiative (MCI), 176–88, 197–98 memorialization acts, 16, 188, 197, 302 memory animal sacrifices and, 38 collective, 94, 111–12 cultural, 12, 14, 131, 284, 300 episodic, 13–14, 15, 18, 108–10, 322 individual, 111–12 and inscriptions of Ostia, 188, 193, 197 prospective, 14, 94, 109–10, 111 retrospective, 94, 111 semantic, 13–14, 15, 108–9, 322 studies, 19, 94, 108–10, 322 Mercury, 97, 100, 103, 252, 260n35, 266. See also figurine: of Mercury Metropolis (Naxos), 41 Minerva. See Athena (Minerva) Minerva Augusta, temple of. See temple(s) Mithras cult. See cult: Mithras monumentality, 11, 31–32, 111, 139, 285, 297 morality and big gods, 13, 36, 71–72, 77–78, 88–89, 324 in “confession inscriptions” in Lydia and Phrygia, 87–88 engendered by religion, 8 and Greek gods in Hesiod and Homer, 13, 72–78, 83, 88–89 and the Greek polis, 83–85 (ritual) practices that enforce, 12, 128n17 Mount Hymettus (Attica), 40, 48, 207, 211, 212n12, 212n15 Mount Kynortion, 212 Mount Lykaion (Arcadia), 40, 44, 50, 207, 212 Mount Parnes, 48 multimediality, 249, 266–69 multiscalar analysis, 11, 19, 38, 111, 189



Subject Index

munera, 138, 139, 146 musicians, 119, 159–60, 159 mysteries, 303 Eleusinian, 84 of Proteus, 305 myth and mythology of Actaeon, 157 of Hercules labors, 157 of Icarus, 157 of Janus, 249–50, 255, 271–72 of Jason and the Argonauts, 303–4, 311 of Marsyas, 156–57, 157 Maya. See Maya: religion panhuman, 6, 325 network. See also Ostia: social networks of computationally actionable, 136, 144, 145, 147, 155, 168 concept of, 144–46, 148–54 of connectivity, 94, 111–12 maps, 178, 181, 198 proxenic, 285, 303–5 religious, 144, 181, 323 rhizomatic, 176, 181, 198 Samothracian (in Sailing with the Gods game), 294, 311, 323 sanctuaries and interregional, 47, 53 social(-political), 43, 144, 293, 323 strong and weak ties in, 179–80, 181, 198, 303 visualization of, 136, 142–43, 148–55, 151–52, 163, 168, 176, 323 New Archaeology. See Processual archaeology Newstead (Scotland), 142, 151 Nichoria, 33n4, 41 Norenzayan, Ara, Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict, 9, 12n26, 71–72, 75, 77–78, 81, 82n21, 88–89 Nucera, 146–47 Numa, 121, 124 oaths, 13, 73, 76–77, 82–83, 88–89, 255–56 object-centered approaches, 16–17, 213 Olympia ash altar, 41, 44

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bronze tripod (production), 41, 43, 48, 49, 53–55 Cretan connection of, 210 deposition of figurines, 43, 48, 210 kylikes (with ribbed stems), 42, 49, 51 ritual feasting, 44, 49, 51–52, 54, 55 (Panhellenic) sanctuary, 12, 40–44, 84, 207, 211 small-scale leadership at, 47, 52, 54 treasuries at, 54 Olympic games, 44, 84 omniscient gods. See god(s), omniscient Opous, cemetery at, 47 Orchomenos, 45, 47 Oregon Trail (video game), 288, 290 Ostia Connectivity Project, 177 Ostia inscriptions in Campus of Magna Mater, 188, 195, 197 inscriptions from Caserma dei Vigiles, 189 inscriptions from Piazza delle Corporazioni, 189, 190 inscriptions from Regio II, 189 Isola Sacra necropolis, 178, 189 Porta Romana necropolis, 177, 189, 191–94, 192, 193 primary and secondary usage (spoliation) of inscriptions, 189–91 published inscriptions of, 177–79, 181, 185 (eastern) religious cults at, 14, 15, 181, 184–85, 186, 194–97 Sarapeum, 190, 195–96 social networks of, 14, 15, 20, 176–79, 181–98, 182, 183, 184 study of ethnic identity at, 178 palace. See also authority centralized authority of the, 48–49 demise of Mycenaean, 12, 31, 33n4, 35, 50, 53, 54 feasts at Mycenaean, 34, 35, 40 figural imagery of the Mycenaean, 47 of Mycenae, 35n8 of Orchomenos, 45 at Palenque (site in Mexico and virtual), 294, 296, 297

336

Indexes

palace (continued) of Pylos, 34 religious activity at Mycenaean, 34, 42, 207, 211 of Tiryns, 35n8, 40n15 Palaeopaphos-Skales. See tomb(s): Palaeopaphos-Skales Palenque (Mexico), 294–95 Palenque (virtual), 18, 285, 293, 296–301, 304, 309–11 Palmyra (Syria), 146, 151, 288 Pegasus. See iconography: Pegasus Perachora, 56n42, 207 performance and feasting, 12, 20 festival, 108, 109–11 Maya buildings and, 295–96 punctilious (orthopraxy) ritual, 117–18, 119–22, 131, 132 ritual, 2, 14, 20, 110n20, 118, 128–32, 304 of Roman identity, 121, 131, 132, 139 of the social self, 11, 14, 118, 128–32 Phokis, 44, 47, 48, 207, 210 Polanyi, Karl, 7 polis (poleis). See also city-state prosocial institutions between and beyond the, 13, 76, 79, 81, 87n26 religion embedded in the, 7, 32, 47, 52, 83 sanctuaries and the rise of, 12, 31–32, 35, 40, 53–55, 72 Polis cave (Ithaka), 42, 207 polytheistic cultures (polytheism), 72, 77, 88, 321 pompa circensis (circus procession) archaism, 122–24, 127 itinerary, 118 at ludi circenses, 118, 127 as ritual performance, 118, 119–21, 127–32 and social conduct, 128–31 tensae. See chariot: tensae Pompeii advertisements for munera, 146, 165 amphitheater, 140, 147 funerary inscription from, 147 riot at amphitheater, 146, 155, 156, 166

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spatial visibility and integration, 193n18 in video games, 287 Portus, 141, 192, 194n21 postprocessual archaeology, 10, 21, 206n2, 288. See also Processual archaeology power centering on raiding, conflicts and maritime travel, 47 divine punitive, 82, 89, 254 (ritual) feasting and competition for, 33, 38–39, 49, 50–52 of large-scale data science, 206 metal dedications and networks of, 44n22 of numismatic iconography, 18, 250n9, 254, 260–65, 269–70 of oaths, 82, 89 political, 12, 39, 50 of rituals, 87, 124 Roman imperial violence as expression of, 139, 141 semiotic, 248 strong ties within in a social network and, 179–80 prayers, 13, 81, 87, 89, 120, 122 primordialism. See archaism procession circus. See pompa circensis civic, 126, 157–58, 158 itineraries, 118; 125, 130 numinous authority behind, 19 organizers of, 118, 127, 128–31 religious, 118, 124 ritual, 14, 117, 120, 131 triumphal, 107, 126 Processual archaeology (also New Archaeology), 3–4, 10, 21. See also postprocessual archaeology prosociality “big gods” and, 14–15, 72, 83, 89 engendered by religion, 8, 11–13, 17, 32, 36, 50, 227 and feasting, 12, 38–40 and games, 15 prow motif. See coinage: Janus-prow motif, prow motif; iconography: Janusprow motif, prow motif



Subject Index

proxenia, 79, 302–4, 307–9 Punic War First, 259–60, 264n48, 267, 272 Second, 257, 260, 262, 263, 264n49, 265, 271 in video games, 288 punishment afterlife, 77 divine, 15, 71, 72–82, 87–89 fear of, 11, 13, 71, 80 of gladiatorial troupes, 147 meted out in amphitheaters, 137, 156, 157 role of myths in, 156–57 taboo as form of, 39 Pylos. See palace: of Pylos Pyrrhus, 248, 258n29 Python code, 15, 141, 143n3, 155, 163 quadrigati. See coinage qualitative data, quantification of, 17, 235, 238, 240–41, 243. See also Database of Religious History (DRH) Rappaport, Roy, 14, 118, 121, 122, 123, 124, 128, 129, 131 reciprocity, 34–35, 78, 79–80n14, 81, 85, 89 Renfrew, Colin, 3–4, 9, 10, 207, 210n10 retribution, divine, 13, 14, 120. See also punishment, divine Rhine Valley, 14, 94, 106 rhizomatic networks. See networks: rhizomatic ritualization, definition, 120–21 rituals, definitions, 37, 117–18, 121–24, 128 Romanization, 18, 19, 262, 268n56 Romulus, 121, 124, 255 sacrifice at amphitheater, 157–58 animal, 38–39, 47, 55, 83, 117, 121 as belief that deities need sustenance, 236–37 depiction on relief, 157, 158 at end of procession, 128 at festivals, 100, 102 human, 257n26, 258n27, 299

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pig, 256 Sailing with the Gods (video game), 293–94, 301–11 Salamis (Cyprus), 51, 52, 267 Salmone, 43 Samikon, 43 Samothrace, 18, 294, 303, 323 San Benedetto di Marsi (Italy), 154, 163 Saturn, 103n14, 105, 272 Saturnalia. See festival: Saturnalia satyr, 118, 123, 156 science revolution, 8–9 self-reflexivity, 4, 11, 16, 18, 19–21, 176, 190 semiotics Baudrillardian, 322 coinage, 254, 255, 258–68, 269 imperial, 17, 247–48, 266, 267, 272, 322 of Janus, 17, 255, 259–65, 267–69, 271 Serapis, 86, 184 Servandus, potter, 95–99, 95, 97, 100, 101–2, 109–10 sextans. See coinage shekel, Carthaginian. See coinage Silenoi, 118, 123 slaves absence of data about, 15, 177, 179 agency and, 284 instauratio and abused, 120 dedicated to the god, 85–86 divine concern for, 74, 87 freeing of, 85–86 in Ostia, 15, 177, 179 public, 129 social network analyses (SNA), 14, 15, 145, 176–78, 180–81, 198 society “big man”, 34–35 (evolution of) complex, 12–13, 36–37, 39–40, 88, 323, 324 palatial, 40, 43n21, 45, 48–50, 211 stateless (transegalitarian), 34–35, 37, 39, 50 state-level, 34, 39 Solon’s laws, 76 souvenirs, definition, 102 space, concepts of, 284–85 spectacles, 15, 19, 130–31

338

Indexes

stamps brick, 145 ceramic, 266–67, 267 on roof tiles, 46 Stanford Orbis project, 144, 147 stateless (transegalitarian) society. See society: stateless stater. See coinage structural functionalism, 6, 7, 289–90. See also functionalism supervision, divine, 12, 76–78, 82, 85, 89 surplus production and accumulation, 35, 37, 38, 39, 50 Susa (Italy), 148, 149 swords, 43, 54n38, 253 symbolism of amphitheaters, 138–39 in the virtual world, 286–87, 297, 302 Tarentum, 266–67 Telones (tax farmer), 308, 308–9, 309 temple(s) of Apollo Daphnephoros, 48 of Castor and Pollux, 258 construction in video games, 286, 288 of the Cross Group at Palenque (video game), 297 dies natalis of a, 107 of Fides, 268 of Janus (Rome), 259–60, 271 of Flora, 272 of the Inscriptions at Palenque (site and video game), 295–96, 297–98 of Juno Regina, 100, 167 of Jupiter Liber, 100 of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, 100, 167 of Jupiter Tonans, 100 law codes inscribed on walls of, 85 as marked-off sacred space, 124–25 of Minerva Augusta, 167 North and South at Kalapodi, 44–46 robbery (hierosulia), 77, 86, 87 as symbols of “communal consciousness and economic success”, 31, 55 of Vertumnus, 268 tensae (processual chariots). See chariot terracotta figurines. See figurine: terracotta

本书版权归ISD Global所有

tetradrachm. See coinage Thebes, 47 theoria, 302–3 thick description, 226, 234, 239–41, 243 thunderbolt, 83, 253, 254, 271 Tiryns Treasure, 40n15 Titus, Emperor, 140, 156 tomb(s). See also burial cemetery at Elateria, 47 Knossos, 51 Mycenaean, 34, 41, 47 Ostia, 191–94, 192 of Pakal, Temple of Inscriptions (Palenque, site and video game), 295, 297–98 Palaeopaphos-Skales, 51 “princely”, 51 Protogeometric, 47, 51–52 Salamis, 51, 52 Toumba (Lefkandi), 51 Toumba (Lefkandi). See Lefkandi trade. See also exchange copper, 48, 51, 54 iron ore, 51 long-distance, 12, 13, 40, 48, 55 oaths to facilitate, 83 ritualized activity and, 37, 51 Roman, 101n13, 144, 177, 251 in Sailing with the Gods video game, 308 (extraurban) sanctuaries and, 35, 39–40, 84 transegalitarian (stateless) society. See society: stateless travel between amphitheaters, 148–50 to festivals, 14, 84, 102, 109 maritime, 47, 294–95, 302 and religion, 1 treasuries and banking at sanctuaries, 55, 84 triens, Servilian. See coinage tripod, bronze dedications of, 47, 48, 53–55 gift-exchange of, 53 in Homeric epics, 51, 53, 55n41 Kalapodi, 47, 48, 53, 54 Olympia, 41, 43, 48, 49, 53–55



Subject Index

Palaeopaphos-Skales, 51 production, 48, 54 ritual feasting and, 41, 43, 51, 53–54 Salamis (Cyprus), 51 truces, 13, 84 trust, 8, 11, 71, 83, 256 Trypiti, 43 Tunisia, 140, 142, 153 turtle, cosmic, 294, 298, 299 Tyches, 157, 158, 165, 248n3 Tylor, Edward B., 1–2, 3 violence, 136, 137, 138, 139, 141 virtual heritage sites, 18, 284, 285, 287–88, 293 visualizations. See also network: visualizations of data-generated, 136, 142–43, 148–55, 163, 168 social network 176–77, 185–89, 194–95, 197 Volterra (Volaterrae), 140, 257, 258, 261 votive(s) (Early Iron Age) deposition of, 12, 41, 45, 47, 48, 52–55 Roman, 20 terracotta souvenirs as, 103 in video game Sailing with the Gods, 304, 306 wanax, 34, 50, 211 warrior burials. See under burial culture in Homeric poetry, 72–73, 80, 302 ethos in Sailing with the Gods video game, 305 paintings of hoplite, 53 wealth accumulation, 53–56 Weber, Max, 4, 5n11, 7n15, 302

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women absent on inscriptions, 15, 179 in the Odyssey, 74 receiving gifts on the Kalends of March, 105 workshop(s) bronze, 12, 53 pottery, 95, 99, 100, 101, 109, 266–67 Roman, 125 worship ancestral, 124 in caves, 42, 207, 208, 210, 211 Creto-Minoan tradition of, 207–10 of the Dioscuri, 258 of Egyptian gods, 184–85, 194–97 of Janus, 17, 249–50, 259–60 on mountain tops, 207, 211, 212 regulation of Roman, 121 in rural locations, 207–8, 209t, 210, 212 xenia (hospitality/guest friendship), 13, 74, 78–80, 81, 88–89, 302n17. See also hospitality Zenodo archiving site, 141, 164n9 Zeus depicted on coins, 252, 265 and guest-friendship, 80 in Hesiod, 72, 74–75, 76, 77, 266 in Homeric epics, 13, 72–75, 77, 78n13, 79 and hospitality, 72–73, 78–79, 81, 89 and oaths to, 73, 82–83, 89 as overseer of truce, 84 in Pausanias, 41, 210 Zeus Hikesios, 73, 76n7, 80, 81 Zeus Olympios, 84 Zeus Xe(i)nios, 72, 78n12, 79, 81 Zliten mosaic, 158–59, 159, 160, 165

Ancient Sources Index

Acts of the Apostles 19:23–27 105n17 AE 1889, 128 189n16 1956, 76 190 1969/70, 87 190 1971, 63 196n23 1988, 216 106n23 Aeschylus (Aesch.) Eum. 267–275 77n9–10 Supp. 347 80n15 698–709 76n8 Anaximenes of Lampsakos FGH 72 F 41.4 80 Antiphilus AP 10.17 304 Antipater of Thessalonica AP 7. 639 305n19 Antiphon 5.82–83 75 6.39 82 Apollodorus mythographus (Apollod.) Bibl. 3.8.1–2 79 Apollonides AP 6.105 304 Apollonius Rhodius Argon. 303, 310 4.698 80n15 Appian (App.) Bella civilia 1.14–17 (58–72) 126n14 Archilochus (Archil.) F 7 (Lattimore 1960) 306 F 9 (Lattimore 1960) 306 F 12 (Lattimore 1960) 304 frag. 177 74n5 Aristophanes (Ar.) Clouds 398–402 83 Plutus 305 306 Ran. 145–163 77n10 354–371 77n10

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Aristotle Politica 1262a Arnobius (Arn.) Adv. nat. 7.39 7.41–43 Augustine (August.) Confessions 6.8 De civ. D. 4.26 4.4 Augustus RG Calpurnius Piso L. FRHist F11 Cassius Dio Comp. hist. 1.168b Catullus FRHist 32 F 7 Cato Agr. 134 141 Cicero (Cic.) Div. 1.26.55 1.33 Har.resp. 23 Nat. 2.10–11 3.5.11 Planc. 17 CIL 12.4.2833 6.4054a 6.32404 13.8016 14.18 14.19 14.41 14.42

340

75 121n7 121n7 137 120n7 305n20 260n34 260n34 272n68 249n7, 277 249 249 120n7 119n5 119 119n5 258n28 125 258n28 139 128n17 100n7 194n21 194n21 197n26 197n26



Ancient Sources Index

14.250 197n26 14.251 197n26 14.252 197n26 14.343 196n23 14.352 197n25, 197n26 14.371 179n6, 180 14.409 197n26 14.4144 197n26 14.4185 255n19 14.4290 196n23 14.5177 190 14.5349/50 190 14 S 4356 189n16 Claudianus (Claud.) Pan. Ter. Hon. 133–141 126 Columella Rust. 3.8.2 130n20 Demosthenes (Dem.) 19.70 81n18 23.72 (Solon frag. 6) 76n7 23.85 77n8 23.97 81n18 48.52 82 Against Conon 54.38 82–83 54.41 83 Deuteronomy, book of, 5:4–21 85 Dinarchus 2.16 81 Dio Cassius (Dio Cass.) 63.4 126 Dio Chrysostom 31.54 84 Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Dion. Hal.) Ant. Rom 1.35 254n17 2.63.2 121 5.57.5 129, 129n18 6.95.4 129 7.68.1–7.69.2 120n7 7.70.2–3 124 7.72.1 122 7.72.5 124 7.72.6 123 7.72.10 123 7.73.5 120n7 Drakon, law of GI I3 104 80n16 Ennius Ann. 240–41 249

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341

Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature. http://etcsl 1.8.1.4 82n20 Euripides Hippolytus 1025 73n2 Ion 1312–1320 86 Medea 1391–1392 75 Eusebius Hist. eccl. 5.1.37–39 156 Exodus, book of 21:13 80n16 20:1–17 85 Fabius Maximus Servilianus, Q. FRHist F3 249 Fenestrella FRHist F6 250n9 FRHist F3 (Q. Fabius Maximus Servilianus) 249 F6 (Fenestrella) 250n9 F10 (Hyginus) 272n66 F11 (L. Calpurnius Piso) 260n34 1 T7 (Fabius Pictor) 265 32 F 7 (Catulus) 249n7, 272n66 Hellanicus of Lesbos FGH 4 F 111 254n17 Herodotus (Hdt.) 7.133–137 81n17 Hesiod Op. 24 306 217–221 74 220–247 73n3 238–269 75 238–347 82n19 250–251 75 264 75 276–285 74n3 282–285 82n19 327–334 74 618–694 302 620–621 304 709–711 76 Theog. 285–286 266 Homer Iliad (Il.) 1.225 306 1.4–5 73 1.33–42 81

342 Iliad (continued) 1.474–479 2.243–244 3.105–107 3.278–279 4.160–162 4.235–239 6.118–237 7.411 8.379–380 9.205–214 11.451–455 13.620–635 16.384–393 16.386–388 19.259–260 22.337–360 23.263–858 24.53 24.568–570 24.65–70 Odyssey (Od.) 5.333 6.206–208 7.159–165 9.269–272 9.270–271 13.10–23 13.213–214 14.48–58 14.53–59 14.83–84 14.283–284 14.389 17.483–487 19.302–303 Horace Ep. 1.20.1 2.2.72–75 Sat. 2.6.27–31 125 Hyginus FRHist F10 Hymn. Hom. Ap. 388–544 IG I3 104 V 1.1390.80–84

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Indexes 302 306 73n2 73n2 73n2, 82n19 73n2 302n17 73n2 73 51 73 72 73n3 74n5 73n2 73 53 73 73 73 305 74, 79 74 79 73n4 53 73n4 74 73n4 73n3 73n3 73n3 78n13 73n2 268n57 125 272n66 210 80n16 87

VIII.2872 ILLRP nos. 10–308 Isaeus 2.31 Juvenal Satirae 3.243–246 3.254–256 10.36–46 Lactantius (Lactant.) Div. inst. 1.13.7 2.7.20–21 lex Ursonensis (64) LIMC Culsans Livy 1.24.3 1.55.5–6 2.36.1–8 5.41.2 6.38.8 9.40.15–17 21.62 22.52.3 22.58.4 40.59.3 41.16.1 45.1.7 LTUR 3.92–93 Lysias (Lys.) 6.51 12.98 32.13 Macrobius (Macrob.) Saturnalia 1.6.15 1.7.19–23 1.10.24 1.11.3–5 1.11.49 Martial (Mart.) Epigrams 3.46.4–6 12.57.4–14 14.170 14.178

86 249n6 82 125 125 129 120n66 120n7 100n9 257n24, 26n40 124 262n41 120n7 129 126 130n21 271n62 263n46 263-64n46 107 119 129n18 260n34 81 86 82 130n21 272n66 105n18 120n7 103n14 126n14 125 105 105



Ancient Sources Index

14.182 105 31 156 Martianus Capella De nuptiis 1.45–60 271n65 Minucius Felix (Min. Fel) Oct. 7.3 121n7 21 272n66 27.4 121n7 Nicolaus of Damascus (Nic. Dam.) 78 126 Orphic Hymn 25 (Athanassakis 1977) 305 Ovid (Ov.) Fast. 1.229–230 260n36 1.229–240 272n66 Met. 216–239 79 Pausanius (Paus.) 3.17.9 80n15 5.7.4 210 5.8.1 210 5.13.8–14.3 41 6.10.1 210 10.28.4–5 77 Petronius (Petron.) Satyrica 40, 56H, 60 105 Pindar Ol. 5.20 210 Plato Leg. 8.838a–d 77n8 Resp. 2.364b–365a 77n77 Plautus Merc. 115 125 Poen. 1010–1012 130 Pliny, the Elder (Plin.) HN 19.23 131n22 28.11 120 28.12 124 33.45 272 34.20 129n18 34.38.137 270 Plutarch (Plut.) Mor. 274F–275A 250n9 Vitae Parallelae Aem. 32.3 126 Caes. 5.5 131n22

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343

Coriol. 24.1–25.1 120n7 Lyc. 6.1 85n22 Marc. 3.3–4 257n26 5.2 119n5 5.4 122 Pompey 24 305n20 Rom. 20.3 126 5.5 130n21 Ti. Gracch. 19 126n14 Vit. Num. 9 and 10 122 Polybius 4.67 305n20 Pompeius Festus, Sextus (Fest.) 436L 123n8 RIC I2 Roma #217 131n22 Tiberius #56, 62, 68 131n22 SEG 9.72 85n22 Seneca (Sen.) De clementia (Clem.) 1.6.1 125 De ira 3.6.4 125 Ep. 94.60 126n14 Servius (Serv.) Aeneid 2.178 119n5 3.279 123n8 8.111 (ed.Thilo) 123n8 SHA Heliogabalus 21.7 105 Sophocles (Soph.) Ant. 450–455 76–77n8 fr. 472 Radt 82n21 Philoctetus 1324 73n2 Solon frag. 6 (=Dem.23.72) 76n7 frag. 44 76n7 7.5 127 12 155 19 155 Suetonius (Suet.) Calig. 55.2 105 Divus Augustus 75.1 105 Divus Iulius 10 131n22 Divus Vespasianus 19.1 105 Tab. Her. 55–56 127

344 Suetonius, Tab. Her. (continued) 56–72 64–65 Tacitus (Tac.) Ann. 1.39.1 4.62–63 12.27.1 12.36.2 14.17 16.27 Tertullian De Spect. 7.5 12 Theodoridas AP 7.282 Theognis (Thgn.) 143–144 Theophrastus Characteres Thucydides (Thuc.) 2.13.4–5

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Indexes 126n12 127 101 146 94 126n15 146 126n15 127 155 305 75 309 55n40

2.37.3 5.18.9 5.47.8 5.49.1–50.4 Ur Excavations: Texts (UET) 6, 58 lines 20–28 Valerius Maximus (Val. Max.) 1.1.1a 1.1.2 1.1.3 1.1.8 1.7.4 2.4.6 5.2.1a Varro (Varr.) ARD Frags. 230–234 Ling. 5.165 5.41–42 7.27-28 Xenophon (Xen.) An. 5.7.30 Mem. 4.4.19–24

77n8 89 89 84 82n20 119 119 119n5 119 120n7 129 126 249 260n34 262n41 249 81n17 76