Invisible Cultures : Historical and Archaeological Perspectives [1 ed.] 9781443884150, 9781443874618

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Invisible Cultures

Proceedings of the post-graduate conference “Invisible Cultures: Historical and Archaeological Perspectives” 19–20 March 2014, Department of Humanities, University of Trento, Trento (Italy)

Invisible Cultures Historical and Archaeological Perspectives Edited by

Francesco Carrer and Viola Gheller

Invisible Cultures: Historical and Archaeological Perspectives Edited by Francesco Carrer and Viola Gheller This book first published 2015 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2015 by Francesco Carrer, Viola Gheller and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7461-2 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7461-8

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword ................................................................................................... vii Elvira Migliario Acknowledgements ................................................................................... xii Narratives and Invisibility ........................................................................ xiii Viola Gheller Invisible Cultures in Archaeology ............................................................. xx Francesco Carrer Part I: Populations What Has Become of Damas? The Invisible (Im)migrants of the Early Empire between Exclusion and Assimilation .......................... 2 Davide Astori, Maria Elena Galaverna and Nicola Reggiani Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France: Resistance to Epistemic Violence.............................................................. 16 Yoshimi Tanabe Part II: Gender Gender Amender: Sex-Changing and Transgender Identities in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.......................................................................... 50 Anna Everett Beek (Un-)veiling Politics: Women’s Political Writings during the JulioClaudian Age ............................................................................................. 70 Irene Somà With Pen or Brush: Traces of Women in Fifteenth-Century Italy ............. 97 Davide Tramarin

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Part III: Socio-Economic Issues Urban Marginality: Other, Iteration and Materiality. Archaeologies of Urban Life and Death in an Argentinean Setting (Villa Muñecas, San Miguel de Tucumán) ........................................................................ 116 Martina Hjertman and Per Cornell Archaeological Indicators for Medieval Prisons ..................................... 137 Lara Tonizzo Feligioni Part IV: Pastoralism Transhumant Sheep Farming and Seigniorial Economy in the Veronese Pre-Alps (Twelfth–Fourteenth Centuries) ............................................... 150 Attilio Stella In Search of the Shepherds: Archaeological and Historical Perspectives for the Study of Salt and Animal Husbandry in the North of the Kingdom of Granada ..................................................................... 177 Antonio Malpica Cuello, Sonia Villar Mañas, Guillermo García-Contreras Ruiz and Luis Martínez Vázquez Part V: Further Issues Society in Erto and Casso: Oral History and New Investigation Methods ................................................................................................... 198 Fabrizio Filioli Uranio Traces of an Indian Community in the City of Sumhuram, Oman: Investigation of Materials Found during Excavations ............................. 227 Silvia Lischi People and Things: Ceramic Petrography as a Means for Exploring the Hidden Workings of Local Communities in Postpalatial Crete ......... 241 Florence Liard Where Have All the Pirates Gone? .......................................................... 270 Aaron L. Beek

FOREWORD ELVIRA MIGLIARIO UNIVERSITÀ DI TRENTO (ITALY) COORDINATOR OF THE DOCTORAL SCHOOL OF HUMANITIES

L’idea di interrogarsi sulla possibilità e sulle modalità con cui individuare e descrivere culture e gruppi sociali che sono citati dalle fonti letterarie ma non hanno lasciato alcuna traccia materiale della loro esistenza, o che al contrario sono attestati dall’evidenza archeologica e sono sconosciuti alle fonti scritte, è partita da una storica della tarda antichità e da un archeologo della pre- e protostoria (rispettivamente, un’allieva e un alumnus della Scuola di Dottorato in Studi Umanistici dell’Università di Trento): non a caso, perché gli antichisti sono per mestiere costretti a confrontarsi con fonti ed evidenze solitamente scarse, lacunose e perciò estremamente problematiche, che impongono da un lato approcci metodologici particolarmente rigorosi, dall’altro modelli interpretativi suscettibili di continua revisione. Di qui, immagino, il desiderio di un confronto con studiosi di altre discipline, in particolare non antichisti, con l’obiettivo di uno scambio di saperi e di esperienze che ha costituito uno dei criteri primari (accanto a quello dell’elevata qualità scientifica) adottati dagli organizzatori per vagliare le numerosissime risposte al loro call for papers, e che, come si vedrà scorrendo i contributi raccolti in questo volume, ha in effetti prodotto esiti di grande interesse. Come era prevedibile, gli interventi sono in maggioranza incentrati su processi e fenomeni culturali la cui invisibilità è in buona parte imputabile alla più o meno grande distanza temporale che li separa da noi (spesso, anche se non sempre, causa primaria della scarsità delle evidenze disponibili), ma anche all’inadeguatezza di molti dei tradizionali metodi d’indagine applicati a contesti che, almeno all’apparenza, risultano archeologicamente “muti.” Tale pare essere il caso del sito cretese studiato da Florence Liard: l’analisi dei dati petrografici di resti ceramici dell’Età del Bronzo provenienti da un deposito di Malia induce la studiosa a ipotizzare, pure in assenza di ulteriori evidenze archeologiche, che le attività produttive, i contatti economico-culturali e le pratiche sociali tradizionali vi sopravvissero anche dopo il crollo dei centri della civiltà

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palaziale. Sono invece alcuni dati archeologici, non tutti inediti ma evidentemente meritevoli della revisione complessiva offertane da Silvia Lischi, che attestano la presenza, a partire almeno dal I secolo a.C., di una altrimenti “invisibile” comunità di origine indiana a Moscha Limen (odierna Sumhuram), sulla rotta commerciale che collegava l’India all’Oman meridionale. In una diversa prospettiva cronologica, anche Lara Tonizzo Feligioni propone un caso metodologicamente interessante, a indicare come l’evidenza archeologica possa almeno in parte ovviare al silenzio documentale, e dunque all’invisibilità sociale dei protagonisti: la storia edilizia della prigione pontificia di origine altomedievale di LeopoliCencelle, insieme con la parallela vicenda evolutiva del contesto urbanistico in cui è collocata, consente di interpretare sia le poche testimonianze dirette lasciate in loco da coloro che vi furono rinchiusi sia la relativa scarsa documentazione d’archivio. Fra gli interventi che muovono da una prospettiva archeologica, interrogandosi sul significato dell’assenza, ma anche della presenza, di evidenze riconducibili a fenomeni e processi socioeconomici e culturali, due si sono incentrati–in un orizzonte cronologico che dal medioevo giunge alla prima età moderna–sulla pastorizia, e più in generale sulle attività connesse con l’allevamento ovino, pratiche cioè che sono tradizionalmente considerate invisibili par excellence, stante la generale scarsità di tracce materiali che producono. Confrontandosi con la dibattuta questione della sopravvivenza della pastorizia alpina, attestata non oltre il XIII secolo, Attilio Stella collega la pratica della transumanza nei secoli precedenti con la presenza e l’azione di forti poteri feudali, ma ipotizza che l’invisibilità–documentale e archeologica–del fenomeno a partire dal XIV secolo non implichi necessariamente una sua scomparsa, bensì segnali piuttosto da un lato la crisi del sistema amministrativo signoriale, dall’altro l’emergere di nuove dinamiche del popolamento e dello sfruttamento delle aree d’altura. Nella medesima direzione, orientata a una revisione di opinioni generalmente condivise, si muovono Antonio Malpica Cuello, Sonia Villar Mañas, Guillermo García-Contreras Ruiz e Luis Martínez Vázquez, che studiano le pratiche dell’allevamento ovino nell’altopiano di Granada fra XIII e XV secolo: la centralità economica della pastorizia fino in età moderna, i diffusi e incisivi interventi di modifica del paesaggio indotti dalle attività pastorali, e infine la quantità non trascurabile delle fonti scritte che ne trattano, inducono a ritenere che la presunta invisibilità dei pastori sia la conseguenza di uno scarso interesse storiografico, a sua volta determinato dalla progressiva marginalizzazione della pastorizia nella società moderna e contemporanea.

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Diversi contributi si occupano invece di alcune declinazioni dell’invisibilità socioculturale riflesse nel silenzio delle fonti scritte o nella mistificazione storiografica e letteraria. Aaron Beek esamina le modalità narrative con cui la pirateria è trattata nelle fonti storiografiche antiche, riscontrando come lo spazio, e la conseguente visibilità, riservati al fenomeno siano direttamente proporzionali all’interesse variabile che esso suscitava presso la classe dirigente romana: la pirateria, benché endemica nel Mediterraneo antico, permane taciuta e invisibile fintantoché non offre l’occasione di operazioni repressive i cui promotori possano utilizzarne i risultati per la propria affermazione politica. Analizzando una nota sezione del Satyricon di Petronio, Davide Astori, Maria Elena Galaverna e Nicola Reggiani concentrano l’attenzione sugli usi linguistici propri di alcuni dei commensali della cena di Trimalchione, usi che rivelano le umili origini e/o l’eterogeneità culturale dei parlanti; la consapevolezza che costoro mostrano della modestia del codice linguistico del proprio gruppo sociale di appartenenza rispetto allo High-Level Latin usato dalle élites si traduce in un’aspirazione all’omologazione con la cultura dominante che li destina inevitabilmente all’invisibilità. Ma il tema dell’invisibilità sociale e/o culturale è anche, se non innanzitutto, una questione di genere, riconoscibile diacronicamente in epoche diverse, come indicano tre delle relazioni qui presentate. Irene Somà ipotizza che nella prima metà del I secolo d. C. le donne della casata imperiale romana esercitassero l’importante ruolo politico che è loro oramai largamente riconosciuto non soltanto nell’ambito, per loro limitato, delle azioni e dei comportamenti pubblici, ma soprattutto attraverso l’esercizio della scrittura politico-storiografica: un’attività invisibile perché non attestata dalle nostre fonti, ma fondatamente attribuibile a parecchie di loro in base ai dati desumibili da un’attenta rilettura delle fonti stesse. Anche dal contributo di Davide Tramarin emerge con chiarezza come la scrittura, alla pari di altre attività legate al libro, potesse costituire per le donne un mezzo privilegiato di acquisizione di un ruolo, e dunque di una almeno parziale visibilità: grazie a studi recenti iniziano a essere individuabili, e dunque a emergere dall’invisibilità a cui parevano destinate, le molte donne che fra tardo medioevo e XV secolo praticarono l’attività di copiste e illustratrici di codici. Il genere, o meglio l’ambiguità di genere, è causa di emarginazione anche narrativa: in questo senso Anna Everett Beek rilegge la storia di Ifi e Iante narrata nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio, e vi individua quale motivo conduttore la non-visibilità della condizione e dell’orientamento sessuale transgender di una delle protagoniste; solo la sua trasformazione in uomo, e dunque la sua “normalizzazione” nel canone della eterosessualità, consente che la

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vicenda si risolva nello happy ending, peraltro inusuale nell’opera ovidiana. Alcuni interventi hanno infine correttamente sottolineato che anche oggi, in piena civiltà dell’informazione, processi culturali e fenomeni sociali, pure di primaria importanza e non soltanto per la comunità che li esprime, possono restare non-visibili in quanto espressioni di gruppi sociali marginali o emarginati. La riflessione di Fabrizio Filioli Uranio si incentra sulla apparente scomparsa–e dunque sulla non-visibilità–di due paesi della Valle del Vajont forzatamente spopolati a partire dal 1948, quando gli abitanti furono “deportati” altrove per consentire la costruzione della famigerata diga: costoro, a più di sessant’anni dall’inizio della vicenda che li coinvolse, e nonostante l’assoluto disinteresse mediatico e politico che li circonda, combattono il disagio dello sradicamento mantenendo e alimentando profondi legami, materiali e non, con i due paesi d’origine, dei quali vengono così garantite la sopravvivenza e la visibilità. Lo slum di Villa Muñecas, presso Tucumán in Argentina, costituisce invece il case-study scelto da Martina Hjertman e Per Cornell per affrontare quell’aspetto peculiare dell’invisibilità contemporanea che è la marginalità urbana, nei suoi caratteri socioeconomici e culturali; gli autori mostrano come un inedito approccio archeologico alle tracce materiali degli slums possa dare visibilità a gruppi sociali emarginati e a luoghi marginali, altrimenti destinati a una provvisorietà che è oggettivamente sia reale sia percepita. In una prospettiva post-coloniale, Yoshimi Tanabe considera invece come l’appropriazione consapevole della propria storia recente, ottenuta mediante un “esercizio di memoria” che porta a una ri-narrazione degli eventi associati al periodo delle rivolte urbane dell’ultimo ventennio, aiuti gli immigrati nordafricani in Francia a costruire uno spazio di resistenza alla violenza epistemica prodotta da spiegazioni ufficiali della realtà solo apparentemente “vere” e “legittime.” Tale Memory Work è in grado di indurre gli individui coinvolti nei processi di immigrazione a riformulare un racconto del loro passato (Weak History) alternativo alla narrazione dominante (Strong History), e pertanto consente loro di sfuggire alla rimozione e all’invisibilità a cui la loro “storia debole” sarebbe altrimenti destinata. In conclusione, mi sembra di poter affermare che l’incontro sulle Invisible Cultures, con le relazioni che vi sono state presentate e con le discussioni spesso animatissime che hanno coinvolto sia i partecipanti sia il pubblico presente, abbia costituito un’occasione rara e preziosa, sia perché autenticamente e proficuamente interdisciplinare, sia perché ha richiamato a Trento un numero consistente di giovani studiosi, europei ed extraeuropei, che per due giorni hanno fatto del nostro Dipartimento ciò

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che vuole e deve essere: una comunità scientifica internazionale, in quanto capace di proporre temi di riflessione e di ricerca che le consentono di interloquire col mondo. Per questi motivi, la Scuola di Dottorato in Studi Umanistici, sorta e organizzata partendo dalla convinzione che il dialogo fra discipline diverse debba affiancare qualsiasi specializzazione settoriale, e si ponga come il primo antidoto a ristrettezze mentali e provincialismi culturali, ha creduto fortemente in questa iniziativa e l’ha sostenuta, confidando in un risultato della cui qualità ritengo che questo volume rappresenti la prova concreta.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

These are the proceedings of the post-graduate conference “Invisible Cultures: Historical and Archaeological Perspectives.” This conference was held at the Department of Humanities of the University of Trento (Italy) on 19–20 March 2013. It was organized by Viola Gheller and Francesco Carrer, who also edited this volume, and in cooperation with the Cultural Association “Rodopis”. Acknowledgements are due to all the people and institutions that contributed to the organization of this event. The conference was organized with the financial support of the Department of Humanities and the Doctoral School of Humanities. Antonella Neri (Department of Humanities, University of Trento) provided a significant support in the organization of the event. The “B. Bagolini” Laboratory provided an important support as well. Fulvio Ferrari (Director of the Department of Humanities) and Elvira Migliario (Director of the Doctoral School of Humanities) authorized and supervised the organization. Logo and artworks were designed by Veronica Tondato, and the web-page was created by the Web Team of the University. Besides, the collaboration with the Communication Office of the University of Trento was fundamental for advertising the event. The sessions were chaired by the two organizers as well as by Lucia Tralli (University of Bologna) and Sebastiano C. Loukas (Cultural Association “Rodopis”). The editors are particularly grateful to James Stuart Taylor and Nikolas Hausmann for revising their papers and providing important suggestions.

NARRATIVES AND INVISIBILITY VIOLA GHELLER UNIVERSITÀ DI TRENTO (ITALY)

When dealing with historiographical sources, it is fairly usual not to find what one is looking for. This is obviously true for Antiquity, when historians have often to work with fragmentary or isolated texts, and complete their information with evidence of a different kind, such as epigraphic, numismatic, iconographical or archaeological sources, often fragmentary and isolated themselves. Interestingly enough, however, the situation does not change that much when one looks at other, closer historical periods, including Contemporary History, when properly historiographical accounts are usually supported by other types of narrative, such as chronicles, journal articles, reportages etc. which feed the illusion that a more objective and less hypothetical reconstruction is attainable. Actually, a closer look at specific case-studies from different periods and contexts clarifies that which makes the use of “narrative” sources, either literary or not, slippery and uncertain. It is not necessarily their wider or narrower availability, or their self-sufficiency, but something more endemic, involving the sources’ “primary nature.” In the next few pages, I will mainly deal with literary sources in order to demonstrate the problems they pose to historians, but the reader will surely perceive that very similar issues relate to other kinds of narrative.

1. Writing History, telling stories When a story is told, whatever medium is employed, it is told by someone who thought about it in a certain place and time, with particular needs and worries. When someone writes History, or more generally, when one reports a fact, he pretends he is telling the Truth, or giving an account of it in the only possible or more reliable way. The claim to objectivity has been progressively abandoned by historians, who look now for a plausible much more than for an absolutely sure reconstruction of the phenomena they specifically tackle. However, the full consciousness of

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the endemic unreliability of a narrative is even more important when transposed in methodological terms. It makes clear that any kind of text was written by an author for a specific aim: telling a story, solving a juridical problem or dispute, spreading news and resolutions, keeping in touch with someone, explaining a fact and preserving its memory for future generations and so on. Obvious as it might sound, this is one of the main problems posed by narrative sources in general and written texts in particular, since it means that, on the one hand, no text can tell us exactly what happened, and on the other that any text reflects its writer’s intentions and points of view, answers to specific needs, wills and aims. Therefore, the information derived from them has not, and cannot have, any universal validity or scope, nor does it represent reality as it is or was. This apparently simple statement has had very important consequences concerning the evolution of historical research, whose attention passed from factual to social history, from broad phenomena to micro-history, from the story of winners and rulers to that of marginalized and subdued categories. In fact, once we overcome the idea of an objective and reliable representation, a very important question arises about what is and what is not in the picture. It is a question about the reasons for presence and absence, about the way something is represented and something is taken out or ignored.

2. Consciousness, unconsciousness, intentionality The first question that has to be answered is whether the process of inclusion/exclusion of the single elements from a narrative has been conscious or not. If the answer is positive, then the problem shifts to the reasons why something was kept and something was not; if the answer is negative, then it simply means that what we are looking for was not among the main interests and worries of our author(s). One might then wonder why something that is so important for us was not at all relevant for people living in a different time or context. There are some very striking examples of this kind of phenomenon: for instance, economic and financial matters are of primary importance in our modern world, and we know that the Roman Empire was based on commerce, that it had public expenses and a tax system, that from Nero onwards the denarius was progressively debased, until the fiscal reform of Constantine the Great, but one cannot find the scantiest trace of a theoretical reflection on “economy” in ancient sources, nor a specific account reporting the stages of the Empire’s economic history. The full reconstruction has to be based on indirect sources, such as coins, inscriptions, critical pamphlets against one

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or the other Emperor, and so on. This demonstrates that the lack of direct sources does not necessarily prevent a question from being answered, but, at the same time, it raises other questions: why were the ancient Romans so indifferent to how their own economic system worked, and how it could be improved in terms of efficiency? The question is a big one, and I will leave the answer to experts, just pointing out that we would know almost nothing about ancient economy if we just relied on narrative or literary sources. Indeed, the texts we have to deal with, wherever and whenever they were written, were not meant to answer our questions, nor–most of the time–those of their contemporaries as a whole, but only those of their authors, or of their social, political and cultural milieu. On the other hand, as already mentioned, groups of people, single individuals or specific events can be intentionally excluded from a narrative, and the reasons for these exclusions always deserve explanation. An aprioristic selection of events might be due to the authors’ personal interests and inclinations, or to their peculiar perspectives: a History of the Church, for example, will obviously focus on different events from a book on political History, and a military historian will probably tend to ignore the role of women in society. Yet there is another kind of selection, much more connected to the authors’ bias, their particular aims and the way a specific kind of representation might prove functional to them. To give an obvious example, a successful usurper will display his good deeds towards his new subjects and will try to prove he has the right to rule, highlighting at the same time the evil nature and bad conduct of his predecessor. There are many complex reasons why narrative and written sources don’t give any information about some historical actors, but there are also some methodologies which can help to get beyond these epistemological difficulties. The papers presented at the Invisible Cultures conference tackled these issues from multiple points of view, taking into consideration various case-studies from a number of different contexts and historical periods. This proved useful to highlight both the reasons for “invisibility” and the possible means that might be employed to grasp information about unrepresented categories. I will now extract some examples from the articles published in this book to get more into the detail of methodological problems of historical research, referring to the articles themselves for further discussion.

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3. The victorious tell the tales, some tales tell about the losers One of the biggest and most usual problems when dealing with historiography and narrative sources in general is that “the victorious tell the tales,” as Aaron Beek writes in his paper. It means that we often have to understand the history and characters of some groups of people from their enemies’ representation, and not from their direct voice. The question is, then, “how did these ‘losers’ perceive themselves?” Winning parties obviously have a strong interest in offering a negative portrait of their adversaries, sometimes trying to reach their permanent oblivion through the means of propaganda or the physical destruction of whatever could preserve their memory. On the other hand, as Beek shows, those who talk about a group without being part of it can easily be misled in using labels, or consciously use “wrong” labels in order to mislead their audience, to raise their fear, to gain their support against a common enemy. The “victorious” can represent an uncertain victory as absolute and decisive, just to strengthen their position and wreck surviving opposition, they can justify their actions and make them acceptable towards their addressees. It is not only the “winners” (ruling class, representatives of the dominant culture, members of higher social strata) that chose to condemn their opponents to oblivion, or simply those who belong to a different milieu. Sometimes, a parallel phenomenon has to be detected: that of members of lower social strata or marginalized categories trying to imitate the most powerful groups in order to gain some kind of social promotion. Through the analysis of the language attributed to freedmen in the Cena Trimalchionis, from Petronius Arbiter’s Satyricon, Davide Astori, Maria Elena Galaverna and Nicola Reggiani highlight this kind of process, showing that freedmen–usually coming from non-Latin speaking areastried to modulate their way of speaking in order to make it as similar as possible to that of the Romans. This is just one example of how subordinate categories may tend to obliterate all those characters that could make them recognisable and consequently prevent them to enter the ruling community. Their conscious hiding, together with the lack of interest of the dominant class in their respect, leads to their actual disappearance from the historical record. It is remarkable that, while modern research is devoting specific attention to socially excluded or less-represented categories, until very recently these groups could gain some kind of representation only in a very indirect way, and to answer some cultural needs of the ruling groups. The Cena Trimalchionis is just one example of a properly literary text

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offering one of the rare insights into an under-represented category which had to have a very important role in Roman society. Petronius was not interested in proposing a detailed picture of a social group in itself, or a full account of freedmen’s way of life. On the contrary, his aim was that of reaching a strong comic effect, evoking some well-known situations and human types, immediately clear to the audience, and that we–as very distant observers–cannot but glimpse through the literary construction. The importance of romance and poetry to fill the blanks of historiography and to gain a glimpse of otherwise unrepresented phenomena is also shown by Anna Everett Beek’s contribution. The author deals with a peculiar episode from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, that of Iphis, transformed from female to male by the goddess Isis in order to have her life saved. The story of Iphis and the way Ovid tells it is one of the rare examples allowing a view, although mediated, on homosexuality and transgenderism in the Roman world and the way sex-change could be imagined or perceived. Nonetheless, Everett Beek’s reading of the episode is interesting also because of her critical approach to the modern reception of Iphis’s story, in turn influenced by the perception of gender, transgenderism and homosexuality in contemporary times. This is also a very good demonstration of how the perception of a narrative and the importance accorded to a single detail changes with time, influencing the position it occupies in a historiographical account.

4. “Weak History’s” payback Considering the ancient world, it is not at all astonishing that most of the details escape our sight: scholars and students have to accept that they may outline only a very broad picture, and they may propose hypothetical reconstructions, as likely as they can be, with only a very few spots of certainty. The assumption that the level of certainty increases with the amount of available sources is still very widespread: the details are expected to enrich the picture, and make it the more and more similar to its subject. In fact, Yoshimi Tanabe and Fabrizio Filioli Uranio show that the reconstruction of contemporary phenomena and events suffers similar, if not the same, difficulties and problems as that of the distant past. Even in our own time, and even with the powerful media we can rely on, a number of aspects of a process, or the process as a whole, can remain hidden and basically unknown. Tanabe tackles the problem of postcolonial immigration in France, showing how its memory has been nearly completely obliterated from French people’s self-representation, and even from that of the immigrants’

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descendants. It is only very recently and through the action of some cultural associations that this memory has started to be at least partially recovered. Collective and individual memory are labelled as “weak history,” as opposed to “strong history,” to be intended as something similar to the official representation of a process. The erasing of “weak history” easily leads to a different shaping of individual identity and selfperception, which ignores specific individual or collective experiences. It looks like the postcolonial immigrants’ descendants struggle for an opposite purpose from that of Roman freedmen: that of marking their difference from the dominant culture, recovering their specific identity, underlining their personal and family history to outline that of a whole forgotten phenomenon. Filioli Uranio deals with a strictly linked problem, that of different representations of the same event, and in particular of the differences between “official” history and the accounts given by those people who directly experienced an event. The survivors of the collapse of the Vajont dam in 1963 who agreed to answer questions and talk about the tragedy seem to be willing to keep the disaster’s memory alive, both within the community they belong to and outside it. Other people, on the contrary, look for a complete oblivion of their trauma, but the main point is that they all tell a different story from the official version. It is clear that the true difference between the study of contemporary events and that of distant facts is the possibility of relying upon direct witnesses, of comparing oral history with official accounts, and of interpreting a fact observing it from different perspectives. This kind of study confirms the assumption that even when detailed and full accounts of an event or series of events are available, we must always consider why they were told, what kind of interests and personal points of view they could represent and how they could prove useful in reaching whatever aim. This kind of consciousness and the consequent attention paid to the rhetoric of different narratives and accounts, considering the eventual polemical context these accounts may be used in, can enable historians to “read beyond the text,” so to speak, and propose a critical reconstruction of an event.

5. “Hyper-direct” sources This way of interpreting a text presupposes the existence of a narrative including traces of marginalized groups. However, there are categories of people whose existence is not recorded at all in any kind of narrative. In such cases, historians have sometimes to simply infer the presence of these

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“invisibles,” such as disabled persons, for instance, or certain categories of workers, while sometimes they can rely on what we could call “hyperdirect sources,” i.e. objects belonging to these groups, which attest their existence without mediation, even when it is not recorded by external subjects. This is for example the case of the female hand-writers and illuminators considered by Davide Tramarin. The author gives an account of some manuscripts written and illuminated by women both for their personal use and for someone else, which leads us to think they were professional handwriters and/or illuminators. This kind of evidence obviously forces historians to re-evaluate the whole feminine condition in the fifteenth century and the role of women in the production of specific goods, as well as in the general work-system. In a similar way, Irene Somà shows that the Augustae in the Julio-Claudian era had access to archives and were themselves authors of historiographic works, biographies and letters, through which they could represent, but also actively intervene in, the decision making process of the imperial court. Despite the lack of attention accorded by male historiographers to the feminine world, the kind of evidence presented by Tramarin and Somà offers new elements to understand women’s level of education, their role in producing, and not only receiving, culture and their ability to act as economic actors. In view of this unmediated evidence, historians are clearly forced to reconsider the accounts they rely on, to detect unsuspected absences and ask new questions to all of their sources. “Hyper-direct” sources are also the objects forming a material culture, and all those remains discovered by archaeology: remains of the distant and recent past which come down to us without any mediation, and often without finding any space in the historiographical record or narrative sources. Archaeology, for example, may allow us to place an ancient settlement where no source recorded human presence, or may show what kind of artefacts were used by a group of people. Nonetheless, “hyper-directness” or absence of mediation is not synonymous with unambiguousness or “certainty.” As well as narratives, archaeological data have to be interpreted and read, with precise means and methods, always considering that even material culture has its own “invisibles,” appearing and disappearing actors and protagonists. Neither archaeology, nor history can claim to be self-sufficient, autonomous and independent from one another. Both disciplines have their blanks to be filled, both disciplines have to help each other to accomplish the difficult task of unveiling what is invisible.

INVISIBLE CULTURES IN ARCHAEOLOGY FRANCESCO CARRER UNIVERSITY OF YORK (UK)

1. Visibility Archaeological interpretation is mainly based on the study of artefacts and ecofacts from archaeological contexts. This means that the quality of archaeological assemblage influences the comprehension of socioeconomic and cultural processes of the past.1 Some groups or sub-groups might be hidden by the lack of archaeological remains for a specific geographical area or chronological period; others by the difficult interpretation of the available archaeological data. These social, economic and cultural entities are then “invisible” for archaeological interpretation. The reasons for this apparent invisibility fall into three categories: taphonomic processes, mobility of ancient groups, and characteristics of modern landscape and environment. These phenomena will be briefly described hereafter.

1.1. Taphonomy Preservation is one of the major issues in archaeological research. It is well known that ancient perishable materials (like wood, leather, textiles etc.) are preserved only in particular environments: extremely warm and dry, extremely wet, extremely cold. A very famous example of incredible preservation is the Iceman, a naturally mummified 5000-year-old human body found with all its equipment (leather clothes, wooden tools etc.) in the Tisenjoch glacier, on the Austrian-Italian border.2 Its incredible preservation enhanced the comprehension of European societies during the Neolithic period, and helped to reject several previous hypotheses and theories. This example gives some indication of how much the loss of perishable materials affects archaeological interpretation. 1 2

See Gamble 2008 and references therein. Spindler et al. 1995.

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It needs to be pointed out that perishable materials are not the only things that might be under-represented in the archaeological record. In acid soils, for instance, bones and teeth usually degrade quite rapidly as well.3 In similar contexts also metals and carbonized materials are affected by degradation. In particular situations the preservation of archaeological material is likely to be limited to the stone and ceramic artefacts. Poor preservation, then, is a significant biasing factor in archaeology.

1.2 Mobility The visibility of an archaeological context is also directly proportional to the types of activity carried out in the site as well as the duration of the occupation period. In a nutshell (and oversimplifying): the longer the occupation the richer the archaeological record. This means that temporary sites of mobile groups, such as hunter-gatherers and nomadic pastoralists, are usually less archaeologically visible than permanent sites. In his important analysis of the archaeological traces of nomadic populations in the Near East,4 Roger Cribb wrote a chapter entitled “Nomads–The Invisible Culture?” within which he tried to understand the reasons for the commonly recognized invisibility of mobile groups. Similarly Gifford, who conducted an ethnoarchaeological study of the pastoral sites of Dassanetch in Kenya, argued that the time-limited occupation of these sites does not enable the formation of important archaeological records capable of resisting the strong post-depositional processes typical of that region.5 Similar assumptions have been proposed for the base camps and hunting sites of foragers and collectors in various areas of the world, from the desert to the tropical forest to sub-polar environments.6 It is clear that the knowledge of ancient mobile groups or populations is affected by the invisibility of their sites. A very significant example is Roman transhumance. As Marinella Pasquinucci pointed out, without Roman epigraphic and literary sources (such as the lex agraria or the de re pecuaria of Varro) we would know nothing about the importance of mobile pastoralism in the late Republic and early Empire.7 This suggests

3

See Nicholson 1996 for an experimental evaluation of bone degradation in soil. Cribb 1991. 5 Gifford 1978. 6 Yellen 1977; Sellet et al. 2006; Binford 1978; 1980. 7 Pasquinucci 1991. 4

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that all the mobile groups not described in historical sources are extremely difficult to identify archaeologically.

1.3. Surface Current land use is another significant factor that relates to visibility. Some types of land cover enable a better visibility of buried archaeological contexts, while others hide them partially or completely. Furthermore, the archaeological visibility depends also on the scale (intra-site, site wide or landscape) and the methodology (e.g. remote-sensing, geophysical prospection, fieldwalking) of the survey. Woodlands provide a good example to explain these concepts. Dense woods and forests decrease the visibility of archaeological features. LiDAR-derived DTMs have recently proved to be useful in tackling this problem. Showing the morphology of land surface under the trees, they enable the identification macro-features (structures, canals, terraces etc.), invisible with traditional remote sensing methods (aerial photography) and often difficult to identify by archaeological fieldwalking.8 However, LiDAR technology is not suitable for identifying smaller artefacts, like surface scattered finds that may indicate the presence of buried sites. Recent research on the distribution of Mesolithic sites in the Alps9 has enabled reinterpretation of the lack of sites in the forested middle slopes: it does not simply mirror a specific prehistoric strategy of exploitation of mountain resources, but depends mainly on the higher visibility of surface findings in the upland (open pastures) and lowland (ploughed fields and urbanized areas) than on the wooded slopes.10 This example suggests that diachronic reconstruction of mountain occupation and settlement patterns is usually based on incomplete and biased datasets, with more data for specific feature categories, recent chronologies and areas with a higher degree of visibility. These inferences are not limited to mountain areas and woodlands; in fact they are quite general, as similar biases can be experienced in different contexts and environments.

8

Forlin 2013. These were seasonal base camp and hunting sites, dated to the early Holocene (tenth–seventh millennium BC). Then both modern land use and the temporary nature of these sites affect their archaeological visibility. 10 Cavulli et al. 2011. 9

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2. Recognisability In the previous paragraphs some of the main factors causing archaeological invisibility have been listed and explained. But there is another issue that should be taken into account. Even in qualitatively and quantitatively rich archaeological contexts, is still difficult to identify specific social and cultural groups. This is mostly due to biases in the systemic context, rather than in the archaeological context.11 Namely, some social, economic and cultural groups are hardly visible in the archaeological record because archaeological markers of their existence are difficult to recognize.12 An interesting example is the archaeology of childhood.13 The difficulty of addressing this topic resides not only in the discrimination of children’s material culture from adults’ material culture, but also in the assumption that childhood is a sociological category that can be studied archaeologically. The result is that children are, in most cases, invisible in the archaeological research framework and then in the archaeological interpretation. The example provided shows that the dearth of archaeological data is not the only bias in archaeological interpretation. Recognisability also has an important role in revealing or hiding specific archaeological cultures or groups. The problem of recognisability, then, is as important to tackle as the previously investigated problems of archaeological visibility.14

3. Tackling archaeological invisibility The invisibility of groups and sub-groups, as noted above, may depend on several archaeological biases. Therefore different approaches are necessary to tackle these biases and to provide potential solutions. The 11

Schiffer 1972. Carrer 2012. 13 Kamp 2001. 14 It is worth clarifying the alternative use of “recognizability” and “visibility” in this paragraph. The term “invisible” can be applied both to an archaeological record and to a group. The first use indicates that taphonomic processes, mobility of the group and modern land use affected or affect the archaeological assemblage under study. The second use refers to a group or sub-group that is difficult to detect or study, either for the “invisibility” of the archaeological record or for the “nonrecognisability” of specific archaeological markers. Hence a problem of archaeological “recognizability” usually implicates a problem of groups/subgroups’ “invisibility.” 12

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archaeological papers presented at the Invisible Cultures conference, and published in this volume, have analysed specific case studies that presented one or more of the aforementioned visibility problems. Florence Liard investigated the political and socio-economic change in the Minoan world, between the Neopalatial and the Final and Postpalatial period; she proposed petrographic analysis of pottery as the best way to understand production and distribution of these objects, thus enabling a new interpretation of social relationships and policies in the last period of Minoan civilization. Antonio Malpica Cuello, Sonia Villar Mañas, Guillermo GarcíaContreras Ruiz and Luis Martínez Vásquez dealt with pastoral mobility. They studied the traces of medieval transhumance in the territory of Granada, in order to identify specific archaeological markers and features in the landscape that may enable inferences about the importance of animal husbandry in the economy of ancient southern Spain. Silvia Lischi studied exotic artefacts from Sumhuram (Southern Oman) suggesting the presence of an Indian community in that city during the first millennium BC; this investigation enabled exploration of the important issue of ethnic minorities and immigrants in the ancient world. Lara Tonizzo Feligioni investigated medieval prisons, pointing out that this topic is rarely addressed by archaeological research and that it represents an unexplored although interesting field of research. Martina Hjertman and Per Cornell analysed, using archaeological methodologies, a marginal quarter of a contemporary South American city (San Miguel de Tucumán, Argentina), focusing on how social marginalization influences the “invisibility” of that quarter as well as of its inhabitants.

3.1 A further factor of invisibility? It is worth noticing that most of the authors focused on what has been labelled as “archaeological recognisability” rather than proper “archaeological visibility.” Only Malpica Cuello, Villar Mañas, García-Contreras Ruiz and Martínez Vásquez tackled the problem of how mobility affects the visibility of ancient pastoral sites, using different approaches (remotesensing, intensive survey, archive documents, ethnoarchaeology, toponymy, etc.) to acquire new data and to enhance the comprehension of Andalusian pastoral groups. All the other authors, instead, investigated different social, economic and cultural phenomena that seem to be weakly represented in the archaeological assemblages: communitarian feasting (Liard), ethnical minorities (Lischi), marginalized groups such as prisoners

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(Tonizzo Feligioni) and inhabitants of slum areas (Hjertman and Cornell). Each paper deals with its own topic using a different methodological approach: material culture analysis (Lischi), petrography (Liard), landscape archaeology (Hjertman and Cornell) and urban archaeology (Tonizzo Feligioni). Despite these differences, they all provide a common conclusion, which can be considered a further factor affecting archaeological visibility and recognisability: the lack of interest of archaeologists in specific research topics. All the authors pointed out that only new investigations and the application of novel methodologies (such as GIS and petrography; see Malpica Cuello et al. and Liard in this volume) can shed new light on some invisible archaeological cultures. To summarize: intrinsic aspects of archaeological context (taphonomic processes, mobility, land use) or systemic context (“recognisability”) are not the only factors that influence the invisibility of an ancient culture; this depends also on the dearth of focused archaeological investigations and on the use of unsuitable methodological approaches. Therefore, intensity and quality of research affect archaeological interpretation more than the factors listed in the previous paragraphs. As such, the hope the authors share is that more research projects will focus on those archaeological groups/cultures that are still considered partially or totally invisible.

4. Conclusion The inferences provided enable us to reconsider the problem of archaeological invisibility of ancient cultures. Biases in the archaeological record and in the archaeological interpretation can be overcome with the intensification of fieldwork and with in-depth investigations of the collected data (using new approaches and methods). Some examples of “invisible” archaeological cultures have been addressed by the authors of the papers in this volume, with a specific focus on the causes of their invisibility. New theoretical approaches and methodologies have been experimented with, in order to find the best way to tackle invisibility. This provided interesting insights that can be used to further interpret similar contexts and to investigate similar topics. One other interesting thing highlighted by the authors is the important interplay between archaeological and historical information. As already suggested, in some cases historical sources can give hints in the study of invisible ancient cultures. In these cases historical sources are the startingpoint, and the challenge is matching archaeological data and historical information. But historical sources may also be the end-point, as the data

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provided by archaeological research can be used to verify, question or integrate the historical information. This trade-off enables the improvement of both historical and archaeological interpretation, thus enhancing our comprehension of the past. This final remark explains and justifies the interdisciplinary nature of the volume. A more structured interaction between historiography and archaeology in the study of invisible cultures is highly desirable, and this volume hopes to be an interesting contribution in this direction.

Bibliography Binford, L. R. 1978. “Dimensional Analysis of Behavior and Site Structure: Learning from an Eskimo Hunting Stand.” American Antiquity 43(3): 330–361. ʊ. 1980. “Willow Smoke and Dogs’ Tails: Hunter-Gatherer Settlement Systems and Archaeological Site Formation.” American Antiquity 45(1): 4–20. Carrer, F. 2012. “Upland Sites and Pastoral Landscapes. New Perspectives into the Archaeology of Pastoralism in the Alps.” In Apsat 1. Teoria e Metodi della Ricerca sui Paesaggi d’Altura, edited by G. P. Brogiolo, D. E. Angelucci, A. Colecchia, F. Remondino, 101–16. Mantova: SAP. Cavulli, F., S. Grimaldi, A. Pedrotti, D. E. Angelucci 2011. “Toward an understanding of archaeological visibility: the case of the Trentino (Southern Alps).” In Hidden Landscapes of Mediterranean Europe. Cultural and methodological biases in pre- and protohistoric landscape studies. Proceedings of the international meeting, Siena, Italy, May 25–27, 2007, edited by M. van Leusen, G. Pizziolo and L. Sarti, 83–94. BAR International Series 2320. Oxford: Archaeopress. Cribb, R. 1991. Nomads in Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Forlin, P. 2013. “Airborne LiDAR data analysis within the Alpine landscapes of Trentino: a methodological approach.” Post-Classical Archaeologies 2: 247–268. Gamble, C. 2008. Archaeology: The Basics. New York: Routledge. Gifford, D. P. 1978. “Ethnoarchaeological Observations of Natural Processes Affecting Cultural Materials.” In Explorations in Ethnoarchaeology, edited by R. A. Gould, 77–101. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Kamp, K. A. 2001. “Where Have All the Children Gone?: The Archaeology of Childhood.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 8(1): 1–34.

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Nicholson, R. A. 1996. “Bone Degradation, Burial Medium and Species Representation: Debunking the Myths, an Experiment-based Approach.” Journal of Archaeological Science, 23(4): 513–533. Pasquinucci, M. 1991. “Aspetti dell’allevamento transumante nell’Italia centro-meridionale fra l’età arcaica e il medioevo. Il caso della Sabina.” In Archeologia della pastorizia nell’Europa meridionale. Atti della Tavola Rotonda Internazionale. Chiavari, 22–24 settembre 1989, edited by R. Maggi, R. Nisbet and G. Barker, 99–108. Rivista di Studi Liguri, anno 56. Bordighera: Istituto Internazionale di Studi Liguri. Schiffer, M. 1972. “Archaeological Context and Systemic Context.” American Antiquity 37(2): 156–165. Sellet, F., R. D. Greaves and Y. Pei-Lin, eds. 2006. Archaeology and ethnoarchaeology of mobility. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Spindler, K., E. Rastbichler-Zissernig, H. Wilfing, D. zur Nedden and H. Nothdufter, eds. 1995. Der Mann im Eis. Neue Funde und Ergebnisse. Wien: Springer. Yellen, J. 1977. Archaeological Approaches to the Present. New York: Academic Press.

PART I: POPULATIONS

WHAT HAS BECOME OF DAMAS? THE INVISIBLE (IM)MIGRANTS OF THE EARLY EMPIRE BETWEEN EXCLUSION AND ASSIMILATION DAVIDE ASTORI, MARIA ELENA GALAVERNA, NICOLA REGGIANI* UNIVERSITÀ DI PARMA (ITALY)

1. Introduction The Cena Trimalchionis, the narration of which is contained in chapters 26–78 of the famous Satyricon by Petronius Arbiter,1 is a literary piece of uneasy categorization which has been profitably studied in several fields and disciplines, and from many points of view.2 Among other themes, it keeps evidence of the social category of the liberti (freedmen),3 *

Though the content of the present contribution has been developed together by the authors, Nicola Reggiani and Maria Elena Galaverna have in particular chosen and edited the passages for the discussion in the central part of the article (respectively the first and the second part of §2), while Davide Astori has dealt with the general frame of the matter (§§1 and 3). 1 For a recent overview on this work see Martin 2009. 2 It will be sufficient to refer to Vannini 2007. 3 “According to the literary and epigraphic sources, the Roman Empire involved various people and languages and its social fabric was very complex. Despite the hierarchical structure, there was a real upward social mobility both in Rome and in the provinces, as Alföldy 1987, 206–7 shows. This opportunity of emancipation led foreigners and lower classes to imitate upper classes education and modes of speech: Latin was the language of the State and of the governing class and it became the most prestigious one. However, the natural loyalty of the emerging class to their native language–most of all Greek–and their lack of liberal education produced an imperfect linguistic and cultural acquisition. The Cena, which probably took place in a provincial town in Campania, offers a meaningful picture of this attitude staging some upstarts, whose names reveal a humble foreign origin (As Priuli 1975, 25 explains, all other freedmen have a non-Latin and typical of

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and in particular of their peculiar linguistic usage, which can be seen as a kind of minimal “material trace” of a social group otherwise lost in the folds of history, which condemned it to oblivion by stigmatizing it as incorrect and rule-breaker. It has been in particular pointed out by Auerbach4 how the peculiar literary strategy adopted by Petronius discloses linguistic habits otherwise neglected. Considering it as raw material to study also from a linguistic point of view, it is therefore possible to re-read Trimalchio’s and the other characters’ words and actions as real communicative acts (to which the communicative competence model theorized by Freddi is applicable)5 aiming both to a general theoretical reflexion and to establishing a working comparison with contemporary phenomena. Indeed, as it has been well focused by Galaverna, Il mondo contemporaneo, contrassegnato da continui flussi migratori e governato da costanti contatti e conflitti di lingue, sembra presentare non poche analogie con il “melting pot” del mondo antico. Oggi, come allora, la compenetrazione culturale e le necessità dei parlanti [mostra, fra le altre cose, come] le varietà linguistiche meno influenti si avvalgono della lingua più prestigiosa, in cui riconoscono una superiorità culturale.6

It is then possible, recalling the Uniformitarian Principle as reformulated by Giacalone Ramat (“non ci aspettiamo che i fattori che regolano oggi il mutamento linguistico siano essenzialmente diversi da ieri”7) on the ground of Labov’s statement related to “the use of the present to explain the past,” to apply in an effective way the current synchronic mechanisms to that ancient socio-linguistic context.8 From this point of view, the case of Petronius’ freedmen is typical of the permanent mechanism that regulates the relationship of integration/clash between emerging groups and ruling clas-

lower condition name, excepted Fortunata, Scintilla, Primigenius and Proculus, which are anyway Latin names of humble origin), opposed to the educated guests” (Galaverna 2011, 52). 4 Auerbach 1956, 30–57. 5 Freddi 1979. 6 Galaverna 2008–2009, 1: “The present world, marked by incessant migratory flows and governed by constant language contacts and conflicts, seems to show several analogies with the ‘melting pot’ of the ancient world. Nowadays, just as in those times, cultural interpenetration and the speakers’ needs [show, among other things, how] the less influential linguistic varieties take advantage of the most illustrious language, in which they recognize a cultural superiority.” 7 Giacalone Ramat 2000, 60: “We do not expect that the factors which rule linguistic changes nowadays are actually different than in the past.” 8 As it has been well conducted by Galaverna 2008–2009 and 2011.

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ses, in those relational dynamics in which the most illustrious language (in this case, Latin) plays the main role of L1 for native speakers or people belonging to the ruling class only, while it acts as L2 for foreigners or subordinates.9 And just as, in modern history, language is a preferential instrument in the handling of power, letting or avoiding the participation and thus the socio-cultural integration for the members of a political community,10 in the ancient times, as described by Petronius, the issues of integration, in which are involved resident strangers or even rising humble classes only, seem to prefer the linguistic perspective as a ground for a contrastive confrontation that clearly marks the border between the freedmen and the elites to which they would aspire. And, then as now, the language of the weak, and more generally speaking their social action, leaves space to that of the strong, leading to the disappearance–and then to the invisibility–of entire social groups, even from the linguistic viewpoint. In the following pages we will first follow the clues for the freedmen’s selfawareness of being speaker of a low-rank language, and then the hints to their struggle towards a higher linguistic level, namely that of a correct (sometimes hyper-correct) Latin. The product of such tensions is a sort of “interlanguage which tends to the upper-class Latin but contains a lot of errors due to the interference mechanism and to the creativity of the speakers.”11

2. Nemo, omnes, nos…: language as a means of exclusion and/or assimilation 2.1. Part 1 “È difficile mettere in dubbio che la riflessione sulla lingua non entri a far parte della generale competenza comunicativa–says Vedovelli12–se si accetta che questa abbia una base culturale e che la competenza linguistica sia componente della più generale competenza comunicativa.”13 Any speaker can perceive the languages with which he is in touch as belonging to metalinguistic activity, oriented towards both the structure of such lan9

See Banfi 1991, 84. Zantedeschi 2010, 159. 11 Galaverna 2011, 61. 12 Vedovelli 2001, 112. 13 “It is difficult to doubt that the theoretical reflection on a language does not belong to the general communicative skills, if we accept that the latter have a cultural ground and that the linguistic skills are a component of the more general communicative competence.” 10

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guages and “l’immagine generale che la lingua manifesta al locutoreapprendente” (the general image which the language presents to the speaker-learner). It becomes important then, in order to understand the speaker’s judgement, to evaluate what, in his own production, he considers as an error, or not. In the Cena there are no moments in which the freedman makes precise references to the structure of the official Latin and evaluates particular linguistic forms as mistakes. It is however evident that they had shaped a certain image of Latin language and that it had become a target for them, former slaves, strangers or at least provincials with respect to Rome. At the same time it is clear they were aware of being speakers of a low-rank linguistic variety. As to this fact, I make a point of two passages:14 [46.1] Videris mihi, Agamemnon, dicere: “quid iste argutat molestus?” Quia tu, qui potes loquere, non loquis. Non es nostrae fasciae, et ideo pauperorum verba derides. Scimus te prae litteras fatuum esse […]. [61.4] […] Itaque hilaria mera sint, etsi timeo istos scholasticos, ne me [de]rideant. viderint: narrabo tamen; quid enim mihi aufert qui ridet? Satius est rideri quam derideri.

The first case deals with Echion’s feeling of the gap between the inadequacy of his own way of expression (here deliberately incorrect) and that of Agamemnon the rhetorician, to whom he attributes a more prestigious way of speaking, suitable to the context and proper to the higher social classes. This perception will become, in his own case, one of the main urging factors towards the attempt to acquire the high speech variety: to speak like them in order to belong to their elite. In the second example, the awareness of the difference is the same, and the same is also the picture of the sermo urbanus (the “city” speech), but the reaction differs: Niceros prefers not to argue on an open linguistic ground, on which he knows he would be defeated, and to do with a more familiar and limited code such as the popular narrative. The freedmen’s linguistic background is well represented by the examples of Damas and Ganimedes. The first, demanded by the scholastici, undertakes a short speech focused on the act of drinking:

14

Due to the space that translations would take up, we chose to give Latin passages in their original version only, also considering that several translations in many European languages are currently and easily available. The edition we refer to is Müller 1955.

6

What Has Become of Damas? [41,10] Dama itaque primus cum † pataracina † poposcisset, “Dies” inquit “nihil est. Dum versas te, nox fit. Itaque nihil est melius quam de cubiculo recta in triclinium ire. [11] Et mundum frigus habuimus. Vix me balneus calfecit. Tamen calda potio vestiarius est. [12] Staminatas duxi, et plane matus sum. Vinus mihi in cerebrum abiit.”

Short and inarticulate clauses, linguistic mistakes, a content which is little more than a simple physical sensation: these are all elements that reveal Damas’ humble social condition: he does not know the official language, nor the official culture, and he does not try to escape from this. It is a realistic picture of a humble drunk. Later on, Ganimedes, the poorest freedmen at dinner, depicts through his own experience the hard economic situation of his time: [44.1] Haec Phileros dixit, illa Ganymedes: “Narratis quod nec ad caelum nec ad terram pertinet, cum interim nemo curat, quid annona mordet. [2] Non mehercules hodie buccam panis invenire potui. Et quomodo siccitas perseverat. [3] Iam annum esurio fuit. Aediles male eveniat, qui cum pistoribus colludunt ‘Serva me, servabo te.’ Itaque populus minutus laborat; nam isti maiores maxillae semper Saturnalia agunt. [4] O si haberemus illos leones, quos ego hic inveni, cum primum ex Asia veni. [5] Illud erat vivere. † Similia Sicilia interiores †15 et laruas sic istos percolopabant, ut illis Iuppiter iratus esset. [6] [Sed] memini Safinium: tunc habitabat ad arcum veterem, me puero, piper, non homo.[7] Is quacumque ibat, terram adurebat. Sed rectus, sed certus, amicus amico, cum quo audacter posses in tenebris micare. [8] In curia autem quomodo singulos [vel] pilabat [tractabat], nec schemas loquebatur sed derectum. [9] Cum ageret porro in foro, sic illius vox crescebat tamquam tuba. Nec sudavit umquam nec expuit, puto eum nescio quid assi a dis habuisse.” […].

Perfectly aware of his status, Ganimedes lacks that inferiority complex which is typical of someone who confronts the élite and looks for opportunities; his language is therefore concrete and has no claim to culture. Phonetic, morphologic, and above all syntactic mistakes, vocabulary taken from the sermo vulgaris (the dialectal Latin spoken in the countryside), and a thick use of realistic metaphors and popular proverbs: a perfect portrait of the linguistic usage of a modern resident foreigner without any chance of achievement.

15 Ciaffi 1955, 127 solves the crux by conjecturing Similia si milia inferior esset, based on a word-play between milia and ȤȓȜȚĮ.

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Everywhere, in the Cena, the strongest push in the linguistic choices is however the desire for integration: the following is the “programmatic manifesto” by Ganimedes himself: [44.17] […] Nemo enim caelum caelum putat, nemo ieiunium servat, nemo Iovem pili facit, sed omnes opertis oculis bona sua computant. [18] Antea stolatae ibant nudis pedibus in clivium, passis capillis, mentibus puris, et Iovem aquam exorabant. Itaque statim urceatim plovebat: aut tunc aut numquam: et omnes redibant udi tamquam mures. Itaque dii pedes lanatos habent, quia nos religiosi non sumus […]

None of the Romans follow the traditional religious practices, while all of them, long ago, used to do so. A polished play on pronouns (nemo, omnes) underlines and articulates the argumentative logic of the discourse. To become part of the group, Ganimedes drifts towards an inclusive nos.

2.2. Part 2 So we can find, throughout the text, moments of suitable linguistic expression together with bungles by the same character, which show the intention and the will to speak according to the language of power, that is the linguistic register which represents the Urbs and which is used by institutions and bureaucracy as well as by the cultural élite. This is the case of Trimalchio, who elsewhere behaves differently, but when he gives dispositions for his last will, together with his funeral monument and his honorary inscription, uses a polished Latin, almost correct and suitable to the funeral tradition and the formulaic style of Roman inscriptions and wills.16 16 On the importance of the funeral ritual in the Roman world, in particular for the freedmen, it is worth quoting the following paragraph by Magnani 19972 [1991], 138: “I liberti sono per lo più divenuti tali in seguito ad un testamento, che di fatto li ha resi da schiavi, liberi: alcuni poi, i più fortunati, come Trimalchione, grazie ad alcuni lasciti hanno avuto anche la possibilità di arricchirsi. Una morte ed un testamento, dunque, hanno fatto di loro degli uomini con pieno diritto all’esistenza, un’esistenza la cui dignitas verrà però dimostrata solo in punto di morte, quando le esequie e appunto un testamento saranno l’unica, vera affermazione pubblica del loro più o meno riuscito inserimento nella collettività e del loro piazzamento nella corsa per l’acquisizione dei beni” (Freedmen have mostly become such after a will, which made them, once slaves, free. Then some of them, the luckiest, such as Trimalchio, had the chance to get rich thanks to be quests. A death and a will, then, made them men having a full claim to existence, the dignitas of which would be proved only at the point of death, when the funeral rites and another will would be

8

What Has Become of Damas? [71.1] […] Ad summam, omnes illos in testamento meo manu mitto. [2] Philargyro etiam fundum lego et contubernalem suam, Carioni quoque insulam et vicesimam et lectum stratum. [3] Nam Fortunatam meam heredem facio, et commendo illam omnibus amicis meis. Et heac ideo omnia publico, ut familia mea iam nunc sic me amet tamquam mortuum.” [4] Gratias agere omnes indulgentiae coeperant domini, cum ille oblitus nugarum exemplar testamenti iussit afferri et totum a primo ad ultimum ingemescente familia recitavit. [5] Respiciens deinde Habinnam: “quid dicis,” inquit “amice carissime? Aedificas monumentum meum, quemadmodum te iussi? [6] Valde te rogo ut secundum pedes statuae meae catellam pingas et coronas et unguenta et Petraitis omnes pugnas, ut mihi contingat tuo beneficio post mortem vivere; preterea ut sint in fronte pedes centum, in agrum pedes ducenti. [7] Omne genus enim poma volo sint circa cineres meos, et vinearum largiter. Valde enim falsum est vivo quidem domos cultas esse, non curari eas, ubi diutius nobis habitandum est. Et ideo ante omnia adici volo: ‘Hoc monumentum heredem non sequatur.’ [8] Ceterum erit mihi curae ut testamento caveam ne mortuus iniuriam accipiam. Praeponam enim unum ex libertis sepulcro meo custodiae causa, ne in monumentum meum populus cacatum currat. [9] Te rogo, ut naves etiam [monumenti mei] facias plenis velis euntes, et me in tribunali sedentem praetextatum cum anulis aureis quinque et nummos in publico de sacculo effundentem; scis enim, quod epulum dedi binos denarios. [10] Faciatur, si tibi videtur, et triclinia. [11] Facias et totum populum sibi suaviter facientem. Ad dexteram meam ponas statuam Fortunatae meae columbam tenentem, et catellam cingulo alligatam ducat, et cicaronem meum, et amphoras copiosas gypsatas, ne effluant vinum. Et unam licet fractam sculpas, et super eam puerum plorantem. Horologium in medio, ut quisquis horas inspiciet, velit nolit, nomen meum legat. [12] Inscriptio quoque vide diligenter si heac satis idonea tibi videtur: ‘C. Pompeius Trimalchio Maecenatianus hic requiescit. Huic seviratus absenti decretus est. Cum posset in omnibus decuriis Romae esse, tamen noluit. Pius, fortis, fidelis, ex parvo crevit, sestertium reliquit trecenties, nec umquam philosophum audivit. Vale. – Et tu.’

There are not the usual phonetic and morphological mistakes; there are still some lexical choices of popular nature, unavoidably connected to the character’s background, and from the syntactic point of view he attempts inventive structures, missing from the other freedmen’s speeches. It is indeed the context in which the communication takes place that establishes the linguistic choice of whoever wants to achieve the consent of the ruling class. Trimalchio himself, when addressing his wife and forgetting for a while his purpose, makes use of a completely different register:

the real, true public achievement of their (more or less successful) social integration and of a position in the race for fortune).

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[74.13] Contra Trimalchio “quid enim?” inquit “ambubaia non meminit? [se] de machina illam sustuli, hominem inter homines feci. At inflat se tamquam rana, et in sinum suum non spuit, codex, non mulier. [14] Sed hic qui in pergula natus est aedes non somniatur. Ita genium meum propitium habeam, curabo domata sit Cassandra caligaria […].”

Here, we find interferences from the likely original language, morphological mistakes, short sentences, frequent use of popular proverbs and terms, while it is just the rare use of ut (75, 10) which marks the change in the discourse and the new attempt of self-control by the freedman.17 Anyway, the only will to speak according to the cultured linguistic register is not always enough. The freedmen speak the sermo vulgaris, which unavoidably emerges in their speeches. Let us look, for instance, at the exemplar case of Echion: [45.1] “Oro te” inquit Echion centonarius “melius loquere. [2] ‘Modo sic, modo sic’ inquit rusticus; varium porcum perdiderat. | Quod hodie non est, cras erit: sic vita truditur. | [3] Non mehercules patria melior dici potest, si homines haberet. Sed laborat hoc tempore, nec haec sola. Non debemus delicati esse, ubique medius caelus est. [4] Tu si aliubi fueris, dices hic porcos coctos ambulare. Et ecce habituri sumus munus excellente in triduo die festa; familia non lanisticia, sed plurimi liberti. [5] Et Titus noster magnum animum habet et est caldicerebrius: aut hoc aut illud, erit quid utique. Nam illi domesticus sum, non est mixcix. [6] Ferrum optimum daturus est, sine fuga, carnarium in medio, ut amphitheater videat. Et habet unde: relictum est illi sestertium trecenties, decessit illius pater. Male! Ut quadringenta impendat, non sentiet patrimonium illius, et sempiterno nominabitur. [7] Iam Manios aliquot habet et mulierem essedariam et dispensatorem Glyconis, qui deprehensus est, cum dominam suam delectaretur. Videbis populi rixam inter zelotypos et amasiunculos. [8] Glyco autem, sestertiarius homo, dispensatorem ad bestias dedit. Hoc est se ipsum traducere. Quid servus peccavit, qui coactus est facere? Magis illa matella digna fuit quam taurus iactaret. Sed qui asinum non potest, stratum caedit. [9] Quid autem Glyco putabat Hermogenis filicem umquam bonum exitum facturam? Ille milvo volanti poterat ungues resecare; colubra restem non parit. Glyco, Glyco dedit suas; itaque quamdiu vixerit, habebit stigmam, nec illam nisi Orcus delebit. [10] Sed sibi quisque peccat. Sed subolfacio, quia nobis epulum daturus est Mammea, binos denarios mihi et meis. Quod si hoc fecerit, eripiet Norbano totum favorem. Scias 17

It is worth citing the recent article by Adamik 2005, who shows from a sociolinguistic point of view how the cultural preponderance of Latin and Greek led the freedmen–and Trimalchio in particular–to obliterate voluntarily other kinds of language.

10

What Has Become of Damas? oportet plenis velis hunc vinciturum. [11] Et revera, quid ille nobis boni fecit? Dedit gladiatores sestertiarios iam decrepitos, quos si sufflasses cecidissent; iam meliores bestiarios vidi. Occidit de lucerna equites, putares eos gallos gallinaceos; alter burdubasta, alter loripes, tertiarius mortuus pro mortuo, qui habet nervia praecisa. [12] Unus alicuius flaturae fuit Thraex, qui et ipse ad dictata pugnavit. Ad summam, omnes postea secti sunt; adeo de magna turba ‘adhibete’ acceperant, plane fugae merae. [13] ‘Munus tamen’ inquit ‘tibi dedi’: et ego tibi plodo. Computa, et tibi plus do quam accepi. manus manum lavat. […]”

Beside hypercorrections and the exact use of the verb loquor, which prove the speaker’s effort, he runs into many phonetic, morphologic, and syntactic mistakes, and his vocabulary does not lack Graecisms and compounds.18 He is providing, after all, a political judgement based on modest and popular considerations (gladiatorial games, feasts and so on). Another typical instance of such low-rank speeches is the widespread use of proverbs and the passion for the popular stories. Such elements are always matched with a colloquial and “rustic” register, full of mistakes, of which they concur to be typical constituents. As has been well stressed by Longobardi,19 proverbs, such as riddles, work “tramite un codice allusivo che si rafforza e si giustifica fin quando resta confinato nei margini della casta. Gli intrusi però, Encolpio, Ascilto, Agamennone, rappresentanti di una cultura alta, di rango e di tradizione nobiliare, provocano una collisione che dà impulso quasi ad un rinserrarsi della cultura bassa in un codice ancor più ristretto.”20 Phileros’ speech works like that: [43.1] Molestus fuit, Philerosque proclamavit: “Vivorum meminerimus. Ille habet, quod sibi debebatur: honeste vixit, honeste obiit. Quid habet quod queratur? Ab asse crevit et paratus fuit quadrantem de stercore mordicus tollere. Itaque crevit, quicquid tetigit, tamquam favus. [2] Puto mehercules illum reliquisse solida centum, et omnia in nummis habuit. [3] De re tamen ego verum dicam, qui linguam caninam comedi: durae buccae fuit, linguosus, discordia, non homo. [4] Frater eius fortis fuit, amicus amico, manu plena, uncta mensa. Et inter initia malam parram pilavit, sed recorrexit costas illius prima vindemia: vendidit enim vinum, quantum ipse voluit. Et quod illius mentum sustulit, hereditatem accepit, ex qua plus in18

On the use of Graecisms, in general, in the Satyricon, see Cavalca Schiroli 2001. Longobardi 1998, 109–110. 20 “Through an allusive code that strengthens and validates itself as long as it remains within the caste. But the intruders, Encolpius, Ascyltus, Agamemnon, being representatives of a high-level culture, of a titled rank and tradition, cause a collision that urges the low-level culture to lock itself in an even narrower code.” 19

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volavit quam illi relictum est. [5] Et ille stips, dum fratri suo irascitur, nescio cui terrae filio patrimonium elegavit. Longe fugit, quisquis suos fugit. [6] Habuit autem oricularios servos, qui illum pessum dederunt. | Numquam autem recte faciet, qui cito credit, | utique homo negotians. Tamen verum quod frunitus est, quam diu vixit… [7] † Cui datum est, non cui destinatum. Plane Fortunae filius, in manu illius plumbum aurum fiebat. Facile est autem, ubi omnia quadrata currunt. Et quot putas illum annos secum tulisse? Septuaginta et supra. Sed corneolus fuit, aetatem bene ferebat, niger tamquam corvus. [8] Noveram hominem olim oliorum, et adhuc salax erat. Non mehercules illum puto in domo canem reliquisse. Immo etiam pullarius erat, omnis Minervae homo. Nec improbo, hoc solum enim secum tulit.”

His language is coloured by morphological mistakes, by popular terms, and above all by a disordered syntax which reaches its peak in the amphibology starting at paragraph 43, 4 and going on up to the end of the passage, where due to the mess of the pronouns it is not possible to distinguish between the actions of each of the two brothers. The use of proverbs, all of them being very concrete, helps the matter, which is a sort of reaction to the nihilism earlier expressed by Seleuchus (always through proverbs) and “avvertito come negazione di ciò che a fatica è stato raggiunto”21 (following the interpretation provided by Ciaffi22). However, its purpose crashes with his linguistic difficulty in intellectualizing, and he appeals to more familiar maxims. To the same, limited code also the foreigner Hermeros refers: satisfied with the position he has reached, he does not worry about cultural integration, and uses a Latin which does not go beyond the sermo vulgaris: [58.7] “Athena tibi irata sit, curabo, et qui te primus ‘deuro de’ fecit. Non didici geometrias, critica et alogas menias, sed lapidarias litteras scio, partes centum dico ad aes, ad pondus, ad nummum. [8] Ad summam, si quid vis, ego et tu sponsiunculam: exi, defero lamnam. Iam scies patrem tuum mercedes perdidisse, quamvis et rhetoricam scis. Ecce ‘qui de nobis longe venio, late venio? Solve me.’ [9] Dicam tibi, qui de nobis currit et de loco non movetur; qui de nobis crescit et minor fit. Curris, stupes, satagis, tamquam mus in matella. […]”

Phonetic and syntactic errors, and a sermo rusticus with interferences from the original language, are the background for the popular riddles through which the speaker challenges the scholastici.

21 22

“Perceived as a negation of what had been achieved with difficulty.” Ciaffi 1955, 116–24, 132.

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3. Conclusions The proposed case shows how nihil sub sole novi: one of the key issues discussed by contemporary sociolinguistics is just the one illustrated by the affaire “Trimalchio,” and the in-depth research topics of the discipline itself about this question are well confirmed. A classical piece like the Cena, so famous and investigated, exhibits itself as an emblematic instance of how the past can provide essential hints to re-read the present. We will lose too much if we build the future regardless of the knowledge of our own roots: we should be aware that they offer valuable models of great modernity, which–paradoxically, as somebody could wrongly think– might answer contemporary demands better than other ones.23 Re-reading and re-thinking from this viewpoint the Satyricon freedmen’s experience may even foreshadow the awareness and the spirit of the modern ideas of “linguistic democracy” or of “linguistic ecology,” 24 as well as the great problem of languages in the European Community25. The awareness, displayed by Petronius’ characters, of speaking a lowlevel language, at the same time distinguishes them as a definite social category and pushes them to overcome the gap between their and the highlevel Latin. This results in losing a specific linguistic identity in favour of the dominant tongue, producing as final effect the “invisibility” –and, later, the disappearance–of an entire social group, and its homogenization with the main culture. It is a matter of struggles of yesterday and of today,26 the testimony of which Petronius has left to us through his art also as expression of his own historical period, giving once more evidence of that “permanence” of the past which always pollinates our times, forcing us to reflect more and more anew.

Bibliography Adamik, B. 2005. “‘Tres bybliothecas habeo, unam Graecam, alteram Latinam’: textkritische, philologische und soziolinguistische Interpretation von Petrons Satyricon 48.4.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 45: 133–42. Adams, J. N. 2003. Bilingualism and the Latin Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 23

Astori 2010a, 56; 2012a. For a quick reference see the up-to-date bibliography in Astori 2012b. A useful excursus on the concept of “linguistic ecology” can be found in Iannaccaro 2010. 25 It is enough to refer to the ardent pages by Phillipson 1992, 2003, 2009. 26 See for instance the cases examined by Astori 2010b; 2010c. 24

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Alföldy, G. 1987. Storia sociale dell’antica Roma. Bologna: Il Mulino. Astori, D. 2010a. “Multilinguismo e traduzioni nel Mediterraneo antico.” In I diritti linguistici, edited by D. Astori, 51–8. Multilinguismo e Società. Pisa: Edistudio. ʊ. 2010b. “Le minoranze linguistiche in Turchia: il caso del curdo.” In Rovesciare Babele. Economia ed ecologia delle lingue regionali e minoritarie / Renverser Babel. Économie et écologie des langues régionales et minoritaires. Atti delle Terze Giornate dei Diritti Linguistici (Teramo-Faieto, 20–23 maggio 2009), edited by G. Agresti and M. D’Angelo, 73–101. Roma: Aracne. ʊ, ed. 2010c. Quattro lezioni tra democrazia linguistica e minoranze. L’Esperanto, a. 87 n. 5, settembre/ottobre 2010. ʊ. 2012a. “Multilingualism and Translations in the Ancient Mediterranean.” In Pagine mediterranee fra lingue, culture, identità. Riflessioni a cavallo di multilinguismo, multiculturalismo ed esperantologia, edited by D. Astori, 37–44. Palermo: Torri del Vento Edizioni. ʊ. 2012b. “Sull’ecologia linguistica.” In Pagine mediterranee fra lingue, culture, identità. Riflessioni a cavallo di multilinguismo, multiculturalismo ed esperantologia, edited by D. Astori, 19–27. Palermo: Torri del Vento Edizioni. ʊ. 2012c. “Europa multilingue?/Multlingva Eǎropo?” InKoj 3(1): 79–96 (online: http://riviste.unimi.it/index.php/inkoj/article/view/1831). Auerbach, E. 1956. Mimesis. Il realismo nella letteratura occidentale. Torino: Einaudi. Banfi, E. 1991. “Alloglotti in Roma imperiale: per una definizione della storia linguistica del latino come L2.” In Studia linguistica amico et magistro oblata. Scritti di amici e allievi dedicati alla memoria di Enzo Evangelisti, edited by F. Aspesi and M. Negri, 79–105. Milano: Unicopli. Boyce, B. 1991. The Language of the freedmen in Petronius’ Cena Trimalchionis. Leiden: Brill. Campanile, E. 1991. “Limiti e caratteri del bilinguismo romano.” In Il bilinguismo degli antichi. XVIII Giornate filologiche genovesi, 9–23. Genova: Dipartimento di Archeologia e Filologia Classica. Cavalca Schiroli, M.G. 2001. I grecismi nel Satyricon di Petronio. Bologna: Patron. Ciaffi, V. 1955. “Intermezzo nella Cena petroniana (41,10–46,8).” Rivista di Filologia e Istruzione Classica 33: 113–45. Freddi, G. 1979. Didattica delle lingue moderne. Bergamo: Minerva Italica.

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Gaide, F. 1993. “L’ambiguïté linguistique dans la Cena Trimalchionis: de la grammaire antique à l’intuition du sens pragmatique?” Revue de Philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes 67: 251–56. Galaverna, M. E. 2008-2009. Prestigio e lealtà nelle scelte linguistiche: il caso della Cena Trimalchionis. Tesi di laurea triennale (relatore: D. Astori), a.a. 2008-09. ʊ. 2011. “The role of language in the process of social integration: from the ancient Cena Trimalchionis to the contemporary world.” In Languages for Specific Purposes in Theory and Practice, edited by A. Akbarov, 50–62. Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Gara, A. 1991. “La mobilità sociale nell’Impero.” Athenaeum 79: 335–58. Giacalone Ramat, A. 2000. “Mutamento linguistico e fattori sociali: riflessioni tra presente e passato.” In Sociolinguistica e linguistica storica, Atti del convegno della società italiana di Glottologia, edited by P. Cipriano, R. D’Avino, and P. Di Giovine, 45–78. Roma: Il Calamo. Iannaccaro, G. 2010. “Ecologia linguistica: ha senso parlarne?” In I diritti linguistici, edited by D. Astori, 23–38. Multilinguismo e Società. Pisa: Edistudio. Longobardi, M. 1998. “La traduzione non ‘deperita’: il lessico famigliare della cena di Trimalchione.” Aufidus 36 and 37: 95 –145 and 101–48. Magnani, L. 19972 [1991]. “Paura della morte, angoscia della vita di gente comune in Petronio.” In Gli affanni del vivere e del morire. Schiavi, soldati, donne, bambini nella Roma imperiale, edited by N. Criniti, 131–49. Brescia: Grafo. Martin, R. 2009. “Petronius Arbiter et le ‘Satyricon’: quelques pistes de réflexion.” Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé 1: 143–68. Müller, K., ed. 1955. Petronii Arbitri Satyricon reliquiae. StuttgartLeipzig: Teubner. Petersmann, H. 2000. “La latinizzazione dell’Italia meridionale e il Satyricon di Petronio.” In La preistoria dell’italiano (Atti della tavola rotonda di linguistica storica, Università Ca’ Foscari di Venezia 11– 13 giugno 1998), edited by J. Herman and A. Marinetti, 81–92. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Phillipson, R. 1992. Linguistic imperialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ʊ. 2003. English-only Europe? Challenging language policy. London: Routledge. ʊ. 2009. Linguistic imperialism continued. New York: Routledge, and Delhi: Orient Blackswan.

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Priuli, S. 1975. Ascyltus. Note di onomastica petroniana. Collection Latomus 140. Bruxelles: Latomus. Prodroscimi, A. 1989. “Plurilinguismo e ideologia del plurilinguismo nel mondo antico.” In Commercia linguae. La conoscenza delle lingue nel mondo antico, 9–30. Pavia: Dipartimento di Scienze delle Antichità. Vannini, G. 2007. Petronius 1975–2005, bilancio critico e nuove proposte. Lustrum 49. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Vedovelli, M. 2001. “Atteggiamenti linguistici e lingue in contatto.” In Lingue e culture in contatto: l’italiano come L2 per gli arabofoni, edited by M. Vedovelli, A. Giacalone Ramat and S. Massara, 111–34. Milano: Franco Angeli. Zantedeschi, F. 2010. “Lingua e nazione in Europa,” in Passato e presente 79(1): 155–67.

POST-COLONIAL IMMIGRATION MEMORY IN CONTEMPORARY FRANCE: RESISTANCE TO EPISTEMIC VIOLENCE YOSHIMI TANABE UNIVERSITÉ PARIS NORD/13 (FRANCE) HITOTSUBASHI UNIVERSITY (JAPAN)

1. Memory of immigration reconsidered from a post-colonial perspective Since the end of the 1980s, Immigration Memory (mémoire de l’immigration)1 has gradually become visible in France. As a result of this process, the first migration museum in France, Cité Nationale de l’Histoire de l’Immgiration (CNHI) was inaugurated in late 2007. Immigration Memory, once an almost exclusive topic to artists and activists born into migrant families for more than a decade, rapidly started to be a relevant study-object and a central issue in public policies from the turn of the twenty-first century: in addition to numerous actors interested in reconstructing various im(e)migration-related past events through cultural and artistic practices, researches and students in history, sociology, anthropology and political science now conduct more and more research projects on the subject,2 occasionally in cooperation with those artists and ac-

1

Immigration Memory is not just a translation of the French term/concept of mémoire de l’immigration; by this term and other similar expressions I mean every dominant discourse concerning immigration and its past-stories that I explore in this paper. The use of the term “immigration” (not migration nor emigration but immigration) should also be understood in a specifically French context. 2 Since 2010, Michèle Baussant, Marina Chauliac, Irène dos Santos, Évelyne Ribert, Nancy Venel organize, at EHESS (École des Hautes Études des Sciences Sociales) in Paris, a seminar entitled “Memory and Patrimonialization of Immigration” (Mémoire et patrimonialisation de l’immgiration), where I have had the opportunity to know the state of knowledge of ongoing research projects on

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tivists. Moreover, national, regional and local institutions are increasingly investing in projects concerning immigration memory.3 This article attempts to reconsider the process through which Immigration Memory acquired visibility in French socio-political and academic spheres. It is certain that the concept of Immigration Memory includes different objects, dimensions and perspectives. In this paper, however, I would like to focus on discourses and representations that dominate and– most importantly–that do not dominate the concept. Certain dimensions of immigration memory have become visible, while others have become invisible through the same process. One, perhaps the most critical, among the invisible dimensions of immigration memory, is the post-colonial dimension. The term “post-colonial,” combined with immigration and memory, implies here two different meanings: first, an epistemologically different level of reflection on immigration and memory, and second, a chronological continuity with the colonial past, which led to migrations from ex-colonies to the French mainland and to their concerns for their past-stories. It is from this standpoint that I propose to deal with Postcolonial Immigration Memory by re-examining Immigration Memory tout-court. In fact, reconsidering Immigration Memory from a post-colonial perspective enables us to bring power/knowledge relations and epistemic violence into arguments. Foucault, pioneer of the subject,4 introduces the notion of episteme in order to suggest the historicity of knowledge and its relationship with power. Spivak coined the notion of episteme to suggest the violence within the process in which some knowledges are produced: therefore, according to her, epistemic violence occurs when an explanation and narrative of reality is established as normative, while other explanations and narratives of reality, often claimed by marginalized groups, are disqualified or ignored.5 In this sense, Boubeker and Hajjat claim that (post-colonial) migrants in France have been exposed to epistemic vio-

immigration and memory. I would like to express my gratitude to the organizers for giving me the chance of presenting my work and for their remarks. 3 See the statement of French Ministry of the Interior suggesting the importance of “immigration memory:” http://www.immigration.interieur.gouv.fr/Accueil-et-accompagnement/Culturehistoire-et-memoire-de-l-immigration/Les-actions-concernant-la-culture-et-lamemoire-de-l-immigration. 4 Foucault 1966; 1975. 5 Spivak 1988.

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

lence as they have been excluded from the boundary of national history and hence have been forced to struggle in order to access it.6 Thus, I argue that dealing with Immigration Memory from a postcolonial perspective is an attempt to describe the epistemic violence in order to resist it:7 why was Immigration Memory invisible until very recently? In which specific historical contexts and conditions do certain dimensions of Immigration Memory become visible or invisible? The purpose of this paper, however, is not simply to offer epistemological and theoretical arguments by answering these questions and by introducing the concept of Post-colonial Immigration Memory. It is also and mainly to explore lived experiences of what I would call post-colonial actors who are exposed to epistemic violence and who, in their daily practices, perform Post-colonial Immigration Memory. How then do individuals who consider themselves directly involved in or “inheritors” (héritiers)8 of those memories experience these processes of visibilization and/or invisibilization of PostColonial Immigration Memory? What are the possible forms of resistance to epistemic violence? This article attempts to study epistemic violence empirically by considering lived experiences of descendants of postcolonial migration.

1.1. From “Recognition of Memory” to “Resistance to Epistemic Violence” In fact, it is hard to connect epistemic violence, a theoretical abstract concept, to empirical analysis. While numerous studies on im/migration and memory argue the epistemological exclusion/inclusion of immigration memory from French social and academic spheres, the approach exclusively remains within national framework such as politics of recognition. This dominant approach, concerning the question of memory in general, cannot describe how epistemic violence influences the lives of those who experience it. Even if some studies on social movements try to describe the actions related to Immigration Memory, some privileged perspectives of the collectiveness and “apparently political” actions prevents them to consider those struggles where personal and “apparently apolitical”–often cultural and artistic–actions are central.9 Moreover, Spivak10 suggests that 6

Boubeker 2008; Boubeker and Hajjat 2008. The concept of epistemic violence itself is not ethical but descriptive. The social and academic project of bringing epistemic violence into question might have ethical implications. However, theses should be considered separately. 8 Boubeker 2008; Boubeker and Hajjat 2008. 9 Hamidi 2010. 7

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marginalized groups of people are silenced by epistemic violence. Therefore, I would ask, is there a possible way to approach these people and their sometimes-silent struggles? It is because of this difficulty to grasp the “apparently apolitical” and silenced struggles that the concept of “resistance” seems to have an explanatory power. Scott remarks the importance of taking into account everyday forms of resistance, which do not necessarily and directly confront the socially dominant class or system.11 Individuals, through diverse practices and techniques, employ such a resistance against domination, which can be both intended/unintended and personal/collective. If the concept of resistance includes its unintended and personal aspects, it enables us to examine even silenced and “apparently apolitical” actions and to focus on the process of “subjectivation,”12 in which an individual continuously constructs her/himself as a subject within the context of certain relations of power to which one belongs. The concept of resistance, therefore, offers an alternative way of describing the experiences of resisting epistemic violence inherent to Post-colonial Immigration Memory. Personally digging out some invisible past stories is thus, I would argue, a form of resistance just as the collective making of a movie on the same story.13 However, my focus on individual and “apparently apolitical” forms of resistance does not eliminate the importance of collective and “apparently political” actions. Therefore, the analysis of resistance consists of both individual and collective levels and of the attempts to understand the interactions between the two (i.e. how are individual motivations articulated in collective actions?). The individual and collective resistance to epistemic violence such as Post-colonial Immigration Memory is thus formed and performed by activists and artists with post-colonial backgrounds through Memory Work. Memory Work consists of those actors’ cultural and artistic practices which reconstruct certain past stories, directly experienced or not, but in which they feel involved or of which they consider themselves inheritors. Their positionality and proximity to each past-story, depending on their

10

Spivak 1988. Scott 1985. 12 Butler 1990; 1997. 13 Remembering is not solely a way of resistance. Either forgetting or erasing certain past stories is additionally considered to be one of the numerous resistance techniques that one can explore only when aware of the individual and implicit practices of resistance. 11

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

life-course,14 gender and ethno-racial identification, gives a different implication to each Memory Work. Through the analysis of Memory Work, I aim to empirically study individual and collective resistance to epistemic violence, which I would refer to as Post-colonial Immigration Memory. My argument and analysis, then, consists of two parts: First, I will examine how some dimensions of immigration memory, although invisible until very recently, have become visible, while the others have been excluded within the same process. Particularly, I will try to identify dominant explanations and narratives of reality as well as silenced or marginalized ones and their possibility to change in specific historical contexts, by analyzing scientific and socio-political discourses. The second part of the paper attempts to understand struggles against epistemic violence by analyzing post-colonial activists and artists’ accounts of their Memory Work. To do so, I will refer to two examples of Post-colonial Immigration Memories: Memory of Struggles (mémoire des luttes) and Memory of Quartiers (mémoire des quartiers). The narratives of those actors are collected using the life-history interview method.15 This method, which focuses on the common experiences from personal narratives of individuals on their lives, fits my intention to examine personal and collective motivations and experiences of resistance in its continuity. I will also take into account narratives that actors delivered in different events such as film screenings, meetings and conferences. Brochures, posters, music CDs, documentary film, DVDs or texts concerning Memory Work activities organized by these actors will be considered as well.

1.2. The analytical lens of Weak History and Strong History Throughout the paper, I will refer to the concept of Weak History and Strong History. As already stated, Post-colonial Immigration Memory is not only a study-object but also a social and academic project to bring normative construction of knowledge and its violence into question. Therefore these concepts, introduced by Lévi-Strauss in La pensée sauvage (1962) to question the normativity and selectivity of historical research as well as historical agents’ power, are relevant to my argument, 14

On the one hand, to be a descendent of a migrant/migrants from ex-colonies affects individuals in their social experiences, particularly in terms of racism and racial discriminations. On the other hand, post-colonial activists and artists have different explanations of reality depending on a number of factors such as age, educational and professional backgrounds, local contexts where they are born and/or grew up and familial profiles. 15 Bertaux 1997.

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even if the latter questions social science research in general. Furthermore, these concepts expose reciprocal and constructive dimensions of both dominant and dominated discourses that I assume as indispensable to consider. Lévi-Strauss argues that there are different kinds of history.16 A series of discourses that we usually call history is, in his definition, “strong history,” which is selected and legitimated by historians and agents of history. However, there is another kind of history, such as biographical history or anecdotal history, which is not usually considered as history tout-court, and that he calls “weak history.” Weak History does not have a historystatus because it lacks a validation by historical agents. The point is that the production of Strong History is accompanied by that of Weak History: these are often two sides of one process.17 Therefore, Memory as Weak History emerges when some objects or dimensions of history once excluded from Strong History are “discovered” by those who define themselves as inheritors and when they claim the legitimacy of that “weakened” histories. Memory as Weak History, in this sense, should be understood in relation to history as Strong History. These concepts are applicable not only to the field of historical memory but also to broader research fields: Strong History may consist of the ideas, concepts, perspectives, objects and approaches which are considered as “legitimate” and “central” under some historically specific conditions. On the other hand, “illegitimate” and “marginal” ideas, concepts, perspectives, objects and approaches are Weak History under the same conditions. Academic research, in general, is at the same time the maker of both Strong and Weak History. Furthermore, Weak History is constantly oppressed by Strong History within the power/knowledge field. For both analysis of discourses on immigration memory and analysis of Memory Work, I apply these concepts to several specific explanations and narratives of reality. In particular, post-colonial actors’ narratives often expose their motivations for Memory Work along with some “uncomfortable feelings” with certain existing discourses that is said to describe “their” reality. They sometimes have clear intentions of subverting these dominant explanations of reality by their Memory Work. Subvert or subversion, in the frame of “subversion of Identity,”18 within the context of Post-colonial Immigration Memory, could indicate the act of denaturalizing the domination of the Strong History, the oppression of the Weak History and thus the normative relations of power surrounding both. There16

Lévi-Strauss 1962. Lévi-Strauss 1962, 305–13. 18 Butler 1990. 17

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

fore, I try to explore, on the one hand, specific Strong Histories which reduce certain ideas, concepts, perspectives, objects and approaches to Weak Histories and on the other hand, historical conditions and processes in which these Weak Histories might be “discovered” and claimed through Memory Work.

1.3. Research design The empirical analysis of Memory Work presented in this paper is based on five years of regular and on-going fieldwork which started in 2009. I chose to approach post-colonial activists and artists through the organizations where Memory Work is prominent. I used snowballing to generate information about organizations through events related to “im/migration (and) memory.” In this paper, I concentrate on activists’ narratives of two organizations. These organizations, respectively Tactikollectif and CLAP (Connexions Locales d’Actions Plurielles), are based in Toulouse and Villeurbanne (suburbs of Lyon), both characterized by a massive migration phenomenon. I have conducted life-history interviews with two representative members from Tactikollectif, and with three representative members from CLAP. I will include narratives of two other members from Tactikollectif and their network “Social Forum of Popular Quarters” (Forum Social des Quartiers Populaires: referred below as FSQP) delivered in several events, as well as the informal conversations with those members, into my analysis. Furthermore, I have taken part in events organized by these groups (especially Tactikollectif) where I carried out my participant observations. I have also collected posters, brochures, texts, music CDs and documentary film DVDs, which both organization members produced, for my better understanding of their narratives concerning Memory Work.

2. From Immigration Memory to Post-colonial Immigration Memory This first part of the paper will show the academic and socio-political background for the analysis of Memory Work practised by post-colonial actors. I will demonstrate how Strong History and Weak History are in a persistent and interdependent relationship, as well as their possibility of transformation, by considering, on the one hand, the “discovery” of Immigration Memory, and on the other, what prevents the legitimation of Postcolonial Immigration Memory.

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2.1. “Discovery” of Immigration Memory or reproduction of epistemic violence? Immigration has been, for quite a while, an “illegitimate” field of research in France, particularly in history though one can see its “illegitimacy” in other disciplines.19 In other words, immigration and its past, namely Immigration Memory, have been until very recently Weak History. In 1988, the social historian Gérard Noiriel published a “classic” book about French immigration history: “classic” as he writes retrospectively in 2006.20 In the first chapter of his book, titled “No-site of memory (Nonlieu de mémoire),” he reveals that, up to the 1980s, French immigration history was an “illegitimate object” in history and that immigration had never been presented as something internal to French society. In comparison with the US, he points out that French textbooks do not incorporate immigration history, whereas many American history textbooks do.21 He also points out that, whereas the historical sites for immigration such as Ellis Island became national monuments and museums in the US,22 many places related to immigration in France have been ignored or even erased; an example is the selection centre in Toul which recruited most of the migrants from central Europe between the First and Second World Wars and could be considered the French Ellis Island.23 Noiriel’s explanations of why immigration has been excluded from French national/public history are the following: first, the process of immigration in France did not coincide chronologically with the nationbuilding process and its conceptualization, to the extent that immigration has not been considered fundamental to French national “being.” He further suggests that even Fernand Braudel, the most influential French historian, emphasizes the French nation’s origin and its continuity by referring to the concept of “race” and “heredity,”24 thus excluding immigration from 19

Hamidi 2009, 136. Noiriel 2006 [1988]. 21 Situation described in 1988. Recently, and especially after the creation of the immigration history museum in 2007 in Paris, French history textbooks have begun to integrate it. 22 Ellis Island became a national monument in 1965 and was transformed into a national museum in 1990. 23 Memory, if considered of importance, has to be examined in terms of its credibility and the possibility of its being recognized and integrated by national and official history. This oppressive character of history as a scientific discipline should be questioned. 24 Noiriel 2006 [1988]. 20

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the nation image. In other words, the immigration-related past has been oppressed in order to maintain the legitimacy of French national unity.25 This work shed light on the epistemological exclusion of Immigration Memory, not only from French society in general but also from academic research, and history in particular. In this sense, his work could be a selfreflexive criticism of epistemic violence as a French historian. However, his claim against the epistemological exclusion of immigration memory from French history is problematic, precisely because it is based on methodological nationalism.26 Noiriel’s intellectual orientation is not aimed at deconstructing the hegemonic/nationalistic dimension of history, but rather at renovating it as more legitimate research field by advocating an integration of immigration history into French national history.27 Therefore, his critique of epistemic violence concerning Immigration Memory is limited, because he is not conscious of the epistemic violence that history as a discipline continuously operates.28 In fact, important contributions concerning the historical process in which epistemic violence had been operating to externalize im/migration from the French national boundary have been made by the sociologist Abdelmalek Sayad since early 1960s. Sayad criticizes “objective subordination of science to politics,”29 on which French mainstream researchers’ way of constructing migration as a study object stumble. In fact, he insists that the methodological nationalism of considering migration only within the national frame prevents social scientists studying migration as a whole: 25

Hamidi also suggests that this “invisibilization” is a reflection of a wider indifference existing in French society, related not only to the French nationbuilding process but also to a lasting illusion that immigration constitutes a temporary existence (Hamidi 2009, 136). 26 This can be defined here as “an intellectual orientation that: 1) assumes national borders [which] define the unity of study and analysis, 2) equates society with the nation state, and 3) conflates national interests with the purpose and central topics of social science” (Glick-Schiller and Meinhof 2011, 22). 27 He says in an interview “my orientation consists of socio-historical thinking largely influenced by Durkheim and Elias’s ideas concerning integration process of individuals in this social group we call nation-state” (Noiriel 2006, 213). Many other researchers in history, sociology, anthropology and political science also tend to consider immigration memory within the same framework: nation-states’ framework dominates these studies. 28 This is clear when he emphasizes differences between history and memory. He argues that one should not confuse history and memory, because “history consists of [scientific] analysis and explications [while memory does not]” (Noiriel 2006, 217). 29 Sayad 1999.

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“immigration here and emigration there are the two inseparable sides of the same reality, [so] these cannot be explained one without another.”30 He further suggests that “in any other objects, sociology is not as much tied necessarily to sociology of itself as this one [emigration/immigration]. Sociology of emigration and immigration is inseparable of this reflexive attitude.” These important and anticipative statements, which may have been a pioneering work of transnational perspective flourishing today, had long been dismissed, unfortunately, within the French academic sphere–both Sociology and History. The fact that Noiriel’s famous work is often represented as a “classic” book for immigration, as stated above, I interpret as a process of epistemic violence in itself, which affects the speech of migrant researchers. In other words, as literally “post/colonial” researcher, studying e/immigration as an Algerian-born “indigenous French” in French Algeria before migrating to France, Sayad himself had to experience resistance to epistemic violence.

2.2. Post-colonial Immigration Memory as Weak History If the exclusion of immigration memory is no longer considered “legitimate” today, some important aspects of it are still invisible and remain Weak History. In Noiriel’s critique, the concepts of race and ethnicity are not considered in the analysis of epistemological exclusion of Immigration Memory. Hamidi explains that “French Marxism gave precedence to the study of class over race in the study of socio-political domination.”31 Furthermore she argues that the republican nationalist principle which disregards “differences” has been penetrating researchers’ unconsciousness. This phenomenon is preventing consideration of notions of race and ethnicity. By taking them into account, we explore another dimension of Immigration Memory, namely Post-colonial Immigration Memory. In France, different periods have seen different immigration flows. Under the initiative of French government, in answer to labour demand, an unprecedented scale of migration from ex-colonies, namely post-colonial immigration, arrived after World War II. The appearance of children of these post-colonial migrants, born in France, made racial and ethnic boundaries visible. These boundaries, invented by France in its colonies, were reproduced for the post-colonial migrations. Since the 1980s, these new generations, in contrast to their parents,32 have expressed through col30

Sayad 1999, 15. Hamidi 2009, 136. 32 It is important to underline that post-industrialization accompanied this process. The first generation of post-colonial immigration participated in the 31

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

lective actions their frustrations derived from racism and the racial discriminations to which they are subjected in public space.33 Growing literature shows that those whose parents migrated from ex-colonies are more likely to be targets of racial discrimination than any other citizens; it is therefore possible to confirm the existence of racial and ethnic boundaries and barriers.34 In this sense, it is necessary to distinguish post-colonial migration/migrants from other migrations/migrants. Thus, Post-colonial Immigration Memory is distinct from Immigration Memory in general in two respects: first, this memory is marked by the struggles against racial and ethnic boundaries which these populations have been confronted with in France. Second, this memory is inevitably related to the colonial past, which France has voluntarily erased from its history at the end of the decolonization, with the independence of Algeria in 1962. If today we can no longer speak of Immigration Memory as a complete Weak History, Post-colonial Immigration Memory still remains as such. There have been racial/ethnic and colonial/post-colonial boundaries articulated with the national boundaries and these boundaries exclude Post-colonial Immigration Memory from history (see Table 1). However, a conjuncture of the different but interconnected changes during the late 1990s in academic and socio-political spheres produced the opportunity for Post-colonial Immigration Memory to appear in public space.35 These changes became possible due to different Strong Histories, which were in part simultaneously subverted. The first change is the recognition of Immigration Memory occurring in the late 1990s.36 As a background, claims and attempts of reconstructing Immigration Memory existed since the 1980s.37 Foundations of migrant organizations during the 1980s enabled various collective Memory Work. Film screenings, exhibitions, plays, poetry (slum) reading and meetings protests against socio-political dominations as unionized worker. In this context, immigration/immigrant was considered as class category rather than race category under the strong influence of French Marxism. 33 Fassin 2010. 34 Simon 2003; Silberman and Fournier 2006. 35 A typical example is the commemoration of October 17, 1961: “October in Paris” (Octobre à Paris), a film illustrating the massacre of Algerian immigrants in Paris, at the moment of the French-Algerian war of independence before decolonization, had been prohibited and censored until very recently. However the Mayor of Paris has acknowledged the massacre and commemorated it since 2001 and the French President François Holland acknowledged it in 2012. 36 The French government accepted the project of founding an institution for immigration history in 1998, whereas it took ten years to embody it. 37 Bouziri 1991; El Yazami 2004.

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with researchers were organized by migrant organizations in collaboration with the pioneering scholars of immigration and Immigration Memory. The creation of the French immigration history museum is partly a result of these claims for “recognition.” In fact, the creation of the museum was a challenge to France’s most powerful Strong History, which is the republican (in the French sense of the word) principle of refusing to consider individuals’ “difference” in the public sphere. Representing some populations as a distinct group, migrants in this case, was considered incompatible with this principle. However, the government decided to create the museum in order to “integrate the youth with migrant background” by symbolically recognizing the legitimacy of their existence in France.38 Thus, this French republican principle as Strong History is partially subverted for the sake of “integration.” Weak History

Strong History

࣭Immigration (Memory)

࣭French nation-state unity ࣭Republican principles (of not considering “differences”)

࣭Racism and racial discrimination

࣭Politics of integration

࣭Race and ethnicity

࣭Marxism

࣭Colonial past/post-colonial perspective

࣭Impossible assimilation of non-European migrants (perfect assimilation of European migrants)

Tab. 1. Discourses as Weak History and Strong History.

Then, in the late 1990s and in relation to the first process of change, French academic and political elites started to recognize the existence of the differentiated treatments between French citizens in different fields of social action. In other words, they admitted for the first time that racial discrimination existed in France.39 Even if “integration” remains as persistent Strong History, this is significant because discourses and actions in 38

Cité Nationale de l’Histoire de l’immigration. Discours du premier ministre Cité Nationale de l’Histoire de l’Immigration 8/07/2004. http://www.histoire-immigration.fr/sites/default/files/museenumerique/documents/ext_media_fichier_36_discours_premier_ministre.pdf. 39 Fassin 2010.

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

response to the protests against racism and racial discriminations since the 1970s finally started to integrate “against discrimination.” The third change is the appearance within French scholarly circles of the post-colonial perspective at the beginning of the 2000s, decades after its appearance in other European countries. The study of French colonial history had been developed since the 1990s. Discourses on French colonial past, and especially on the Franco-Algerian independence war, was finally uncovered after decades.40 This appearance is linked to the “discovery” of the discrimination mentioned above, although the appearance of a new generation of researchers belonging to post-colonial migration also contributed to changing the landscape of research.41 Fourthly, actors who define themselves as inheritors of Post-colonial Immigration Memory started to re-appropriate and reconstruct memories: these activists’ and artists’ Memory Work is increasingly prominent across the country and beyond different generations, as I will show in the next section. Interactions between researchers and activists are supporting this process, and there are also increasing numbers of researcher-activists with post-colonial background working on these memories.42 They have had and still have a great influence on these on-going changes. Therefore, the conjuncture of these processes of transforming Strong History–Weak History relations and landscapes has made Post-colonial Immigration Memory appear possible in spite of epistemic violence.

3. Resisting epistemic violence: Memory Work by post-colonial actors In the second part of this paper, I will illustrate how inheritors of Postcolonial Immigration Memory experience epistemic violence and how they resist it in both subjective and political practices. For this, I will refer to the activists’ narratives from my interviews and rely on ethnographic data from participant observations in two organizations to which these activists belong, CLAP and Tactikollectif.

40 Also, a number of laws concerning the colonial past have been enacted since the beginning of the 1990s. 41 Hargreaves 2007. 42 Bouamama 1994; Guénif-Souilamas 2000; Hajjat 2005; Boubeker and Hajjat 2008.

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3.1. Organizations and activists’ profiles Tactikollectif, an organization founded in northern Toulouse in 1997, is in my understanding the most prominent organization in terms of Memory Work on Post-colonial Immigration Memory since the early 2000s. Uniquely, this organization includes the well-known music group ZEBDA, whereas members’ life-courses as activists since the early 1980s are exemplary for some of the other same generation’s activists,43 such as activists of FSQP, interested in Memory Work today. The initial organization was founded in 1982 and later in the 1990s they ran for local elections. Five core members are between 40 and 50 years old and they are descendants of migrants from ex-colonies (Algeria) who were born and/or grew up in Toulouse. CLAP, compared to Tactikollectif, is a very “young” organization, founded in 2006 by activists in their early thirties in Villeurbanne, situated north-east of Lyon, with which it forms the heart of one of the largest metropolitan areas in France. While the organization attracts more and more young members today, it was initially composed of approximately 10 members, all descendants of migrants from ex-colonies Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia born in Villeurbanne. The purpose of this organization is: “to create ties, to reconstruct forgotten memories and protest against discriminations.”44 A common point, in addition to their background of being descendants of post-colonial migrants, is that, while members of both organizations see the importance in political consciousness for social change,45 they further identify their organizations as cultural and artistic. However, the age difference between members of these two organizations and consequently the difference of shared experiences (i.e. experiences in anti-racism movements since the 1980s) has a large influence on how they approach certain memories, as well as the way they experience epistemic violence. 43

By “generation,” I do not mean migrant generations such as “the first generation” or “the second generation” of migrants. I rather refer to one or other generation which shares common social experiences, while both organizations’ activists are descendants of post-colonial migrants. 44 According to CLAP’s brochure introducing the organization. 45 Representatives of both organizations were invited by the President François Holland for a lunch meeting aimed at discussing on “education, employment, entrepreneurship, the state’s role in quartiers,” as “representatives of the associations of banlieues and popular quartiers” http://www.elysee.fr/communiques-de-presse/article/dejeuner-avec-desresponsables-d-associations-de-banlieues/.

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3.2. Experiencing epistemic violence: “self-positioning” and memory as resource The experience of epistemic violence is often referred to by activists from both organizations as frustration at “being silenced” and “difficulties of self-positioning” due to “the absence of subjective resources” that certain memories could be. Both organizations’ members experience epistemic violence in similar yet different ways. On the one hand, Tactikollectif’s members, who are ten to fifteen years older than CLAP members, often refer to the frustrations of “being silenced,” as they actually have certain direct experiences of memories that they try to reconstruct today. On the other hand, if activists from both organizations consider memory as useful subjective resource, “difficulties of self-positioning” because of the “absence” of those resources are more often referred to by CLAP members than by those of Tactikollectif. Narratives of activists from Tactikollectif show how epistemic violence of oppressing certain memories affects their speech. S refers to frustration at memories being silenced. He takes, as an example, memories such as the “French-Algerian war of independence.” He says he “feels inevitably concerned by this history” but at the same time he feels that “French society demands him to be silent about this history.”46 He expresses his frustration at being silenced: It was harder at that time [soon after the independence of Algeria]. At that time, there were much more tensions. Imagine. This year it’s already 50 years, and we still have things we cannot talk about. So, 30 years ago, I mean, 20 years after that, we were not able to talk about it. It was…how to say…too fresh. The Algerian issue is so heavy that we cannot talk about colonial issues. As a result, [we cannot talk about] colonial issues here in France neither.47

S further suggests in his account that, while frustrated at certain memories being silenced in which they recognize themselves, “French populations of post-colonial origin feel rather awkward with the [French] collective memory in which they do not really recognize themselves.”48 S further claims that “compared to the other migrant histories, immigrations with colonization origin face the colonial period stigma which prevents their contributions to be integrated in the national history” by taking the exam46

Interview with S, October 2012, Toulouse. Interview with S, October 2012, Toulouse. 48 Citations from S’s Master’s thesis. Amokrane 2008, 29. 47

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ple of the “memory of Spanish migrant populations […] assimilated in history.”49 In fact, this frustration is closely connected to the il/legitimacy of Postcolonial Immigration Memory as a study object. He explains how “inheritors of post-colonial immigration” struggle to gain the legitimacy of their past, so that they can re-appropriate it as a valid reference. Claims for patrimonializations seem to be introduced by activists of immigration memory. It is without doubt an inquiry of the legitimacy that can explain it. To be recognized as patrimonial object means to be legitimated as a “referent” to share.50

S’s analysis helps us understand how post-colonial migrant descendants experience epistemic violence: on the one hand, their silenced memories are constantly excluded from the “legitimate” history, and on the other hand, they feel awkward with the French “legitimate” history in which they do not really recognize themselves. These explanations help us better understand “difficulties of self-positioning.” CLAP’s activists often refer to an expression shared by all members concerning “self-positioning” (se positioner–literally meaning “position oneself”).51 In fact, the expression suggests a relation between epistemic violence and difficulties/possibilities of subjectivation. If an exclusion of certain memories prevents individuals from certain possibilities of subjectivation, this expression also suggests the possibility of subjectivization by re-appropriating those deprived, excluded memories through Memory Work. One of CLAP’s representatives, F, defines the meaning of “position oneself” as follows: Detect where you are. It’s not exactly about identity, but about your position. Positioning yourself geographically, historically, etc. For example, as for me, I situate myself in Maghreb immigration history or in Algerian history.52

He says that today he knows where to position himself. Something he was not sure about before, just as “younger generation” activists with whom he organizes Memory Work. Another CLAP activist, H, also refers to the difficulties of “self-positioning” that she and younger members of 49

Amokrane 2008, 32. Ibid., 36. 51 Formal and informal interviews with F, H, MA, SM and A. September 2009 and 2010, Villeurbanne. 52 Interview with F, September 2010, Villeurbanne. 50

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the organization experience. “When we don’t know our past,” she says, “it’s hard to position yourself. If you know your history, you can situate yourself. When you can situate yourself, you can project your future.”53 From these narratives, I would argue that “absence” of certain memories/histories prevents individuals from possessing references, that Delcroix defines as “subjective resource (ressource subjective).”54 By examining Moroccan migrant families’ strategies for their children’s education in France, Delcroix argues that parents with their experiences of migration transmit their own life-stories to their children so that they establish a distance with everyday constraints marked by poverty and racial discriminations.55 If the result of her analysis shows a paradox to the widely shared assumption that transmission between parents and children concerning their experiences of migration is rarely the case,56 the concept of subjective resource is pertinent for the study of Memory Work. M, another Tactikollectif activist, also explains memory’s subjective dimension as follows: it [memory] enables us to work on self. […] In other words, when we know our history, it gives you serenity […] When we know where we are from, when we know our histories, we are serene in the image of ourselves. […] This work, of research, of resources, when we do the memory work…I do it for me. I do it so that it exists. So that it would be well placed and that, if someone needs it, he would not have to do the research that I myself already did. This property, he will find it. We can place it at the disposition of those who desire it.57

In fact, M considers memory as a subjective resource for his subject formation. However, he also suggests the collective dimension of memory, by referring that memory as a property can benefit not only him but also others who desire the same memory he desires. 53

Interview with H, September 2009, Villeurbanne. Delcroix 2009. 55 Delcroix 2009, 150. 56 A number of studies and essays reveal that parents are not eager to transmit their own migration stories to their children (Guénif-Souilamas 2000, Hajjat 2005). Hajjat (2005) attempts to explain the reasons of “parents’ silence about their experiences of migration” using the concepts of “generational rupture,” that he supposes originated from parents’ feeling of “incompetency” for their children’s “transformation” and/or traumatic experiences (Hajjat 2005,75–81). My recent interviews have also been confirming the claim of these studies about parents’ silence about their migrant experiences. 57 Interview with M, April 2013, Toulouse. 54

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Thus, narratives of activists from both organizations illustrate how memory provides subjective resources and that an oppression of certain memories, that I call Post-colonial Immigration Memory, affects those who could “share,” “transmit” or “inherit” them. Therefore, in these contexts, Memory Work of post-colonial activists should be understood as resistance to epistemic violence.

3.3. Re-appropriating the past: Memory of Struggles For post-colonial actors, Post-colonial Immigration Memory is a deprived “property” that they could potentially “inherit.” Memory Work provides them with the possibility of re-appropriating that “property” as “inheritor(s).” One may become an “inheritor” when s/he desires and searches for his/her memory in which s/he recognizes her/himself. Therefore, I attempt to describe how the activists re-appropriate their “property” and become “inheritors” through Memory Work. In so doing, I shall concentrate on two examples of memories which activists of both organizations try to re/construct: Memory of Struggles and Memory of Quartiers. The first example of Memory Work is what I call Memory of Struggles. In fact, migrants’ (and their descendants’) Memory of Struggles is extremely rich to explore in terms of time and space: from the political mobilizations for independence of their country of origin as well as the French factory-based mobilizations of migrant workers in the 1960s and 1970s, followed by migrant children’s anti-racism/discrimination movements in the 1980s, to public funding local and institutional activism, namely “hegemonic mobilizations,”58 in the 1990s. However, if it is often claimed that such mobilizations failed and declines during the late 1990s, the history/memory of migrants’ (and their descendants’) struggles itself has yet to have its prosperity. However, as Hamidi claims “a sustained focus on collective action by French immigrant society has yet to be securely established,”59 Memory of Struggles has long been and still is Weak History. The analysis of narratives, as for the two different organizations’ members, suggests that Memory of Struggles, re/constructed through Memory Work, have three significations: first, “inheritors” become conscious of their experiences of “racism,” “racial discriminations” or more general “injustice” by discovering the link between her/his own situations and the situation which confronted the “ex” or “older” actors. Second, 58 59

Hamidi 2009, 138. Hamidi 2009, 136.

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

Memory of Struggles leads its “inheritors” to consider themselves as political subject by subverting dominant and attributed explanations of oneself. Third, the formation of political subjects through practices of Memory of Struggles may support convergence for actual political mobilization. In 2009, CLAP members led a Memory Work around the Marche pour l’Égalité et contre le Racisme (March for Equality and against Racism) better known as Marche des Beurs (March of Beurs).60 In October 1983, a group of 12 marchers left from Marseille heading to Paris in order to claim equal rights and challenge racism and discrimination. They attracted one hundred thousand people during the 55 days of demonstration. President Mitterrand received a delegation from the marchers at the Elysée Palace. As Abdallah claims,61 this first and biggest mobilization by descendants of post-colonial migration (and not migrants themselves) until today is totally “forgotten” by the mass media, although it received widespread media coverage at the time. Furthermore, until very recently, historical studies of the March were very poor. In 2009 CLAP activists organized a march that retraced the itinerary of the 1983 march from Marseille to Paris while organizing several meetings with some of the former marchers, accompanied by film screenings and concerts. They filmed the whole process of the event in order to produce a documentary film. One of the activists, H, explains how they “discovered” the march: At the beginning, it was from a book that we opened. We looked at the pictures. We were saying like, “who were these people, actually?” We knew the “march of Beurs,” but very vaguely. We had already heard about it but we didn’t know exactly what it was. Gradually, we understood the movement. From where it started. Towards what it was oriented. What it produced. […] When the number of marchers reached to 100 thousands, their delegation was received by François Mitterand. […] They negotiated. And they succeeded to have a resident card for ten years! At that time, you know, our parents, they had the card just for one year. […] This is a big deal. Symbolically, it’s important. So, we said that it was important to replace this history at the place it should be.62

H shows her enthusiasm at “discovering” the march that she recognizes as something important to remember. 60 “Beurs” is a doubly reversed slang of the word arabe: the word first became rebeu and then beur, which designates the children of North African immigrants in France. 61 Abdallah 2004. 62 Interview with H, September 2009, Villeurbanne.

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Fig. 1. CLAP P’s “March For Equality and Against A Racism”” event poster.

This proocess of “disccovering” the Memory of Struggles succh as the 1983 marchh has the effecct of awakeniing conscioussness in thosee who are targeted by rracism and raacial discrimin nation so that they considerr such experiences noot as personall problems bu ut as social prooblems. F fro om CLAP refers to thee lack of consciousness am mong “young people” as “discover“ ing” that succh a memory has h implicatio ons: Young peeople of this quuartier […] theey often tend too be...they often n think that their experience is peculiar. p And acctually, the morre we understan nd that it is ratheer the world whhich is like thiss, that it is the society which is like this […] at first there will w be a represssion, but later ssome of them start s to understannd. They think. And they start to t talk about diiscrimination.63

M from Tactikollectiff also suggestts the importaance of Memo ory Work so that indivviduals becom me aware of racism r and raacial discrimin nations in order not to interiorize itss violence and suffer from itt. He explainss: I mean, it [memory] helps, really. It helps h to get thiss serenity simp ply because we understand bettter. We know better. And wee know ourselvees better. So, w we do not doubtt. […] It’s ratheer him [who praactises racism and a racial discrrimination] thatt makes a mistaake. Because thhe traumatism of o discriminatioon is that you may m think, “maaybe he is righht.” To understaand, to know youur story, and to be aware of thee memory, it heelps to become aware of it [disccrimination]. Thhat discriminatiion and racism has no justifications. 63

Interview w with F, Septembber 2009, Villeu urbanne.

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France Then, it’s more than that. Because this memory, it also brings this analysis to the people: Racism and discriminations are indeed systemic. The real problem, it’s not the racism on the street, it’s not the discrimination on the street, but the discrimination as system.64

M’s concern for the lack of consciousness of racism and racial discriminations corresponds to F (CLAP)’s claim concerning the tendencies of “young people” to consider the experiences of racism and racial discrimination as “their” own problems. Memory Work then helps individuals to become aware that the problem lies within those who practise racism and discriminations. M further explains that Memory (Work) helps individuals to consider racism and racial discriminations not as personal experience but rather as a social problem by insisting their systemic dimension. In fact, “discovering” Memory of Struggles leads the “inheritors” to subvert some relations of power surrounding Weak History and Strong History. In order to fully understand the subversive effects of Memory of Struggles, I would emphasize that post-colonial migrants and their descendants have been constantly considered and represented as “objects” of public policy65 as presented in Table 2. H explains how the encounters with activists who represent Memory of Struggles made possible for “young people” to imagine themselves entering activism: We met ex-marchers. And one of them told us “the march changed my life completely.” This is someone very important in political field today. He is an assemblyman, you know. And he said clearly “March changed my life.” […] He said this in front of our young people. What are they going to say then? “If him, he was able to do it, I may be able to do it.” It means they can do it. Participate in a movement, and…you know?66

H describes to which extent it is difficult for post-colonial migrants’ descendants to imagine themselves as “political subjects” with the power for social change. Her previous explanation about the process in which she “discovered” the march shows how much they were impressed by the impact and achievement of the march; reconstructing Memory of Struggles encourages post-colonial actors to imagine themselves as “political subject” by subverting Strong History of considering “immigrants” (migrants and their descendants) not as “political subject” but as “object” of public policy.

64

Interview with M, April 2013, Toulouse. Guénif-Souilamas 2000; Hamidi 2009. 66 Interview with H, September 2009, Villeurbanne. 65

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Fig. 2. Tactikkollectif’s annuaal festival Origiines Contrôléess poster for 2012.

For activvists of Tactikkollectif, the awareness off be(com)ing “political subject” is cconsidered exttremely imporrtant not onlyy for subjectiv ve reasons but also andd most importaantly for colleective actions . Since Tactik kollectif’s activists havve been engagged in political mobilizatioons as actors since the early 1980s,, their concernn for Memory y of Struggles is based on th heir sense of crisis duee to present weak w political mobilization. They collabo orate with the other orgganizations’ activists a of thee same generaation, in order to reconstruct Memoory of Strugglles, including yet not only tthe March forr Equality and against Racism in 19983 but also the t succeedingg mobilization ns during the 1980s annd 1990s. Their concern fo or reconstructting Memory of Struggles is wideely and constaantly expresseed in their artiistic and cultu ural practices. Since 2004 they havve produced brochures b of annnual festival Origines Contrôlées ((Controlled Origins) O which h has gatheredd numerous arttists (musicians, actoors, poets, film m directors), acctivists and reesearchers sincce 2004. For exam mple, a summaary of the festtival in 2006 m manifests their concern for reconstruucting memorry of political mobilizationss as the follow wing; One of thhe purposes is to t promote all the historical eexperiences thatt illustrate sociaal and politicall richness of po opular quartiers , with a particu ular attention too the mobilizattions, which in nclude strugglees for securing slums

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France and transit cités (cities), rent strikes of Sonacotra,67 Marches for Equality and against Racism or struggles over urban renovation. Very often ignored by younger generations, this history has to be transmitted for a better understanding of the reality and for constructing a collective future.68

Weak History

Strong History

x

Migrants as political subject

x

Migrants as object / category of public policy

x

“Popular quartiers” as politically and culturally lively space

x

x

Solidarity and resistance in popular quartiers

“Quartiers” or “banlieue” as “ghetto” without–or with deviant anomic (i.e. “potentially terrorist Muslims,” “culture of drugs and violence”)–sociability, culture nor/and history

Tab. 2. Memory of Struggles and Memory of Popular Quartiers through Weak History and Strong History.

When Tactikollectif’s activists call us to pay “particular attention to the mobilizations” for “constructing a collective future,” they intend rather to “transmit it to younger generations and mobilize them” in present political actions “in order to make a convergence of political action again.”69 As activists with a long career since the 1980s, S and other members are very much aware of the “transformation” of climate surrounding political mobilization and its decline. Under such circumstances, they suggest that Memory could be a resource for political mobilization. However, the activists of CLAP, whose concerns are more for the process of subjectivization, do not really show the aspirations for political mobilization even when it comes to Memory of Struggles. If activists of CLAP emphasize the importance of re-appropriating Memory of Struggles, Tactikollectif concentrates on transmitting this memory as actors who lived such struggles. However, Tactikollectif’s goal of transmission is more towards producing the political mobilization of younger generations, while CLAP’s activists are interested in Memory of 67 Sonacotra, Société nationale de construction de logements pour les travailleurs (National Society for Construction of Housing for Workers) is a semipublic housing agency founded in 1960s in order to provide housing for migrant workers in France. 68 Tactikollectif 2006. Bilan: festival Origines Contrôlées, 4. 69 S’s narratives at the conference Initiative Quartiers Populaires organized in April 2012, Toulouse.

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Struggles foor its subjectiive resources.. Here we finnd a gap betw ween two generations with differennt social expeeriences and ttherefore diffferent approaches to Memory Worrk.

Fig. 3. Tactikkollectif annual magazine featu uring Memory oof Quartiers and Memory of Struggles.

3.4. R Re-approprriating the past: Memorry of Quartieers Another example off Post-coloniaal Immigratioon Memory is called Memory of Quartiers. First of all, the term m “quartiers” should be uunderstood in n specific French conttexts. Literallyy, quartier, trranslated into “quarter” or “district” in English, means a terriitory that is smaller s than a city. Howev ver, when quartiers is referred to ass a whole, it reeminds us of ccertain quartieers called ZUS (Zoness Urbaines Seensibles). Baseed on the stattistical data co oncerning unemployment, low levell of education n etc., ZUS is a national sy ystem that geographicaally defines certain districtts of public hhousing as th hose with “problems.”” These quarrtiers, sometiimes interchaangeably called “banlieues,” withh a high perceentage of foreeign and migrrant population ns, imply stigmatized connotations such as “deliinquency,” “vviolence” and//or “asso-

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France

ciability” which affect their inhabitants.70 Therefore, as Table 2 shows, these stigmatizing explanations from outside of quartiers consist of Strong History concerning quartiers. For the last ten years, Tactikollectif has been engaged in reconstructing the “cultural and political heritage of quartiers.”71 From the beginning of the Origines Contrôlées festival in 2004, Memory of Quartiers is one of the titles that Tactikollectif never forgets to include in the programmes. Their motivation for reconstructing the past about quartiers is to subvert asymmetrical representations of quartiers. In a summary of the third festival in 2006, they demonstrated how stigmatized representations of quartiers deny inhabitants and potential “inheritors” of quartiers the possibility of having their own histories: In fact, certain discourses encourage a miserable vision of popular quartiers, according to which they would not have histories and inhabitants, with their immigrant origin or not […]. In general, they are perceived in a negative way by public opinion that considers them [popular quartiers] as a site where all society’s problems are concentrated: insecurity, delinquency, etc…If we should not deny the problems that inhabitants of popular quartiers suffer, they are the inheritors of the long history, with very rich social experiences and mobilizations for improving their living conditions. They have been and they still are today laboratories where [we] experiment the conditions for a co-habitation in a multicultural society. All the existing collective sites (building halls, associations’ offices, social centres, gyms, etc.) are exactly the sites where solidarities and resistances are constructed.72

Tactikollectif’s members claim that dominant discourses concerning quartiers such as “a site where all the problems of society are concentrated: insecurity, delinquency, etc.” often dismiss the solidarities and resistances existing in quartiers. In order to subvert those imposed explanations of realities, activists of Tactikollectif organize cultural and artistic activities as well as meetings with activists and researchers. For example, 70

Recent studies have shown that a job-hunter from a specific quartier is more likely to be rejected when job-hunting because of discrimination (Silberman and Fournier, 2006). It is also important to refer to a policy named “urban renovation” (rénovation urbaine) that has changed the environment of quartiers since the 1970s. Within the framework of this policy, many public housing buildings in quartiers have been demolished throughout the country as if destroying buildings could “erase all the problems inside those quartiers.” It is in this context that Memory Work reconstructing Memory of Quartiers should also be interpreted. 71 Interview with S, October 2012, Toulouse. 72 Tactikollectif. 2006. Bilan: Festival Origines Contrôlées, 4.

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they organizze meetings with w researchers who offer hhistorical insights concerning coloonization, im m/migration, sttereotypes, m media and den naturalize the strengthh of the Stronng History about quartiers and their inh habitants. They also oorganize conceerts, with theiir own music group ZEBD DA and/or others, coveering old songgs of immigraation which w were popular among a inhabitants off quartiers durring the 1960ss to 1980s, inn order to shed d light on cultural heriitage in quartiiers.

Fig. 4. Tactikkollectif organizzing a meeting.

Searchinng for the voicces of inhabitaants is anotherr way of subverting the Strong Histoory of quartieers, essentially y imposed from m the outside. CLAP’s Memory Woork concerninng a quartier called Olivieer de Serres iss such an example. Thhe Olivier dee Serres quarttier existed inn Villeurbann ne until it was destroyyed during laate 1970s. CL LAP activists searched forr the dispersed resouurces after thee demolition and a planned aan exhibition about the quartier. Affter several yeears of preparaation by them m, the exhibitio on project was financedd by the city of o Villeurbann ne and RIZE, the city’s culttural centre, accomm modated the exxhibition.

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Poost-colonial Imm migration Mem mory in Contemp mporary France

Fig. 5. CLAP P’s collaborativee exhibition Oliivier de Serres.

F accounnts the processes and expeeriences of “ddiscovering” historical resources off the Olivier de d Serres quarrtier and referss to one of inh habitants’ narratives thhat illuminatess the lives insiide the quartieer. In Olivierr de Serres theere were two scchools. Arabianns were going to one school annd Whites weree going to anotther school. In the 1970s, therre still was this segregation. We W didn’t talk about it. We were saying that it [France] w was a country of o human rights. We didn’t taalk about it. And d also, White parrents didn’t waant them to be mixed with thee others. […] I think, the memoory, we cannot trick it. It shou uld be presentedd as it was. If we, w we uncover it, it’s because it i was hided, thiis history. But, it’s true that we w have the societty, which said “this is a quartier of ghetto. These people, we do not want to see them.” etc. e On the conttrary, when we entered this qu uartier, o the people lik ke “as for me, I spent [my lifee] here. I heard thhe testimonies of Sisters. B Brothers. I havee all my memo ories of childhoood. We had a good

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time together.” and so on. We tried to show how the outsiders regarded Olivier de Serres and how we insiders regarded Olivier de Serres.73

If suggesting alternative relations of Strong History–Weak History may not reach the subversion of such a relation of power, Memory Work reconstructing Memory of Quartier has an influence on subjective formation of inhabitants, who have migrant backgrounds and whose subjectivation operates between several cultures. Stuck between the cultures, Guénif-Souilamas claims that quartiers are important references for many children of postcolonial migrations. In effect of both cultures, on one hand the heritage they received from their parents and on the other hand, their Frenchness, are both denied by French society.74 In this context, reconstructing quartiers as a space with/of “history” helps post-colonial migrant descendants to reclaim an alternative way of subjectivation. This is why the representation of quartiers is extremely important. N, a Tactikollectif collaborator, refers to the importance of Memory of Quartiers as a subjective resource: Reconstructing history of quartier is important because it’s to say “quartier is not a political desert; it’s not a cultural desert. It has a very rich culture. And diverse cultures.” This message will change how young people consider themselves in a negative way.75

N’s account shows her awareness that there is a link between stigmatized representations of quartiers and “negative” subjectivation of “the youth” in quartiers. This is the reason why she thinks “history of quartiers” should be reconstructed. Finally, many activists, including members of Tactikollectif and CLAP, use the term “popular quartiers” today; this is also a way of resistance. In an interview published in a local magazine, S suggests using the term “popular quartiers” rather than “quartiers” tout court or “banlieues.” When asked why, S explains: In France, we say “banlieues,” but the problem of the term is that it is a little… “Popular quartiers,” it’s more suitable, I think. Because, first of all, if I take Toulouse as an example, quartiers are not in “banlieues.” “Banlieues,” here, those are the riches compared to…“Quartiers” are inside. We cannot say “banlieues” in Toulouse anyway. Then, I just like “popular quartiers,” because it means that there are people. It was at that time…We 73

Interview with F, September 2010, Villeurbanne. Guénif-Souilamas 2000. 75 N’s narrative at the conference Tactikollectif organized in April 2012, Toulouse. 74

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Post-colonial Immigration Memory in Contemporary France have been using this [term] a lot since 5…or 8 years. Many people use this expression. After all, there is never a perfect expression. We always have the problem to say things.76

Using “popular quartiers” instead of “quartiers” tout court or “banlieues” has two significations coherent with the two meanings the term “popular” carries. The first signification is about “popularity.” When S says, “I like ‘popular quartiers’ because it means that there are people,” he is aware of the oppression of Weak History of quartier “as lively space.” In other words, this indicates his intention to subvert the Strong History of “quartiers” without sociability, culture and/or history. Also, from the very nature of things, the term “popular” implies a social class perspective. This is a way to resist “some politicians’ discourses which distortedly emphasize ethnic nature of the problems”77 of quartiers. At the same time, one could understand S’s account as a demonstration of pride as popular class. Thus, for Tactikollectif’s activists and their collaborators, organizing the festival through cultural/artistic and political performances offers a possibility to “promote and recognize the value of historical experiences that illustrates social, political and cultural richness of popular quartiers,” while subverting the Strong History of quartiers which does not really correspond to their explanations of reality concerning quartiers.

4. Conclusions: memory as a site of resistance In this paper, I have tried to study Post-colonial Immigration Memory as resistance to epistemic violence. In the first part of the paper the analysis of historical transformations surrounding Post-colonial Immigration Memory in French social and academic spheres made clear how visibilizations/invisibilizations of certain explanations of realities take place. The result of the analysis shows how apparently “true” and “legitimate” explanations of realities, often related to methodological nationalism, produces epistemic violence against individuals whose past-stories are marginalized with specific relation to Strong and Weak Histories. In the latter half of the paper, in order to better understand how epistemic violence affects postcolonial actors at different levels (i.e. social, political, cultural, subjective etc.) and how they react to violence, I examined the narratives of those actors mobilizing themselves in Memory Work. Cultural and artistic practices of Memory Work–often considered as “apolitical”–with the goal of reformulating explanations of the past thus turn out to be a political re76 77

Interview with S, October 2012, Toulouse. Tactikollectif 2005. Bilan: Festival Origines Contrôlées, 3.

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sistance to epistemic violence in present. However, the result of the analysis also shows that, in order to initiate such resistance, one must go through a process of “discovering” Weak History and/or Strong History. Bell hooks’ considerations in Marginality as a site of resistance seem insightful to me in order to understand this condition. She suggests that marginality can become a site of resistance, only when one understands that s/he is marginalized and when s/he is able to name the nature of oppression. If not, marginality only consists of a site of oppression with pain and despair. Understanding marginality, in other words, thus becoming aware that one is situated at the margin, is extremely important so that marginality becomes a site of resistance for her/him.78 Memory, as marginalized explanation of realities, may be conceptualized just as marginality is conceptualized by bell hooks. Memory actually gets the status of memory only when its oppressed past-stories are “discovered” and the dominant nature of certain discourses, namely, Strong History, is denaturalized. It is only then that memory becomes a site of resistance. Therefore, “discovery” of Post-colonial Immigration Memory such as Memory of Quartiers or Memory of Struggles by post-colonial actors signifies the beginning of resistance. They “discover” that certain past-stories, with which they can identify themselves, were oppressed, ignored and invisibilized. It is in the process in which they are capable of denaturalizing Strong History’s “legitimacy” that memory emerges. At that time, those actors become “inheritors” of the memory and thus the resistance to epistemic violence starts. Even if the resistance does not subvert Strong History at a structural or institutional level, the process of resistance to epistemic violence itself is important for post-colonial actors at their subjective level. Two organizations’ activists suggested that Memory (Work) plays critical roles for individuals to name their personal experience and further position it in the social context when referring to other explanations of the similar experiences. Narratives concerning Memory of Struggles demonstrate the actors’ changing consciousness of racism and racial discrimination. If both organizations’ members, commonly descendants of postcolonial migration, seem to consider Memory as an important subjective resource, a gap between two different generations of two organizations, not in terms of migrant generational groups but of their ages with particular social experiences, seem to produce a gap concerning their political attitudes. Further investigation is required to identify the factors of the question. 78

bell hooks 1990.

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Bibliography Abdallah, M. H. 2004. “La Marche pour l’égalité, une mémoire à restaurer.” Homme & Migrations 1247: 99–104. Amokrane, S. 2008. Mouvements sociaux, expressions culturelles, patrimoine culturel de l’immigration maghrébine: Un patrimoine de France? Master thesis. Universitéғ Lyon II. France. bell hooks. 1990. “Marginality as Site of Resistance.” In Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Cultures, edited by R. Ferguson, M. Gever, T. T. Minh-ha, and C. West, 341–43. Cambridge: The MIT Press. Bertaux, D. 1997. Les récits de vie: Perspective ethnosociologique. Paris: Editions Nathan. Bouamama, S. 1994. Dix ans de marche des beurs. Paris: Desclée de Brower. Boubeker, A. 2008. “L’immigration: enjeux d’histoire et de mémoire à l’aube du XXIe siècle.” In Les guerres des mémoires: La France et son histoire, edited by P. Blanchard and I. Veyrat-Masson, 165–74. Paris: La Découverte. Boubeker, A. and A. Hajjat. 2008. Histoire politique des immigrations (post)coloniales: France 1920–2008. Paris: Éditions Amsterdam. Bouziri, S. 1991. “Association ‘Génériques’.” Matériaux pour l’histoire de notre temps 24(1): 50–51. Butler, J. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge. ʊ. 1997. The Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Delcroix, C. 2009. “Transmission de l’histoire familiale et de la mémoire historique face à la précarité.” Migrations Société 123/124: 143–57. El Yazami, D. 2004. “Génériques: quinze années de mémoire de l’immigration.” Pour 181: 83–87. Fassin, D. 2010. “Frontière extérieures, frontières intérieures.” In Les Nouvelles frontières de la société française, edited by D. Fassin, 5–16. Paris: La Découverte. Foucault, M. 1966. Les mots et les choses. Paris: Gallimard. ʊ. 1975. Surveiller et punir. Paris: Gallimard. Glick-Schiller, N. and U. H. Meinhof. 2011. “Singing a New Song? Transnational Migration, Methodological Nationalism and Cosmopolitan Perspectives.” Music & Arts in Action 3(3): 21–39. Guénif-Souilamas, N. 2000. Des beurettes. Paris: Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle.

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Hajjat, A. 2005. Immigration postcoloniale et mémoire. Paris: L’Harmattan. Hamidi, C. 2009. “Riots and Protest Cycles: Immigrant Mobilization in France, 1968–2008.” In Rioting in the UK and France: A Comparative Analysis, edited by D. Waddington, F. Jotard, and M. King, 135–46. London: William Publishing. ʊ. 2010. La société civile dans les cités: Engagement associatif et politisation dans des associations de quartier. Paris: Economica. Hargreaves, A. G. 2007. “Vers une reconnaissance de la postcolonialité.” Mouvement 51: 24–31. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1962. La pensée sauvage. Paris: Librairie Plon. Noiriel, G. 2006 [1988]. Le creuset français: Histoire de l’immigration XIXe XXe siècles. Paris: Editions du Seuil. ʊ. 2006. “Itinéraire d’un engagement dans l’histoire.” Mouvements 45/46: 209–19. Sayad, A. 1999. La double absence. Des illusions aux souffrances de l’immigré. Préface by P. Bourdieu. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Scott, J. C. 1985. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. London: Yale University Press. ʊ. 1989. “Everyday Forms of Resistance.” Copenhagen Journal of Asian Studies 4: 33–62. Silberman, R. and I. Fournier 2006. “Les secondes générations sur le marché du travail en France: une pénalité ethnique ancrée dans le temps.” Revue française de sociologie 47: 243–92. Simon, P. 2003. “France and the Unknown Second Generation: Preliminary Results on Social Mobility.” International Migration Review 37(4): 1091–119. Spivak, G. C. 1988. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” In Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, edited by C. Nelson and L. Grossberg, 271– 313. Urbana: University of Illinois Press.

PART II: GENDER

GENDER AMENDER: SEX-CHANGING AND TRANSGENDER IDENTITIES IN OVID’S METAMORPHOSES ANNA EVERETT BEEK UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA (USA)

I will begin by calling attention to an unusual narratorial aside in Ovid’s Metamorphoses in the story of the daughters of Anius.1 These four girls have the miraculous ability, granted by Bacchus, to spontaneously create olive oil, grain and wine, for which reason Agamemnon attempts to violently conscript them to supply the Achaean forces at Troy. The girls pray to Bacchus for salvation from Agamemnon’s attack, and Bacchus transforms them into doves; they cry, “Bacche pater, fer opem!” (Bring help, father Bacchus!), and their father, relating the story, adds, “tulitque muneris auctor opem, si miro perdere more ferre vocatur opem,” and the author of the gift did bring help, if you consider it “help” to destroy someone by miraculous means.2 This intriguing comment betrays a more pessimistic view of a transformation than is normally visible in the Metamorphoses. The understated negativity3 well illustrates the attitude toward metamorphosis in the Metamorphoses: although it can appear as a blessing, more often the reader is left unsure of how to interpret a transformation, and whether it might in fact come as a curse. My paper focuses on a different story from the Metamorphoses, that of Iphis and Ianthe.4 This story has long attracted interest in the field of gender studies, due to its curious intertwining of sex and gender, transvesti1

Met. 13.632–74. All quotations of the Metamorphoses are from Tarrant’s text; translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 2 Met. 13.669–71. 3 Although Solodow (1988, 170) reads this comment as deliberately ambiguous in judgment of the daughters’ fate (that is, Anius does not take a position on whether their metamorphosis was beneficial or harmful), the comment’s ultimate negativity (particularly in the word perdere) seems inescapable to me. 4 Met. 9.666–797.

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tism and sex-changing, and female homoeroticism. To briefly recapitulate the story, Ovid presents Telethusa, a woman living on Crete. Telethusa is pregnant, but her husband tells her that he can only afford to raise a boy, so the child, if female, will have to be killed. Nevertheless, Isis appears to Telethusa in a dream and instructs her to raise the girl regardless, which Telethusa accomplishes by disguising her newborn daughter, Iphis, as a boy. In time Iphis is betrothed to another girl named Ianthe, with whom Iphis falls in love. As the wedding draws close, Telethusa fears that her ruse will be found out and begs Isis to solve their conundrum, at which point Isis obligingly transforms Iphis into a male. This story is most famous for the questions of gender that can be isolated within it, as scholars attempt to extract from the story concrete answers about what defines masculinity or how authors like Ovid think about lesbianism. My primary focus is likewise enmeshed in questions of gender, but I would like to approach the story from its conclusion, which enjoys a reputation as one of the few unproblematic happy endings in all of the Metamorphoses.5 In fact, I would argue that this ostensible happy ending is highly problematic, and can only be read as unproblematic if the reader makes some controversial assumptions about Iphis’ gender identity. Simply put, it takes a strong-minded person who has carefully considered their identity to repudiate their assigned gender and declare themselves to be, in fact, a member of another gender. In the modern world, such people are known as transgendered or transsexual, and these are provocative labels in certain circles. The widespread perception of such sentiments as unnatural, combined with the reluctance of society at large to accept such sentiments as valid, should raise questions about the ease with which Iphis accepts her transformation from female to male.6 While characters in mythological stories such as the Metamorphoses might be able, with di5

The ending is conventionally read as a “fairy-tale marriage” (Anderson 1972, 469). Consider other scholars’ reactions: Wheeler says: “The tale ends happily with the consummation of the marriage...a satisfying sense of closure is thus achieved” (Wheeler 1997, 199). Hallett agrees: “Here Ovid does not resolve a painful human dilemma in his typical fashion, by turning this particular human into a vegetable, mineral, or subspecies of animal. Rather, Ovid accords Iphis’s story an unusually happy ending” (Hallett 1997, 263). Nugent argues that Iphis’ story not only has a happy ending, but is “arguably the only tale in the Metamorphoses with a positive outcome” (Nugent 2008, 153), a sweeping statement that presumes a set interpretation for every story within the Metamorphoses. 6 For the history of transgenderism and transexualism in the modern world, Susan Stryker’s Transgender History (Stryker 2008) provides a concise overview. I must also thank Gwen Carlson for her expertise on the experience of transpeople in society.

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vine help, to change sexes instantaneously, this change does not necessarily reflect the wishes of the person transformed, and may imply a certain amount of violence done to the person’s identity if the person is forced into a body that does not accord with his or her gender identity.7 While there are certain characters in the Metamorphoses who explicitly request to change sex and thus can be hypothetically read as transsexual,8 Iphis is not among those characters, and her “happy ending” is less happy than the reader might assume it to be. On a larger scale, I will examine Iphis’ story within the context of a recurring motif in the Metamorphoses that I call “ambiguous salvation.” In this motif, a character is fleeing an imminent threat of violence or suffering and voices a prayer to be saved from that threat. The prayer is answered, but not as the character might have anticipated: he or she is transformed into an animal, plant, or inanimate object. Such episodes are traditionally read as salutary, as the reader sighs with relief upon seeing that Daphne is not raped or that Cyparissus is released from his grief. In contrast, I contend that these transformations are in fact a loss of control over one’s life and an exile from the human world, and as such are remarkably unfortunate endings for the people who prayed for, and by divine grace were granted, this “salvation.” Iphis’ vague prayer and subsequent transformation fits this model surprisingly well. I will begin with Iphis’ own gender identity, as she herself describes it in a long soliloquy. The soliloquy as a whole is revealing, but I will excerpt the most relevant elements here: hinc amor ambarum tetigit rude pectus at aequum uulnus utrique dedit, sed erat fiducia dispar ... Iphis amat, qua posse frui desperat, et auget hoc ipsum flammas ardetque in uirgine uirgo. uixque tenens lacrimas “quis me manet exitus” inquit, “cognita quam nulli, quam prodigiosa nouaeque 7

For Ovid’s rendering of this sort of inner transformation, consider Glaucus’ transformation to a sea god. He states that, as soon as he tasted some magical herbs, “subito trepidare intus praecordia sensi,/alteriusque rapi naturae pectus amore;/nec potui restare diu ‘repetenda’ que ‘numquam/terra, vale!’ dixi corpusque sub aequora mersi” (Met. 13.945–8). This sort of internal transformation of identity can occur in the Met., but one should still question whether it occurs in accordance with or in contradiction to the subject’s wishes. After all, as a consequence to Glaucus’ transformation to a sea god, he is deemed an unacceptable mate by the woman he loves, and his attempts to magically manipulate her result in her transformation into a monster. 8 These stories will be discussed further below.

Anna Everett Beek cura tenet Veneris? si di me [parcere uellent, parcere debuerant; si non, et] perdere uellent, naturale malum saltem et de more dedissent… …interque animalia cuncta femina femineo correpta cupidine nulla est. uellem nulla forem ! … quid faciet? num me puerum de uirgine doctis artibus efficiet? num te mutabit, Ianthe? quin animum firmas teque ipsa recolligis, Iphi, consiliique inopes et stultos excutis ignes? quid sis nata uides, nisi te quoque decipis ipsam: et pete quod fas est, et ama quod femina debes. spes est quae capiat, spes est quae pascat amorem; hanc tibi res adimit. non te custodia caro arcet ab amplexu nec cauti cura mariti, non patris asperitas, non se negat ipsa roganti; nec tamen est potentia tibi, nec, ut omnia fiant, esse potes felix, ut dique hominesque laborent… quod uolo uult genitor, uult ipsa socerque futurus; at non uult natura, potentior omnibus istis, quae mihi sola nocet. uenit ecce optabile tempus, luxque iugalis adest, et iam mea fiet Ianthe nec mihi continget; mediis sitiemus in undis. pronuba quid Iuno, quid ad haec, Hymenaee, uenitis sacra, quibus qui ducat abest, ubi nubimus ambae?”9 From this point love touched the tender heart of both girls and gave an equal wound to each, but not an equal trust…Iphis was in love with someone she despaired of being able to love, and this fact alone increased her ardour as the maiden was inflamed by another maiden. Scarcely withholding her tears, she said, “What greater calamity could there be for me, whom a monstrous desire, unknown to anyone, has taken hold of? If the gods wanted [to spare me, they should have spared me, but if they wanted] to destroy me, they should have at least given me a conventional destruction…Among all the animals, no female is seized with a desire for another female. I wish I were nothing!…What could [Daedalus] do for me? Surely he could not make me a boy instead of a girl with his clever contrivances. No more could he change you, Ianthe! Oh, Iphis, why don’t you harden your resolve, collect yourself and dismiss these nonsensical desires? Pay attention to what you were born, unless you deceive yourself as well. Seek what is suitable, and love what a woman ought to. Hope is what creates love and feeds it; the circumstance took this hope away from you. For you are not kept away from her welcome embrace by guards, nor by the caution of her jealous husband, nor the unfriendliness of her father, nor 9

Met. 9.720–1, 724–30, 733–5, 743–54, 757–63.

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Gender Amender does she herself deny you when you ask; rather, you do not have the power [of penetration], nor in any circumstances will you have the power to be happy, no matter how men and gods work on your behalf…What I want, my father also wants, she herself wants, as does my future father-in-law; it is Nature, more powerful than all of these, who does not want it, who alone harms me. Here the hoped-for hour is arriving, the wedding torch is ready, and Ianthe will become mine–but I will not have her; we will thirst in the middle of a flood. What does it matter if Juno is our pronuba, or if you, Hymenaeus, are there at the ceremony, when a bridegroom is absent, and we are both brides?”

In this soliloquy, Iphis begins by expressing her intense attraction to her fiancée Ianthe. This attraction is nevertheless permeated with distress: she is completely unfamiliar with the idea of homoerotic female relationships, and, unable to imagine how sexual intercourse between females might be undertaken, she despairs of consummating her romance with her beloved.10 She therefore rejects her attraction to Ianthe as unnatural and tellingly instructs herself to heed quid sis nata. Aside from the complaints that Iphis does express in her soliloquy, one must note as well the complaints and requests she does not make: she does not, for example, express a desire to be male,11 and in a rhetorical question dismisses the possibility of either herself or Ianthe becoming male as ridiculous–equally ridiculous, in fact, in the case of either girl. Although she discusses her problems at length, she does not suggest any possible solutions to her problem. I must stress from the beginning that Iphis’ persona, particularly as revealed in her soliloquy, is distinctly feminine. Throughout the Metamorphoses, a number of characters engage in the deliberative soliloquies on 10

Walker 2006 examines the implications of this rejected homosexuality in detail. vellem nulla forem (9.735) is admittedly an ambiguous phrase and invites various interpretations. To provide a casual sampling of many of the available translations, Mandelbaum translates as “Would I could annul myself!”; Melville as “Would I were not a girl!” (with the footnoted alternative, “Would I did not exist”); Humphries as “I wish I were no girl;” Dryden as “Wou’d I were nothing, or not what I am!;” Ambrose as “I wish that I were not a female!;” Raeburn as “I wish I had never been born a woman, I wish I were dead!” Many of the translators understand Iphis to be asking for a sex change, but I would stand clear of this interpretation, principally because, whatever she wants to be that is signified by nulla, the status is clearly feminine: “I want to be a female nothing.” At the Invisible Cultures conference itself many participants had productive comments regarding this line, particularly the idea that the nulla must be read in conjunction with the nulla in the previous line: “Nulla is seized with a desire for another female; I wish I were nulla!” In this reading, Iphis merely wants to be whatever is allowed to desire females–and she imagines that this “whatever” is still female. 11

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the subject of whether or how to approach a potential lover, and all of them are female. Medea, Scylla, Byblis, Myrrha, and Alcyone12 all privately agonize over the tortures of love at great length just as Iphis does. In contrast, when men in the Metamorphoses engage in extended speeches,13 the intent is usually not deliberative, but persuasive. The most exaggerated examples are the competitive speeches of Ajax and Ulysses, in which Ajax speaks for 118 lines and Ulysses answers with 263 lines. Other examples include Pythagoras’ attempt to evangelize his philosophy (404 lines), Polyphemus’ attempt to woo Galatea (81 lines), and the Sun’s attempt to dissuade Phaethon from driving his chariot (53 lines, followed by a second speech of 24 lines).14 While women display great indecision and undertake speeches to come to a decision, or to attempt to persuade themselves to pursue a questionable course of action, the men in Ovid do not deliberate aloud. Having made up their minds silently, they speak with the intent of persuading others to follow their point of view or to advise others on a course of action. Throughout the Metamorphoses, Ovid represents decisiveness as a masculine trait and correspondingly makes indecisiveness a feminine trait,15 by which means Iphis’ soliloquy clearly marks her

12 Medea: Met. 7.11–71; Scylla: 8.44–80; Byblis: 9.474–516, followed by a second soliloquy at 9.585–629, in addition to her letter at 9.530–63; Myrrha: 10.320–55; Alcyone: 11.684–707. 13 In this comparison I am specifically discussing dialogue and excluding the long speeches that Ovid’s characters, male or female, might use to relate a narrative. Characters of both genders narrate extended stories over the course of the work, and narrative speech does not seem to be gendered like dialogue is. In dialogue, though, women are generally much more talkative then men. In 15 books, there are only 19 instances of (non-narrative) dialogue spoken by a man that go on for more than ten lines; for the most part Ovid’s men speak in short, pithy sentences. Women have much more dialogue, and their instances of dialogue on average go on longer. 14 Ajax: Met. 13.5–122; Odysseus: 13.128–381; Pythagoras: 15.75–478; Polyphemus: 13.789–869; the Sun: 2.50–102, 2.126–49. Aside from these, the only non-narrative speeches made by males that run over 20 lines are Pentheus’ attempt to dissuade the Thebans from following Dionysus (3.531–63), Vertumnus’ attempt to woo Pomona (14.663–97, excluding his narrative of Iphis and Anaxarete), Orpheus’ attempt to win his wife back (10.17–39), and Apollo’s speech to Daphne (1.504–24). 15 Keith 1999 has examined the construction of masculinity within the Metamorphoses, and the primary masculine-identified traits she isolates are: mobility, activity, possession of and identification with the male gaze, virtus, fama and honor, material rewards for exploits, arms and weaponry, impenetrability and primacy in the hierarchy of gender. Keith does not discuss modes of speech and

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as feminine, and non-transgendered, at least within her mind.16 The complication arises because Iphis is publicly occupying a masculine social role, and for that reason is ceded the power she needs to accomplish all of her goals: she is, to all appearances, permitted to marry Ianthe and permitted to have sexual intercourse with her. Nevertheless, in her inner persona–the persona she both adopts and addresses in her soliloquy–she rejects that masculine social role for herself and adopts a feminine identity.17 From a modern standpoint, Iphis’ gender identity seems straightforward: her expression of desire for Ianthe, combined with her lack of (explicit) discomfort with her native sex, illustrates that Iphis could easily fit into the social category of a homosexual woman. However, she is disinclined to identify herself this way, either because (as is implied by her soliloquy) she is uninformed about sexuality and wholly unaware of female homosexuality as a practice,18 or possibly because of the pervasive stigmatization of female homosexuality in the Roman world.19 Insofar as she expresses no desire to change sex, it is certainly a presumptuous logical leap to assume that a change in sex would solve her problem to her satisfaction;20 for the purpose of gratifying her desire, it seems that some instructheir implications to gender, but it is interesting to note how few of the traits Keith identifies as masculine can be applied to Iphis. 16 Although Makowski (1996, 31) refers to Iphis’ story as one of “lesbian passion, confusion of gender, and trans-sexualism” (emphasis mine), I believe that the transsexual label requires closer consideration. 17 Iphis’ markedly feminine (that is to say, passive) attitude toward her romantic goals is discussed by Pintabone (2002, 271–5), in particular how Iphis’ lack of initiative sets her apart from romantically forward women who threaten the social order. This passivity, notes Pintabone, is appropriate to Iphis as long as she retains a female identity and encourages the reader to hopefully anticipate her so-called fairy tale ending. 18 Kenney 2005, 477: “Ifi non ha mai sentito parlare di Saffo.” 19 Martial’s intense hostility to Bassa is one of the most explicit judgments of female homosexuality that survives from Roman antiquity, and there is very little evidence to suggest that other Roman men were more kindly disposed to lesbians. Brooten 1996 is the most comprehensive collection of references to lesbianism in classical works; see also Pintabone 2002, Boehringer 2007, passim, and Cantarella 1992, 164–71. For his part, Makowski (1996, 30) notes that female homosexuality is generally disparaged in Ovid, and furthermore deems Iphis’ story “Ovid’s most damning denunciation of homosexuality.” 20 Ormand treats the resolution of the story via Iphis’ transformation into a man as a foregone conclusion in Iphis’ soliloquy (Ormand 2005, 92: “the comic reading [of Iphis’ soliloquy] presumes that Iphis is somehow destined to play the man’s role”), but in fact this transformative possibility is never considered seriously by Iphis; it must be inferred by the reader. At the same time, all the hypothetical

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tion in lesbian sexual practices would be more congenial to her. While it may be more socially acceptable for her desire to be resolved by becoming male, this transformation may create more problems for her, by fostering a divide between her inner gender identity and her physical sex, or, as in Glaucus’ case, creating unanticipated social consequences. A cynical reader might still object that nothing in the Metamorphoses is supposed to be realistic in a modern sense (for which reason there is no point in fretting over whether Iphis’ physical sex accords with his/her gender identity), and moreover that the conclusion of Iphis’ story has never had anything to do with Iphis’ own wishes: the marriage is a contract between the fathers of the bride and groom, and as such the purpose of the marriage is to propagate the heterosexual/reproductive family model rather than to make either husband or wife happy. Even so, Iphis’ desires are so clearly and extensively articulated in her central soliloquy that the reader must presume these desires to be an essential element of the drama. These desires are what is at stake, and the satisfaction or frustration of these desires serves as a benchmark for the success of the story. The reader is encouraged to want Iphis to marry Ianthe because Iphis is in love with Ianthe, not because it will conform to an abstract family model. The apparent disjunction between the sexual desires that Iphis has and the way that these desires are realized is thrown into relief by the fact that the Metamorphoses contains a number of other sex-change stories, all of which involve the person transformed specifically requesting to change sex, and as such can more authentically be considered narratives of transgender characters.21 The gendering details of these stories will be considered further below, but for now I would call attention to the way these prayers are expressed and answered. Isis’ intervention in Iphis’ presituations Iphis imagines for her future wedding or sexual activities involve two women and no men. 21 There are, without question, certain conceptual difficulties in applying the label of “transgender” or “transsexual” to characters in the Metamorphoses. Sexuality and gendering are social constructs that evolve over time, and certainly all gender scholars are familiar with Foucault’s famous hypothesis that there were no “homosexuals” even as recently as a century ago (now closer to 130 years ago). Nevertheless, the modern concept of homosexuality still provides a useful lens through which to discuss certain sexual behaviours and norms in the ancient world. Likewise, there may not have been any transpeople a century ago–even now, the concept of a transperson is changing so quickly that there may not have been any transpeople, in a contemporary sense, as recently as thirty years ago (see Stryker 2008, especially chapter 2)–yet these stories of sex-changing in the Metamorphoses nevertheless seem to be engaging the ideas of transsexuality or transgenderism as they are understood today.

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dicament is significant because of the communion between gods and mortals in this story.22 At the beginning of the story, Telethusa has a vision of the divine Isis in a dream. Later, Telethusa prays to her patron goddess, and her prayer is answered, always a noteworthy occurrence in Ovid’s world. As Isis engineers Iphis’ transformation not only through the final physical change but also through her initial instruction of Iphis’ gender performance, the reader observes the individual interest that Isis has taken in Iphis, and is invited to note how Isis acts on her supposed benevolence toward this apparently-non-transgendered girl. To approach the question of what Iphis’ transformation means to Isis, we have to examine how gods respond to prayers throughout the Metamorphoses. There are many instances in the Metamorphoses in which a mortal (or low-level divinity) prays for a god to save him or her from an imminent threat, and that prayer is answered with transformation;23 one may refer collectively to these instances as “salvation:” famous examples include Daphne, Syrinx, Arethusa and the daughters of Anius.24 Yet, as in 22

I acknowledge that Isis’ significance to the transformation, if not the narrative, is downplayed by Raval (2002), who argues that the biological aspect of the sex change is of secondary importance to the performative aspect of gender: Iphis’ maleness is not construed via her biological sex, but on the contrary the female Iphis is able to appropriate the male sex by gendering herself male. (This is in agreement with Sharrock: “Engendering the self is as crucial as it is unstable in Ovid…the story [of Iphis] shows the anxieties surrounding the acquisition of gendered identity, and especially male gender” (Sharrock 2002, 95–6). While many young men in the Metamorphoses fail to successfully advance to adult masculinity (with disastrous results), Iphis (perhaps dangerously) appropriates that masculine gender despite her biological sex. The gender appropriation seems to be the focus of Ovid’s discussion of Iphis–after all, Iphis’ sex change, as is noted by Ormand 2005 (98–9; cf. Raval 2002), is communicated to the reader not with a straightforward discussion of sex organs (which would defy epic decorum) but rather with an oblique discussion of gender signifiers (Met. 9.786–91). In which case, one would conclude that the role Isis plays is not central to the meaning of the fable. Yet in spite of this power Iphis seems to have to change her own sex, Isis’ importance can hardly be ignored, since her identity as Isis is so distinctive. 23 This prayer/response process contrasts with the typical process of transformation in the Met., in which, as discussed by Solodow (1988, 168–74) a transformation occurs spontaneously, without a divine agent named as responsible. Although Solodow has identified metamorphosis as a generally ambiguous process in the Met., I am in this article describing “ambiguous salvation” as a distinct phenomenon in which an agent is specified for a metamorphosis, yet the effect of the transformation is neither clearly helpful nor clearly harmful. Cf. Feldherr 2002, 171. 24 Respectively, Met. 1.452–567, 1.689–712, 5.572–641, and 13.644–74.

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the case of the daughters of Anius, often the reader does not come away with a useful sense of how fortunate this transformation is: most of these people become animals or plants incapable of expressing an opinion of their lot,25 and many of them, now rooted in the ground, remain vulnerable to the original threat they were trying to escape. Remember that even after Arethusa escapes her potential rapist Alpheus by becoming a stream, Alpheus is still able to “mingle with” her, a common euphemism for sexual intercourse.26 It is obvious that, even when a god effects a miraculous transformation in response to a prayer, the result may not be favourable for the person transformed. The complete list of instances in the Metamorphoses of the motif of ambiguous salvation, described above–in which someone prays for salvation, the god addressed offers supernatural transformation in response, but the “salvation” robs the person transformed of the ability to express an opinion of the transformation–is as follows: Daphne becomes a tree, Syrinx becomes reeds, the unnamed daughter of Coroneus becomes a crow, Salmacis is merged with Hermaphroditus, Perimele becomes an island, Baucis and Philemon become trees, Cyparissus becomes a tree, Myrrha becomes a tree, and the daughters of Anius become doves.27 All of these transformations do indeed spare the victims from their imminent death or distress, but they do so by exiling the victim from human society entirely and depriving them of any further potential of life, which is essentially equivalent to death. There is a strong parallel to the distress of Callisto or Io, who are changed into animals௅not in response to prayer௅and conspicuously lament their now-miserable lives.28 It is likely that Myrrha the tree or Perimele the island felt likewise about their transformed lives, if indeed these inanimate objects remained conscious of their fates. The frequent appearances of ambiguous salvation in the Metamorphoses prompt questions regarding the status of Ovid’s characters in the uni25 The nodding of Daphne’s branches notwithstanding, which Apollo declares to be approval for his appropriation, but which could more plausibly be attributed to natural phenomena such as wind. Apollo’s silencing of Daphne by imposing his own voice over his victim’s is typical of Apollo’s relationship with his victims (e.g. the Sibyl of Cumae, especially as presented in the Aeneid), and makes Daphne’s salvation all the more ambiguous: not only is she denied a voice to express her opinion, but an opinion is imposed on her by the very attacker she was trying to escape. 26 misceat, Met. 5.638; see Lewis and Short s.v. misceo, B.1 or OLD s.v. misceo, 4c. 27 Daphne: Met. 1.546–52; Syrinx: 1.703–6; daughter of Corneus: 2.578–88; Salmacis: 4.368–79; Perimele: 8.595–610; Baucis and Philemon: 8.704–20; Cyparissus: 10.134–42; Myrrha: 10.481–98; daughters of Anius: 13.668–74. 28 Io’s distress is detailed at 1.635–48, Callisto’s at 2.486–95.

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versal hierarchy of his world. Ambiguous salvation generally entails a decrease in status: a person becomes an object, plant, or animal. Iphis’ transformation is not one that leaves her unable to register an opinion of her transformation; indeed, hers is one of the few transformations in the Metamorphoses that results in a gain in universal status,29 a transformation from an animal or object to a person, a person to a god, or in this case, a woman to a man.30 I will be referring this sort of gain in status in response to prayer as “promotion,” and the complete inventory of such transformations in the Metamorphoses is: Io (who is transformed from a cow to a goddess), Tiresias (who is restored to his male form from a female form), the Myrmidons (who were transformed from ants to humans by the prayer of Aeacus), Erysichthon’s daughter (who becomes a human with the ability to shape-shift after a prayer to Neptune), Hercules (who prays to Juno for death and becomes a god with the consent of Jupiter), Pygmalion’s statue (who becomes a living woman in response to his prayer), Caenis 29

I am working from the assumption that the change from female to male represents a gain in status on Ovid’s universal scale, analogous to the transformations from human to god. The reason behind this assumption is that a change of sex in Ovid’s milieu can represent access to authority, powers, and possibilities that, in Ovid’s social context, are unequivocally superior to the powers and possibilities exclusive to women. Keith addresses this idea obliquely by identifying masculinity (as represented in the Met.) with mobility, subjectivity (versus objectivity), and primacy in the “hierarchy of gender” (Keith 1999, 229). Likewise, the transformation from human to god encompasses a similar gain in authority and power. My construction of Iphis’ metamorphosis runs counter to Solodow’s view of metamorphosis in the Met., according to which metamorphosis never improves nor worsens someone’s standing in the universe, but only clarifies and reveals someone’s character (Solodow 1988, 190–2). In my opinion, Io’s experience of suffering in isolation as a cow and later, after her transformation to divinity, escaping this isolation and gaining the ability to aid Iphis directly refutes Solodow’s argument that metamorphosis to divinity does not affect a character’s potential or happiness. Nevertheless, Solodow (1988, 186) admits that Iphis does not seem to fit into the scheme of metamorphosis that applies to those transformed into animals, or even gods. Iphis’ status does improve, her internal qualities are not made manifest by the metamorphosis (her internal femininity, established above, is not revealed in her visible sex), and the metamorphosis allows the plot to resolve neatly. 30 I am obligated to include Callisto’s transformation from a bear to a constellation among those that increase universal status, since Juno speaks of the constellation taking her place in the sky (2.513) and refers to the constellation as a dea (2.521). Nevertheless, I am more inclined to read Callisto’s catasterism as a sort of cursed immortality similar to that of Ovid’s Sibyl of Cumae, since Juno describes her inability to sink below the horizon as a punishment.

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(who is transformed from a woman to a man after a prayer to Neptune), Acis (who becomes a river god), Aeneas (who becomes a god), Romulus (who becomes a god, and whose wife is deified alongside him), and Iphis.31 Promotions are even more self-consciously cast as positive transformations than salvations are, although their conclusions tend to be succinct (as the conclusions to episodes in the Metamorphoses usually are), and the promoted characters seldom reappear as characters in later episodes. One of the most significant exceptions is Isis. When Isis appears before Telethusa as a divine benefactor, the reader recalls her one previous appearance in the Metamorphoses: the story of her rape (as the mortal woman Io) and transformation into a cow at the hands of Jupiter, her persecution by Juno, and her eventual transformation into the goddess Isis.32 I argue that this second appearance of Isis is specifically intended to invoke the first, and call attention to an important point connecting the two appearances of Isis in the Metamorphoses: namely, that both are episodes of salvation predicated by prayer, and the prayers are duly answered. Compare Io’s prayer to Telethusa’s: quem simul ac tetigit, positisque in margine ripae procubuit genibus resupinoque ardua collo, quos potuit solos, tollens ad sidera vultus et gemitu et lacrimis et luctisono mugitu cum Joue uisa queri finemque orare malorum.33 As soon as [Io] reached [the Nile], she lay down with her knees planted in the edge of the bank and her neck bent back steeply, lifting her face (the only thing she could lift) to the stars, with a groan and tears and a mournful-sounding mooing, she seemed to mourn and beg Jupiter for an end to her troubles. at illa crinalem capiti uittam nataeque sibique detrahit et passis aram complexa capillis 31

Io: Met. 1.728–47; Tiresias: 3.328–31; Myrmidons: 7.628–51; Erisychthon’s daughter: 8.850–74 (note that in her first attempt at shape-shifting, she turns into a fisherman, so in addition to becoming a human with supernatural abilities, her status can also increase via gender); Hercules: 9.176–272; Pygmalion’s statue: 10.274–89; Caenis: 12.201–7; Acis: 13.880–97; Aeneas: 14.581–608; Romulus: 14.805–51. 32 Barchiesi (2005, 228) also remarks that Io’s transformation to Isis is remarkable within the Met. because so few characters who suffer punitive transformations are released from their degraded states, foreshadowing Iphis’ promotion. 33 Met. 1.729–33.

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“Isi, Paraetonium Mareoticaque arua Pharonque quae colis et septem digestum in cornua Nilum, fer, precor,” inquit, “opem nostroque medere timori. te, dea, te quondam tuaque haec insignia uidi cunctaque cognoui, sonitum comitesque facesque sistrorum memorique animo tua iussa notaui. quod uidet haec lucem, quod non ego punior, ecce, consilium munusque tuum est; miserere duarum auxilioque iuua.” lacrimae sunt uerba secutae.34 But [Telethusa] removed the hair ribbons from the heads of both her daughter and herself, and, having embraced the altar, with her hair loose, she said, “Isis, you who protect Paraetonium and the Maerotic fields and Pharos and the Nile divided into seven horns, I pray, bring help, and soothe our fear. Goddess, it was you and your attributes I once saw, and I recognize them all, the sound of your sistrums and the companions and the torches. And I made note of your commands in my attentive mind. Because my daughter still sees the light, because I was not punished for it, look, the plan and the responsibility is yours: have pity on two women, and aid us.” Tears followed the words.

The reader observes concrete and practical applications to a promotion such as Io’s: Io, once transformed into Isis, regains the ability to voice her opinions, to take action on her own behalf, and to even help those who petition her specifically. This interactive relationship between the narratives provides an answer to the question of why such an idiosyncratic goddess as Isis is so emphatically named as Iphis’ benefactress. Once Isis has been saved from a troublesome fate and elevated to a position from which she can help others, Isis can use her new power to help those who are similarly stymied by their lack of power. Ormand, for his part, explains the necessity of Isis to Iphis’ story via an Alexandrian footnote in Telethusa’s dream-vision of Isis. In that dream, Isis is surrounded by an entourage of Egyptian divinities, including numquam satis quaesitus Osiris,35 that is, “Osiris, never sufficiently sought after.” Myth experts take delight in drawing out this very oblique reference to a story from Egyptian mythology: Osiris’ body was torn apart and scattered by his brother, and his wife Isis had to find and reassemble the pieces. For all her searching, though, she was never able to locate the last piece, that is, his phallus, and in its place she had to substitute a stalk of wheat. Ormand draws a connection between the dismemberment of Osiris and the upbringing of Iphis in that, while both are recognized as gendered 34 35

Met. 9.770–81. Met. 9.693.

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male, both lack the essential equipment to act on that masculinity, saying, “Isis is the perfect emblem for the ideology of gender, an external pointer to something that is never quite there, that can only be represented by an indirect reference to the search for it.”36 True, the idea of Isis as the authoritative divine supplier of phalli is intriguing,37 and there is something to the obliqueness of the references to the growth of genitalia–Iphis’ never mentioned in Ovid’s text, and Osiris’ only hinted at if the reader understands the “never sought enough” reference–that seems to link the episodes together. Nevertheless, I would take issue with Ormand’s easy conflation of the reconstitution of Osiris and the transformation of Iphis. After all, anyone who knows the Osiris story well enough to tease a missing phallus out of the phrase “never sufficiently sought” surely knows how the story ends: Osiris does not return to his status as an ordinary, virile male, but rather becomes the king of the dead, a kind of zombie god. Iphis, on the other hand, becomes a fully functional male and assumes the mantle of masculinity by “taking possession of Ianthe” in a way that Iphis could not prior to that transformation. While there is a certain conceptual connection between what Isis supplies to Osiris and Iphis, the resultant statuses are vastly different: Iphis steps into the very familiar and well-established role of a normal adult man, whereas Osiris is transformed into some uncanny king of the underworld, a type of god not before seen. This transition of Iphis into a biological male and the conventionalization of the relationship between Iphis and Ianthe is traditionally read as the story’s happy ending. On the contrary, I would class Iphis’ transformation from femina to puer as a salvation nearly as ambiguous as those of Daphne and the daughters of Anius. Although Iphis’ transformation results in a gain in status, going as she does from the underprivileged status of female to the privileged status of male, I believe that the text does not clearly enough demonstrate that this transformation accords to her wishes. After all, despite the fact that most modern scholars regard Iphis’ story as having an unproblematic happy ending, Iphis has expressed no dissatisfaction with her native sex: as Ormand points out, her objection to the betrothal is not per se that it is a female homosexual pairing, but rather that neither of

36

Ormand 2005, 100. Curiously enough, in Ovid’s Hellenistic model by Nicander, the goddess who effects the sex change is Leto Phutie, that is, “Leto who helps grow genetalia” (so etymologized by Nicander, translated by Ormand). Nicander’s story is an aetion for the existence of a shrine to Leto Phutie in Crete. In that case we have a goddess whose epithet specifically encompasses genital growth, whereas in Ovid the concept is only obliquely hinted at. 37

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them is able to fulfil the masculine sexual role.38 Iphis has, however, expressed a strong attraction to Ianthe, which she could satisfyingly consummate without abandoning her female form. Further, Iphis has no dialogue after the transformation; though he fulfils his mother’s vow to Isis, he does not express satisfaction or dissatisfaction with his new sex. He “gains possession” of Ianthe, a euphemism for the mere biological ability to penetrate someone,39 but the reader never hears how he felt about that resolution. In short, I contend that the happy ending as such has to be inferred by the reader, and the reader can easily find complications that would problematize that inference. For comparison, there are a number of other sex-change stories in the Metamorphoses, all of which are predicated on prayer on the part of the person transformed, followed by the granting of the wish by the god addressed. In this way, they constitute the same kind of salvation exhibited in the story of Iphis, a prayer answered as requested–although most of these salvations are much less ambiguous than that of Iphis. All of these sexchange stories involve the transformation of a woman to a man, and therefore are stories of increased status, that is to say more or less unambiguous salvation.40 More importantly, all the other sex-change stories include a wish to become a man expressed by the person transformed, whereas Iphis’ story only includes a request to solve the problem. As examples, recall the stories of Caenis and Tiresias:41 Caenis is raped by Neptune and is offered a wish in compensation. Caenis is so traumatized by Neptune’s attack that she demands that she should never suffer the same attack again: she asks to become a man, and Neptune grants her request. “magnum” Caenis ait “facit haec iniuria uotum, tale pati iam posse nihil. da femina ne sim: omnia praestiteris.”42

38

Ormand 2005, 85, 91–2; cf. Raval 2002, Walker 2006. Met. 9.797, OLD s.v. potior, 2c. 40 Indeed, the unhesitating desire of Ovid’s women to become men, coupled with the complete lack of men in Ovid who want to become women, seems to betray an assumption on Ovid’s part that, insofar as anyone would naturally want to improve his or her standing in the cosmic order, it is only logical for women to want to become men and men not to want to become women. His implicit assumptions about the general acceptance of masculine superiority well explain why Iphis’ transformation is presented as an elegant and uncomplicated solution to her problem. 41 Met. 12.189–209 and 3.323–31, respectively. 42 Met. 12.201–3. 39

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Caenis says, “My suffering prompts one great wish: that I should endure no similar offense ever again. Let me be not a woman and you will have given me everything.”

This is not only a gain in status, but is the trump gain in status within the mortal existence: Caenis becomes physically impenetrable, and thereby is invulnerable to all attacks, sexual or otherwise; she–now he–cannot be unwillingly subordinated to anyone.43 In Tiresias’ story, the divine power is more subdued, though the answered prayer is evident: Tiresias, as a man, is accidentally transformed into a woman by striking two copulating snakes with a stick. Years later, now a woman, encountering the same copulating snakes, Tiresias expresses a desire to return to her former sex, and striking the snakes again makes her sex revert to the original. uidit et “est uestrae si tanta potentia plagae” dixit “ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet, nunc quoque uos feriam.” percussis anguibus isdem forma prior rediit genetiuaque uenit imago.44 [Tiresias] saw [the snakes] and said, “If striking you has such great power that it can turn the striker into the opposite sex, now I will strike you again.” The same snakes having been struck again, his former shape returns along with the appearance he was born with.

In short, these characters have their wishes granted, and receive an unambiguous salvation that answers their desires. One complication among these sex-change stories is that of Salmacis.45 Salmacis is a nymph who falls in love with Hermaphroditus when he bathes in her pool. Hermaphroditus rejects her, but she, not easily dissuaded, embraces him and prays to “the gods” that he should never be able to escape her; the gods respond by merging the bodies of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis into a hermaphrodite, with only the identity of Hermaphroditus remaining. 43

Keith (1999, 236) discusses Caeneus, after his trasformation, as a suspect male in the eyes of his peers: the fact that he was not born male causes other males to disparage his masculinity and, consequently, he draws hostility from them. Although Caeneus’ identity as male is questioned by others, he himself wholeheartedly embraces his new sex, and enthusiastically takes up such traditional masculine activities as hunting and warfare. Since we see him request to change sex and adopt his new role happily, the transgender model actually fits Caeneus quite well. 44 Met. 3.328–31. 45 Met. 4.285–388.

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Salmacis does not, it will be noted, specifically request to change sex. This is not properly a case of gaining a higher status, since Hermaphroditus’ new ambiguous sexual status confers, as Hermaphroditus laments, none of the benefits of masculinity or femininity, and leaves him to occupy the conceptual space of neither gender. Like the stories of Iphis, Caenis, and Tiresias, this is a salvation in the sense that Salmacis’ prayer is granted (despite the resistance of Hermaphroditus), but it is painted tragically–only Hermaphroditus speaks through the mouth of the combined person, and he expresses only regret. Salmacis does not even retain her identity, and thus is unable to express any degree of satisfaction with her new condition. In contrast, Iphis does retain her identity after the sex change, but what sets her apart from these other cases of sex change is that, like Salmacis, she never expresses a desire to change sex. I admit that, were Iphis to remain female and pursue a homosexual female relationship with Ianthe, such a relationship would certainly be problematic in Ovid’s contemporary world, especially in lieu of a marriage. Of the alternatives to what I have labelled Iphis’ ambiguous salvation, lesbianism is possibly the most problematic, even shocking, in context, since all our references to female homosexuality in Roman literature present such a phenomenon as monstrous.47 Roman authors vehemently reject both the idea of a woman taking the penetrative role in sex, as well as the idea of sex occurring without a dominant partner who penetrates.48 Regardless, most scholars work from the assumption that Roman society was home to something that could be 46

Met. 4.370–2. Brooten 1996, 42–50. 48 Kamen (2012) examines in detail the evidence for how the lack of a power differential would have made Iphis’ desire for Ianthe seem unnatural in Ovid’s cultural context. Pintabone 2002 also discusses the ambiguities of how dominance as perceived in ancient female homosexual relationships is expressed in ancient sources. Additionally, Kamen 2012, 279–80 points out that the most obvious sign of trouble in the relationship between Iphis and Ianthe, from a Roman perspective, is their equality itself: the two partners are equivalent in age, education, and experience, so neither one can assert dominance over the other. 47

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called a lesbian culture.49 No doubt Ovid’s female audience was more familiar with, and would be less scandalized by, such practices than the male authors whose opinions are preserved for us. Although Iphis, whose lines are written by a man, may see no way to consummate her relationship with Ianthe without one of them becoming male, Ovid’s contemporary readers may see the possibilities of female homosexuality as clearly as a modern reader can. In which case, the ambiguousness of the salvation is at issue even in Ovid’s time. I must grant that the story of Iphis and Ianthe presents so many aspects that are unusual, in the Metamorphoses or in Latin literature generally, that it is often difficult to find useful comparanda, or to ascertain that the aspects isolated from the story are meaningful per se and not merely incidental. Nevertheless, ideas of how gender is constructed and how it relates to physical sex are so prominently foregrounded in this story that the reader cannot help but question the so-called “happy ending” and ask whether this change of sex accords with Iphis’ gender identity. Iphis’ lack of expressed desire to change sex, combined with his effective failure to register a reaction to the transformation in spite of his ability, leaves him in the same boat as the other Metamorphoses characters who suffer ambiguous salvation. The conclusion, after all, only states the bare facts of their conjugal relationship: potitur sua Iphis Ianthe, Iphis penetrates Ianthe. But this mere ability to consummate the marriage ignores the larger fact of Iphis’ identity and desires, and can easily be read as no more welcome of a gift than Midas’ touch, whimsically granted, painfully borne, and, in Midas’ case, gratefully purged in the waters of Tmolus.

Bibliography Anderson, W. S., ed. 1972. Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Books 6–10. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Barchiesi, A., ed. 2005. Ovidio: Metamorfosi, Libri I–II. Milan: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla.

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e.g. Ormand 2005, 91–2, Anderson 1972, s.v. 9.726, Boehringer 2007, 260 and passim. Cantarella 1992, 86 also notes the possibility of a lesbian counterculture. In the context of Roman culture, Brooten 1996 mostly discusses female homosexuality in regard to male practices of denying, condemning, and otherizing it (she states that there is not “sufficient evidence to speak of a lesbian culture,” Brooten 1996, 17), and gives little attention to female homosexuality on its own terms. Nevertheless, she does give significant attention to female homosexual life in Egypt, including female-female marriage (Brooten 1996, 105–9, 332–5).

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Boehringer, S. 2007. L’homosexualité Féminine dans l’Antiquité Grecque et Romaine. Paris: Société d’Edition Les Belles Lettres. Brooten, B. J. 1996. Love Between Women: Early Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cantarella, E. 1992. Bisexuality in the Ancient World, translated by C. Ó Cuilleanáin. New Haven: Yale University Press. Feldherr, A. 2002. “Metamorphosis in the Metamorphoses.” In The Cambridge Companion to Ovid, edited by P. Hardie, 163–79. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hallett, J. P. 1997. “Female Homoeroticism and the Denial of Roman Reality in Latin Literature.” In Roman Sexualities, edited by J. P. Hallett and M. B. Skinner, 255–73. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kamen, D. 2012. “Naturalized Desires and the Metamorphosis of Iphis.” Helios 39 (1): 21–36. Keith, A. 1999. “Versions of Epic Masculinity in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.” In Ovidian Transformations: Essays on Ovid’s Metamorphoses and its Reception, edited by P. Hardie, A. Barchiesi and S. Hinds, 214–39. Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society. Kenney, E. J., ed. 2005. Ovidio: Metamorfosi, Libri VII–IX. Milan: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla. Makowski, J. F. 1996. “Bisexual Orpheus: Pederasty and Parody in Ovid.” The Classical Journal 92(1): 25–38. Nugent, S. G. 2008. “Passion and Progress in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.” In Passions and Moral Progress in Greco-Roman Thought, edited by J. T. Fitzgerald, 153–74. London: Routledge. Ormand, K. 2005. “Impossible Lesbians in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.” In Gendered Dynamics in Latin Love Poetry, edited by R. Ancona and E. Greene, 79–110. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Pintabone, D. T. 2002. “Ovid’s Iphis and Ianthe: When Girls Won’t Be Girls.” In Among Women: from the Homosocial to the Homoerotic in the Ancient World, edited by N. Rabinowitz and L. Auanger, 256–85. Austin: University of Texas Press. Raval, S. 2002. “Cross-Dressing and ‘Gender Trouble’ in the Ovidian Corpus.” Helios 29(2): 149–72. Sharrock, A. 2002. “Gender and Sexuality.” In The Cambridge Companion to Ovid, edited by P. Hardie, 95–107. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Solodow, J. B. 1988. The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Stryker, S. 2008. Transgender History. Berkeley: Seal Press.

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Tarrant, R. J. 2004. P. Ovidi Nasonis: Metamorphoses. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Walker, J. 2006. “Before the Name: Ovid’s Deformulated Lesbianism.” Comparative Literature 58(3): 205–22. Wheeler, S. M. 1997. “Changing Names: the Miracle of Iphis in Ovid Metamorphoses 9.” Phoenix 51(2): 190–202.

(UN-)VEILING POLITICS: WOMEN’S POLITICAL WRITINGS DURING THE JULIO-CLAUDIAN AGE IRENE SOMÀ INDEPENDENT RESEARCHER

1. Introduction Suetonius, the biographer of the Caesars, reports an interesting anecdote that occurred to the emperor Claudius while attempting to write a historical work starting from the murder of the dictator Caesar. He finally modified the original plan to embrace a later period: he was not allowed to give a frank or true account of the earlier times, since he was often taken to task both by his mother and his grandmother.1

The interference of women in a male-dominated literary genre like historiography (at that time pre-eminently conceived as political and military history) could be read at first sight as a hyperbole aimed to outline an inept emperor, unable to keep control even on his kinswomen.2 Indeed, the attention paid by imperial women3 to historical writing is most likely to have 1

Suet., Claud. 41.2. All the translations of Latin and Greek sources are based on editions in the Loeb Classical Library series. 2 Cf. Cass. Dio, 60.2.5: “He had lived for a long time with his grandmother Livia and for another long period with his mother Antonia and with the freedmen, and moreover he had had many amours with him. Hence he had acquired none of the qualities befitting a freeman.” The topos of being dominated by his women and freedmen recurs in the sources about Claudius: see, for instance, Suet., Claud. 25, 29, 40; Cass. Dio, 60.8.4–6, 60.14.1; Tac., Ann. 11.28.2, 11.34–35. An adjustment of his distorted portrait is operated by Fasolini 2006 (see in particular page 157, note 19 about his Histories: Claudius maybe looked with too much favour at his grandfather Mark Antony). 3 I use the expression “imperial women” or “Augustae” without distinction in the meaning of “women of the imperial family,” not considering their individual

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occurred. They were highly conscious of their importance to public life and dynastic dynamics.4 Their influence resulted from three factors: capacity to bear a heir, economic power and the web of political and social connections inherited from the native family. Female members of the imperial family got thus from the very beginning of the Principate a peculiar role, which was publicly recognized. In fact, the Augustae were mentioned in two Tiberian decrees, namely the Tabula Siarensis (19 AD)5 and the Senatusconsultum de Cn. Pisone patre, (20 AD)6 as cornerstones of the brand new constituted domus Augusta.7 This definition, used for the first time in the above mentioned epigraphic documents, designated a closed familial group, whose members shared with the emperor “the splendour of their official position”8 expressed through the epithet Augustus. The domus Augusta differed both from a familia and from a gens, the typical social and parental structures of Roman aristocracy. Although it did base on kinship or marriage, not all of the princeps’ relatives were automatically considered part of it. Therefore, its internal hierarchy was not only a matter of relevance deriving from parental boundaries, but the result of a precise familial as well as political choice, which could change in response to particular contingencies and political needs.9 Adoption was a practice of fundamental importance in this respect, as it was the easiest way for the emperor to legitimize his successor through a gentilitial continuity. Precisely an adoption led to the transformation of the gens Iulia in the first ruling dynasty of imperial Rome. At Augustus’ death in 14 AD, he himself adopted his wife Livia in his family under the terms of the will: she took thereby the name Iulia Augusta, whereas her son Tiberius (member of the gens Claudia by birth) had already been adopted, becoming a Iulius in his turn. The double adoption strengthened Tiberius’

relationship or kinship to the emperor, nor the effective possession of the official title Augusta. 4 Kunst and Riemer 2000; Temporini-Gräfin Vitzthum 2002; Cenerini 2009a; Kolb 2010, with further bibliography. 5 AE 1984, 508. 6 AE 1996, 885; cf. Tac., Ann. 3.17.8. 7 Cenerini 2009a, 37. For the first visual representations of the domus Augusta in statuary groups cf. Flory 1996. 8 Cass. Dio, 53.18.2. 9 Moreau 2005, with discussion of Corbier 1994a; 1994b; 2001, esp. 166 (a synthetic overview in AE 2005, 41); Cenerini 2009a, 6.

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position and his imperial accession turned out to be a dynastic succession.10 A complex process of evolving balances and arrangements managed both within the family and towards the political structures of the state ended up as the Julio-Claudian dynasty (Fig. 1), that progressively replaced the traditional republican institutions with a new system of government centred on the princeps. Surely enough, factions quickly arose within the imperial family, facing each other in the struggle for power, and often referring to the one or the other female member of the kin group (like the two Iuliae, respectively Augustus’ daughter11 and grand-daughter,12 just to mention a couple of famous cases13). Imperial women are often depicted in the literary sources (sometimes followed by modern scholars) as ambitious and intriguing ladies, who chased after their own prominent position, especially trying, by every possible means, to ensure imperial succession to their sons. According to Tacitus and Suetonius, the “Ulysses in petticoats” (Ulixes stolatus) Livia14 and other Augustae with whom she shared the label of “cruel stepmother” (saeva noverca)15 commissioned the removal of potential rivals through poisoning. In particular, there was friction between the leading exponents of the gentes Iulia and Claudia, even though mutually interweaved by marriages and adoptions.16 Augustus was repeatedly forced by circumstances to readjust the dynastic patterns he had planned (and so did his successors).17 Three main branches of descendants grew out from prominent female figures of his entourage: first of all, the lineal descent from himself through his daughter Julia. Her two sons, Gaius and Lucius, were adopted by the 10

The words pronounced by Augustus as he adopted Tiberius were, according to Vell., 2.104.1: “This I do for reasons of state.” 11 PIR2 I 634; FOS 421; RE X,1 s.v. Iulius nr. 550, coll. 896–906 (Fitzler); cf. Fantham 2006; Braccesi 2013. 12 PIR2 I 635; FOS 813; RE X,1 s.v. Iulius nr. 551, coll. 906–8 (Fitzler). 13 Luisi 1999; Rohr Vio 2000, 207–80; Ead. 2011,77–100. 14 Suet., Cal. 23.2; on Livia cf. PIR2 L 301; RE XIII,1 s.v. Livius nr. 37, coll. 900– 24 (Ollendorff); Barrett 2002; Kunst 2008. 15 For example, Nero’s mother Agrippina: see Ginsburg 2006, 106–16; cf. PIR2 I 641; FOS 426; RE X,1 s.v. Iulius nr. 556, coll. 909–15 (Hasebroeck); Eck 1993; Barrett 1996a; Ead. 1996b. 16 The inconsistency of a rigid distinction between Julians and Claudians has been underlined by Levick 1975. Augustus was aware of the danger coming from his nearest entourage and stressed the necessity of protecting himself from friends: cf. Rohr Vio 2000, 31–3. 17 On the role played by women in the Augustan propaganda see Cenerini 2013.

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princeps andd were intendded to becom me his politicaal heirs. Unforrtunately, they both diied young. More M than twen nty years befo fore, the samee fate had had to be suuffered by Maarcellus, son of o Augustus’ ssister Octaviaa,18 whom the princepss had looked at a in first instaance. After haaving been ad dopted, he married Auggustus’ daughhter Julia, in order o to proviide an unchalllengeable heir. But ovver the nineteeen-years-old “youth “ of wonndrous beauty and brilliant in his aarms … black night hovers … with its moournful shade.”19

Fig. 1. The Juulio-Claudian faamily tree.

Afterwarrds, Octavia’s descent playeed a notewortthy role in thee building 20 of the domuus Augusta annyway, since her h daughter A Antonia the Younger Y gave birth too the emperor Claudius. How wever, at the tiime of Augusttus’ death the distaff siide descendingg from Livia was w dominatingg in the person n of Tiberius, the son she had from her first marriiage with Tibeerius Claudius Nero. 18

RE XVII, 2 s.v. Octavius nr. n 96, coll. 185 59–68 (Hammoond). Verg., Aen.. 6.861, 6.866. 20 PIR2 a 8855 + Add. I, XV V; II, XIV; FOS S 73 ; RE I,2 s..v. Antonius nrr. 114, col. 2640 (Groebee); Kokkinos 19992. 19

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The struggle for power was obviously accompanied by a propaganda expressed also through written texts of various nature. Strictly “politically concerned” literature intended for publication (pamphlets, orations…) was practised in Rome exclusively by the same men who took an active part in public life.21 That applied even more to historians; Sallust states in the well-known proems of his monographs the strong connection between writing histories and being politically engaged: It is glorious to serve one’s country by deeds; even to serve her by words is a thing not to be despised; one may become famous in peace as well as in war. Not only those who have acted, but those also who have recorded the acts of others oftentimes receive our approbation.22

Since he had been forced to retire from politics, he was persuaded that the recording of the events of the past is especially serviceable; … greater profit will accrue to our country from my inactivity than from other’s activity.23

The act of writing became also for women, permanently excluded from political activities, a mean to deal with public affairs. Although no Roman woman is attested to have written proper historical works, other autographs, only outwardly private, gained a marked political character and were exploited as important sources by the historians to come. The most famous among them are Agrippina the Younger’s memoirs; moreover, letters circulating within the imperial family could be used as an effective instrument for political pressure or denunciation.24 Suetonius based on that sort of documents many passages of his Lives of the Twelve Caesars: in fact, as Emperor Hadrian’s secretary25 he was granted access to the imperial correspondence archive.26 Since the domus Augusta acquired an ambiguous role, suspended between a private and a public dimension, not only formal epistles, such as imperial rescripts, had a political relevance, but

21

Duby and Perrot 1991, 8–18. Sall., Catil. 3.1. 23 Sall., Iug. 4.1–4. 24 See further in text. 25 Epistularum magister (Spart. Hadr., 11.3); a studiis a bibliothecis ab epistulis (AE 1953, 73); cf. Lazzeretti 2000, 186 note 63. 26 It was habit of the Roman aristocracy to keep documents carefully in private archives: Suet., Tib. 51.1, mentions a “secret place” (sacrarium) where Livia preserved the handwritings (codicilli) Augustus sent her. 22

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also opinions and advice conveyed to relatives and friends could acquire an extraordinary weight in that sense. My paper is focused on the presence of topics of historical interest in autographic documents attributed to Julio-Claudian women, with the aim of pointing out their nature, possible recurring Leitmotiven and political implications. First of all, it is worth summarizing the most representative literary genres dealing with historical and political issues, providing at the same time a short overview of the evidence about Greek and Roman female authors in such fields.

2. Literary genres with historical and political subject Historiography with its related genres, biography and autobiography, is obviously of the greatest political interest. The latter two differed from historical works stricto sensu because of the attention they paid to the individuals’ personality and habits, rather than to historical facts and events. Plutarch distinguishes the features of historiographical and biographical works:27 I do not tell of all the famous actions of those men. … For it is not Histories that I am writing, but Lives; and in the most illustrious deeds there is not always a manifestation of virtue or vice. … I must be permitted to devote myself rather to the signs of the soul in men, leaving to others the description of their great contests.28

For that reason autobiography spread in Rome not earlier than the end of the second century BC, when charismatic leaders first emerged on the political scene; they needed to justify their controversial actions and to legitimate their extraordinary power, which was already a symptom of the Republic’s decline.29 This kind of narrative had actually a strong apologetic character in Rome; to give a single instance, the dictator Silla was one of the most famous authors of memories in republican times. The custom to write down autobiographical information flourished then during the im-

27 It is not my intention to deal with the debate about the relation between ancient historiography and biography; synthetic bibliographic references will be provided below in relation to the specific focus of this paper. 28 Plut., Alex. 1.2. 29 Noè 1980, 165–66.

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perial age, when autobiographical works were composed by many emperors and even by Agrippina, Nero’s mother.30 Many details about the life of the Augustae were however contained in non-literary texts, such as the Acta diurna populi Romani et senatus, a sort of daily posted gazette giving account of each day’s most relevant events.31 The domiciliary visits paid to Livia by senators and people are recorded therein.32 In a similar way, the calendars of the Italic cities (Fasti) chronicled festivals and ceremonies in honour of the Augustae among the most important happenings both of local interest or occurred in the capital, besides other biographical notes, such as births, weddings (Fig. 2)33 and so on. Those texts, painted on plaster or engraved on stone tables and exposed in “highly frequented places” (loca celeberrima),34 stated the relevant role of imperial women in the public sphere.

Fig. 2. A fragment of the Fasti Ostienses recording Faustina’s marriage to Marcus Aurelius (AE 1936, 98, l.3). (http://www.unav.es/hAntigua/textos/docencia/epigrafia/varia/ostenses.html#3)

30

Cf. Hist. Rom. Fr. p. 296; Hemelrijk 1999, 178–80; Lazzeretti 2000. Unlike in other historical contexts, such as in the age of the Italian city states, proper chronicles didn’t have any literary development in early imperial Rome. 32 Cass. Dio, 57.12.2. 33 AE 1936, 98: a fragment of the Fasti from Ostia records the wedding of Marcus Aurelius and Faustina the Younger. 34 This expression was recurrent in epigraphic language to specify the location of monuments: ancient Romans paid great attention to the communicative potential of famous places. 31

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Equally handed down to us in epigraphic form are the accounts of religious festivals of the capital city like the ludi saeculares,35 a periodical celebration of Rome’s glorious history, or the minutes of the proceedings held by the priestly college of the Arval Brothers. Imperial women being involved in the first case as celebrants,36 in the second as addressees of the cult,37 they were an integral part of Roman imperial cult and rites. All the above mentioned formal recordings, fundamental to reconstruct the history of the Augustae, were surely not written by women, and their authors are not certain at all. A peculiar kind of official notes about the imperial family was, as it seems, the “household diary” mentioned by Suetonius: Augustus exhorted his daughter Julia to show an excellent behaviour, worthy of being remembered there.38 It was perhaps a daily chronicle compiled on the model of the Ephemerides on Alexander the Great,39 a charismatic example which often inspired Augustus.40 In this case too, however, women were merely passive subjects of the account. Another kind of diary, written about two centuries later and with different purposes, had a female author instead: the Passio of Perpetua,41 martyrized in Carthage in 203 AD. Even here the vein is not intimistic in a modern sense: in fact, the author’s reflections are not a direct expression of her feelings. On the contrary, the Passio is a rhetorically conceived work, written in order to argue for the Christian theological beliefs exposed therein. The narration is explicitly envisaging a public and the day by day partition, typical of a diary, is missing.42 Therefore, this work has to be rather considered “a hybrid of different narrative forms: prison narrative, hypomnema, oral reportage, and the epistolary tradition,” which also had the “claim to be an autobiography.”43

35 For the strong connection between the ludi held in 17 BC and the Augustan propaganda in relation to his moral reforms, see Somà 2013, 103; Cenerini 2013, 5–6. The women of the domus Augusta are supposed to be present, though not explicitly mentioned in the records: cf. Šterbenc Erker 2013, 83. 36 Julia Domna celebrated the ludi saeculares of the year 204 AD: cf. CIL VI 3239; AE 1932, 70; Somà 2013, 104. 37 Scheid 1990. 38 Suet., Aug. 64; Braccesi 2013, 28. 39 Momigliano 1974, 91; Mazzarino 1994[1973], 27–37. 40 Cf. Suet., Aug. 50.1. 41 Recently edited by Heffernan 2012; see also Bremmer and Formisano 2012; Hemelrijk 1999, 177. 42 Heffernan 2012, 4. 43 Heffernan 2012, 1, 7.

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Taxonomic problems often become evident when we try to adapt modern terminology to ancient literature: that is the case of the commentarii, ਫ਼ʌȠȝȞȒȝĮIJĮ in Greek, another genre somewhat related to diaries.44 This definition was applied by ancient authors to very different sorts of writings; the most famous historical commentaries preserved in Roman literature are those of Julius Caesar, and the same title was given to Agrippina’s autobiographic and apologetic work.45 Coming to literary genres more specifically interested in political issues, such as speeches or pamphlets, they implied authors who were welleducated in the field of rhetoric. In fact, the only public speech ascribed to a woman is the oration successfully held by Hortensia in 42 BC against a new taxation on women’s estate;46 her rhetorical skills, the sources explain them as a legacy of her father, the famous orator Quintus Hortensius Hortalus.47 There is right to doubt the truthfulness of his daughter’s undertaking: the speech passed on under her name is probably a rhetorical exercise or reworking.48 Oratory was a male-dominated subject, such as historiography, and under certain circumstances women were even expressly forbidden to practice it. The ban was actually decreed for judicial rhetoric, as it seems, in response to the inopportune behaviour of a certain Afrania or Carfania, who repeatedly defended herself in front of the court, finally troubling the judges.49 It is more difficult to identify the authors of political pamphlets (libelli) in which the opposition to the principate expressed its claims. Such booklets were mostly released and distributed anonymously;50 furthermore, the princeps sometimes stopped to seek the authors of such malicious rumours in order to show his clemency (clementia).51 Anyway, it is unlikely that they were written by women. Women’s political protest was extremely rare in antiquity: politics were usually off-limits for the Roman matronae, 44 Cf. RE IV,1 s.v. Commentarii, coll. 726–59 (Von Premerstein); LSJ s.v. ਫ਼ʌȩȝȞȘȝĮ, p. 1889. On the Hellenistic origins of commentarii and on their comparison to diaries see Momigliano 1974, 91–105; Mazzarino 1994 [1973], 27– 37. 45 See further in text. 46 Val. Max., 8.3.3; App., BC 4.32–3. 47 Quint., Inst. 1.1.6; Hemelrijk 1999, 87. 48 Plant 2004, 104–5. 49 Ulp., Dig. 3.1.1.5; cf. Cantarella 1996, 91–5; Berrino 2006, 31; Cenerini 2009b, 76–7. 50 Suet., Tib. 66.1 refers about “billets” against Tiberius “placed in the orchestra” of the Roman theatres. 51 Cf. Suet., Aug. 55; otherwise, those who were found responsible were condemned: see, for example, Tac., Ann. 1.72.3.

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who complained only if their personal interests were touched,52 as Hortensia herself recognized: Why should we pay taxes when we have no part in the honours, the commands, the state-craft...?53 Author Hortensia (daughter of the famous orator Hortensius)

Date 42 BC

Subject Oration against a new taxation imposed on women’s wealth by the triumvirs

Maesia Sentinas

first half of the first century BC first half of the first century BC

Criminal trial pertaining to the praetor’s court Several charges before courts presided by a praetor

Afrania (Carfania)

Source Valerius Maximus, Nine Books of Memorable Deeds and Sayings 8.3.3; Quintilianus, Institutions 1.1.6; Appian, Civil Wars 4.32–33. Valerius Maximus, Nine Books of Memorable Deeds and Sayings 8.3.1. Valerius Maximus, Nine Books of Memorable Deeds and Sayings 8.3.2.

Tab. 1. Public speeches by women. A similar critical aim, but a different form, characterized satirical epigrams against contemporary politicians. They pursued an ancient Roman tradition which, at its origins, conveyed critical feelings in oral bantering verses. However, in this case, the poems could have just a satirical and comic character, without political nuances. That seems the spirit of the unique rhyme ascribed to an imperial woman: a poem addressed by Domitia Longina, Nero’s wealthy paternal aunt,54 against her brother Domitius Ahenobarbus, father of the future emperor. Suetonius refers to it with the term iocus, generally employed to indicate a joke displayed through action.55 In this context, it might be understood as indicating a recited epigram, although one cannot say it with certainty. The short mention in Sue52

A precedent for Hortensia’s action was set in 195 BC by women claiming the repeal of a sumptuary law: Liv., 34.1–8; cf. Cantarella 1996, 84–6; Cenerini 2009b, 46–8. 53 Cenerini 2009b, 73–8. 54 PIR2 D 180; FOS 326; RE V,1 s.v. Domitius nr. 102, coll. 1511–13 (Groag): probably the one whose death was ordered by Nero himself to gain her wealth, and not her homonymous sister. Ancient sources emphasize also the rivalry between her and Agrippina (cf. Suet., Nero 7.1). 55 DELL s.v. iocus, p. 575.

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tonius is not enough to consider Domitia a proper writer: thus she is excluded from the list drawn up by Ian Michael Plant,56 including about a hundred female Greek and Latin authors dealing with several literary genres, most of all lyric.57 Going back to Domitia’s supposed epigram, her brother’s praetorship was criticized therein just for having penalized the charioteers:58 no ideological or political topics were discussed there. Besides, the target of the motto was neither the regime in itself nor the ruling princeps. Domitia’s poem was probably composed to be performed by reading or acting among a small group of friends, on the model of the aristocratic literary salons which constituted the most common way to enjoy poetry in Rome.59 Indeed, mocking verses on the emperors themselves are well attested: Nero was repeatedly charged with matricide in such satirical poems.60 These compositions were strewn all around the city, painted or scratched along the streets or hung on noteworthy monuments. They were often characterized by a conative style, as it happens nowadays for modern murals. In fact, several politicians were urged to action by graffiti or leaflets spread throughout Rome, for example Tiberius Gracchus in relation to the land reform61 or Brutus, thereby compelled to kill Caesar.62 The epigrams addressed to the last one were found beneath the statue portrait of his homonymous ancestor, whose heroic action against a tyrant (in his case Tarquin the Proud) Brutus was requested to emulate. Statue bases were one of the preferred places to show popular malcontent. It is no accident that in Egypt putting petitions at the feet of imperial statues was a popular custom,63 whereas the anonymous protests left by statues and other highly visible locations in the capital city had a less formal nature. This long-lived tradition revived in modern times in Rome in the so-called “Pasquinate,” satirical rhymes against the papal government hung by the statue of Pasquino and other “speaking statues.” Such fliers are to be seen also at present (Fig. 3). Nevertheless, epic poetry was the most appropriate among all poetic genres in order to perform diffusely historical and political themes, but no women authors are attested, excepting Proba, a Christian writer of the 56

Plant 2004. Plant 2004, 1. 58 Suet., Nero 5. 59 See Citroni 1990, esp. 60–6. 60 Suet., Nero 39. 61 Plut., TG 8.10. 62 Plut., Brut. 9.5–8; Caes. 62.7; Suet., Caes. 80.3; Cass. Dio, 44.12.3. 63 Kunderewicz 1961, 127; Huzar 1995, 3126. 57

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fourth century AD, who composed a lost poem on the war between Constantius II and the usurper Magnentius (350–352 AD).64

3. Greek and Roman female writers interested in history and politics Women writing prose, including historiography, are known from Hellenistic times. Plant provides a quite discouraging survey: female historiographers were very few (Table 2); furthermore, all their works got lost. As far as it can be argued, it does not seem like their subjects were always strictly historiographical, as for Hystiaea’s work on Homer (ca. 200 BC). The authenticity of histories compiled by women is debated, especially when they are ascribed to eminent personalities: Zenobia, queen regent of Palmyra (r. 267–272 AD), is supposed to have written not only a history of the lands she ruled,65 but also letters to Aurelian, the Roman emperor against whom she rebelled.66 Such alleged first-hand accounts, whose documentary value would be considerable if they were reliable, sound rather like creative narrative inventions of other penmen. The suspect of falsification also concerns the historical commentaries by Pamphila of Epidaurus (first century AD), a well-educated woman whose father and husband were both intellectuals.67 Furthermore, female names could have just been used as pseudonyms, as conjectured for the otherwise unknown Nicobule (third century BC?).68 The best documented historical work written by a woman in Roman imperial times are the above mentioned Memoires of Agrippina the Younger, explicitly quoted among their own sources by Tacitus,69 Plinius the Elder and, maybe,70 Cassius Dio, and referred to, as we have seen, as commentarii71 and ਫ਼ʌȠȝȞȒȝĮIJĮ. The semantic value and development of the two words is not identical, though they are interchangeable in the meaning of “written recollection.” That sense derives from their common etymology 64

Plant 2004, 170 and note 8. Fr. Gr. Hist., nr. 626. 66 Plant 2004, 3. 67 Her father was a philosopher and her husband a grammarian: maybe one of them is the real author of the ਫ਼ʌȠȝȞȒȝĮIJĮ. Cf. RE XVIII,3 s.v. Pamphila, coll. 313–28 (Regenbogen); Fr. Gr. Hist. III p. 520 ff.; Plant 2004, 127–29. 68 Plant 2004, 67; Fr. Gr. Hist., nr. 127. 69 Tac., Ann. 4.53.1. Cf. Hemelrijk 1999, 178–80. 70 See below, note 82. 71 Pliny doesn’t use any specific term, saying just that Agrippina “wrote” (scripsit) a note about Nero’s birth. 65

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related to verbs indicating the act of remembering (memini/ȝȚȝȞȒıțȦ). During the imperial age, ਫ਼ʌȠȝȞȒȝĮIJĮ as collection of memorable deeds and sayings became a popular literary genre,72 often characterized by an anecdotic connotation and related to a philosophically-oriented historiography such as the one followed by Pamphila.73 Several emperors told their own version of imperial history in their memories,74 but only Agrippina’s commentarii were written by a woman:75 the matter is to evaluate the influence of a female authorial hand on the specific features of such a work.

Fig. 3. The so-called Pasquino, one of the “speaking statues” of Rome (http://www.montitv.it/popup_dettaglio_video.asp?id2=230). 72

That is the title of Valerius Maximus’ work, author of the Tiberian age often cited here as source about ancient women. 73 Mazzarino 1994 [1973], 346. 74 Noè 1980; Malitz 2003. 75 Her style was praised by Augustus in a letter; the princeps suggested, however, that some obscurities in it had to be removed (Suet., Aug. 86.3).

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4. The Julio-Claudian dynasty in a feminine perspective Tacitus explains that Agrippina recorded “her life and the vicissitudes of her house” (vitam suam et casus suorum), specifying that he found in her work events “not noticed by the professed historians” (a scriptoribus annalium non traditum).76 However, it was not a mere piece of autobiography: as recently pointed out by Alessandra Lazzeretti,77 the work had a pronounced apologetic tone,78 aiming to rehabilitate on the one hand the author’s mother, Agrippina the Elder, who died in exile, on the other the controversial role of Agrippina the Younger herself at the imperial court. Therefore, her memories, compared to other imperial autobiographical works, had some peculiar differences, highlighted by Eralda Noè. The Augusta wrote about history focussing on gentilitial and dynastic issues,79 particularly on the vicissitudes suffered by her closer relatives; her commentarii built then a sort of feminine pendant of the exitus illustrius virorum, an edifying narrative about the exemplary death of illustrious men.80 In my opinion, it is interesting to underline that the scanty evidence we possess (just the three quotations mentioned above81) reveals a feminine point of view in stressing on the most important moments in the daily life of ancient women, namely marriage and childbirth (see Table 2).82 Such details, as recalled by Tacitus, have not flown into the main historical tradition; they were probably perceived as secondary, but the author of the

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Tac., Ann. 4.53.1. Precisely that was the ground of Tacitus’ explicit quotation; otherwise, he never specifies his source but Pliny the Elder, which is mentioned once (Tac., Ann. 1.69.2; cf. Syme 1958, 271). 77 Lazzeretti 2000. 78 That was a distinctive feature of Roman autobiography since its origins, as already underlined. 79 Noè 1980, 172. 80 Noè 1980, 173, 179. 81 For other historical accounts maybe derived from Agrippina’s memories see Lazzeretti 2000, 183–90. 82 Two out of three passages refer to such topics; the third one records a more official happening instead. In my opinion, the last occurrence is meant by Dio in the sense of “official proceedings” (acta diurna). Though the word ਫ਼ʌȠȝȞȒȝĮIJĮ is not specified here through an adjective like “common” (țȠȚȞȐ), or “public” (įȘȝȩıȚĮ), otherwise employed by the historian, the record of the official greetings to the Augusta reminds what he told about Livia (Cass. Dio, 57.12.2: see above in text). Probably for this reason most scholars don’t consider this quotation related to Agrippina’s commentarii, in contrast to Lazzeretti 2000, 182 note 38.

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Annals himself acknowledges their importance in enlightening the political and dynastic dynamics of the first principate.83 Author Nicobule (maybe pseudonym of a male author) Histiaea (rather literary critic than historian) Agrippina the Younger (mother of the emperor Nero)

Date 3rd century BC?

Subject History of Alexander the Great

ca. 200 BC

History and topography: inquiry about the historical setting of the Trojan war narrated by Homer

dead 59 AD

Pamphila (daughter and wife of intellectuals)

first century AD

Zenobia (queen regent of Palmyra)

second half of the third century AD

1. Tiberius forbids Agrippina the Elder to marry a second time after Germanicus’ death 2. Nero’s podalic birth 3. Public greeting ceremonies before Agrippina the Younger - 33 books of Historical Commentaries (੊ıIJȠȡȚț੹ ਫ਼ʌȠȝȞȒȝĮIJĮ) - Epitome in 3 books of Ctesias’ Persian History - Further historical epitomes - Other prose works (aphorisms, literary criticism...) History of Alexandria and the East

Source Athenaeus, The Sophists at Dinner 10.434C; 12.537D (indirect quotations) Strabo, Geography 13.599 (indirect quotations) 1. Tacitus, Annals 4.53. 2. Pliny the Elder, Natural History 7.46. 3. Cassius Dio, Roman History 60.33.1. Photius, The Library Cod. 175, 119; Lexicon Suda s.v. Pamphila

Trebellius Pollio, Thirty Tyrants 30.22

Tab. 2. Historical and (auto)biographical works written by women. That emerges clearly in the account of Tiberius’ impediment to a new marriage for Agrippina the Elder, who had been widowed of the popular commander Germanicus, Augustus’ nephew and Tiberius’ stepson. The emperor denied her a second husband, for he was perfectly aware of “all 83 The political importance of Agrippina’s memories is very differently evaluated by modern scholars: see Lazzeretti 2000, 184 note 45.

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that was implied in the request:” Tacitus explains the emperor’s refusal with open reference to affairs involving the res publica.84 A similar situation had already occurred when the praetorian prefect85 and Tiberius’ right hand man Sejanus yearned to marry Julia Livilla. Germanicus’ sister was, at the same time, niece and daughter-in-law of Tiberius himself: a marital union with her would have been fundamental to underpin the prefect in his striving for imperial power. It looks like Livilla, already in love with him, seconded his aspirations planning to poison her husband Drusus the Younger. But Sejanus’ rise was quickly stopped and he was convicted of conspiracy along with Livilla. Women played a very important role in the whole affair: apart from Livilla, the concern of two other matronae allowed the plot to be unfolded. In fact, both Sejanus’ wife Apicata and Livilla’s mother, Antonia the Younger, wrote complaint letters to Tiberius, accusing the conspirators (see Table 3). Sejanus’ attempt repeated the most common scheme adopted by nobles in ancient as well as in modern societies to arrange alliances, that is, to finalize marriages with a marked political character. The late Roman republic was dominated by a closed group of aristocratic families, who systematically applied that system to consolidate its own supremacy: The nobiles were dynasts, their daughters princesses. Marriage with a wellconnected heiress therefore became an act of policy and an alliance of powers, more important than a magistracy, more binding than any compact of oath or interest. Not those women were merely the instruments of masculine policy. Far from it: the daughters of the great houses commanded political influence in their own right, exercising a power beyond the reach of many a senator. Of such dominating forces behind the phrases and the facade of constitutional government the most remarkable was Servilia, Ca86 to’s half-sister, Brutus’ mother–and Caesar’s mistress.

The principate developed the same strategy, adding to the women of the imperial house a new structural function of means for the succession. It is evident if we consider the marriages of Julia the Elder, on whom her father Augustus built and rebuilt without success the line of his political heritance. The progressive consolidation of the domus Augusta is to be followed through the standing out of relevant female figures by each prin84 “Non ignarus quantum ex re publica peteretur”(Tac., Ann. 4.53.2); cf. Noè 1980, 172; Cenerini 2009a, 40. 85 That was the major office available for the equestrian order, to which Sejanus belonged. 86 Syme 1939, 12.

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ceps’ side or in opposition to him. The first two are Livia and Octavia, Augustus’ wife and sister respectively, who represent rather alternative than opposing models of matronal virtues.87 They were in fact equally granted by Augustus with some privileges, among which inviolability (sacrosanctitas), and both were primary actors in Augustus’ dynastic planning. However, when Octavia’s son Marcellus died, also his mother lost in importance and finally, as we have seen, Livia’s descendant remained alone at the forefront of political struggle. During the Augustan and Tiberian age, the opposition to the regime leader was underpinned first by Julia the Elder, who never accepted her forced union to Tiberius,88 then by her homonymous daughter. They gathered followers among the aristocratic youth89 in circles which had at the same time intellectual and political character. Particularly dangerous in this context was the connection between the elder Julia and Iullus Antonius, son of the triumvir, Augustus’ old enemy. Once the two Iuliae were exiled (in 2 BC and 8 AD respectively), Tiberius’ rule had to face on the one hand the interference of his mother Livia, whose political influence is nevertheless exaggerated in ancient narratives,90 on the other hand the subversive push of some exponents of the emerging social ranks, as was demonstrated by the affair of the equestrian Sejanus and Livilla. During the Julio-Claudian period, similar efforts to overthrow the emperor recurred periodically: independently from their actual promoter, the effective key to gain power was to get married to a woman of the domus Augusta. After Sejanus’ misfortune, a subversive initiative was successively taken by two men of the senatorial order under the principates of Caligula and Claudius. Two sisters of the emperor Caligula, Julia Livilla91 and Julia Agrippina (Agrippina the Younger) were involved in a conspiracy

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Cresci Marrone and Nicolini 2010. See Fantham 2006, 79–91. 89 “Men of both orders” (scil. senators and equestrians): Vell., 2.100.5. 90 Most of all Cassius Dio, cf. 55.13.1a: Tiberius’ adoption by Augustus was due “partly to the persuasions of Julia;” 55.16.2: “As long as you [Augustus] are safe I also have my part in reigning;” 56.47.1: “as if she possessed full powers;” see also Cass. Dio, 55.14.2–21.4: the long discourse attributed to Livia, exhorting Augustus to clemency towards the presumed conspirator Cinna, is rhetorically modelled on the topos of famous debates between the ruler and his advisors (from Augustus, Agrippa and Maecenas in Cass. Dio, 52.2–40 up to Otanes, Megabazus and Darius in Hdt., 3.80–82). Adler 2011, 134, comparing the parallel account of Cinna’s conspiracy in Sen., Clem. 1.9.6, notes that “Dio greatly expands Livia’s part.” For a possible explanation of Dio’s attitude towards Livia see futher in text. 91 PIR2 I 674; FOS 443; RE X,1 s.v. Iulius nr. 575, coll. 938–39 (Fitzler). 88

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against their brother. A third sister, Julia Drusilla,92 was already dead at that time; according to the sources, she had been the emperor’s favourite, and consequently also her husband Marcus Aemilius Lepidus was in his good graces. Maybe frightened of a loss of favour after Drusilla’s death, Lepidus hatched a plot together with his former sisters-in-law. The most prominent figure in the vain conspiracy was Agrippina the Younger, therefore exiled by his brother, but recalled to Rome by the following emperor, her uncle Claudius. She finally married him93 after the fall into disfavour and the assassination of his wife Valeria Messalina.94 Unfortunately, no passages of Agrippina’s memories related to these facts have survived. Author Julia the Elder

Addressee Augustus

Antonia the Younger

Tiberius

Agrippina the Younger; Julia Livilla (maybe fictitious)

Aemilius Lepidus (?)

Livia (context: distorted portrait of Claudius)

Claudius

Contents Attack against Tiberius, maybe inspired by Julia’s lover Sempronius Gracchus. Denunciation of the conspiracy plotted by Seianus and Julia Livilla. (Cf. a similar letter from Apicata, Seianus’ wife: Cass. Dio 58.11.7) Clues of a conspiracy involving Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, widower of Caligula’s sister Julia Drusilla, and his other two sisters, Agrippina the Younger and Livilla. “His grandmother Augusta always treated him with the utmost contempt […]; and when she admonished him, she did so in short, harsh letters, or through messengers.”

Source Tacitus, Annals 1.53.5 Flavius Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 18.18; Cassius Dio, Roman History 65.14.1 Suetonius, Life of Caligula 24.

Suetonius, Life of Claudius 3.

Tab. 3. Julio-Claudian women’s letters. Messalina, in her turn, had plotted against her husband in complicity with a leader of the senatorial aristocracy, her lover Gaius Silius. The an92

PIR2 I 664; FOS 437; RE X,1 s.v. Iulius nr. 567, coll. 935–37 (Fitzler). Even though he was her uncle: cf. Fasolini 2006, 31. 94 PIR V 161; FOS 774; RE VIII A 1 , nr. 403, coll. 246–58 (Herzog-Hauser / Wotke). 93

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cient sources explain their relationship emphasizing the unslaked lust of the Augusta: her vices seem to have grown to the extent of leading her to prostitute herself95 and, finally, even to marry Silius. Leaving aside the unreliability of such accounts, to be arraigned on a charge of adultery was the most common way to cover political struggles within the imperial family:96 formerly, both Julia the Elder and Julia the Younger had been put aside thanks to this charge together with their accomplices. Senatorial historiography has finally sanctioned this official version of the facts. After Messalina’s death, a slow decline began for the children she bore to Claudius, Britannicus and Octavia, to the advantage of Nero, son of Claudius’ last wife Agrippina. Setting on promoting her son, Agrippina arranged his marriage with Octavia; lastly, Nero succeeded Claudius in 54 AD and put to death first Britannicus, then his own wife. The emperor didn’t even spare Agrippina, whose “behind-scene bargainings”97 had allowed him to get the throne, and ordered her assassination in 59 AD. Less than ten years later, also the intricate story of the Julio-Claudian family came to an end with Nero’s death. As already observed, Augustae took a main part in this history; they commented on current affairs in a frequent epistolary intercourse with the family members, some fragments of which have survived in the works of biographers and historians. Quotation of letters in ancient historical narrative should be obviously taken carefully, for it could be merely a rhetorical embellishment or even a forgery contrived by the dominant authority in order to get rid of possible opponents. The “letters in the handwriting” (chirographa) thanks to which Caligula incriminated Lepidus and his own sisters were “procured by fraud and seduction” (requisita fraude ac stupro):98 whether or not these words allude to a falsification cannot be determined, but that is somewhat probable. Other compromising letters were written against a background of conspiracy from Julia the Elder to his father Augustus attacking Tiberius,99 the 95

Juvenal in Sat., 6.118 ridicules her as meretrix Augusta. On Messalina’s case see Cenerini 2010; cf Cass. Dio, 60.18.4; Tac., Ann. 13.32.3: Messalina’s concern about dynastic questions, as well as the key role of imperial women in this respect, is suggested by ancient authors underlining her hostility towards Claudius’ two nephews, Julia (PIR2 I 636, FOS 422, RE X,1 s.v. Iulius nr. 552, coll. 908–9, Fitzler) and Julia Livilla (Caligula’s sister). 97 The quotation derives from the popular historical novel I, Claudius by Robert Graves (1934), where in particular Livia’s intrigues at the imperial court are overemphasized. 98 Suet., Cal. 24.3. 99 Tac., Ann. 1.53.5. 96

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man he imposed her to marry. They were recognized already in antiquity as produced or at least inspired by Tiberius Gracchus, Julia’s lover, who was also promoter of the political opposition against the Augustan regime. Giving credit on the glancing references in the ancient sources, Livia and Antonia the Younger seem to be the dominating figures in the first phase of the principate100 both as addressees and senders of a correspondence which assumed a significant value in some critical moments of imperial history. Antonia’s role in the detection of Sejanus’ conspiracy has already been underlined; anyway, most passages of the epistles involving imperial women concern dynastic matters, especially when written by the Augustae themselves (Tab. 3).101 It is, of course, necessary to reckon with the narrator’s selection; anyway, the recurrent quotation of such documents in relation to conspiracies or, more generally, to questions regarding the transfer of power, confirms the main role of imperial women in the hereditary framework of the principate. In ordinary situations, the emperor consulted with his wife and kinswomen to evaluate the skills of their relatives, more or less likely candidates for the imperial succession. It seems that Livia reacted to the attempt of her son Tiberius to exclude her from any participation in the political life of the court, threatening him to publish some confidential letters where Augustus showed perplexities about Tiberius’ rigid temperament.102 Even more hesitations the princeps had in relation to Claudius’ political career, as emerges from another letter he is told to have written to Livia, “with copy to” Claudius’ mother Antonia.103 Counterpart of Augustus’ remarks were Livia’s “harsh letters” containing admonitions to her grandson; in fact, she “always treated him with the utmost contempt.”104 Gossip and slanders, or even harmless personal opinions, acquired a potential dangerousness if displayed in writing by a charismatic member of the imperial family, for they could orient sympathies and antipathies toward one or another member of the domus Augusta. However, the 100

Thanks also to their longevity: Livia died in 29 AD at the age of 86, Antonia was 72 years old at her death, in 37 AD. 101 Letters sent to Augustae concerned more varied and less significant matters: see for instance Augustus’ epistles to her daughter Julia (Suet., Aug. 71.4) and to Agrippina (Suet., Aug. 86.3; Cal. 8.4); see also Malcovati 1962, 51. 102 Suet., Tib. 51. 103 Suet., Claud. 4.4: “You may, if you wish, give this part of my letter to our kinswoman Antonia also to read.” On Augustus’ letters see Malcovati 1962, XVIII–XXVII and 6–51 (without translations); still useful for an English summary, although dated, Bourne 1918. 104 Suet., Claud. 3.

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sources are here evidently tendentious and hostile to the Julio-Claudian emperors, so that it is difficult to judge the effective weight carried by the quoted documents. By the way, Augustus showed in other letters a genuine admiration for his adoptive son, whom he considered a valiant general,105 and Claudius was regarded seriously within the domus Augusta, as recently pointed out by Donato Fasolini.106 Anyway, the importance of imperial private correspondence was undoubted and it had to be kept top secret: Augustus’ secretary (a manu) Thallus had his legs broken by order of the emperor himself, because he had revealed the content of a letter for a conspicuous reward.107 Letters are generally excluded from Plant’s recording of female writings, for they were at the beginning merely private texts;108 formal epistles sent by Augustae appeared quite later. According to Cassius Dio,109 Julia Domna was appointed by his son Caracalla as responsible for the imperial official correspondence; epigraphic evidence confirms her participation in the emperor’s epistolary interchange with subjects. In fact, an inscription from Ephesus records three imperial letters granting some privileges to the city:110 the second one was written by Julia Domna herself. When Cassius Dio, whose career developed under the Severan dynasty, reports that Livia’s name was associated with Tiberius’ name in his formal letters,111 maybe his personal experience overlaps with the historical narrative:112 actually, the official role of imperial women at the emperor’s side had not been clearly defined yet under the earlier principate. Indeed, a significant precedent to Julia Domna is provided by the letter where Trajanus’ widow Plotina shows her commitment in favour of the Epicurean school at Ath105

Suet., Tib. 21.4–7; cf. Malcovati 1962, 12–4. Fasolini 2006, 31–44. 107 Suet., Aug. 67.2. 108 He just quotes the significant Republican precedent of Cornelia, daughter of Scipio Africanus and mother of the Gracchi. She wrote to her son Gaius, inviting him not to stand for the tribunate, nor to continue his brother’s policies (cf. Cic., Brut. 211; Plut., CG 13). However, her letter seems to be actually a masterpiece produced in some oratory school: cf. Hemelrijk 1999, 185–88, 195; Plant 2004, 101–3. 109 Cass. Dio, 77 (78).10.4. 110 AE 1966, 430; cf. Ghedini 1984, 14; Levick 2007, 95–6, notes 52, 55. 111 Cass. Dio 57.12.2. However, in the successive paragraph, the historian implicitly marks the difference between Livia and Julia Domna, saying that the first one “never ventured to enter the senate-chamber or the camps or the public assemblies:” exactly “mater castrorum et senatus et patriae” were the official titles coined for Julia Domna (cf. Kuhoff 1993). 112 See above, note 90. 106

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ens:113 this time the target was a smaller social group, but the intervention of the Augusta was equally worthy of being inscribed on stone together with that of the emperor Hadrian. Imperial women acted as patronesses to individuals’ or communities’ advantage since the beginning of the imperial age, but it took them a very long time to see their own name formally included in imperial rescripts. Livia, interceding with Augustus on behalf of a Gaul who aimed at the Roman citizenship, had to be satisfied only with a partial fulfilment of her requests.114 Despite her enormous influence at the Augustan court, her distance from the real exercise of a public authority is marked by her name’s absence from the political testament of her husband: the Res Gestae Divi Augusti.115 Women’s voice rarely displayed itself, the least in relation to politics. More eloquent than literary sources, iconographic,116 numismatic117 and epigraphic evidence118 spread the public image of imperial women throughout the empire. Scribonia,119 the wife Augustus repudiated when, the same day, she gave birth to Julia, was remembered also thereinafter as Augustus’ wife in inscriptions.120 Whoever was responsible of this epigraphic formulation, the choice of keeping underlining the connection acquired with the princeps was significant. Scribonia, exponent of the ancient republican aristocracy, had gained a new capacity through her marriage, which might also legitimate wishes of political nature. It seems that Lucius Scribonius Libo was convinced to conspire against Tiberius precisely by his alleged kinship with Augustus’ former wife.121 However, immediately afterwards, the emperor had married Livia, a much more intriguing and influent lady than Scribonia, according to the sources. Her definitive victory was sealed by her entry in the Julian family after Augustus’ death: since then, she was not just a faithful wife (and widow), but a 113

AE 2005, 1411; cf. Hemelrijk 1999, 111–13. Suet., Aug. 40.3: “Liviae pro quidem tributario Gallo roganti.” Subjects commonly sought benefits from the emperor through the intercession of other members of the domus Augusta (cf. Suet., Aug. 40.3: “Tiberio pro cliente Gallo petenti”); see also Suet., Tib. 51.1. 115 Cf. Cenerini 2013. 116 Cf. Wood 2000; Alexandridis 2004. 117 Cf. Morelli 2009. 118 See the bibliography in Somà 2013. 119 RE II A,1, s.v. Scribonius, nr. 32, coll. 891–92 (Fluss); cf. Syme 1939, 213 ff. 120 Scriboniae Caesaris (scil. wife): CIL VI 7467; 26032; 26033; 31276; AE 1975, 286; cf. Cenerini 2009a, 17. 121 Tac., Ann. 2.27.2. On Libo’s conspiracy cf. Tac., Ann. 2.27–32; Cass. Dio 57.15.4–5; Vell., 2.129.2; 130.3; Suet., Tib. 25.1. 114

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proper member of the gens Iulia. The opposition to the regime relying on Julia, the emperor’s sole blood descendant, had been defeated long before; it only remained for Scribonia to follow voluntarily her daughter into exile.122 Julia’s survival continued nevertheless to represent a potential risk: popular demonstrations in her favour forced Augustus to agree to her transfer from the uncomfortable island Ventotene (Pandateria) to Reggio Calabria (Regium Iulium) on the mainland.123 Furthermore, rumours concerning a plan for her release existed,124 but shortly after her father’s death she died too, unlikely for natural causes. The popular favour constituted the “ideological support for a principate characterized by a marked autocratic push”125 what the two Iuliae and their entourage had tried to propose, following a Hellenistic-Oriental model already pitted by Marc Antony against the Augustan conservatism. The last promoter of this monarchic-oriented policy was Nero, not by chance denigrated by senatorial historiography, but deeply loved by the crowd. In the same way, his wife Poppaea126 was enthusiastically acclaimed by the subjects: neither historians nor biographers tell that (depicting the Augusta as a shameless status seeker) but only the warm greetings left by anonymous fans on the Pompeian house walls.127 Once again, the true face of the Augustae is unveiled only by non-literary sources, whereas historical narrative confined their lives into predetermined stereotypes.128 Imperial women’s political acting and writing during the JulioClaudian principate remained, in first instance, women’s acting and writing. It can therefore be summarized in a borrowed aphorism: The magic and the most powerful effect of women is, in philosophical language, action at a distance, actio in distans; but this requires first of all and above all-distance.129

122

Cass. Dio, 55.10.14–5; Vell., 2.100.5. Braccesi (2013, 139–41) suspects, without convincing, that also Scribonia was compelled to leave Rome because of her supposed intemperate behaviour. 123 Suet., Aug. 65.3; Cass., Dio 55.13.1; cf. Rohr Vio 2011, 79. 124 Suet., Aug. 19. 3; cf. Rohr Vio 2000, 231; Ead. 2011, 96. 125 Cenerini 2009a, 27–30 (the translation is mine). 126 PIR P 630; FOS 646; RE XXII,1 s.v. Poppaeus nr. 4, coll. 85–91 (Hanslik). 127 Somà 2013, 102. 128 Cenerini 2009a, 7. 129 F. Nietzsche, The Gay Science, II, issue 60.

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Abbreviations AE: LүAnnée Épigraphique, Paris 1888 ff. ANRW: Temporini, H. and W. Haase, eds. 1972-1997, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt. Berlin. CIL: Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin, 1863 ff. DELL: Ernout, A. and A. Meillet 19854, Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue latine. Histoire des mots. Paris. FOS: RaepsaetǦCharlier, M. T. 1987, Prosopographie des femmes de l’ordre senatorial (IerǦIIe siècles). Louvain. Fr. Gr. Hist.: Jacoby, F. 1923-1958, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Berlin-Leiden. Hist. Rom. Fr.: Peter, H. 1883, Historicorum Romanorum Fragmenta. Lipsiae. LSJ: Liddell, H. G., R. Scott and H. S. Jones, eds. 19969, A GreekǦEnglish Lexicon. Oxford. PIR: Kebbs, E., H. Dessau and P. V. Rohden, eds. 1897-1898, Prosopographia Imperii Romani saec. I.II.III. Berlin. PIR2: Groag, E., L. Stein and A. Petersen, eds. 1933 ff., Prosopographia Imperii Romani saec. I.II.III, ed. Altera. Berlin-Leipzig. RE: Paulys Realenzyklopädie der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft. Stuttgart, 1873 ff.

Bibliography Adler, E. 2011. “Cassius Dio’s Livia and the Conspiracy of Cinna Magnus.” Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies 51: 133–54. Alexandridis, A. 2004. Frauen des römischen Kaiserhauses: eine Untersuchung ihrer bildlichen Darstellung von Livia bis Iulia Domna. Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern. Barrett, A. A. 1996a. Agrippina. Sister of Caligula, Wife of Claudius, Mother of Nero. London: B. T. Batsford. ʊ. 1996b. Agrippina. Sex, Power, and Politics in the Early Empire. New Haven-London: Yale University Press. ʊ. 2002. Livia. First Lady of Imperial Rome. New Haven-London: Yale University Press. Berrino, N. F. 2006. Mulier potens: realtà femminili nel mondo antico. Galatina: Congedo. Bourne, E. 1918. “Augustus as a Letter-Writer.” Transactionsof the American Phiological Association 49: 53–66. Braccesi, L. 2013. Giulia, la figlia di Augusto. Roma-Bari: Laterza.

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Bremmer, J. N. and M. Formisano. 2012. Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis. Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press. Cantarella, E. 1996. Passato prossimo. Donne romane da Tacita a Sulpicia. Milano: Feltrinelli. Cenerini, F. 2009a. Dive e donne. Mogli, madri, figlie e sorelle degli imperatori romani da Augusto a Commodo. Imola: Angelini. ʊ. 2009b. La donna romana. Modelli e realtà. Bologna: Il Mulino. ʊ. 2010. “Messalina e il suo matrimonio con C. Silio.” In Augustae. Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof? Herrschaftsstrukturen und Herrschaftspraxis II. Akten der Tagung in Zürich 18.-20. 9. 2008, edited by A. Kolb, 179–91. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. ʊ. 2013. “Il ruolo delle donne nel linguaggio del potere di Augusto.” Paideia 68: 105–29. Citroni, M. 1990 “I destinatari contemporanei.” In Lo spazio letterario di Roma antica, III. La ricezione del testo, edited by G. Cavallo, P. Fedeli, and A. Giardina, 53–116. Roma: Salerno. Corbier, M. 1994a. “À propos de la Tabula Siarensis: le Sénat, Germanicus et la domus Augusta.” In Roma y las provincias. Realidad administrativa e ideología imperial, edited by J. Gonzales Fernandez, 39–85. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas. ʊ. 1994b. “La Maison des Césars.” In Épouser au plus proche. Inceste, prohibitions et stratégies matrimoniales autour de la Méditerranée, edited by P. Bronte, 243–91. Paris: EHESS. ʊ. 2001. “Maiestas domus Augustae.” In Varia epigraphica. Atti del Colloquio Internazionale di Epigrafia. Bertinoro, 8Ǧ10 giugno 2000, edited by M. G. Angeli Bertinelli and A. Donati, 155–99. Faenza: Fratelli Lega. Cresci Marrone, G. and S. Nicolini. 2010. “Il principe e la strategia del lutto–Il caso delle donne della domus di Augusto.” In Augustae. Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof? Herrschaftsstrukturen und Herrschaftspraxis II. Akten der Tagung in Zürich 18.-20. 9. 2008, edited by A. Kolb, 163–78. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Duby, G. and M. Perrot, eds. 1991, under the direction of P. Schmitt Pantel, Histoire des femmes en Occident, I. L’Antiquité. Paris: Plon. Eck, W. 1993. Agrippina, die Stadtgründerin Kölns: eine Frau in der frühkaiserzeitlichen Politik. Köln: Greven. Fantham, E. 2006. Julia Augusti. The Emperor’s Daughter. London-New York: Routledge.

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Fasolini, D. 2006. Aggiornamento bibliografico ed epigrafico ragionato sull’imperatore Claudio. Milano: Vita e Pensiero. Flory, M. B. 1996. “Dynastic Ideology, the Domus Augusta, and Imperial Women: A Lost Statuary Group in the Circus Flaminius.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 126: 287–306. Ghedini, F. 1984. Giulia Domna tra Oriente e Occidente. Le fonti archeologiche. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Ginsburg, J. 2006. Representing Agrippina: Constructions of Female Power in the Early Roman Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heffernan, T. J. 2012. The passion of Perpetua and Felicity, Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press. Hemelrijk, E. A. 1999. Matrona docta. Educated women in the Roman Élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna, London-New York: Routledge. Huzar, E. G. 1995. “Emperor worship in Julio-Claudian Egypt.” ANRW II.18.5: 3092–143. Kokkinos, N. 1992. Antonia Augusta: Portrait of a Great Roman Lady. London-New York: Routledge. Kolb, A., ed. 2010, Augustae. Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof? Herrschaftsstrukturen und Herrschaftspraxis II. Akten der Tagung in Zürich 18.-20. 9. 2008. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Kuhoff, W. 1993. “Iulia Aug. mater Aug. n. et castrorum et senatus et patriae.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 97: 259–71. Kunderewicz, C. 1961. “Quelques remarques sur le rôle des KAISAPEIA dans la vie juridique de l’Egypte romaine.” The Journal of Juristic Papyrology 13: 123–29. Kunst, C. 2008. Livia. Macht und Intrigen am Hof des Augustus. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Kunst, C. and U. Riemer, eds. 2000. Grenzen der Macht. Zur Rolle der römischen Kaiserfrauen. PAwB 3. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Lazzeretti, A. 2000. “Riflessioni sull’opera autobiografica di Agrippina Minore.” Studia Historica. Historia Antigua 18: 177–90. Levick, B. 1975. “Julians and Claudians.” Greece and Rome 22: 29–38. ʊ. 2007. Julia Domna: Syrian Empress. London: Routledge. Luisi, A. 1999. “L’opposizione sotto Augusto: le due Giulie, Germanico e gli amici.” In Fazioni e congiure nel mondo antico, edited by M. Sordi, 181–92. CISA 25. Milano: Vita e Pensiero. Malcovati, E. 1962. Imperatoris Caesaris Augusti operum fragmenta. Torino: Paravia. Malitz, J. 2003. “Autobiographie und Biographie römischer Kaiser im I. Jhdt. n. Chr.” In Propaganda–Selbstdarstellung–Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreich des 1. Jhdt. n. Chr., edited by G. Weber and M.

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Zimmermann, 227–42. Historia Einzelschrift 1964. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Mazzarino, S. 1994 [1973]. Il pensiero storico classico, 2. Roma-Bari: Laterza. Momigliano, A. 1974. Lo sviluppo della biografia greca. Torino: Einaudi. Moreau, P. 2005. “La domus Augusta et les formations de parenté à Rome.” Cahiers du Centre Gustave-Glotz 16: 7–23. Morelli, A. L. 2009. Madri di uomini e di dèi. La rappresentazione della maternità attraverso la documentazione numismatica di epoca romana. Bologna: Ante Quem. Noè, E. 1980. “La memorialistica imperiale del I secolo.” Atti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Classe di Scienze Morali, Storiche e Filologiche. Rendiconti s. 8, 35(3-4): 163–80. Plant, I. M. 2004. Women Writers of Ancient Greece and Rome. An Anthology. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Rohr Vio, F. 2000. Le voci del dissenso. Ottaviano Augusto e i suoi oppositori. Padova: Il Poligrafo. ʊ. 2011. Contro il principe. Congiure e dissensi nella Roma di Augusto. Bologna: Pàtron. Scheid, J. 1990. Romulus et ses frères. Le collège des frères arvales, modèle du culte public dans la Rome des empereurs. BEFAR 275. Roma: École Française de Rome. Somà, I. 2013. “Von Frauen für Frauen in den epigraphischen Quellen.” In Handlungsstrategien und soziale Netzwerke antiker Herrscherfrauen. Beiträge eines Kolloquiums an der Universität Osnabrück vom 22. bis 24. März 2012, OFAA 20, edited by C. Kunst, in cooperation with A. Schulz, 101–7. Rahden, Westfalen: Marie Leidorf. Šterbenc Erker, D. 2013. “Matronage in der Augusteischen Aitiologie. Handlungsstrategien mythischer Herrscherfrauen.” In Handlungsstrategien und soziale Netzwerke antiker Herrscherfrauen. Beiträge eines Kolloquiums an der Universität Osnabrück vom 22. bis 24. März 2012, OFAA 20, edited by C. Kunst, in cooperation with A. Schulz, 79–87. Rahden, Westfalen: Marie Leidorf. Syme, R. 1939. The Roman Revolution. Oxford: Clarendon press. ʊ. 1958. Tacitus. Oxford: Clarendon press. Temporini-Gräfin Vitzthum, H., ed. 2002. Die Kaiserinnen Roms. Von Livia bis Theodora. München: Beck. Wood, S. 2000. Imperial Women. A Study in Public Images, 40 BC–AD 68. Leiden: Brill.

WITH PEN OR BRUSH: TRACES OF WOMEN IN FIFTEENTH-CENTURY ITALY DAVIDE TRAMARIN INDEPENDENT RESEARCHER

The relationship between women and books from the Middle Ages to the Early Modern period is a fascinating field of research that has often inspired scholars of history, art and literature. Many studies have been made on manuscripts that belonged to European noblewomen, some of whom also commissioned prestigious illuminated books.1 A number of the finest lay works from the Late Medieval period were produced by the author Christine de Pizan (1362–1431), and critics have reconstructed her career comprehensively. History has also provided us with a host of illustrious female monastic writers, whose works have stimulated research by many scholars in recent decades. These writers include Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179), Herrad of Landsberg (circa 1130–1195) and Bridget of Sweden (1303–1373), as well as fifteenth-century writers such as the Poor Clare Catherine of Bologna (1413–1463), who wrote her own devotional “Treatise on the Seven Spiritual Weapons Necessary for Spiritual Warfare.” Catherine also copied a breviary, which won fame because she illuminated it with such detail and particular beauty, earning her recognition as a fine creator of the devotional works that were the hallmark of the cloistered nuns of the Observance in Italy.2 Against the vast backdrop of critical writings on works between the Middle Ages and the fifteenth century, it is clear that books were of great objective importance to female culture. They became intrinsically so, however, when it was not influential women, or those winning fame over 1

To mention only a few of them I would like to remember: Margaret of Scotland (1046–1093); Isabel of France (1295–1358) Margaret d’Orléans (1406–1466); Ippolita Maria Sforza (1445–1488); Eleonora of Aragon (1450–1493). 2 For complete information about Caterina Vigri’s Breviary see Fortunati and Leonardi 2004.

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the centuries, who owned or wrote manuscripts, but laywomen or nuns who, by the mere act of writing, unwittingly left us a trace of their existence. Although history has handed down a vast range of works by men, manuscripts copied and subscribed by women are extremely rare. However, a team of palaeographers led by Luisa Miglio and Marco Palma grouped and catalogued all of these manuscripts, including codices unearthed in libraries across Europe, in an online database entitled Donne e cultura scritta nel Medioevo (Women and Written Culture in the Middle Ages).3 We have been able to trace the origins of these rare manuscripts and identify their authors thanks to colophons, i.e. the notes left by copiers when finishing their work. Colophons not only enable us to date these manuscripts precisely, they are also the main source of information on which to base our analysis of these women writers, as they include both their names and social status. Furthermore, they sometimes include historical information, private matters, or even personal rants. It is noteworthy that the majority of the database’s manuscripts are from the fifteenth century: history’s most prolific period for manuscript production. This detail has little to do with the increasing number of a certain class of women who were able to read and write; indeed, according to Albert Detolez, among others, it was due to a rising number of male copiers who used colophons during the fourteenth century, a phenomenon that rose sharply throughout the fifteenth.4 It is therefore likely that women copiers began to add their own colophons, as well. Which was the situation in Italy during this period? First, it has been more or less ascertained that fifteenth-century Italian copiers also made increasing use of colophons. Until now, however, only two manuscripts copied and subscribed by women from a prior period have been discovered. The first is a large, two-volume illuminated Bible (Padova, Biblioteca del Seminario Vescovile, 542 p. I, 542 p. II) copied by the Benedictine nun Agnese Scarabela in 1297; it is a work of great importance, as it is currently the oldest codex in Italy written by a woman. The second contains the “Legend of Barlaam and Josaphat” by John of Damascus (676– 749) copied around the mid-fourteenth century by Angela Donati, a Florentine laywomen (Florence, Biblioteca Riccardiana, ms. 1446). As both of these books are extremely rare, they deserve a brief mention. The first vol-

3

Miglio and Palma 2000. This database is constantly updated and nowadays refers 224 manuscripts. All books are dated and organized in a chronological order from 700 to 1500. 4 Derolez 1995, 40.

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ume of Agnese Scarabela’s “Bible” contains the following colophon (f. 193v): Ego soror Agnes Scarabela de Sancte Agathe de Vantio fecit hoc opus. Anno Domini millesimo duecentesimo nonagesimo septimo, indicione decima.5 I am Sister Agnese Scarabela from Saint Agate of Vanzo and I made this work. On the 10th indiction of 1297.

The second volume (ms. 542 p. II) is not subscribed and is missing some pages; therefore we can only suppose that it, too, was copied by Scarabela.6 The colophon she left provides us with some important information, as she writes her surname and her monastery, namely Sant’Agata in Vanzo, Padua. According to a register of notary deeds at the Padova State Archive, this Benedictine monastery was at the apex of its splendour when Scarabela lived there, and it was home to numerous women from Padua’s most influential families.7 Scarabela was probably either the daughter or a relative of the notary Gerardo de’Scarabelli, who drew up almost all of the deeds in the aforementioned register between 1255 and 1285.8 Her standing thus goes some way to explaining the beautiful handwriting that decorates the pages of her Bible, but it is not the only reason. The decoration of the initial I of the incipit of Genesis (f. 3v of the first tome) ends with a crucifixion, next to which, Giovanna Valenzano believes, stand Scarabela’s parents, the donors and commissioners of the work: her father in a notary’s toga and vair, and her mother in the attire of a nun.9 The colophon in the manuscript by Angela Donati (f. 117r) is truly unique: Anima scriptoris salvetur in hultimis [sic] horis. Qui scripsit scribat semper cum Domino Vivat. Angiule Donati me scripsit cum manum [sic] sinistra. 5

Donello et al. 1998, 93 n. 203. Ibid., 94 n. 204. 7 The register (which has the shelf mark: Corporazioni soppresse, monasteri padovani, SS. Agata e Cecilia, 3) was written in 1304 and its documentation allows us to reconstruct that Saint Agata was a powerful institution. At the start of the fourteenth century this cloister was holding a large estate of 530 hectares around Padua. Cfr. Carraro 1997, LI–LXXV. 8 Carraro 1997, 103–5; 214–17. 9 Valenzano 2012, 252. 6

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With Pen or Brush: Traces of Women in Fifteenth-Century Italy May the writer’s soul be preserved in the end. Who wrote will write and will always live with God. Angela Donati wrote me with her left hand.

The colophon stands out for the copier’s proud declaration that she wrote with her left hand; during the Middle Ages, being left-handed had sinister, if not evil connotations. It may have been a test of character by a woman who was well aware of herself and probably realised how special her handwriting was. Besides an insight into her character, the colophon and the book provide us with a series of details that affords a clearer insight into who Donati was. Firstly, she demonstrates her calligraphy skills with an elegant chancery minuscule. Secondly, her subscription is a formula in two assonant verses that was very common in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Italy.10 The text she copied was the “Legend of Barlaam and Josaphat,” a hagiographic romance that was well-known throughout Medieval Italy, to the extent that it was a scene in the south lunette on the portal of the Baptistery of Parma (circa 1200).11 Given the popularity of this romance, it is difficult to establish whether Donati copied the work for herself or on commission. The pen-stroke coats of arms (f. 122r12), however, suggest that she was not the codex’s owner. Considering everything we know about Donati, we cannot exclude that she was a professional lay copier. Although we have a vast array of codices by nuns, the examples of fifteenth-century works by Italian laywomen are extremely rare. The majority of the very few existing works come from Tuscany. The literacy level of non-noble Tuscan laywomen was low,13 but some literate women still managed to devote their time to writing manuscripts. In all of these cases, the codices were copied for personal use, i.e. for private worship. The number of fifteenth-century women who owned Books of Hours suggested that prayers were the fulcrum of the relationship between laywomen and their books. One of the most interesting examples of this relationship is the work of Benedetta Niccoli, who copied two religious Zibaldoni, or hodgepodge devotional books: manuscript 1429 of the Riccardian Library in Florence and manuscript II.III.247 of the National Central Library, also in Florence. The colophons of these manuscripts afford us a clear insight into Niccoli’s life. In the first manuscript (f. 56v), Niccoli writes: 10

Reynhout 2006, 171–85. For a reconstruction of the success of the “Legend of Baarlam and Josafat” during the Middle Ages see: Siclari 1999, 351–73. 12 De Robertis and Miriello 2006, 7 n.12. 13 Miglio 2008a, 51–3. 11

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Finiti i venti sermoni del prefato santo Aghostino molto a nostro amaestramento scritti e chopiati per mano della Benedetta donna di Pietro d’Antonio Nicholi fatti nel 1464 a dì venti di marzo. The twenty sermons by Saint Augustine were finished and written such a lot for our edification and were copied by Benedetta, Pietro of Antonio Nicoli’s wife, on the 20th March 1464.

She not only dates the codex, but also provides information that includes the name of her husband, as well as why or how she wrote. She was probably part of Florence’s middle-classes, and the words a nostro amaestramento (“for our learning”) may mean that she and her husband were to share the manuscript so that they could read religious texts. It may also mean, however, that Pietro helped her to copy the content. The codex may therefore have been copied at home and used for personal worship, and Benedetta may have received some help copying it. Six years later, Niccoli finished her second book, which contained the following colophon (f. 122r): Finito a dì venti dicembre 1470 e scritto e copiato per me Benedetta donna di Pietro Nicholi cittadino fiorentino. This book was finished on the 20th of December 1470. I wrote and copied it for myself, Benedetta wife of the Florentine citizen Pietro Nicoli.

Once again, Niccoli mentions her husband, but this time states that she is writing for her own pleasure; her handwriting, which was already swift and confident in the first codex, was even finer in the second. Over the years, Niccoli may well have become increasingly autonomous when writing at home. She is a by no means isolated example of the rising power of fifteenth-century Italy’s urban middle-class families, who could afford to educate their female children for household tasks.14 The increasing number of educated middle-class women makes it difficult to believe that Niccoli’s works are the only two surviving examples. The current scarcity of similar manuscripts and documentation, however, means that we cannot draw any clear conclusions. As inscriptions or colophons are the only sure way of attributing a work, it will not be easy to establish whether other manuscripts were copied by Italian laywomen. 14

I would also like to remember Giovanna Martinozzi: another Italian laywoman that copied two books thanks to the support of her family. Both manuscripts are preserved at the National Library of Rome (Vittorio Emanuele 1335; Vittorio Emanuele 1416). Miglio 2008b, 191–94.

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As mentioned above, there is a greater amount of fifteenth-century Italian manuscripts subscribed by female monastics. It is unquestionable that their social status enabled them to approach books in a different manner. Some nuns, especially those from influential families, may have been highly educated at their monastery; they may have already been so before joining an order, going on to help educate the other sisters. This was the case for Catherine of Bologna who, as a child, had been a lady-in-waiting at the court of Niccolò III (1383–1441), the Marquis of Ferrara, and thus she had probably received an excellent education15 before becoming a Poor Clare. Nor was it unusual for communities of women to make and decorate books. Indeed, between the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries, many monasteries had “work houses” where nuns made items by hand.16 It is likely that many of the extant codices subscribed by women that we know today were produced in such “work houses.” To carry out its spiritual duties, a community of women required a minimum number of books, which were often commissioned or received as gifts, but some of them were also made by monastics for their own pleasure. Colophons are once again an invaluable means of identifying writers. Furthermore, they offered a chance to give prayer and signalled the end of an activity that had been carried out for the community. Thus, they were also a means of remembering the writer to the other nuns after her death. One example is the message left on March 2, 1423 by Antonia, a Benedictine monastic at San Pietro Maggiore, Florence. When she finished copying a collection of works by Augustine and Bartholomew of San Concordio, today known as ms. Lyell 73 at the Bodleian Library, Oxford (f. 84r), she wrote: Iste liber est sororis Antonie monialis monasterii Sancti Petri Maioris de Florentia. Manibus suis scripsit. Explevi ipsum die secundo martii ad horam vigesimam, die giovis, anno millesimo quartocientesimo vigesimo tertio. Rogate Dominum pro eam. This book belongs to Sister Antonia nun at Saint Peter Maggiore in Florence. She wrote it with her own hands. She finished on the twentieth hour of Thursday 2nd March 1423. Pray God for her.

15

For further information about the education and the writings of Caterina Vigri see this fundamental essay: Giovè Marchioli 2013, 111–32. 16 Hamburger et al. 2008, 51.

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A simpler, more direct request was made by the nun Samaritana de Calcagnis in a hymnbook (f. 45r), dating back to the last quarter of the fifteenth century: “Orate pro scriptrice Samaritana de Calcagnis.” Today, the hymnbook is part of a private collection in Vicenza, north-east Italy.17 Colophons also held a range of surprises, including this threat at the end of a copy of “Life of Saint Eustace” written in vernacular Italian by nun Sara in manuscript 1381 (f. 134r) stored at the Riccardian Library, Florence: Qualunque persona leggerà questa divota leggenda prieghi iddio per me soror Sara povera che se voi nol farete quando sarò morta vi strangolerò. Whoever will read this devoted legend must pray God for me poor sister Sara, then if you won’t do it, when I’ll die I will choke you.

We could cite an array of other more or less unique colophons as a tribute to the fifteenth-century Italian women who left us a “trace” of their existence. However, we can also extend our investigation by analysing additional forms of expression that characterise the relationship between women and their books. These forms of expression appear in some extremely rare manuscripts containing creative traces that enable us to document the artistic oeuvre of Italy’s female monastics. We therefore need to make an in-depth comparison between these manuscripts in a bid to garner information that reveals the artistic dynamics between the women’s cloisters and the outside world in certain parts of fifteenth-century Italy. A comparison may be made between two codices subscribed by Florentine nuns in the second half of the fifteenth century. The first, Collettario di S. Iacopo di Ripoli (Florence, National Central Library, Conv. Soppr. D.VII.344), belongs to the community of women at the Dominican convent of S. Iacopo di Ripoli. Its hallmark is the beautiful calligraphy of Angela, better known by her surnames Mineberti or De’ Rucellai; the codex was illuminated by the prestigious Florentine workshop run by Gherardo and Monte di Giovanni. The second codex, which contains a “Life of Saint Bridget of Sweden” in vernacular Italian (Florence, National Central Library, Magl. XXXVIII 128), was copied by the Bridgettine nun Caterina Peruzzi. The codex was most likely illuminated by Peruzzi, or by one of her sister nuns at the Santa Maria del Paradiso monastery. The two orders were not far apart: the Convent of San Iacopo di Ripoli, today the headquarters of the Simoni military barracks in Via della Scala, was inside the city walls, near Santa Maria Novella and under its jurisdiction. The Santa Maria del Paradiso monastery was in Pian di Ripoli, a 17

Giové Marchioli et al. 2007, 142 n. 270.

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Florentine district outside the walls south-east of the River Arno that had been home to numerous religious communities since the height of the Middle Ages.18 The community of San Iacopo had settled in Pian di Ripoli in 1229, but moved to Florence during the 1290s in search of somewhere safer and less isolated. Once it moved, the order changed its name to San Iacopo of Ripoli, as it wanted to maintain its origins in the name of the new site.19 The Convent of San Iacopo was to play a key role in the spread of the order of Dominican nuns in Tuscany because as soon as it had arrived in the city, some groups within the order left to found other nunneries, including San Domenico del Maglio, in Cafaggio, Florence, or San Niccolò e San Paolo, Prato. As time passed, these nunneries became some of the main centres for the collection and creation of art by female monastics in Italy. Over the centuries, San Iacopo di Ripoli was the nunnery that underwent the most changes and lost the most cultural heritage;20 a great deal of information, however, can still be garnered from sources. The Mediceo Avanti il Principato archive, part of the Florence State Archive, contains five missives written by the convent’s Dominican nuns to Lorenzo De’ Medici (1449–1492) and Piero di Lorenzo De’ Medici (1472–1503).21 The fame of the two recipients confirms the convent’s relations with the outside world. The missives mainly comprise humble requests and administrative suggestions, but they also contain information about the community, which had excellent relations with the Medici family. Noteworthy is the letter of 1476, in which a certain sister Ginevra informs Lorenzo the Magnificent about the imminent dispatch of a breviary.22 No trace of the 18 For further information about the history of religious institutions in the Ripoli territory see: Council Library of Bagno in Ripoli 1983. 19 Thomas 2003, 77–8. 20 In 2010, the Italian institution Opificio delle Pietre Dure has restored the remaining frescos situated on the right side of the ex-convent refectory. The removal of four layers of plaster enabled to find some fresco fragments. The cycle must have been very extended, narrating four martyr legends and other scenes from the life of Christ and the Virgin. See: Frosinini and Buzzanca 2008. 21 Three letters are for the Magnificent: two are from suor Ginevra, the first dated 1472 (MAP LXXIII 413) and the second December 1476 (MAP XXII 438); the third is from suor Oretta and is dated 1488 (MAP XL 416). Two letters are for Pietro di Lorenzo: the first, dated July 1493, is from suor Antonia di Guidaccio di Bartolomeo Pecori (MAP XVI 378) e the second, dated October of the same year, was written by the prioress Lucia (MAP XVIII 39). For further information see: Miglio 2008c, 113–15. 22 “[…] essendo al presente constrecta da chi vole spedire questo breviario parendogli ch’io lo tengha troppo dimostra volerlo spacciare ad altri […] pregovi

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book has remained, but its mere mention may help document the work of the nuns on this important commission. We also know that in 1474 a major printing works was established at San Iacopo di Ripoli and supervised by the Dominican friars Daniello da Pistoia and Piero di Salvatore da Pisa. The nuns worked here and, over a decade or so, published various editions of sacred and profane works, some of them illuminated.23 It is therefore possible that the breviary for Lorenzo the Magnificent was an incunabulum. The above information enables us to reconstruct the thriving milieu in which the Dominican nuns of San Iacopo carried out their work. Their community interacted with the outside world, printing books and producing manuscripts, of which unfortunately only two ascertained examples survive. Although the manuscript containing a “Life of Saint Catherine of Siena,” completed on April 26, 1468 by Suor Checca (ms. 1291, stored at the Riccardian Library, Florence), is a simple example of the nunnery’s work,24 the Collettario di S. Iacopo di Ripoli neatly summarises the extensive oeuvre of a thriving printing works and its influential relations with the outside world. Its illuminations, probably executed by Gherardo and Monte di Giovanni to embellish Sister Angela’s confident textualis, confirm that the convent had direct links with the Medici family. Research by Francesca Corsi Masi into a series of commissions by Lorenzo the Magnificent for Books of Hours enabled her to conclude several years ago that in the late fifteenth century Florence’s illuminator workshops pooled their resources to complete a series of important works, mainly for the Medici. non vi sia grave rispondere […] ch’el tempo è brieve.” Miglio 2008c, 113. This is the translation: “[…] At the moment the person that wants to send this breviary is afraid that I would like to keep it too much and show it to others […] I hope that you may reply […] time is short.” 23 It is important to specify that these friars supervised the nunnery living in an attached house: the future seat of the printing workshop. For further information see: Rouse and Rouse 1988. 24 At f. 141v, we find this colophon: “Gloria laus et honor tibi Christe, simulque Senensi virgini Caterine benedicte. Qui scripsit scribat, semper cum Domino vivat, vivat in celis soror Checha fidelis. Factum est anno Domini M°CCCC°LXVIII die XXVI mensis aprilis.” At f. IIIv there is a parchment fragment of the original book. Checca wrote this on it: “Iste liber est monialium monasterii Sancti Iacobi de ripolis de Florentia.” At f. Ir there is another fragment of parchment, again written in vernacular by Checca: “Questo libro è delle monache del munistero di Sancto Iacopo di Ripoli in Firençe. E chi l’accacta abbi carità di presto renderlo e senza nessuna lesione.” This is the translation: “This book belongs to the nuns of the Saint Iacopo of Ripoli nunnery. If you find this book, please return it back without any damages.”

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Gherardo and Monte di Giovanni were certainly among the most prolific illuminators involved in this commission.25 Although Suor Angela did not date her colophon,26 the Collettario has been dated back to the last quarter of the fifteenth century;27 it would therefore be perfectly reasonable to conclude that it was made during the most productive period of the city’s workshops. This manuscript, which was illuminated either by two of Florence’s finest fifteenth-century masters in person, or by their workshop, affords a clear insight into the relations between the San Iacopo di Ripoli convent and the city of Florence. And it appears that these relations enabled the nunnery to play a major role in city life. We come to a different conclusion, however, when we look at the history of the Paradiso monastery’s scriptorium, which has been amply reconstructed by the palaeographer Rosanna Miriello. The scriptorium produced a wide range of more autonomous works, possibly due to the monastery’s location outside the city walls and to its internal organisation, which was geared heavily towards producing books. This because books were considered to be part of the monastery’s shared patrimony; the Regula Salvatoris written by Bridget of Sweden (1303–1373) also indirectly encouraged books. Sources suggest that the role played by the Paradiso monastery in the production of Florence’s manuscripts should not be underestimated. Indeed, the community wrote and illuminated codices for Franciscan monasteries across Tuscany (e.g. Fiesole and Arezzo) and in other Italian regions; it also purchased codices from the outside world for itself and for others.28 However, we should emphasize that a good number of its codices were produced to expand the monastery’s own library. Furthermore, it has recently been discovered that the nuns continued to copy manuscripts for decades after printing had become firmly established. Although the Paradiso monastery was double the size of San Iacopo di Ripoli, the Regula stated that it had to be run by the abbess, and the monks were to help the nuns. Thus, the Paradiso monastery manuscripts were devised, organised and produced by individual nuns, unlike the procedure at the San Iacopo printing workshop. This theory is reinforced by the fact that no reference is ever made to a supervising monk.29

25

Corsi Masi 2007, 263. This is the colophon at f. 203v: “Finito libro isto. Laus et gloria sit domino Iesu Christo. Iesus. Ego soror Angela indigna serva domini nostri Iesu Christi scripsi manu propria hoc collectarium. Deus sit laudatus et pro me deprecatus.” 27 Bianchi et al. 2002, 133 n.168. 28 Miriello 2007, 14–15. 29 Miriello 2007, 19–20. 26

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Miriello’s corpus of codex cards comprises 81 manuscripts; they have the feel of a compilation and were made by transcribing, simply and economically, the steps and works that would help the community in its daily worship and meditation. The manuscripts are mainly a miscellany of legends of saints, miracles and speeches in vernacular Italian. The occasional decorations adorning these books are simple because in many cases their purpose was to divide the texts. It was therefore perfectly normal for penor brush-stroke initials to be the work of the copiers themselves, or a joint “in-house” effort. Spirituality and devotion were most certainly the bases for this cooperative atmosphere; in my opinion, however, the nuns’ love of their day-to-day work may also have played a major part. For instance, Cleofe, or one of her sister nuns, added a beautiful frame of interwoven plants to a hefty collection of uplifting texts, which she herself copied between 1488 and 1489 (f. 1r, Conv. Soppr. D. I. 1631, National Central Library, Florence). There is one codex, however, that is particularly noteworthy because it is one of the highest forms of autonomous artistic expression to emerge from fifteenth-century Italian nunneries. The Magl. XXXVIII.128 manuscript, also stored at the National Central Library, Florence, contains a series of complete texts on Bridget of Sweden, the inspiration behind the Santa Maria del Paradiso monastery. The manuscript was copied by suor Caterina Peruzzi,30 who, in her subscription, states that she finished her work on November 30, 1458. The nun, who is believed to have been from one of Florence’s wealthiest families,31 may have been the author of the initial L with flourish and gold leaf that depicts a half-bust portrait of Bridget holding a small red cross (f. 1r). The haloed figure is set against a green backdrop, which was once decorated with flowers and stars—only three of these details remain; she is looking straight at the reader and is showing her cross. The flourish on the initial is 30 According to the sources related to the Paradise Cloister, we can establish that she is Caterina, Giovanni Peruzzi’s daughter. She took the veil very young on May 26th, 1426 and died in 1476 at the age of 72. Miriello 2007, 36. This is the colophon: “Finita è la vita e miracogli di sancta Brigida e alquante orationi rivelate da Dio e dalla Vergine Maria a sancta Brigida madre nostra e del reame di Svetia et del domino del re del regno di Norvegia, il quale è nelle parti di setentrione ultimo di tutti regni. Negli anni Domini 1458, ultimo dì di novembre fu xompiuto di scrivere per mano di suor Katerina nel monstero del Paradiso.” This is the translation: “This is the end of the life and miracles of Saint Brigida our mother and mother of the Swedish kingdom and mother of the king of Norway, which is somewhere in the north as the last one between every kingdom. Anno Domini 1485 the writing of this book was finished by Katerina in the Paradise Cloister.” 31 For further information about the Peruzzi’s see: Hunt 1994.

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somewhat stylised and squashed, but is awash with creativity and vivacity. It comprises a long irregular stem, the top half of which is dotted with phytomorphic motifs, including pink, red, green and golden yellow leaves, flowers and interwoven stalks. The bottom half contains a dragon and the face of a man with a light, pen-stroke beard whose nose recalls the one in the portrait of Saint Bridget. The page decoration is completed with a small flourish comprising three circles and two lozenges, today somewhat tarnished, with pen-stroke rays and geometrical motifs. It is almost certain that the illumination was executed at the monastery’s scriptorium, and we cannot ascertain whether it was drawn and painted by Caterina Peruzzi herself or by a sister monastic. This small piece is a fine example of a figurative art that used images for devotional rather than aesthetic purposes; it possesses a sentimental and religious value, as well as the subtle spirituality that characterised the expression and ingenuity of female monastic art. It was also bestowed with a practical creativity designed for personal worship and the spiritual needs of the entire community. During the same period, the north-east Italian region of Veneto also produced some interesting works of art. I will now compare two particular codices. Although very different, these two works are fine practical examples of the relationship between nuns and books in the Veneto region, revealing traces of the women who produced them. In Verona, August 28th, 1472, Veronica, an expert calligrapher and a Benedictine nun at the Santo Spirito monastery, was putting the finishing touches to her vernacular Italian copy of Saint Augustine’s De Civitate Dei. She wrote: Finito il libro di sancto Augustino XII° de civitate Dei et ultimo a laude e reverentia di Dio. Hunc veneranda soror scripsit Veronica librum. Veronae in Sancto Spiritus alme tuo. M°CCCCLXXII die XXVIII augusti. I finished the De Civitate Dei’s XII book of Saint Augustine. It was the last one for the glory and holiness of God and was written by venerable sister Veronica on August 28th, 1472 at Saint Spirit in Verona.

Today, this codex is stored at the Berio Public Library, Genoa under m.r.Cf.2.16. It is adorned with large illuminated initials, embellished with gold and vibrant flourishes in the margins. The community of the Santo Spirito monastery usually commissioned the production of decorated books; in the autumn of 1423, the abbess Beatrice Sparvieri commissioned the priest Giovanni Rasio da Imola to copy a mass-book, and the costs for the illuminations, which were painted by an anonymous Veronese master

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artist, were met by a donor. We do not know who the donor was, although an unidentified coat of arms appears in the book.32 A laurel-leaf frame in the lower margin (f. 12r) of Veronica’s codex suggests that another anonymous illuminator created a space for the coat of arms of a potential donor, although the coat of arms is missing. The illuminator added a range of stunning artwork to the codex to denote its importance. On the same page there is a large, vividly illuminated initial T, which starts Augustine’s work; behind it two turreted cities: one celestial, one earthly. The verso of the folio starts with an initial L containing a scene in which Augustine solemnly blesses two Benedictine nuns, possibly two important members of the Santo Spirito community. The rest of the illuminators work comprises large, imaginatively drawn, but un-illustrated initials that mark the opening of each book. The copy-work Veronica carried out on this manuscript is truly exceptional. Her skill was far superior to that of her contemporary copiers mentioned thus far. The plate inserted before the beginning of the work, between f. 2r and f. 11v, contains copious use of a unique flair that appears in the text on a number of occasions. Veronica often lengthens the stem of some letters in her minute textualis so that she can add tiny profiled heads of women, mainly nuns or nobles; the heads often alternate and are drawn in a courtly style that highlights Veronica’s sophisticated talent. The vernacular Italian De Civitate Dei is embellished with beautiful red and azure filigree initials. At the turn of each page, the decorations become more numerous, as if to emphasise that Veronica’s writing and drawing skills improve as the work unfolds. Veronica embellishes her red and azure initials with pen-stroke flourishes comprising loops that host flowers, leaves and rapid spirals. On f. 112v, the same type of flourish on a red p comes from the mouth of two wild animals with beautifully detailed heads. The same flourish reappears on f. 118v and f. 241v. The most complex embellishment, however, is on f. 194r: a richly interwoven flourish that covers the upper and lower margins, as well as the inter-column. We know for sure that it was the sophisticated pen-strokes of Veronica that decorated the De Civitate Dei in Genoa, thanks to manuscript Vat. Ross. 941 stored at the Vatican Apostolic Library. This codex was also produced at the Santo Spirito monastery, Verona, and it contains a collection of the lives of female saints copied by Sister Scolastica and penilluminated by Veronica, as shown by two inscriptions, one in Latin, the other in vernacular Italian, both on f. 176r:

32

Castiglioni 2011, 92.

110

With Pen or Brush: Traces of Women in Fifteenth-Century Italy Iste liber est monasterii Sancti Spiritus de Verona quem scripsit domina soror Scolastica de Mafeis. 1484. Que obiit die primo mai. 1492. In hora tertie. Cuius anima requiescat in pace; Questo libro si è de la venerabile religiosa madona suor Scolastica di Mafei, el quale scripse de sue mane propria del anno 1484 et madona suor Veronica lo aminiò de penna Monache de Sancto Spiritu. This book is by the venerable nun Madonna Sister Scolastica di Mafei, who wrote it by her own hand in the year 1484 and Madonna Sister Veronica illuminated it by pen. Nuns of the Spirito Santo.

Two years after Veronica had finished this work, another manuscript was made by another woman: the Laud Misc. 485 stored at the Bodleian Library, Oxford. This manuscript was in complete antithesis to De Civitate Dei and its decoration is truly unique. It contains an Apocalypse with commentary in vernacular Veneto by Federico de Renoldo, a Dominican friar and theologian who lived in fourteenth-century Venice. It was copied between 1474 and 1480 by a certain Maria, but we have no information about her social status. We are unable to establish by reading the colophon on f. 366r of the codex whether Maria was a laywoman or a nun, but as it is written in vernacular Veneto, we know she came from this region. She wrote: Laus Deo. In nel mile e quatro çento e setanta quatro (corrected to otanta) fo fato questo libero per man de mi Maria in laude de Dio e de la sua madre e del glorioxo apostolo evençelista miser sam Çuane. Praise to God. During 1474 (corrected to 1480) was made this book by myself, Maria, with my own hands for the glory of God, his Mother and the glorious beloved apostle evangelist Saint John.

An illumination on f. 1r suggests that this manuscript was produced in Venice. The initial P with flourish and the Apostle John writing intently bears a stylistic resemblance to the work of Maestro di Pico, an illuminator from Ferrara who achieved fame in Venice during the last quarter of the fifteenth century.33 Although the manuscript may well be from Venice, we still know little about Maria. We can, however, make a series of educated guesses about her origins. Firstly, we need to look at the genre. The Biblical account of the Apocalypse played an important role in Minorite orders and confraternities; the 33

Bentivoglio Ravasio 2004, 635–42.

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version with the vernacular commentary by the Venetian Dominican monk Federico de Renoldo was quite widespread in fifteenth-century Italy.34 This information enables us to extend our reconstruction of the origins of Maria’s book, and it may trace a path towards the religious movements in fifteenth-century Venice. Third Orders and Confraternities were widespread in Italy at that time.35 In Venice, the Dominican Third Order of Penitents, established by Tommaso Antonio da Siena (circa 1350–1434), also known as Tommaso Caffarini,36 was a popular movement. Despite the hostility of the Republic of Venice, the female branch of this movement was long-lived–it was suppressed only in 180637–firmly establishing itself in the decades following 1405. The women joining the movement were often wealthy widows, and they led a communal life in places that stored manuscripts and relics.38 It is therefore likely that the Penitents used books for worship, and we cannot rule out that women copied manuscripts here, as also happened in contemporary religious movements with similar social objectives influenced by Devotio Moderna in Belgium and Netherlands. When we take into account the religious and social situation of fifteenthcentury Venice and we combine it with Federico de Renoldo’s vernacular commentary on Maria’s Apocalypse, I strongly believe that the book was produced by the Penitents in Venice or by a similar community. My belief is not only based on the cultural coincidences surrounding the book, but also on its laborious, irregular and uninhibited writing style, as well as on the naïve and informal nature of the illustrations, which are full of devotion. The entire work is far removed from the other books copied or illustrated by the women we have examined herein. A glance at the first of the seven angels sent to pour the bowls of God’s wrath on f. 259r is a good example of the book’s unique decoration. In both this and the other illuminations,39 it appears that Maria pen-drew the figures as she was writing the words, possibly also partly inking them, so that she could visualise some of the Apocalypse characters. Laud. Misc. 485, however, is more than just a source of interpretation or a unique work of art; it is also a historical account, a rare trace left directly and autonomously by a fifteenth-century Venetian woman.

34

Leonardi 1998, 43. Penco 1984, 4–6. 36 Sorelli 1984, 3–21. 37 Fois 1989, 166–67. 38 Sorelli 1984, 98–101. 39 Other similar parts of decoration made by Maria can be found at: ff. 25r; 129v; 137v; 177v. 35

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To conclude, this overview of women and their books suggests that the fifteenth century, a golden age for manuscript production, is ripe for more detailed investigation, especially since the majority of colophons date back to this century and there are so many ends to tie up. Nor should we undervalue the fact that the names in the colophons are almost always those of the copiers. Not even Veronica, whose pen-strokes we know decorated her own book, stated that she was the illuminator; this task was left to a sister nun in another book. Eventually, a general observation on the artistic content of the manuscripts is that the works themselves were rare and, even if they often have little stylistic quality, nevertheless, they are an invaluable patrimony of first-hand, expressive and creative accounts that reveal one of the many roles of women in history.40

Bibliography Bentivoglio Ravasio, B. 2004. “Maestro del Plinio di Giovanni Pico della Mirandola.” In Dizionario Biografico dei miniatori italiani, secoli IX– XVI, edited by M. Bollati, 642–53. Milan: Sylvestre Bonnard. Bianchi, S., A. Di Domenico, R. Di Loreto, G. Lazzi, M. Palma, P. Panedigrano, S. Pelle, C. Pinzauti, P. Pirolo, A. M. Russo, M. Sambucco Hammoud, P. Scapecchi, I. Truci, and S. Zamponi. 2002. I manoscritti datati del fondo Conventi Soppressi della Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze, I manoscritti datati d’Italia 5. Florence: Sismel. Carraro, G., ed. 1997. Il «Liber» di S. Agata di Padova (1304). Fonti per la storia della terraferma veneta 11. Padova: Editrice Antenore. Castiglioni, G. 2011. “Primo Quattrocento, il Tardogotico.” In La parola illuminata. Per una storia della miniatura a Verona e a Vicenza tra Medioevo e Età Romanica, edited by G. Castiglioni, 91–137. Verona: Fondazione Cariverona. Council Library of Bagno in Ripoli. 1983. Chiese, monasteri, ospedali del piano e delle colline di Ripoli. Firenze: Salimbeni. Corsi Masi, F. 2007. “Qualche riflessione sul libro d’ore mediceo per Lisabetta Sassetti.” Rivista di Storia della Miniatura 11: 251–66. De Robertis, T. and R. Miriello. 2006. I manoscritti datati d’Italia della Biblioteca Riccardiana di Firenze, vol. III. I manoscritti datati d’Italia 14. Firenze: Sismel. Derolez, A. 1995. “Pourquoi les copistes signaient-ils leurs manuscrits?” In Scribi e Colofoni: Le sottoscrizioni di Copisti dalle origini 40

For any question, don’t hesitate to contact me: [email protected].

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all’avvento della stampa, Atti del seminario di Erice, X Colloquio del Comité International de paléographie latine, 23–28 ottobre 1993, edited by E. Condello and G. De Gregorio, 37–56. Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo. Donello, A., G. M. Florio, N. Giovè, L. Granata, G. Canova Mariani, P. Massalin, A. Mazzon, F. Toniolo, and S. Zamponi 1998. I manoscritti datati della Biblioteca del Seminario Vescovile di Padova, Biblioteche e Archivi 2. Firenze: Sismel. Fois, M. 1989. “I religiosi: decadenza e fermenti innovatori.” In La chiesa di Venezia tra Medioevo ed età moderna, edited by G. Vian, 147–82. Venezia: Studium cattolico veneziano. Fortunati V. and C. Leonardi. 2004. Pregare con le immagini. Il breviario di Caterina Vigri. Firenze: Sismel. Frosinini C. and G. Buzzanca. 2008. “ex-Convento di San Jacopo a Ripoli.” Opificio delle Pietre Dure. http://www.opificiodellepietredure.it/ index.php?it/668/ex-conventodi-san-jacopo-a-ripoli (7 September 2013). Giovè Marchioli, N. 2013. “La scrittura e i libri di Caterina Vigri.” In Dalla corte al chiostro. Santa Caterina Vigri e i suoi scritti, 111–32. Assisi: Edizioni Porziuncola. Giovè Marchioli, N., L. Granata, M. Pantarotto, G. Mariani Canova, and F. Toniolo. 2007. I manoscritti medievali di Vicenza e provincia. Biblioteche e Archivi 7. Firenze: Sismel. Hamburger, J., S. Marti, and P. Marx. 2008. “The Time of Orders, 1200– 1500. An introduction.” In Crown and Veil, female monasticism from the fifth to the fifteenth centuries, edited by J. Hamburger and S. Marti, 41–75. New York: Columbia University Press. Hunt, E. 1994. The Medieval Super-Companies: A Study of the Peruzzi Company of Florence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leonardi, L. 1998. “Versioni e revisioni dell’Apocalisse in volgare. Obiettivi e metodi di una ricerca.” In La Bibbia in italiano tra Medioevo e Rinascimento, Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Firenze, Certosa del Galluzzo, 8–9 novembre 1996, edited by L. Leonardi, 37– 92. Firenze: Sismel. Miglio, L. 2008a. “Alfabetizzazione e organizzazione scolastica nella Toscana del XIV secolo.” In Governare l’alfabeto. Donne, scrittura e libri nel Medioevo, 35–56. Roma: Viella. ʊ. 2008b “A mulieribus conscriptos arbitror.” In Governare l’alfabeto. Donne, scrittura e libri nel Medioevo, 173–224. Roma: Viella.

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ʊ. 2008c. “Lettere dal monastero. Scrittura e cultura scritta nei conventi femminili toscani del ‘400.” In Governare l’alfabeto. Donne, scrittura e libri nel Medioevo, 103–31. Roma: Viella. Miglio, L. and M. Palma. 2000. Donne e cultura scritta nel Medioevo. http://edulet.unicas.it/womediev/ (20 July 2013). Miriello, R. 2007. I manoscritti del Monastero del Paradiso a Firenze, Biblioteche e Archivi 16. Florence: Sismel. Penco, G. 1984. “Vita monastica e società nel Quattrocento italiano.” In Riforma della Chiesa, cultura e spiritualità nel Quattrocento, Atti del Convegno per il VI centenario della nascita di Ludovico Barbo (1382– 1443), Padova, Venezia, Treviso, 19–24 settembre 1982, edited by G. F. Trolese, 3–41. Cesena: Centro storico benedettino italiano. Reynhout, L. 2006. Formules latines de colophons. Vol. I. Turnhout: Brepols. Rouse M. A. and R. H. Rouse 1988. Cartolai, Illuminators and Printers in Fifteenth-Century Italy. The Evidence of the Ripoli Press. Los Angeles: California University Press. Siclari, A. 1999. “L’apologo del Barlaam e Joasaph e la letteratura agiografica degli exempla.” In Il Battistero di Parma: iconografia, iconologia, fonti letterarie, edited by G. Schianchi, 351–73. Milan: Vita e Pensiero. Sorelli, F. 1984. La santità imitabile. “Leggenda di Maria da Venezia” di Tommaso da Siena. Venezia: Deputazione di storia patria per le Venezie. Thomas, A. 2003. Art and Piety in the Female Religious Communities of Renaissance Italy. Iconography, Space and the Religious Woman’s Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Valenzano, G. 2012. “Donne negate: le artiste nel Medioevo.” In Le plaisir de l’art du Moyen Age: commande, production et réception de l’œuvre d’art. Mélanges en hommage a Xavier Barral i Altet, 252–57. Paris: Picard.

PART III: SOCIO-ECONOMIC ISSUES

URBAN MARGINALITY: OTHER, ITERATION AND MATERIALITY. ARCHAEOLOGIES OF URBAN LIFE AND DEATH IN AN ARGENTINEAN SETTING (VILLA MUÑECAS, SAN MIGUEL DE TUCUMÁN) MARTINA HJERTMAN AND PER CORNELL UNIVERSITY OF GOTHENBURG (SWEDEN)

1. Invisibility and unveiling Addressing questions of invisibility we should not only think about the remote past, but also about contemporary settings. There are social phenomena which exist in front of our eyes in certain ways but are still not truly verbalized or well-known, and there are other features which are consciously hidden from us in a direct physical sense. In this article we briefly address two cases, taken from the same physical environment in the city of Tucumán, Argentina. The discussion is mainly about theory, and to some extent about method, while the empirics are merely illustrative in this case. When addressing the physical aspect of a human environment, traditional research in art-history or archaeology, for example, has often chosen to dedicate the main effort to the monumental. Most of the famous cultural heritage sites of the world mainly display monuments. This is well-known, and there has been some debate over this issue, but the main focus still lays on the monumental. Trying to go beyond this limitation is not to discard the importance of the monumental, still less of the monuments themselves, but is a necessity if we want to gain a fuller image of the past and the present. An archaeologist promoting this way of work is Steve Roskams. He believes that archaeologists should, and have the potential to, detect marginalized people in systems of exploitation, by examining marginal areas–whether in the countryside or in a city.1 Other archaeologists 1

Roskams 2006.

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studying marginal city areas are for example Alan Mayne and Tim Murray.2 Throughout history, certain segments of the population, social groups or larger entities seem to have left only small or few traces reminding us of their existence, whether it is physical archaeological traces or written documents. This invisibility might seem inevitable and any effort at making it non-invisible may seem futile. We still believe there are important issues and both interesting possibilities and complex problems related to this field. The French philosopher Jacques Derrida dedicated much of his work to this topic, and we will come back to him later. Taking the issue of “invisibility” seriously is a first step in breaking a discursive invisibility and marginality. One important observation here is, of course, that invisibility is related both to what we cannot see, despite having it in front of our eyes so to say, and to what is actually hidden from our eyes. Most human activities leave some kind of trace. The problem resides in our ability to get at these traces, to actually identify them as such. At times, when we have succeeded in removing the veil, the fact that what laid behind it was not seen is impossible to understand. The process of “unveiling” is, of course, tricky and complex. It must imply an effort to try to identify and document what may be there of remains and/or information. The archaeological discipline might be one among other suitable ways to identify and document “forgotten cultures” and social groups. Better methods for identifying the scarce physical remains that are left behind is one of the requisites, but also more in depth theoretical thinking is important. But, in starting such a process, in doing the unveiling, a kind of new knowledge is created, which often has effects on a social and political situation. It is often a question of both “good” and “bad” effects, and there are almost ethical problems involved. Who will benefit from the unveiling, and who will not? For example, the general positive effect may in certain instances be linked to a negative effect in the area of the case study. We will briefly touch these problems, which are not “residual,” but rather quite important. They should not be forgotten. To develop our argument we will start looking a little bit closer at a case of marginalized squatters, “invisible” in the official context. Introducing the theoretical problems involved in looking at the other, we will discuss this concept briefly. The case is from Tucumán in north-west Argentina.

2

Mayne and Murray 2001.

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2. The Other and the post-colonial debate In the critique of “the post-colonial,” that multifaceted field, both Gayatri Spivak and Homi Bhabha have been influential. However, they have developed different positions, which it is interesting to contrast. In her famous article Can the Subaltern Speak?,3 Spivak argues about the impossibility of the subaltern communicating with the Empire, in the British realm. Even the dominant groups in a colony had difficulties in being “listened to.” Spivak mentions several examples, and among them the case of a woman in India in the 1920s, Bhuvaneswari Bhaduri, who wished to use suicide as a political weapon; after her suicide she was “betrayed” even by her closest relatives, and her project thus failed. There is thus a kind of discourse, almost epistemic, which blocks any possibility of communication from the subaltern to the centre of power. If a subaltern succeeds in communicating, it is because he or she has stopped being a subaltern: the subaltern cannot speak. In this article (on which much could be said, and on which this text could extend substantially, both in “positive” and “negative” ways, but that is slightly outside the argument here), Spivak comments on her general framework, arguing that she has not worked in a “deconstructive” frame, although being influenced by Derrida; and that she prefers his approach to that of Foucault and Deleuze. Derrida is, in Spivak’s reading, much more sensitive to the problem of the Other, and to its “complex” presence/restance inside us. There is, for Derrida, no solution in a complete assimilation, making the “colony” assimilate to become Britain, neither in Britain becoming India. Homi Bhabha, on the other hand, has tried to construe Derrida in another way.4 With the term “third space of enunciation” he discusses the space in which people who operate in distinct discourses can communicate. The “third space” is a field in which effects are observed and used; there is no need for “true understanding.” The term “Negroes,” for example, long used by whites to name a category of “Blacks,” became, when used collectively as an auto-denomination by “the blacks” a scaring, horrifying term, which made white people run away. “We, the negroes” was a sort of productive use of the term, which had not been intended by the Whites. The “third space” is to Bhabha a field of “negotiation.” Evidently, it may be highly conflictual, and we would, perhaps, stress that aspect more than Bhabha. Bhabha is not very explicit about whether “space” may be a physical, tangible location: it seems he used the term mainly in a 3 4

Spivak 1999. Bhabha 1994.

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more “metaphorical” sense. Neither Spivak nor Bhabha uses a very satisfactory argument, but when contrasting them interesting possibilities and questions arise. Spivak stressed the “impossibility” of communication, while Bhabha discussed the existence of a “Third Space of enunciation” as a field opening for some kind of communication. However, the temporal and spatial aspects of the problem ought to be addressed in more depth. The concepts of Other, or the Other, or Others, have become rather frequent in certain types of academic texts over the last twenty years or so, not least in the debate on the so-called “post-colonial.” The terms have been used in varied ways and the discussion is at times rather confusing. In French autre is a common word, like other in English, while autrui is more of a concept, referring to something different, in a more abstract way. The translator is faced with a difficulty; Alan Bass, for example, when translating Writing and Difference, chose to call autre “other” and autrui “Other,” which was, perhaps, not an altogether happy solution.5 The difficulty on this point may, actually, have to do with the complexity of the issues involved. In certain philosophical, psychological and psychoanalytic writings, the term “other” (autre) has been used to denominate what is common, “normality.” Such a use can be identified in Lacan, for example.6 The subject develops and grows, according to Lacan, in relation to the other, which is, in this case, the “normality” (e.g. language, structural patterns) within a given “Symbolic Order.” In later debate there has been a shift. Tzvetan Todorov, for example, in his book on the encounter between Europe and the Americas, uses the term “other” (autre), even in the title, to describe what is not known, what is “encountered.”7 There is a shift towards using the concept of “other” to describe what is looked at as different, rather than normal. This significant shift in the use of the concept is important and should be kept in mind. In 1964 Derrida published an article called Violence and Metaphysics: Essay on the Thinking of Emmanuel Levinas (reprinted in Writing and Difference8), in which the terms autre and autrui occur frequently. It is fairly evident that Derrida adopts/transforms these concepts from his reading of Levinas (and it is relevant to mention that Derrida also adopted/transformed the concept of “trace” from Levinas). It seems that it is not easy for the reader to be sure as to what the French philosopher Levinas meant when using the term autre on different occasions–remember the 5

Derrida 2001, 397, n. 6. Cf. e.g. Cornell 2007. 7 Todorov 1982. 8 Reprinted in Derrida 1967, 117–228. 6

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varied uses of “other” discussed above. This doubt, this uncertainty, is rather intriguing, and should be kept in mind when reading the following, since it may give yet another “piece” or trace to the discussion. However, Derrida has great difficulties in accepting large parts of Levinas’ argument. A major point has to do with the concept of Ego as the same, and as a coherent “one.” Derrida looks at this as yet another example of philosophy of the absolute presence. Like so many Western philosophers, Levinas sees speech and seeing as prime senses. They are pure and non-destructive. In looking “other” in the face and listening, there is a possibility of the metaphysical, the truly human encounter, according to Levinas.9 To Derrida there is no time/space outside “history,” and thus no horizon for an “unpolluted” same or an “unpolluted” other, no origin of meaning “before history.”10 Further, this “history” must, to Derrida, always be contextual, it cannot be completely lifted from its teleological or eschatological horizon.11 Thus, if the term metaphysics should be used in this context, contrary to Levinas’ pure metaphysics, it would imply an economy and the possibility of the existence of violence.12 It is only in this economy, by its opening, that access to the other will be determined.13 This most general economy in Derrida’s conceptualization is the différance.14 Derrida celebrates Other, and speaks of the importance of recognising an event (or events) to come, events of Other, which we will not expect, which we will not have calculated or dreamt of.15 This point is something of a cornerstone to Derrida. In a somewhat different argument, but not altogether different (remember the problem in distinguishing other and Other), he also speaks of spacing as “the irreducibility of the other.” That is, spacing is what it is and in spacing there is other, it can never be reduced to “me.” Derrida even goes as far as to write that “matter” is radical alterity, or the absolute exterior, and that this materialist insistence is necessary.16 We try then to summarize Derrida’s position. Questions of Other are prominent features in Derrida’s texts. He tries to travel between a notion of the importance of recognizing that an Other event may come, which we 9

Levinas 1961, 123–26, 132–42. Derrida 1967, 185. 11 Ibid., 186. 12 Ibid., 173. 13 Ibid., 160. 14 Derrida 1965; 1966. 15 Derrida 2000. 16 Derrida 1972, 55–6. 10

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will not expect or wait for; and at the same time he underscores the importance of the general text and the impossibility of a “same,” entirely closed in itself. All of us have some Other in us, of which we are little or not at all aware. Radical alterity can thus already be in place, residing, in ourselves, it does not only arrive from the “outside.” Already in the articles from 1963, Force et Signification parts I and II, Derrida focuses on the question of the other, almost in theatrical terms: .

Excavating within the other toward the other in which the same seeks its vein and the true gold of its phenomenon. Submission in which the same can always lose (itself). Niedergang. Untergang. But the same is nothing before taking the risk of losing (itself). For the fraternal other is not in the peace of what is called intersubjectivity, but in the work and the peril of interrogation; the other is not certain within the peace of the response in which two affirmations espouse each other, but is called up in the night by the excavating work of interrogation.17

3. Villa Muñecas The Villa Muñecas is a socioeconomic marginal residential area on the outskirts of the city San Miguel de Tucumán in north-west Argentina (Fig. 1). The area is often referred to as a villa miseria, the Argentinean label for a slum area. The neighbourhood covers approximately 2.5 by 1 km. However, the exact physical outer limits of this area are hard to define: the inhabitants’ perceptions of these limits do not always correspond to the geographic and cartographic ones.18 Villa Muñecas was created over 50 years ago for workers at the railroad and train station. During the 1990s President Carlos Menem applied certain neoliberal ideas and privatized and sold out state companies like the national airline Aerolineas Argentinas and the phone company Entel. Also the railway system was dismantled and divided between buyers. The result was a collapse of a functioning national rail network more or less overnight.19 For rail workers in Tucumán, for instance, this was a hard blow. The Villa Muñecas area completely changed character. Unemployed workers soon started to collect rails, telegraph cables and train parts to sell second hand (Fig. 2). The train yard area was also cleared of shrubberies and formally illegal squatters started to establish sheds. Eventually, people from the countryside moved in to the Villa Muñecas (sector III) in search of permanent jobs. This sector III has 17

English version Derrida 2001, 4, translation Alan Bass. Cf. Qviström et al. 2006. 19 Keen and Haynes 20006. 18

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been studiedd by a group of social worrkers and sociiologists from m the University of T Tucumán (notably Lorena Cabreras, C UN NT20). The infformation from their sstudies is highhly interesting g and valuablee. We have visited v the area and addded certain personal observ vations, but w we still largely rely on the work of these Argentiinean scholarss. In statistics from 2001, th his sector is said to haave around 20000 inhabitantts and around 500 homes. The T average age waas quite low, around 35–40 0 years. The three sectorss in Villa Muñecas haave somewhatt different chaaracters. Secto tor I has moree inhabitants with staable jobs withhin the municiipality or statee. Overall, tho ough, it is heterogenouus in characteer, and families live on diifferent socioeeconomic levels with varied accesss to education n. Families in sector II express their suspicion off unknown neeighbours and want to movve. Inhabitantss in every sector distruust residents frrom the other areas, but cloose family relaations and social netwoorks are factorrs that keep many m from leavving their hom mes.

Fig. 1. The city San Miguuel de Tucum mán and approxximate location n of Villa Muñecas, secctor III.

Today, m most of the peeople in sectorr III have inseecure jobs, wiithout the benefits thatt accompany permanent job bs. Many of tthem work ass seasonal workers outtside the area, for example by harvestingg lemons. Oth her people work more locally in infformal jobs, collecting, sort rting and reselling garbage. Someoone sells foodd within the area. a In 2001, some person ns worked 20

Cabreras 20003.

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in the goverrnment’s sociaal programmees, only availaable for a few w. Characteristic of thhe area is the lack l of private institutions like private education, e health and ssafety installaations. Services like electriicity and garb bage collecting are nnot working and a there is no sewer or tooilet facility. Police P are generally prresent only inn neighbouring g areas and thhe inhabitantss feel forgotten and aabandoned by the State.

Fig. 2. Remaaining railway tracks in Villla Muñecas. Phhoto: Martina Hjertman, 2007.

From peersonal observvation we have noted that tthe houses in sector III are mainly bbuilt from matterial collected d from the strreet, such as cardboard, corrugated ttin-plates, plastic and wood d (Fig. 3). So me are made partly or entirely from m bricks or cooncrete slabs, and many aree in a permaneent building process.. The land is unequally disstributed amonng the inhabiitants and there are alsso social diffeerences within n the area, both th in power an nd economy. Sector IIII consists off families thatt know almosst everyone, and a this is why social aand material exchanges e are more commoon and last oveer time in this sector. T The family situation in secctor III does nnot follow so much the norm of nucclear familiess, but consistss of large andd complex ho ouseholds and family networks, disstributed in diifferent housees that are clo osely tied together. Fuurthermore, many m househollds are matriffocal. The adult males often work elsewhere, if they are sttill active woorkers. The matrifocal m

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households give the enviironment a disstinct social ccharacter, as compared c to the norm in the rest of the t city.

Fig. 3. A house in Villa Muññecas. Photo: Martina M Hjertmaan, 2007.

4. Urban ma arginality Urban m marginality is a problem and d phenomenonn which mightt in a way be considereed nothing new w, but a probllem that todayy seems to exp pand violently. Moree and more peeople are now living in citiees, and also in n slums or unplanned ccity districts, with w no infrasttructures or baasic services. Statistics show that evvery third cityy dweller livess in slumlike conditions.21 An accurate numberr is of course hard to reach h because of ddifficulties in deciding on what exaactly is an urbban area or a slum. Howevver, urban pov verty is a major modeern problem. In I many parts of the world,, “slumificatio on” is actually muchh more rapid than planned d urbanizationn.22 Another important i trait of the slum is the lack l of accuraate data. Desppite a lot of academic writings on this kind of haabitat, and sev veral official rreports and journalism, the actual life and physical environmen nt is often litttle known com mpared to other parts oof the cities. Mayne M and Murray M write th that a stereoty ypical image of slum m got a breaakthrough durring the ninetteenth centurry, which thereafter haas distorted thhose different social forms and social sittuations it 21 22

Cf. Davis 22006. Davis 20066.

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referred to, and to some extent become perpetuated through the work of historians.23 One could consider this as the “hiding” or “invisibilizing” of urban variation and marginality. The term “slum” is in itself complicated, since what is actually a “slum” is hard to define. There is no homogenous slum culture or society, independent of time and space.24 What “slum” is, is also relative to some extent: what in one city or country is considered slum, is not in another city or country. Local variations are also large and make it impossible to define universal criteria. Operational criteria as those of the UN Habitat, have captured some physical attributes of these areas, but have difficulties to incorporate the social dimensions of slums.25 There are nevertheless similarities in the experiences of inhabitants in different slums around the globe. Inhabitants in different slums are often working as black labour in service and low-income markets without the benefits and security of regular jobs. Many live in unhealthy or hazardous environments, in houses that are under constant risk of being torn down, and are furthermore (morally) stigmatized because of where they live. Paradoxically enough, these informal areas are a highly visible expression of urban poverty and marginality, in front of our eyes but yet often discursively invisible. They are nothing new, but at the same time still largely hidden from discourse. Despite the fact that there have been slums for a hundred years or even more in many cities, slum is often considered a temporary situation, soon to disappear. These kinds of unofficially created areas are from official points of view often not considered a “real” part of their cities, often ignored in discussion and constantly outside official versions of national or local history. In a sense, the term “slum” is just naming what has to be avoided, what is not official. The Argentinean scholar Gino Germani in 1980 discussed marginality in terms of being a non-participant or even excluded from the main social functions of the non-marginal population, and this is actually a major characteristic of marginality. Amin26 has stressed the lack of infrastructure and basic social benefits for many of the marginal populations. But this does not mean that marginal people do not form part of a larger society, since they often, on the contrary, perform highly relevant and important activities for the non-

23

Mayne and Murray 2001, 1. Gaskell 1990, 8; 14. 25 Cf. United Nations Human Settlements Program 2003. 26 Amin 2010. 24

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marginal populations.27 The marginal population is allowed to have certain functions, while being largely excluded from state functions and benefits.

5. Socioeconomic marginality and invisibility Whether we are talking about contemporary or historical examples of marginality, it is of importance to stress that marginality is about relationships. Invisibility or marginality is not always easily described, neither easily detected through archaeological and historical research. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the sociological definition of marginality can be “an individual or social group: isolated from or not conforming to the dominant society or culture; (perceived as being) on the edge of a society or social unit; belonging to a minority group (freq. with implications of consequent disadvantage).”28 In general, marginality is perceived as what is outside the prevailing dominant norms of how to live, how to act, what to look like etc. It is also recognized in the lack of participation or exclusion from certain social functions. However, this non-normality does not concord with a statistical reality. The marginal “slum” is not necessarily always a minority. Slum inhabitants might be marginal in socioeconomic and cultural terms, but not marginal in the statistics. In some cities, slum is so common it is getting a “normal” thing. Elite groups may very well perceive themselves as exclusive marginal groups in their society. Their opportunities of societal influence, economic power and so on is however striking, and therefore we should not mistake them with the kind of urban marginality we try to discuss in this text. As we can see, it is not possible to exactly narrow down marginality into only one simple definition. In general terms it is something that is created in relation to other groups and norms in a given context or for structural reasons. Modern marginality is, to a large extent, a matter of poverty. Poverty is to be understood both in economic terms, and as exclusion from many different social contexts and functions. It means being invisible in various senses, lacking a voice in cultural, political and social contexts, being partially illiterate, not having access to infrastructure or schools etc. In some cases it might be useful to think of these poor urban marginalized as a kind of urban subalterns–using Spivak’s term. The subaltern has no “voice” whatsoever in society, and this could be compared to people who are marginalized in every sense. The term is developed in literatary theory and may not be completely transferable to archeological discussion. We will 27 28

Cf. Engqvist and Lantz 2008. Oxford English Dictionary, s. v. “marginality.”

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anyhow argue that in one way the physical evidence, the archaeological material, may function as a “voice” through which “invisibilized” and marginalized people and cultures may be recognized, “unveiled” so to say.

6. Physical frames of marginality Urban marginality will take on different forms depending on time, social environment, political contexts etc., but many areas today as well as in the past share similarities. Villa Muñecas is just one example of how socio-economic urban marginality may take a physical form, but we must insist on its variability, and on our lack of knowledge of these variations. From the early modern period to modern and contemporary times, we can detect some characteristics in the way social marginality appears in physical settlements. Of course, as mentioned earlier, one settlement will never be an exact copy of another; a lot of different factors such as time, space, different political and socio-economic contexts, natural environments, climate, social innovation and so on interact in determining, shaping and changing the settlement. Some distinctive traits, however, enable us to formulate two different scenarios of how marginality may appear. One should not consider them as strict categories but rather as working tools, thus facilitating archaeological work with the issues of invisibility and marginality. A first possible scenario we refer to as “physical enclaves.” These enclaves can show up at different places; either as enclaves within a city, like a whole sector for example a slum, or as separate enclaves located outside urban areas (that may turn urban themselves eventually). Villa Muñecas would be an example of this first scenario, and jungle settlements of runaway slaves (often called maroons or quilombos) are examples of separate physical enclaves. The types of separate physical enclaves are at times situated in remote areas, in order to avoid official control (for instance by plantations). From an archaeological point of view they are also often difficult to find, but when identified still tangible and visually distinguished as separate entities.29 These separate enclaves are mainly created outside of or parallel to the official city plan, which then transforms them into something unexpected and unintended. These kinds of enclaves are frequently referred to as informal areas. They often lack infrastructure and social services and are not acknowledged as a “real” part of the city life. The marginal urban populations are others to a city norm. However, while squatters often settle in areas outside the regulated city plans, marginal 29

Menezes Ferreira, forthcoming.

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slum enclaves are also relatively common inside the planned city cores of today. Such areas inside the city centre, dominated by marginal populations, become peripheral, precisely through the expanding slums and informal areas. In another possible scenario, the socio-economically marginal groups are settled in a way not as obvious or visible as the separate enclaves. Here, they exist within more mixed or wealthy environments, for instance in middle class neighbourhoods or in certain palace environments. These houses and environments are more commonly associated with higher social strata and wealthier people, but within them people from different social segments live and work. Servants, housemaids, craftsmen and kitchen staff amongst others could all have been living their life in these kinds of environments. Of course, the existence of these people is not a secret for their employers, and their work can also be highly visible throughout the city space. Nonetheless, even though poorer people may perform basic practical tasks they can, again paradoxically enough, still be invisible in an official sense. There is however the possibility for archaeology to detect and discuss their possible material remains and bring more light to their lives and stories. Urban marginality, whether social or physical, can be found throughout history. It is not only restricted to the early modern and modern periods, but seems to be an important and often overlooked element of these periods. During early modern times, a new kind of a more holistic city planning spread throughout Europe and its colonies. Some thoughts never left the stage of ideas and became utopian literature and drawings, while other ideas were executed in large-scale projects–either as completely new established cities or as ideas implemented on older city cores and structures. Interestingly, the utopian society was often imagined as a city, and this in a time when most people actually were living in the countryside. We argue that the idea of the utopian place and city planning is in some way connected to the creation of marginality. Visualising or planning the ideal city also means a selection, where certain physical aspects of the city and not at least certain persons or groups of people, are considered unwanted and not belonging to the ideal society. In this way, it is interesting how utopian texts, even Thomas More in his Utopia, expected and almost planned for marginal, poor and unwanted people, when having the possibility to imagine a perfect society without social differences or poverty. Modern perceptions of ideal cities have changed since when the early modern utopic cities were planned or built. However, large portions of these early modern ideas still affect not only our way of thinking the city, but also, in a more physical sense, how we live in our cites. A lot of mod-

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ern cities are still planned on the basis of early modern, Renaissance street grids for instance. The urban place is constituted on the use of old themes, of layers of time, not only physically but also as ideas. In this way, what is constantly repeated in space or thought will have persistence, while what is constantly excluded and not selected, intended or unintended, will remain invisible. The use of some basic themes could help us explain and visualise this a bit more.

7. Iteration–invisibilizing marginality There are many different causes or reasons to the expansion of slums or informal settlements. In a wider perspective, there are larger socioeconomic processes at work. When it comes to their otherness and their “invisibility,” these must also be explained through several such general socio-economic processes and cultural responses to such processes. But one particular aspect, or field, which reinforces the invisibility has again to do with the lack of inclusion or participation in official society (and thus also in official history) and the way certain traits are included in the cultural heritage while others are excluded. When trying to analyse changes and continuities in urban space over time, and to catch ideas of planning and grades of connection to the past, some useful concepts arise. First we would like to emphasize the difference between smaller, continuous changes in the physical organization of the city–which always occurs in a city–and larger, more dramatic changes–that modify the basic urban structure–that we call “permutations.” Clear and manifesting breaks against on-going traditions can have part in these different kinds of changes and permutations. Another useful concept has to do with repetitions, were one form of repetition is the actual continuity: the continuous use of a given space in more or less the same way. Another kind of repetition, but more complex, is “iteration.” We use the concept of iteration in the sense given to it by the French philosopher Jacques Derrida. He referred to iteration as a term describing the intended or unintended copying or borrowing of something that already exists. In case of an urban context, such things could be certain buildings or architectural styles. The copying is however not entirely successful. The same raw materials might be hard to get, people no longer have access to specialized craftsmen and architects, techniques might have changed, knowledge may be lost etc.; hence, the copy is created and situated in a different context and therefore it gets new meanings and functions. The “iterated,” then, will not be a strict replica, copy or repetition, but instead in some senses something different to what it set out to imitate. An exam-

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ple of iteration could be some Italian fascist architecture between 1922– 1944, which intended to imitate antique building style but also exceeded it in grandeur. Another interesting concept is “connection,” by which we mean the linking of social entities from the past to the present, through closeness in space for instance, to existing physical environments or certain buildings. Explicit examples of connection could be Christian churches in Rome, which were built inside temples, for instance San Lorenzo in Miranda, built in the antique Temple of Antonius and Faustina, in the Forum Romanum. When analysing actions in the city using the concepts of iteration and connection, it is easy to see that these are not always separated, but integrated processes. The urban context is largely related to the past, throughout iteration and connection to older buildings and traditions. Also in larger change and planning the new, older elements are iterated.30 The processes of iteration also imply a selection, in which certain parts of history are stressed and other excluded and denied. The iteration of certain aspects, or the lack of iteration of other aspects, might therefore imply concealment as much as an emphasis. In this way marginality might be reinforced or made more permanent, and marginal city areas and groups are made invisible in their contemporary society and in the writing of history. Iteration, connection or breaks against traditions in architecture, city environments or certain buildings may occur at different times and be the result of different (political) agendas. Marginality and invisibility, therefore, could affect different social collectives at different moments. At some point Christian churches might be favoured in the city space, while at other moments their function and physical dimensions might be concealed actively or unconsciously through an emphasis on other buildings or features, religious or non-religious. Various kinds of concealments, or the opposite, the insistence on certain traits, i.e. the iteration, connection or break in certain parts of a city, are large processes, which affect the design, accessibility and layout of the entire city space. The constant non-selection of some aspects and iteration of others in the making of the city and its physical dimension, gives results in the actual physical city space. The physical process of non-iteration in the built environment is a major factor in sustaining marginality.

30

Cornell and Hjertman 2013.

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8. Invisibility and violence A common perception of marginal and unofficial city parts is their temporary character, and the idea that they may disappear by just removing their physical settlement. There are numbers of examples when unofficially created areas have been removed through violent acts: homes cleared off with bulldozers and even inhabitants moved and dumped in adjacent cities. Such violent acts, of course, do not permanently remove the problem of social marginality and poverty. Unofficial settlements are a symptom of bigger problems. Populations in these kinds of areas will simply relocate somewhere else, if ever their houses are torn down; new generations of marginal populations will emerge if the general problems are not solved. When the land of the marginal settlement is considered economically or politically valuable (for organizing Olympic Games, for example) the inhabitants are facing the risk of becoming homeless.31 Even several generations of squatters living in the same spot are often expelled. Next to the Villa Muñecas sector III, a middle class area has recently been created, and the areas are divided only by a gravel road (Fig. 4). A road to the middle class area is also under construction right through the sector III, where houses with families, some who had lived there for twenty years, have been expelled. Some of the demolitions and treatments are justified through calling the areas and its populations a safety risk. While they often exhibit larger degrees of association with crimes than other parts of the city, this is perhaps also a symptom, and the general stigmatization of larger groups is not a good strategy to address this kind of criminality. French sociologist Loïc Wacquant refers to this in his extensive studies, terming it “punishing the poor,” and links it to neo-liberal politics.32

9. Invisibilizing violence: El Pozo de Vargas Pozo de Vargas is an abandoned well located next to the area of Villa Muñecas, Tucumán (Fig. 5). From the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was used to collect water for the railway engines. One night during the period of the military junta in Argentina (1976–1983), some inhabitants of Villa Muñecas saw trucks coming in and filling the well with bricks lying around the nineteenth century station area. Some eyewitnesses also saw human bodies being dumped in the Pozo, before it was filled with bricks. For many years, the Pozo was left untouched. At the beginning of the 31 32

Cf. Harvey 2005; Davis 2006. Wacquant 2009.

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2000s a foreensic archaeollogical excavaation started inn the Pozo33 which w was now seen ass crime scene, guarded and d protected wiith fence. Thee remains of several inndividuals weere found durring the excavvations. Thro ough their work, the arrchaeologists (most of them m students at the time) and d the lawyers involveed were occasiionally under threat of beinng physically abused a or even killed.. Today, the work of thesse students iss celebrated in n official rhetoric, eveen by the preesident, Christtina Kirchner,, who in her inaugural speech in D December 20112 promoted the investigattions led by the hardworking andd courageous young y archaeo ologist Ruy Z Zurita.

Fig. 4. A new w residential arrea built next to o Villa Muñecaas. Photo: Marttina Hjertman, 2007.

The storry of the Pozoo de Vargas concerns an acctual physicall concealment, the hiding of the murders m of th he members oof political op pposition. The head off the Provincee of Tucumán at the time oof the depositiion of the dead bodiess in the Pozo was w a military y official, Busssi. He spoke in proud words of hiss State as the “cemetery off subversion” (el sepulcro de d la subversion), buut at the same time denied that the depoosition of bodies in the Pozo had occcurred. His words w about Tucumán T beinng a cemetery y were all too true in a sense. Howeever, despite often o defining themselves as a staunch Catholics, thhe junta seem m to have had no problem iin burying deaad bodies in a non-saccred area. This is in a sensee a double staandard, but th he deposition of the bbodies outsidee the actual offficial cemeterry may also in n itself be seen as a kinnd of punishm ment. The storry of the disapppeared in Arg gentina is

33

Cf. also Goonzáles 2010; Biasatti B and Com mpañy 2010.

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well-known,34 and part of o this compleex web of terrror is to deny the dead bodies a cultturally normaal deposition after a death. Today, tthen, there is a discussion on what to ddo with the siite of the Pozo. Shoulld the place be left there ass a memory off violence, or should it just be conccealed and hiddden? Difficu ult questions, which have no n simple answer. Marrking out the atrocities of others o is at tim mes important, but may also create nnew difficultiees. Handling a site like thiss is indeed dellicate, but also importaant.

Fig. 5. Area oof Pozo de Varrgas: the roof iss protecting huuman remains in n the well. Photo: Martinna Hjertman, 20007.

10. Others, marginality m and cultur al heritagee: summin ng up We can nnow come baack to our initiial questions aabout the inviisible and the visible. W We saw how the most opticcally evident m may become culturally c invisible, ann Other, definned more or less l as anotheer world. Wh hile being highly visible when in opperation, the marginal m slum settlement at the same time is alwaays at risk off being torn apart, a of beingg physically removed. There may bbe certain inddicators of a reemoved squattter settlementt within a city–traces iin the ground––but it is, in a way, truly m made invisible for his-

34

Cornell andd Medina 2001..

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tory. As we have discussed, the process of iteration is a key-concept here, the lack of iteration being one of the means for sustaining marginality. We also addressed the opposite kind of process, in which what has been intentionally hidden and taken away from optical observation is discovered and recorded. Suddenly what was hidden comes to light, and becomes a strong factor in social discourse, used both in court, in politics and in literature. New problems emerge about what to do with the discovery–such as the former well Pozo de Vargas–how to display or remember it, and the evidence itself becomes a tricky and complex affair. At another level, addressing these others, there is also something happening to us as well as other external people involved. There could be a productive, positive encounter, in which unknown other is discovered, a kind of new experience, not merely a negative confirmation of prejudice. Derrida differentiates Other from other. Archaeology has the potential to help identifying and documenting what was hidden, to disclose the invisible. But this is also a responsibility, and urges us to acknowledge a large set of new types of ethical problems. There is a vast field to work on, and the issues are important and urgent in a certain sense. It needs to be verified whether archaeology will be able to make substantial contributions to this field, to operate in the difficult terrain of the invisible and the visible.

Bibliography Amin, A. 2010. “Collective Culture and Urban Public Space.” In Urban Diversity. Space, Culture, and Inclusive Pluralism in Cities Worldwide, edited by C. W. Kihato, M. Massoumi, B. A. Ruble, P. Subirós, and A. M. Garland, 21–50. Washington D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press; Baltimore: the John Hopkins University Press. Bhabha, H. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Biasatti, S. and G. Compañy. 2010. “¿Restitución o Reinstitución? Acerca del Papel de la Arqueología en el Proceso de Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica en Argentina (1976–1983).” In Recorriendo la Memoria/Touring Memory, edited by J. Almansa Sánchez, 15–9. BAR IS 2168. Oxford: BAR/Archaeopress/Hadrian Books Ltd. Cabreras, L. 2003. Delincuencia, Control Social, Justicia Penal e institución Carcelaria. Prácticas y Representaciones en torno al Incremento del Delito. Subproyecto 5 in national program “Violencia Delictiva, Cultura Política, Sociabilidad y Seguridad Pública en conglomerados Urbanos.” Universidad Nacional de Tucumán, Facultad de Derecho y Ciencias Sociales, Unpublished report.

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Cornell, P. 2007. “Unhomely Space: Confronting Badiou and Bhabha.” In Encounters/Materialities/Confrontations. Archaeologies of social space and interaction, edited by P. Cornell and F. Fahlander, 100–22. Newcastle-upon-Thyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Cornell, P. and M. Hjertman. 2013. “Stadsomvandling, kontinuitet och iteration–Rom och det tidigmoderna.” In Visioner och verklighet. Arkeologiska texter om den tidigmoderna staden, edited by L. Ersgård, 9–29. Göteborg: GOTARC Series C. Arkeologiska skrifter No. 76. The Early Modern Town No 1. Cornell, P. and M. C. Medina. 2001. “El cuerpo como espacio social: notas sobre cadáveres públicos y privados.” In Lo público y lo privado: género en América Latina: III workshop-seminario (Lammi, Finlandia, mayo 2000), edited by M. C. Medina, 175–89. Gothenburg: Red Haina; Instituto Iberoamericano, Universidad de Gotemburgo. Davis, M. 2006. Planet of Slums. London: Verso. Derrida, J. 1963a. “Force et signification (I).” Critique 193: 183–499. ʊ. 1963b. “Force et signification (II).” Critique 194: 619–36. ʊ. 1965. “De la grammatologie (I).” Critique 223: 1016–42. ʊ. 1966. “De la grammatologie (II).” Critique 224: 23–53. ʊ. 1967. L’écriture et la différence. Tel Quel. Paris: Seuil. ʊ. 1972. Positions. Paris: Minuit. ʊ. 2000. Le toucher, Jean-Luc Nancy. Paris: Galilée. ʊ. 2001. Writing and Difference. Translated by Alan Bass. London: Routledge. Engqvist, J.H. and M. Lantz. 2008. Dharavi. Documenting Informalities. Värnamo: The Royal University College of Fine Arts Art & Architecture. Gaskell, M. S. 1990. “Introduction.” In Slums, edited by M. S. Gaskell, 1– 16. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Germani, G. 1980. El concepto de marginalidad. Buenos Aires: Nueva Visión. Gonzáles, C.C. 2010. “La Construcción de Memoria Arquelógica en Casos de Detenidos Desaparecidos en Chile durante la Dictadura Militar (1973–1990).” In Recorriendo la Memoria/Touring Memory, edited by J. Almansa Sánchez, 7–14. BAR IS 2168. Oxford: BAR/Archaeopress/ Hadrian Books Ltd. Harvey, D. 2005. “Pengar, tid, rum och staden.” In Staden, Fronesis 18: 57–83. Keen, B. and K. Haynes. 20006. A History of Latin America. USA: Houghton Mifflin Company.

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Levinas, E. 1961. Totalité et infini. Essais sur l’extériorité. Nijhoff: La Haye. Mayne, A. and T. Murray, eds. 2001. The Archaeology of Urban Landscapes. Explorations in Slumland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Menezes Ferreira, L. Forthcoming. “Maroon archaeology in Brazil. Multidisciplinary Laboratory for Archaeological Investigation, Federal University of Pelotas, Brazil.” In Urban Variation, edited by L. Ersgård. University of Gothenburg. Oxford English Dictionary. s.v. “Marginal, adj. and n.” no. 5a-b (http://www.oed.com.ezproxy.ub.gu.se/view/Entry/114043#eid380658 68) Qviström, M. and K. Saltzman. 2006. “Exploring Landscape Dynamics at the Edge of the City: Spatial Plans and Everyday Places at the Inner Urban Fringe of Malmö, Sweden.” Landscape Research 31(1): 21–41. Roskams, S. 2006. “The Urban Poor: Finding the marginalised.” In Social and Political Life in Late Antiquity, edited by W. Bowden, A. Gutteridge, and C. Machado, 487–531. Late Antique Archaeology, vol. 3.1. Leiden-Boston: Koninklijke Brill NV. Spivak, G.C. 1999. A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. Toward a History of a Vanishing Present. Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard University Press. Todorov, T. 1982. La conquête de l’Amérique: la question de l’autre. Paris: Seuil. United Nations Human Settlements Programme. 2003. The Challenge of Slums. Global report on human settlements 2003. London: Earthscan Publications Ltd. Wacquant, L. 2009. Punishing the Poor: The Neoliberal Government of Social Insecurity. Durham: Duke University Press.

ARCHAEOLOGICAL INDICATORS FOR MEDIEVAL PRISONS LARA TONIZZO FELIGIONI SAPIENZA–UNIVERSITÀ DI ROMA (ITALY)

1. Introduction The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. (Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, chapter 2)

This Oscar Wilde quote introduces my contribution. Although it contradicts the subject of this volume, it underlines the importance of problems which we deal with in our everyday life, attempting to give a voice to all those elements somehow overwhelmed by history. Imprisonment is a normal reflex of social defence, common to all of the ancient and modern societies, but as to the level of visibility, prisoners in the Middle Age enjoyed more visibility than prisoners today, as they do not leave that net of social and urban relations that the modern prison has actually cut off, marginalizing prison life from the physical point of view to the outskirts of built-up areas, inaccessible to the public, hidden from great events, turning punishment into an absence of participation. The prisoner was part of the background noise in ancient times: he resided in the crucial points of the built-up areas, close to the places where the government was run, he was fed by charities and took part in religious festivals marking possibly endless time, a time of pardons and executions, of prayers and of attempted escapes. He dwelt in a reality getting organized and larger with time, until it became a city within the city. In spite of this tangible presence in medieval daily life, the material testimonies of prisons are definitely not very evident, particularly during the transition from imperial organization to the commune. Therefore the first studies on the evolution of prison considered the very beginning of the modern penitentiary system as the starting point of the history of imprisonment, relegating former experiences to little more than forced detention regulated by a law that could not be actually enforced in those times. To understand the mechanisms around which the pre-penitentiary prison

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experience revolved it is necessary to briefly consider the motivation for segregation and the concept of punishment, which is related to detention but not synonymous with it. Detention is not a form of punishment (carcer enim ad continendos homines non ad puniendos haberi debet1) and as “custody” it has various purposes: it can be a way to prevent the prisoner committing more crimes, in case of a short detention (preventive detention); compulsory detention of a debtor until the family pays off the debt (coercive detention); a tool of the authority to ensure the defendant attends trial; the last abode of the murderer before his execution. The deprivation of freedom as we conceive it was not considered one of the greatest punishments in itself, while the environmental factor had punitive purposes instead: Saint Ambrose suggests imprisonment instead of punishment (implying corporal punishment) for petty offences, stating that the harsh conditions of life left a sufficient mark on the prisoners.2 Carcer a coercendo,3 indicates an enclosure, a space which it is not possible to leave, and no term used with the same meaning implies a sentence. Even in the religious field the clearly symbolic term changes its meaning: the body is the prison of the spirit and, no matter how long and hard, it is just a moment of passage. This does not mean that the psychological impact of detention was not very hard, as well as the fear of being forgotten by the institutions in unhealthy places. These places actually kept the prisoners away from the possibility of economic redemption and from active participation in social life; here the chance of physical violence and death was rather high, though not the aim but an unpleasant circumstance.

2. Methodology Over the last decade, thanks to a renewed interest by European scholars in dealing extensively with the prison theme–taking into account the objective differences due to the local experience and analysing the social, political and judicial dynamics linked to the prison–even places of detention began to be seen as part of an organization, forming an element of the urban landscape, which can be studied by archaeologists. Therefore, it became clear that these detention places deserve attention not only since they represent the result of the trial, and the traditional and at times “legendary” 1

Ulp., Dig. 48.19.8.7. “Nec tamen innocentes atterere squalore carceris et absolvere plus quasi sacerdos probabo; potest enim fieri, ut causa cognita, recipiatur ad sententiam reus, qui postea aut indulgentiam sibi petat aut certe sine gravi severitate–quod quidam ait–habitet in carcere.” (Ambr., Ep. 50.3) 3 Varro, Ling. 5.151. 2

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idea of “medieval prison,” a place of pain and of forgetfulness started to be discredited. The problems connected with the study of detention are varied and the solutions are not easy. First of all there are some important preliminary assumptions to point out: proper prisons were rarely built, while sites were chosen because virtually impregnable, or generally speaking because they provided the chance to control the prisoner according to rank, number, gender and age; laws did not change as fast as really needed, persisting in confining the deprivation of freedom as a form of punishment to the exceptional single case, when it was actually the norm; some of these detention places were used without interruption up to the end of the eighteenth century. Given these premises we can begin to gather the proofs, however varied, without presuming to identify absolute markers, but trying to point out specific elements that can make the general picture richer and bring these assumptions from a purely speculative to a practical level. Concerning the structure, each building meeting the necessary criteria to ensure the certain presence of the defendant at the trial was likely to be used as a prison; the evolution of Italian “pre-penitentiary” prison architecture has two exceptional cornerstones, as there are two models of prison to take into account, interestingly posed at the beginning and the end of the historical period considered: the Carcer-Tullianum in Rome4–in use from the Roman republican age to the seventh century–and the prison of Le Stinche in Florence,5 built in 1299. These models will inspire with their symbolic meaning the canons of the fifteenth-century architects. Up to the end of the sixth century, namely until the moment the symbolic value of the authority becomes visible also through recurrent organizing choices based on ancient templates, the prison stands close to the seat of power. The first model is the Carcer-Tullianum, the most ancient prison of Rome, close to the court and the Treasury.6 According to a pattern that will be copied later on, it has several levels, the most ancient of which is apparently an adaptation of a cistern. The lowest level hosted the culprits to be executed and the upper level the “simple” prisoners, with offices and cells for those to whom a greater interaction with the public was granted: the so-called “wide prison,” which allowed the prisoner to look after his own affairs and maintain his daily connections. From the seventh century onwards, the situation became difficult: we can infer elements above all from the law, and the law is rather clear as to 4

Pavon Torrejon 2003; Coarelli 1993. Geltner 2010; Geltner 2008. 6 “Aerarium, carcer, curia, foro sunt coniungenda, sed ita uti magnitudo ac symmetriae eorum foro respondeant.” (Vitr., De Arch. 5.2) 5

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detention, though with limited hints if compared to the huge number of criminal measures. New laws governed detention, and the living conditions in the place used as prison could not be deplorable. The structure could have a more remote part to detain the prisoner and prevent a night escape, even if he was allowed to enjoy some freedom during the day. The laws of Liutprand, king of the Lombards, derive the idea of detention from the Roman world, and underline that each judge must have an underground prison at his disposal in the area under his control;7 however, executions cannot be held inside.8 Charlemagne entrusted the management of the prison to the counts, leaving the judges and the vicars responsible for the scaffolds.9 In addition to the occasional elements from the oldest written sources, valuable information is provided by the iconographic sources, particularly illuminations. Projects of digital acquisition and indexation of the heritage of manuscripts carried out by the Bibliothèque Nationale de France,10 the Koninklijke Bibliotheek of the Netherlands11 and Columbia University12 are still in progress, but they already make analysis easier and increase the number of sources available to study directly. The few centimetres of the illumination show elements that connote the scene, mixing at the same time the symbolic plan and the realistic representation: in ipsa legunt qui litteras nesciunt.13 Concerning illuminations it has been decided to consider not only material of Italian manufacture or destination, but also manuscripts from France and the Anglo-Saxon area, trying to focus on those elements unequivocally relevant to identify the types of prison buildings, which could be comparable from the archaeological and historical point of view with the examples found in the Italian territory. The main elements highlighted are, for instance, the recurrent choice of towers with cells both on the higher and lower levels; complex buildings connected to the display of power and at times wells, where detention is underlined by the constant presence of bars at windows and doors reinforced by heavy bolts, which however do not prevent contact with the outside world; the prisoners are sometimes depicted as chained, which on the

7

Liutprand, MGH LL, 4, II, XXXII, 18, 271. Lex Visigothorum, MGH LLnat, VII, IV, 7, 302. 9 Charlemagne, MGH Capit., IV, 77, 11, 171. 10 http://mandragore.bnf.fr/html/accueil.html 11 http://manuscripts.kb.nl/ 12 http://scriptorium.columbia.edu/. 13 Greg. Magn., MGH Ep., II, XI, 10, 270. 8

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iconographic level reinforces the condition of captivity, since the chain is the only other clue of detention when no other structures are marked. Besides, the first survey in Italy of buildings historically known as prisons has been carried out, together with a check of archival sources, which are more numerous from the twelfth century.14 In most cases buildings with a different purpose have been adapted, as was usual in towns, influenced by the medieval urban rearrangement. The cases were heterogeneous and were submitted principally to the criterion of the position of the building to be re-used. Again, the choice fell on buildings close to the town hall or to the Episcopal see and concerned almost always private properties purchased motu proprio by the authority or after specific request from the population. Among the selected places there might be service rooms of amphitheatres and theatres, as well as places naturally or previously fortified, such as caves, castles and above all towers. One of the rare exceptions to this pattern is represented by a prison conceived and built for that purpose, the Le Stinche prison (Fig. 1), worthy of mention as it is practically unique for this period. Built in 1299, in a Florence full of prospects, not yet Magnificent, the “island” of Le Stinche is the forerunner of the modern prison and it was in all probability the prototype which architects have referred to since the fifteenth century as the ideal prison.15 Its exceptional organization provided an internal law and regular wages for the warders–the “Buonomini of Le Stinche”–different cells for different crimes, some form of sanitary and spiritual assistance and even a cemetery. If still far from the punitive conception of detention, it is in this city that the first prison was born, both in its shape and in intentions. This on-going analysis reveals a varied framework, where mostly existing buildings were reused as places of detention: this is due to the fact that a prison did not need specific elements to denote it from the outside, and drastic refurbishment works were not necessary for its adaptation, so that renovating was generally preferable to building a new edifice. The structural interventions are directed to control the prisoners by limiting access, making windows and doors smaller and securing the windows with appropriate bars; by dividing the spaces when necessary to detain prisoners according to their different punishment, gender and age; furthermore, ditches or open areas were created around the building, since the most economic form of safety was the social control favoured by the visibility of the prisoner. 14 15

This result will be part of my PhD dissertation: Tonizzo Feligioni, forthcoming. Alberti 1966, 398–99, Filarete 1972, 275–77.

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Fig. 1. The F Florentine prisoon of Le Stinch he, View of Anncient Florencee by Fabio Borbottoni, 1820–1902.

The layoout of the buildings is conneected to that oof the built-up p area: the prison is alw ways part of an a active urban n context, in a safe and bussy part of the city, striictly subordinnate to the insstitutions whoose task was to o enforce justice, oftenn in visual coontact with th he place wherre the executiions were carried out.

3 The role of 3. o graffiti Now thee issue of dirrect testimonies, particularrly the role of graffiti, comes into play. They arre the most visible v archaeoological mark ker of the building as a prison, and the element th hat often allow ws a clear dating, if indicated. Thee testimonies can be divid ded in epigrapphic and icon nographic, the latter beeing more usuual than the former. fo Nevert rtheless, in spite of the importance of graffiti, othher archaeolog gical markerss are necessary y to identify a buildinng with certainty as a prison n. In the grraffiti it is possible to recogn nize recurrentt themes, such h as devotional elemeents, like singgle or multiplee crosses, Callvary or stylizzed ships; elements linnked to the paassing of time, such as datees, counting of o days or tabulae lusooriae; elementts referring to the identity an and to the orig gins of the prisoner, suuch as portraitts, drawings or again shipps (often pictu ured in a more complex way). These thhemes are connnected to the sphere of daiily life, both emotional e and practicaal, absolutely impossible to o connect excclusively to th he prison area. The exxpression of this t feeling often mixes annd blends witth similar iconographyy found in thee devotional area a or, more generally, wiith all the moments whhen the need of o personal identification iss managed by placing a graphic marrk, particularlyy when literaccy is lacking, a behaviour still s today peculiar to tthe communityy. Without furrther speculatiion on intentio ons, what

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can be said is that these traces are all tied to the concept of physical and spiritual survival, carried on through the control and the deceit of the time, prayer and the definition of identity. The necessary presence of all three elements is clearly evident in the case study highlighting the type of problems which have arisen while defining these indicators.

4. The prison of Leopoli-Cencelle The position of the prison of Leopoli-Cencelle (Fig. 2),16 founded by Leone IV in 854 to shelter the citizens of Civitavecchia after the Saracen raids on the coasts of Lazio at the beginning of the ninth century,17 provided the idea for this research. It is an exceptional case study, the subject of about twenty years of uninterrupted research under the scientific direction of L. Pani Ermini of Sapienza University of Rome, in collaboration with Ecole Française de Rome, University “G. D’Annunzio” of Chieti, Università della Tuscia and University of Perugia. It is a Carolingian city built in a place inhabited up to the middle of the fifteenth century, when it was abandoned little by little, and it provides a rather unchanged picture of the last stage of building, dated to the thirteenth–fourteenth century.18 In 2005 some archive documents testifying to the existence of a prison in Cencelle in 133919 and in 136020 were identified, right after the beginning of the excavation of the crypt of the great Romanesque church of the city (Fig. 3). A few years later, the collapsed presbytery was completely removed, and a group of graffiti was revealed on the plaster on the walls of the space. These graphic marks are dateable to a phase following the changing of function of the church, as shown by a series of structural interventions that modified the shape of the building. This discovery suggested that the second phase of this structure was the prison mentioned in the archive documents, as the subjects of the graffiti, such as two ships, a counting and some drawings traced in a possibly feebly lit area, were simi16 I would like to thank professor L. Pani Ermini and professor F. R. Stasolla for the patient guidance, encouragement and advice they have provided throughout this research. 17 LP II, 131-132. 18 Leopoli-Cencelle I 1999; Leopoli-Cencelle II 1996; Leopoli Cencelle III 1999; Pani Ermini 2001; De Minicis and Marchetti 2003; Giuntella 2003; Annoscia 2007; Somma 2007; Stasolla 2009; Pani Ermini 2009; Pani Ermini and Stasolla 2010; Stasolla 2012. 19 Jamme 2005, 369, n. 55. 20 Jamme 2005, 381, n. 111.

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lar to those iidentified in other o prisons. Similarly, thee cladding of one o of the two ways inn, the undergroound position of the hall, thhe reinforcemeent of the wall and thee ditch aroundd the ecclesiasstical complexx, also suggestted that it was actuallyy a prison, thoough other elem ments from otther sources were w lacking.21

Fig. 2. The ccity of Leopoli-Cencelle (cou urtesy of Prof. F.R. Stasolla,, Sapienza Università di Roma).

Fig. 3. The cchurch of Leoppoli-Cencelle during d excavatiions (2006) (courtesy of Prof. F.R. Staasolla, Sapienzaa–Università di Roma).

21

Tonizzo Feeligioni 2010.

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5. Conclusion However the marginal location relative to the built-up area and the presence of a big door that (though massive) opened outside the walls, the relative distance from the seat of the central political power, as well as the absence of other crypts used as a prison in that period differ from what is proposed for the third indicator. The case is still being studied, but the identification of an archive document dated to 136322 testifying to the activity of the church in that time span, might lead to the validation of the indicator, forcing us to look elsewhere for the prison mentioned in the above sources. In conclusion: the prison is not, at least up to the middle of the fifteenth century, part of a plan to change the area where it was placed. The elements that can be connected to the prison are: a) the position (in busy areas, or closely connected to the enforcement of justice); b) the relative interventions to improve the security of the place; c) direct testimonies of imprisonment, such as graffiti and criminal registers. Lacking one of these three indicators it is still not possible to identify a prison, as the presence of at least two elements out of three is very frequent in environments with a very different use. In fact there is a rich casuistry of graffiti in places in pre-eminent urban locations, but they are signs of devotion; besides the central location of a building and a progressive increase in security parameters can indicate an accumulation of goods within the building but not necessarily a transformation of this same building into a prison;23 or, again, security and graffiti, though still difficult to interpret, do not actually imply a connection with imprisonment.24 I hope this brief paper shows how difficult it is to give a voice to the ancient prisoners. In my opinion, this can be done only through the interconnected study of different sources. In this respect, the role of archaeological research appears very important to the study of those buildings that were used as prisons for a limited time or permanently, and to give back

22

Buzzi 1988, 23–9. On ancient Roman examples see Pavon Torrejon 2003. Food stores, treasuries and places of detention are often underground because it is easier to control them. According to professor A. R. Carile (Università di Bologna), whom I would like to thank for his advice and his kindness, this kind of use is attested also in Constantinople during Late Roman Antiquity. 24 Stasolla 2010, 50. 23

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voice to one of the perhaps less visible social figures who were dramatically present in every urban area.

Bibliography Alberti, L.B. 1966. L’architettura [De re aedificatoria], 2 vols., translated by G. Orlandi, with introduction and notes by P. Portoghesi. Milano: Il Polifilo. Annoscia, G.M. 2007. “Leopoli-Cencelle: tecnologia stradale e costruito nell’impianto medievale.” In L’Europe en Mouvement. IV Congrès International d’Archéologie Médiévale et Moderne (Paris 3–8 settembre 2007) www.medieval-europe-paris2007.univ-paris1.fr. Averlino, A. detto il Filarete 1972. Trattato di architettura, 2 vols., edited by A. M. Finoli and L. Grassi. Milano: Il Polifilo. Buzzi, C., ed. 1988. Il “Catasto” di S. Stefano di Viterbo. Roma: Società romana di storia patria. Coarelli, F. 1983. Il Foro Romano, periodo arcaico, Roma: Quasar. ʊ. 1989 [1974]. Guida archeologica di Roma, Roma: A. Mondadori Editore. ʊ. n.d. LTUR, I, s.v. Carcer, 236–37. Davidsohn, R. 1956-1968. Storia di Firenze, 4 vols. Firenze: Sansoni. De Minicis, E. and M. I. Marchetti. 2003 “Un isolato pluristratificato nel quartiere sud orientale della città.” In Fonti archeologiche e iconografiche per la storia e la cultura degli insediamenti nell’alto Medioevo, edited by S. Lusuardi Siena, 11–8. Milan: Vita e Pensiero Università. Geltner, G. 2008. “Isola non isolata. Le Stinche in the Middle Ages.” Annali di Storia di Firenze 3: 7–28. ʊ. 2010. La prigione medievale. Una storia sociale. Roma: Viella. Giuntella, A. M. 2003. “Leopoli-Cencelle: il quartiere residenziale centrale.” In Fonti archeologiche e iconografiche per la storia e la cultura degli insediamenti nell’alto Medioevo, edited by S. Lusuardi Siena, 33–62. Milano: Vita e Pensiero Università. Jamme, A. 2005. “Systèmes d’exploitations, offices et pouvoirs à Cencelle.” Mélanges de l'Ecole Française de Rome Moyen Age 117: 353– 406. Leopoli-Cencelle I 1999. Leopoli-Cencelle. Le preesistenze, edited by L. Pani Ermini and S. Del Lungo. Roma: Palombi. Leopoli-Cencelle II 1996. Leopoli Cencelle. Una città di fondazione papale. Catalogo della Mostra. Roma: Palombi.

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Leopoli-Cencelle III 1999. Leopoli-Cencelle. La toponomastica della Bassa valle del Mignone, edited by S. Del Lungo. Roma: Palombi. Liber Pontificalis 1955. Liber Pontificalis, vita Leonis IV papae, edited by L. Duchesne, re-edited by C. Vogel, 3 vols. Paris: De Boccard. Pani Ermini, L. 2001. “Les traces matérielles de la cité.” In F. Bougard and L. Pani Ermini, Leopolis-Castrum Centumcellae-Cencelle: trois ans de recherche archéologiques. In Castrum 7. Zones côtières littorales dans le monde méditerranéen au Moyen Âge: défense, peuplement, mise en valeur. Actes du colloque internationale (Rome, 23–26 octobre 1996), 137–45. Rome-Madrid: Ecole française de Rome-Casa de Velázquez. ʊ. 2009. “Maestranze e cantieri fra la Civitas Centumcellensis e Tuscania.” In Corneto medievale: territorio, società, economia, istituzioni religiose. Atti del convegno (Tarquinia, 24–25 novembre 2007), edited by A. Cortonesi, A. Esposito, and L. Ermini Pani, 337–60. Tarquinia: Tipolitografia Lamberti. Pani Ermini, L. and F. R. Stasolla. 2010. “Il paesaggio di una città altomedievale (Leopoli-Cencelle): morfologia e analisi del territorio antropizzato.” In Paesaggi e insediamenti urbani in Italia meridionale tra Tardoantico e alto medioevo, edited by G. Volpe and R. Giuliani, 367–75. Bari: Edipuglia. Pavon Torrejon, P. 2003. El carcel y el incarcelamiento en el mundo Romano, AespA XXVII, Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Departamento de Historia Antigua y Arqueología. Somma, M.C. 2007. “Leopoli-Cencelle: settore V. Lo sviluppo della sede del potere.” In L’Europe en Mouvement. IV Congrès International d’Archéologie Médiévale et Moderne (Paris 3–8 septembre 2007) www.medieval-europe-paris2007.univ-paris1.fr. Stasolla, F. R. 2007. “Leopoli-Cencelle: l’organizzazione urbanistica del quartiere sud-orientale.” In L’Europe en Mouvement. IV Congrès International d’Archéologie Médiévale et Moderne (Paris 3–8 septembre 2007) www.medieval-europe-paris2007.univ-paris1.fr. ʊ. 2010. “Per un’archeologia dei castelli in Sardegna il castrum di Monreale (VS).” In Temporis Signa 5: 39–54. ʊ. 2012. Leopoli-Cencelle: il quartiere sud-orientale. Spoleto: CISAM. Tonizzo Feligioni, L. 2010. “Per un’ipotesi di archeologia carceraria a Leopoli-Cencelle: il contributo dei graffiti.” in Temporis Signa 5, 121– 32. ʊ. Forthcoming. “Archeologia delle strutture di detenzione nel Medioevo (Italia, secc. VI-XV)”. PhD diss., Sapienza-Università di Roma.

PART IV: PASTORALISM

TRANSHUMANT SHEEP FARMING AND SEIGNIORIAL ECONOMY IN THE VERONESE PRE-ALPS (TWELFTH–FOURTEENTH CENTURIES) ATTILIO STELLA UNIVERSITÀ DI TRENTO (ITALY) TEL AVIV UNIVERSITY (ISRAEL)1

1. Transhumance and mountain exploitation: a recent tradition of studies Transhumant pastoralism in the Middle Ages can be reasonably described as an almost invisible culture. Indeed, the lack and randomness of written sources and archaeological evidence is generally recognized as a main limit among historians and archaeologists who aim at tackling this topic. Nonetheless, a considerable portion of medieval economy had necessarily to rely upon the activities of (semi)nomadic shepherds, who every year led their livestock from the mountaintops to the plains, trading goods such as wool, cheese and sheepskins (mostly used for parchment production), which flowed regularly from their hands towards rural and urban markets. The reasons for their underrepresentation in our sources reside primarily in the nature of transhumance practices: wooden buildings such as the Alpine huts rarely leave long-lasting archaeological evidence, and seasonal movements narrowed the possibilities of continuous contact with the urban milieu, where written culture was common. Indeed, as far as written sources enable us to have an insight into it, long-range transhumance was 1

This work was partially supported by the Power and Institutions in Medieval Islam and Christendom (PIMIC-ITN) Marie Curie Initial Training Network funded through the European Union Seventh Framework Programme ([FP7/2007-2013] under Grant Agreement n° 316732.

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usually managed by mountain dwellers, an obscure group in many late medieval areas.2 The interest of historians of medieval Italy in these practices started in the 1980s, when Chris Wickham conducted his first researches on Early Middle Ages Apennines3 and François Menant devoted a considerable part of his thèse, on which he had worked for several years, to seasonal pastures in Brescia and Bergamo’s pre-Alps in the tenth to thirteenth centuries.4 One of the big issues generally tackled by historians in recent decades has been the continuity/discontinuity of itinerant sheep farming during the long-term period. The question is essentially twofold, focusing on the transition from Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages, and, on the other hand, from High to Late Middle Ages–and eventually to the Modern Age. Probably due to the rich tradition inherited from Roman historians, and despite being a widely publicized and known activity even in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the second issue has been partially neglected5 in comparison with the first one.6 Actually, the problem of the possible continuity of the phenomenon was also perceived as fundamental by scholars all over Europe. In 2004, the annual meeting at Flaran Abbey was devoted to “Transhumance et estivage en Occident des origines aux enjeux actuels.” The contributors, mostly French and Spanish, tried to offer a comparative and long-term profile of transhumance practices on the Mediterranean scale. However, the coordinator and editor of the proceedings, Pierre-Yves Laffont, had to admit that Italy had been studied only in the transition from Antiquity to the Middle Ages.7 Nevertheless, the only Italian historian to take part in the conference, Danilo Gasparini, displayed the case of Treviso (in Veneto) during the Modern Age.8 Within such a modest scenery of studies regarding medieval Italy, Verona and the Lessinia constitute a partial countertrend, mainly because of the proximity of the city to the mountains, and the consequent recording of 2

For the first discussions about pastoralism and its models, including an overview of the main case studies, see an aged but interesting outlook in Wickham 1985, 405–11. 3 Wickham 1982; 1985. 4 Menant 1993, 249–86. 5 Comba, Dal Verme, and Naso 1996. 6 About these questions, in addition to the above-quoted Wickham, see: Gabba 1985; Martin 1993; Bonetto 1997; Volpe 1996. 7 Laffont 2006, 402–3. 8 Gasparini 2006.

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written sources due to early urban control. Therefore, even though mainly sub oculo civitatis, since the 1980s Varanini published a series of works dealing with mountain pastures and transhumance in late medieval Lessinia. In two articles published in 1983,9 he faced some economic, social and cultural questions of late-fifteenth-century Veronese mountain and valley communities. He analysed a 1488 case of brigandage in the Lessinia area10 and then the 1452 statute of the valley community of Negrar, concerning the collective practices and goods–mainly wood–of the local community.11 In 1984, seizing the inheritance of an aged essay of Carlo Cipolla,12 he made his first important contribution to the study of exploitation and population of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries of the hills and mountains of Verona, themes which he would touch on quite regularly in more recent publications.13 I will come back to these works in another chapter: for now I would only stress that these are the principal and most recent studies about our area. Moreover, medieval Lessinia has been analysed in some recent ethnoarchaeological researches carried out by the physical geographer Ugo Sauro, the prehistoric archaeologist Mara Migliavacca and the medieval archaeologist Fabio Saggioro,14 and thanks to the latter’s work in particular.15 All the aforementioned studies agree on some fundamental points: first, a very close relationship subsisted between the city of Verona and its mountains, as we said, probably because of the proximity of the urban area to the pre-Alpine belt. This connection produced a very large diffusion of urban property from the Early Middle Ages and a premature integration between mountain resources and urban economy and institutions, such as the city commune. Secondly, they identified three different belts, sorted by altitude and characterized by different settlement patterns: a hill and valley area (under 9

Varanini 1983a. In that year he published another and perhaps more stimulating piece on the rural charters of Negrar, a fortified village located in Valpolicella hills, in which he tackled the theme of collective practices and goods of the local rural community: Varanini 1983b. 10 Varanini 1983a. 11 Varanini 1983b. 12 Cipolla 1882. 13 Varanini 1984; 1988; 1991a; 1991b; 1996; 2005; 2006; Varanini and Demo 2012. 14 Migliavacca, Saggioro, and Sauro 2013a; 2013b. 15 Saggioro 2008; 2013.

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the 700 m line), where the valley communities were stably settled; an intermediate pre-Alpine belt (700–1200 m) covered by forests (the silva Herimannorum, the Foroiuliana or Frizolana) which was the main source of wood, pastures and limestone for local societies; the high pastures–i.e. the Lessinia stricto sensu–over 1200 m, where urban properties (first merely ecclesiastical, and then, in twelfth and thirteenth centuries, also secular) were largely predominant. It is partially possible to apply this model, mostly based on analysis of the documentation of Valpolicella and Valpantena, to our area. Thirdly, these researches pointed out the existence of a deep-rooted and structured grazing organization, partially conditioned by urban churches and institutions, but also by local villagers. The main product was cheese made of sheep’s milk in the Alpine seasonal huts built in the pastures during springtime (usually in May) and destroyed before the coming of the cold season. This paper illustrates the first results of research that is still at the beginning, started as a doctoral research about the rural seigniory of the Augustinian church of S. Giorgio in Braida of Verona.16 Its documentation– mostly stored in the Vatican Archives17–is the richest in the whole city panorama (around 5500 pieces from the tenth to the fourteenth century) and its rights over many villages of the Verona district make its archive one of the most important sources for the Veronese medieval countryside. However, even such wealth has its own limits: indeed, this documentation provides hardly any information about the higher mountain area (the lisini) overlooking the Valdillasi. Thus, I will focus my attention on the mid mountain area (up to the 1000 m line) and to the lower villages, from the valley and hill communities (Calavena, Marcemigo, Mezzane and Centro, all settled under 600 m altitude) to their pastures, in the mid-mountain ridge called Sommalena, at a height of 800-1000 m.

2. The valley communities and the seigniorial and urban milieus The Veronese pre-Alps are quite easy to outline: from south to north we encounter the plain of the Adige River, the hills (the most cultivated area) and the mountain belt. Some parallel north–south oriented fluvial valleys cross it and are divided by ridges whose altitude gradually grows moving north. Lessinia includes, from west to east, the valleys of Fumane, 16 17

Stella 2014. Ciaralli 2007; Stella 2011.

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Marano andd Negrar௅the Veriacus vallley௅(which ttogether constitute the Valpolicellaa), Valpantenna, the valleeys of Squaaranto and Mezzane, M Valdillasi, thhe valley of Alpone A and, in n the territory oof Vicenza, th he valleys of Chiampo and Agno. Thhe city of Verrona lies in thee high plain arrea on the banks of thee Adige Riverr, right at the lower end off the ridge div viding the Negrar valleey and Valpanntena (Fig. 1).. As we have seen, the mosst studied areas are the western onees (Valpolicellla and Valpaantena), which h are also the nearest tto the city.

Fig. 1. The m main fluvial valleeys of Veronese pre-Alps.

Also Vaaldillasi (Fig. 2), dug by the Illasi toorrential creek k, in the thirteenth ceentury was cllosely connected to the cityy, thanks maiinly to S. Giorgio in B Braida. Accordding to the mo odel outlined before, in thiss area the population ssettled under the 600 m line. Some viillages of the southern edge did noot have any direct d interest in the mounttain pastures, probably because of ttheir geographhical position: Caldiero andd Colognola in n the high plain and, inn the valley boottom, Illasi an nd Lavagno. IIn the mid-vallley floor, there was a significant demographic d concentration c near the Illassi stream: Tregnago annd Calavena on o the left sid de and Marcem migo on the right r side (300–350 m m). Then, on thhe western slop pe, just on thee top of the rid dge, there was the com mmunity of Centro C (500 m) m and in thee southern edg ge of the ridge the viillage of Mezzane (350 m)), settled in thhe confluencee of Illasi and Mezzanne valleys. In the higher valley, v there w were two eccllesiastical bodies: on thhe western riddge, S. Mauro o di Saline (8000 m), which depended d

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on the parishh church of Calavena; in the valley bottoom, the monasstery of S. Pietro and V Vito of Calaveena (550 m). During tthe twelfth and a thirteenth h centuries, thhis pattern (aa row of villages at thhe bottom of the valley and d a parallel roow along the top t of the crest) reprodduced the struucture of the ro oute network. One road folllowed the valley bottom m; the other one o (whose recent name is vvia Cara, a co ontraction of via Vaccaara, the “cattlle road”18) strretched along the top of thee western ridge and w was probably used u by sheph herds to movee their livesto ock to the mountain paastures.

Fig. 2. Villagges of Valdillaasi. On the weestern slope: M Mezzane, Marceemigo and Centro. On tthe eastern sloope: Tregnago and Calavena. In the high valley: v the church of S. M Mauro and the monastery of S. S Pietro and V Vito. In the low valley: Illasi, Colognola and Caldieroo.

18

Saggioro 20008; 2013.

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As suggested by Varanini in his most important work about Lessinia,19 Italian mountain communities have been too often studied as static and conservative societies, in opposition to the dynamism of the city milieu. Indeed, it is fundamental to this effect, especially for an area of such strong urban influence as Verona’s mountains, to analyse the complexity of the relationships between urban institutions and economy, the mountain area and all the other possible intermediate elements that could play a certain role in the exploitation of resources. I will try to give a concrete panorama of these different actors. However, we shall bear in mind that the documents were produced almost exclusively by the church of San Giorgio: this occurrence may naturally cause an interpretative distortion in its favour, and indeed we know nothing about the higher pastures (above 1000 m), where the church had no known possessions. We surely need to consider this bias. Compared to Valpantena and Squaranto, in Valdillasi the situation was more complex and fluid. In Valpantena, the cathedral Chapter of Verona was initially the only landlord and the exploitation by the valley communities (Grezzana, Marzana and Poiano, whose castles were the property of the Chapter from the tenth century) of the mid-mountain pastures–the Frizolana (700–1000/1200 m)–was controlled and regulated by the canons. The local rights of use of pastures, limestone caves and woods were rented by the Chapter. Above this “peasants’ pasture area,”20 there was the silva communis Verone, the forest of Verona, a woodland which from the first decades of the thirteenth century was owned and exploited directly by the urban commune. The city establishment, perhaps from 1194, was able to take temporary possession of the rights of the Chapter on the Frizolana, which the canons would nonetheless re-acquire in 1224. Above the silva communis there were the higher pastures–to which the documents refer as the lixini/lexini/lisini–owned, as mentioned above, by various city aristocrats and monasteries.21 In Valdillasi the original seigniorial presence (before the twelfth century) was neither urban, nor ecclesiastical, nor Veronese. We know almost nothing about the jurisdiction of the bishop of Verona, but as much as we can glean from our evidence, it did not seem to be as strong as that of Monticelli and Serego. Here, the city commune acted later, although not less carefully, by promoting the enfranchisement of local communities from seigniorial and Episcopal power and by protecting the less combative and more devoted church of San Giorgio, which, between the 1190s and 19

Varanini 1991a. Varanini 1991a. 21 Varanini 1984; 1991a. 20

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1210s, was under the control of the most powerful faction of Verona, the marquises of Este.22 The presence of lay landowners and aristocrats in the valley was wide. A document of 121923 shows how the tithes pertaining to Calavena’s parish territory in the twelfth century were previously collected by a restrict number of laymen. Among them were Balzanellus de Montorio and Albertus Crescenzi, who belonged to two powerful Veronese families,24 and Maltraversus count of Vicenza,25 all connected to the marquises of Este.26 Moreover, other elements display the non-accidental presence of two of the most important noble families of Vicenza countryside, both vassals of the marquises: the Serego and the Monticelli.27 The Serego owned lands in the ridge between Squaranto and Valpantena28 and in Sommalena.29 The Monticelli in the first decades of the twelfth century had rights on the western areas of higher Lessinia30 and in 1184 won a quarrel against some local lords of Calavena, sentenced by Emperor Frederick I.31 In the following years they ceded all of their rights in the eastern district of Verona, including local clienteles and vassals, to San Giorgio.32 In 1185 Conradinus son of Vivianus and Adam notary, both from Calavena, sold to San Giorgio’s prior the rights on the feudal incomes, conceded to them by Arardus Monticelli in Sommalena.33 Other aristocrat families played a main role in the valley: in 1168 Ardicio della Scala, who belonged to the future Lords of Verona, left all his possessions to another citizen, Henricus de Cortinis.34 The da Bussolengo

22

Stella 2014. Archivium Secretum Vaticanum, Fondo Veneto I (hereafter cited as FV I) 8045. 24 Castagnetti 1987. 25 Castagnetti 1981. 26 Varanini 2013. 27 Castagnetti 2001. 28 FV I 6884. 29 In 1187 Wibertus, son of the deceased Tinca Serego, sold to San Giorgio his half of a mansus held by Cristianus from Centro, including his lands in Sommalena (FV I 7490). 30 Varanini 1991a, 26. 31 MGH, Diplomata Regum et Imperatorum Germaniae, X/IV, Friderici I Diplomata, n. 880. 32 Stella 2014. 33 “Racio quam ipse habebat in uno plaustro feni de prato de Sumalena et ipse olim tenebat ab Arardo de Monticello et ab ipsa ecclesia” (FV I 7429); FV I 7735. 34 FV I 7134. 23

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family also owned in 1169 a vineyard in Marcemigo,35 and the Crescenzi in 1204 sold their tithe rights to the parish church of Calavena.36 These lay owners did not constitute a spotted and irregular presence in the territory, but on the contrary, kinship relations linked many of them and guided their patrimonial strategies. A rare document, written in Verona in 1182, is revealing in this regard. Raimondinus from Cerea ceded to Aldrigetus son of Arardus Monticelli and to Torellus son of Rodolfus da Bussolengo, every possession previously owned in Calavena and Colognola by domina Meltruda, by her second husband Adelmus and by her son Bartholomeus. Among the witnesses, there were members of three aristocrat families: Carlaxarius Crescenzi, Odelsicus of Garzapanus da Bussolengo, Bartolomeus Sarego. Meltruda was the widow of Odelricus da Bussolengo, grandfather of the there-present homonymous, and the transaction was arbitrated by Rodolfinus Boccadicane Crescenzi and Odelricus himself.37 Moreover, Meltruda’s and Odelricus’s daughter, Mabilia, married Arardus de Monticello and was Aldrigetus’s mother.38 San Giorgio was deeply involved in these territorial strategies. The church could rely on the ancient possession of Marcemigo and of other lands and rights in the valley since the eleventh century.39 In the second half of the twelfth century, the church controlled various portions of villages in the eastern side of Verona district (Sabbion, Cologna and Zimella), which around the 1145-1150 passed from the jurisdiction of the ancient comitatus of Vicenza to that of the urban commune of Verona. Until the beginning of the thirteenth century, urban establishment and San Giorgio church adopted a substantially common territorial policy, in order to control these areas, to legitimate their own particular rights and to replace the presence of “foreign” landlords, belonging to the Vicenza territory.40 This cooperation worked perfectly even when the city’s internal front was ripped by the faction wars, in the first decades of the thirteenth century: in those years, the church could achieve a significantly more effective control of all of its possessions with the support of the urban commune, 35

FV I 7169. FV I 8045. 37 FV I 7385. 38 FV I 11579. A deep analysis of kinship within Veronese dominant classes in Communal Age, not yet undertaken, could undoubtedly highlight fundamental results for the development of urban–and rural–society: matrimonial strategies, although not always clear and explicit, emerge occasionally in the documentation and would deserve adequate attention. 39 Cavallari 1967. 40 Stella 2014. 36

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controlled by the marquises’ party, and before the occurrence of the internal conflicts. San Giorgio’s canons, ancient allies of the marquises of Este,41 could peacefully acquire Serego’s and Monticelli’s land rights, thus reinforcing their local assets, and, on the other hand, gaining–forcefully or not–the common rights of Marcemigo, Mezzane and Centro, the three villages settled on the ridge between Mezzane and Illasi valleys. In Valdillasi, the other communities (Calavena and Tregnago) and ecclesiastical bodies (the parish church of Santa Maria and the monastery of San Pietro and Vito of Calavena) had their grazing fields on the eastern slope of the valley, on the opposite ridge. An intermediate position was occupied by San Mauro of Saline, located on a central hump of the high valley. Thus, the exploitation of mountain resources followed a “ridge logic,” and not a “valley logic:”42 the communities of Calavena and Tregnago, located on the left bank of the Illasi stream, did not have any “right of use” on the western slopes. The inhabitants of Marcemigo, settled just a few hundred meters West of Calavena, but on the other side of the creek, had their grazing lands on the western ridge. In the 1170s, the rural communes of Marcemigo and Centro fell into debt with an urban moneylender, Rofiolo di Capodiponte.43 This is probably the reason why the doyens of the two villages and that of Mezzane sold to Rafaldo, a villager from Mezzane, a meadow of common property of the three communities.44 Thus, they practised a common exploitation of mountain pastures.45 The meadow was located in loco Bruscosa, a recurring microtoponym which indicated a hump north-east of Sommalena’s pastures. The church took control of the area starting from the 1190s: in 1193 the doyen of Marcemigo sold to the prior the common lands shared by his neighbourhood with those of Mezzane and Centro, in a ratio of four parts out of nine.46 The rights were of ploughing, haymaking and, in costis Somalena, pasturing and gathering wood. Hence, there was a very strict link between the cultivated valley lands and the higher pastures.

41

Stella 2014. Already in 833, the lands owned by the Veronese monastery of Santa Maria in Organo in Squaranto, which is parallel to the valley of Illasi, followed very precisely all the slope up to the high pastures of Parpari (1400 m) (Saggioro 2013). 43 FV I 7248 and 7276. 44 FV I 7310. 45 Also the commune of Tregnago had to sell to a local inhabitant, Oto de Bilino, a land defined as communia in 1169 (FV I 7153). 46 FV I 7632. 42

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In 1197 the commune of Marcemigo had been already and completely excluded by local government,47 since the doyens of Centro and Mezzane, with Matteo, priest of San Giorgio–who acted in lieu of the Marcemigo doyen–imposed some rules on Sommalena’s woods (regule supra nemus totum Summalene). However, the exploitation of the pastures of Sommalena was not equitable: the canons of San Giorgio had “permission” to gather wood in order to build an Alpine hut in the month of May (“palos et vimenas ad suam alpem faciendi in toto mense madii”). Although only the church’s shepherds practised seasonal transhumance, the trespassers would also pay a fee–nine wheels of cheese and three of ricotta–to the communities. Anyway, the cooperation between San Giorgio and the local neighbourhoods apparently worked well in those first years: the prior of San Giorgio, the gastaldus of Mezzane and the doyen of Centro agreed upon presenting common petitions to the urban podestà against the trespassers.48 In order to understand the mechanisms of these relationships, it is necessary to analyse some social and economic issues of these villages: before 1211, the commune of Mezzane was heavily indebted and tried to save part of its rights on common lands by selling them to some local wealthy villagers. In 1211, two local spokesmen, Zenus and Grepus, declared that the commune had sold its portions of pastures, which after two sales came back into the hands of a local consortium led by the two delegates themselves.49 Thus, local “public” debt was paid off by “private” funds coming from the community itself, and the rural elite was strong and wealthy enough to afford it, at least at first. However, in the following years San Giorgio was able to interfere in this local circulation of wealth and acquire, piece by piece, all those common goods: in 1214 the collective use of Mezzane’s woods had been already absorbed by the church.50 Such a process is clear also in the village of Centro: in 1194 the conversus Gerardus of San Giorgio purchased a meadow in Çovo de Centulo in Sumalena, previously sold to a villager of Centro by the neighbours of the three communities.51 Something similar occurred in dozens of purchases of little portions of Sommalena’s lands by the canons from 1186.52

47

FV I 7769. FV I 11366. 49 FV I 8241. 50 When the prior negotiated an agreement with Centro’s commune, two out of three parts of the forest should be for San Giorgio, the third one for the community (FV I 8351, 8354). 51 FV I 7670. 52 FV I 7453. 48

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Although these processes developed earlier, only in the second decade of the thirteenth century we can observe an almost complete loss of local rights over the woods and pastures of Sommalena. In 1207, cardinal Adelardo, bishop of Verona, signed a disadvantageous agreement with the city commune, which was deeply interested in the control of some Episcopal castles located in a strategic position.53 These villages were expected to pay to the bishop a considerable amount of money in order to enfranchise themselves with seigniorial duties, to negotiate directly with the urban institutions, which had removed an intermediate and potentially troublesome force. These enfranchisements, very common during all of the Italian Communal age,54 undoubtedly gave wider liberties to the communities, though in many cases they ended up leaving rural communes heavily indebted, almost always to urban money lenders. Marcemigo and Centro were among the villages emancipated in 1207.55 Their enfranchisements produced the preconditions to renegotiate local prerogatives and indeed within some years the original balance would actually change, but, as might be expected, to the benefit of San Giorgio. In April 1210 the prior issued his own laws on the pastures, confirmed by an urban magistrate.56 In August the inhabitants of Centro claimed in vain at the city commune the right to graze their herds in Sommalena.57 Meanwhile, the private consortium of Mezzane tried to claim its right to manage local justice,58 but at last had to surrender and lead the church into the possession of these lands.59 As expected, in 1214 the community of Centro, freed by Episcopal domination, was indebted to an urban moneylender, Girardus de Narigame, for the considerable sum of 200 Veronese liras. In order to pay it, it was forced to sell all its high meadows of Sommalena to San Giorgio,60 for that precise amount, paid by the clerics directly to the creditor.61 In 1212, landlord justice, supported by urban commune, appeared as fully operative: the foresters (saltarii) of Sommalena denounced violations

53

Rossini 1991. Castagnetti 1983. 55 Simeoni 1922. 56 FV I 8213. 57 FV I 8224. 58 FV I 8241. 59 FV I 8246. 60 FV I 8379. 61 FV I 8391. 54

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of the laws declared by the prior in 1210 both at the Commune palace62 and at San Giorgio church.63 In conclusion San Giorgio, acting as an extension of the city commune, had been able to gain almost all of the grazing and wood lands of common use of the valley and hill community of the western ridge of Valdillasi, by taking over from previous landlords and by acquiring the communities’ rights. In this context, the relationships between the church and the local communities could reach, after 1215, a new stable balance, evidently favourable to the ecclesiastical landlords and never called into question again until the end of the century, and perhaps even later, since we have no extant evidence about these areas for the whole first half of the fourteenth century. The unique rival for the control of Sommalena woods and pastures was the parish church of Calavena. In 1202 there had already been a dispute about the boundary signs that divided the pastures of Sommalena from those of Pecedum, held by the parish, and of Squaranto, held by the commoners of Magrano and Moruri, on the western slope.64 Then, in 1218 there started a new thirty-five-year quarrel between the two churches. The parish clerics of Calavena claimed one part out of nine of the pastures of Sommalena, and demanded a fee for the presence of San Giorgio’s shepherds. The notaries, in order to indicate that claim, used the term “iuncta/zonta pecudum,” that points out the action of gathering sheep together. This right was owned by the parish–as the clerics said–“omni nono anno,” literally every ninth year. It is superfluous to add that San Giorgio’s lawyers did not agree with them and tried to demonstrate how the church owned all the portions of Sommalena. Although these quarrels deserve specific attention, I will now focus only on some details, in order to analyse the Alpine transhumant practices, which appear from the depositions given by the witnesses in those and other disputes.

3. Seigniorial transhumance and rural communities in the thirteenth century The interest of the church in sheep farming dates back at least to 1151,65 the date of what is probably the oldest agistment contract in Vero62

FV I 8307. FV I 8309. 64 FV I 7995, 11861, 11862. 65 Ciaralli and Bassetti, forthcoming, doc. 3. 63

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nese territory, signed by the canons with Aldone, priest of San Lorenzo of Verona. The document only gives some little details about an annual profit, for both the parts, of 17 Veronese solidi, namely less than one lira. The importance of these activities for the church’s economy would have grown up significantly in the following decades. In 1226, and after an epochal overturn in Verona’s politics due to the defeat of the counts and marquises’ faction, the canons of San Giorgio were looking for a new agistment partnership (nothing is known about the previous one). The purpose was to send their herds to the Po’s banks during the cold season, maybe adapting their economic needs to the new regional political balances. Thus, on September 27 the prior sent a conversus in the Ferrara territory with the aim of finding a partner, laicus sive clericus.66 Therefore, it was not relevant whether he was a layman or an ecclesiastical body: the priority was to find a safe arrangement for the sheep. The conversus came back on October 8th,67 with Giovanni, priest of San Bartolomeo’s monastery of Ferrara, with whom he had stipulated a five-year agistment contract concerning nine partes pecorum (herds), six of which were female (sex de fetis), and three, we argue, rams (de alçosiis). The agreement fixed the annual rent due by the monastery (25 liras) and the partition of wool, cheese and other undefined fructus between the two parts. The shepherds of San Bartolomeo should receive the herds on September 29–the feast of St Michael–in Melara, and would return them to the shepherds of San Giorgio on April 1 in Ostiglia (Fig. 3).68 Thanks to a clear correspondence of dates, the invention of this act could be enough to prove the integration of the high Valdillasi pastures within a wider seigniorial economic system based on wool, cheese and probably parchment production, too. Other elements support this possibility: first, the structure of San Giorgio’s possessions in the eastern Veronese territory, which draws an almost linear pattern from Sommalena down to the banks of the Adige River (Fig. 3). For several years in the period between 1226 and 1234, the faction of the counts/marquises was banished from the city and retired to its ancient base, the San Bonifacio castle. In those years, access to the line that joined Zimella, Cologna, Sabbion and the southern villages, which were under the military control of the

66

“Sociare suas pecoras et, ad societatem faciendam, locare sive laicis sive clericis” (FV I 9240). 67 FV I 9241. 68 Also in the Frizolana the 1224 testimonies analysed by Varanini (1991a) stressed the seasonal presence in their pastures of men coming not only from Verona but also from Mantua and Ferrara, “qui stant pro temporibus in alpibus.”

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banished Coounts, was lim mited.69 Therefore, this deaal certifies two o aspects: the importaance of transshumance practice for thhe (urban) seeigniorial economy annd the impracticality of th he eastern teerritories,70 forcing the canons to finnd another patth–no longer in i the banks oof the Adige River–and R to graze their herds in thee humid fluviial plains of thhe Po River during d the cold season.. Moreover, thhis occurrencee would confiirm that these practices were recordded and comm mitted to writtten tradition only in extraaordinary circumstancces.

Fig. 3. In the upper part, thee pattern of San n Giorgio’s posssessions and th he castle of p the villagees of Ostiglia and a Melara the count of San Bonifacio. In the lower part, and the city oof Ferrara, with San Bartolomeeo monastery. 69

Stella 20144. Indeed, we can also arguee that until 1225 5 the shepherds’’ movements fo ollowed an t the nearest S Scodosia of Montagnana M eastern road, from Zimella and Sabbion to (Padua), wheere the wool prroduction is atttested early (V Varanini and Deemo 2012) and where thhe Marquises of o Este, until th hat year in frieendly relationss with San Giorgio, weree the main landllords (Varaninii 2013). 70

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Among the witnesses of the agistment act there was Gracianus, a conversus of the church whose main task was cheese making (he was caxarius). We find him in several occasions in the documentation concerning the Alpine huts of Sommalena: in 1210 and 1214 he was chosen as arbitrator in two different disputes between his church and the community of Centro,71 and in 1215–16 he acquired on behalf of San Giorgio three meadows located near Sommalena.72 Then, in his deposition of 1219, Wido, the high priest of the Calavena parish, reported: “Gracianus, who was a cheese maker of St Giorgio, paid me the rent.”73 The role of Gracianus is fundamental to understand San Giorgio’s strategies. In his first appearance, in 1210, he settled a dispute between the neighbourhood of Centro and the San Giorgio canons, about the “right of use” of Sommalena’s pastures. The episode, which would end up with a substantial defeat of the villagers, shows some interesting matters about the contrasts of two different mentalities, which generated opposite attempts to manipulate the past so that each part could reach a favourable position. Summoned at the city Commune palace, the cheese maker Vangerius Takellus from Centro had to answer for a pawn (pignus) of six sheep and three goats, seized from Iohannes Capulus, conversus of San Giorgio, who was grazing his livestock in Sommalena. Vangerius denied having taken part in the requisition, but confirmed that it occurred–as he heard– because Iohannes was grazing in the regula communis Centri. When he was asked if the Monticelli had ever had any right on those pastures, he denied it, saying “he never heard about that.”74 Another villager of Centro, Bonaccursus, questioned about these facts, gave the same answer.75 It is clear that by denying the existence of ancient landlords, the villagers aimed at delegitimating the new ones, trying to obtain from communal authority a wider access to the pastures. It is out of question that they must remember that Monticelli’s vassals–who came from the nearest Calavena– had had their own right of grazing in Sommalena. On the other hand, San Giorgio tried evidently to overstate the former seigniorial presence, in order to legitimate its own claims even on the villagers’ meadows, according to a sort of “territorial” protection/control logic, which the Monticelli had never actually adopted. None of the parts succeeded in the attempt to manipulate the past: after years of disputes, the judge found a Solomonic so71

FV I 8209, 8351. FV I 8390, 8409, 8442. 73 “Gracianus qui fuit caxarius de illis de S. Georgio, [...] michimet pensionem solvit” (FV I 11609). 74 FV I 11544. 75 FV I 11462. 72

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lution, opting for a physical partition of those lands. But we now know that San Giorgio would in the end achieve its targets by paying money. Thanks to these testimonies and to the other ones produced within the quarrels with the parish of Calavena in 1202 and 1219, we can better understand also the logic of the mountain exploitation and the partition of the slope in areas of different concerns. San Giorgio started to build huts 20 years before the dispute, i.e. from about 1190, and continued this practice until the late thirteenth century. Also Centro had its own caxarii, who pre-existed the canons’ and used to graze their livestock, in the years of the quarrel, over Sommalena, in the places called dossedelli Pradelle, nemus Bruscose, hora Provali, which were, as it appears, the main object of the disputes of 121076 and 1219.77 Despite this competition, the canons were able to build their local prerogatives from within the communities, where they chose their representatives, as the foresters or saltarii, who were responsible for organizing local justice (for instance Iohannes quondam Borsa from Centro in 1212;78 Enrigetus from Centro, Balbo from Mezzane in 122079). More than a doubt arises about the origins of shepherds (pecorarii) and caxarii, which were usually conversi, or “lay friars” of San Giorgio. In 1195, when the prior located a vineyard in Valpantena,80 we find among the witnesses Mirus and Capulus, conversi of San Giorgio: they both will be cited, the first as a cheese maker, the second as a shepherd, in the testimonies of 1219 about the pastures of Sommalena. Therefore, the exploitation of mountain areas, mostly aimed at pasture, wood gathering and cheese production, was committed by the canons to their conversi, not necessarily linked to the local neighbourhood–only the parish ones apparently were. They managed the division of labour and the sheep farming from the low plains to the mountains. The grazing period in Sommalena took place from April 23–28 to June 3–8: the variability of the dates was due to the incidental persistence of cold and snow, and, maybe, to the uncertainty of the long-range path the shepherds had to follow. In the high pastures, one caxarius, supported by two or three shepherds, had to build a hut with wood gathered in Sommalena’s forests. Connected to that structure, which had to be the home of the cheese makers and the shepherds, there were also some wicker trellis (vimenas, crates) designed to curdle milk. 76

FV I 11849. FV I 11602 to 11609. 78 FV I 8307. 79 FV I 8765. 80 FV I 7720. 77

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Although the mountain pasture in May was a merely seigniorial prerogative, the conversi and the shepherds of the Calavena parish, who were undoubtedly more connected to local societies, also produced the cheese in that month. In effect, besides Sommalena, which was a watershed yoke (in our sources çovum) sited at 800–1000 m above sea level, on the same slope and at the same altitude we can count at least three other similar areas, called regule. The term referred to the right of making laws in a specific territory: Pecedum, Saline with San Mauro church, Taioli with Vergarole. In the eastern slope, there were the regula of Sprea with Tanaria and in the western one the regula of Squaranto. Various acts contribute to define with a certain precision the border lines of the regula of Sommalena and to underline the expansionism of the canons westward (toward Pecedum and Squaranto) and northward, over the Varalta slope, where Centro’s villagers used to graze herds and the parish caxarii build their seasonal huts. In Fig. 4 we can observe the maximum extension of San Giorgio’s lands in Sommalena and the northern areas, as they appear in a document of April 30, 1219.81 In Sommalena, the concerns were partitioned in nine parts, eight of them purchased by San Giorgio between 1193 and 1215, though the remaining one was held by the Calavena parish. This partition, at the time of the 1219 trial, was not physical, yet it concerned an annual rotation of the exploitation converted into a rent “in kind” to be paid to the parish clerics, who could count on the grazing lands of all the other three regule (Fig. 4): in Saline, where those rights had been obtained after the absorption of the church of S. Mauro, the high priest Wido said in 1219 that the parish of Calavena had held that right for more than forty years;82 in Pecedum, between Sommalena and Squaranto (exploited by the communities of Magrano and Moruri), as noted by most of the 1202 testimonies presented by the parish–mainly its conversi and caxarii;83 in Taioli/Vergarole, where Richardus de Mutto, conversus of the parish, grazed his herds, according to a witness in 1219.84 81 “A valle Salini in iosum usque ad Vagum et a dicta valle in entro versus Somalenam et vadit sursum per eum Vagum et a pede Porcaria usque ad pedem Provali et Costemarisie usque ad Flamellaum, et venit iosum aput Vallem Altam usque ad Bruscosam et usque ad Sommalenam” (FV I 11439). 82 “Quadraginta anni sunt et plus tantum quantum recordor quod plebs Calavene pro ecclesia S. Mauri in Salinis omni nono anno habet habitam iunctam de Summalena” (FV I 11609). 83 FV I 11861, 11862. 84 “Alpegando cum Richardo de Mutto converso ecclesie de Calavena in Tejolo et in Vergarole pascebam in istis locis de Tejolo et de Vergarolo” (FV I 11603).

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The different rights claimed–and contended–by the parish and the canons can be summarized in the term iuncta (or zonta) ovium, that is the right to gather livestock, to collect wood and hay and to build huts (alpes) within a regula. The iuncta was not necessarily exploited directly, but on the contrary it was often leased upon the payment of a rent (in Sommalena, as we said, it consisted in a certain quantity of cheese). All the disputes arising on the Sommalena pastures came with perfect timing with the ninth-year claims of the Calavena parish. The quarrel of 1202, the one of 1210–which opposed San Giorgio to Centro–and the last one of 1219–which would last 35 years–were all related to the contrasts concerning the ecclesiastical/seigniorial rivalry on the iuncta pecorum. The rights related to the iuncta were substantially three: • cenaticum: the main seigniorial right, not conceded to villagers, as the 1197 laws sanctioned. It consisted in the monopoly of wood collecting, of hut building and of dwelling the meadows during the month of May, in order to graze herds and produce cheese.85 In Saline, where the parish rented its cenaticum, the clerics should build the hut, supply the caxarii and the pecorarii with a dinner (the etymology of cenaticum), including fava beans, meat and wine. As an anonymous witness said, the priests of Calavena must provide the men of the iuncta with a dinner consisting of broad beans, meat and wine.86 • lotatura, or manuring, strictly related to the first one. If the pasture was rented, it was duty of the lessees (caxarius and shepherds) to manure the fields. This was a main issue in the 1219 dispute: San Giorgio, perhaps not respecting a former agreement and claiming its rights over lands previously included in Saline’s regula, refused to fertilize them with its sheep’s manure.87

85

“Accipere lignamen ad faciendum alpem; et vimenam debemus accipere ad faciendas crates et palos et ligna ab igne et trictoras tempore quando fit fenum:” Iohannes conversus in 1219 (FV I 11608). 86 “Presbiteri de Calavena debent facere bonam cenam illis qui stant in illa iuncta de bona faba fracta et de bona carne et de bono pane et de bono vino” (FV I 11606). 87 Iohannes, Calavena’s conversus, referred “de quo Salinum debebamus et debemus habere lotaturam, unde propter istam invencionem quam illi fecerunt de Salino, ipsi impediunt nos, et de cenatico Summalene quod pascunt et de Salino de quo debemus habere lotaturam, quam lotaturam nobis ipsi facere nolunt” (FV I 11608).

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• herbaticum, the righht of grazing herds after thhe cenaticum,, between June and thee cold season..88 Among theese rights, onlly for this onee we have proof that ann ancient landdlord, the Serego, preservedd his privilegess.89 Thereforre, the growthh of urban preesence and of written culturre–due to the quarrels––had brought a new necessiity for definitiion of these riights. The same processs of construcction/definition also concerrned the territtory, with evident conssequences on the perception n of the bounddaries.

Fig. 4. San Giorgio’s pasturees in Sommalen na from 1219 teestimonies.

In 1202, the border linne between So ommalena andd Pecedum was indeed called into qquestion. Until then, the main m boundaryy sign had beeen a onepalm high liittle stone, prootruding from the ground oonly 20 cm, in n the middle of a cragggy meadow; in order to maake it more vi sible, someon ne planted a pole (Iohhannes converrsus: “unus palus p adfictuss”) or a bran nch (Bartholmeus: ““una froscam erat iusta eum e per signnum”90). Som me metres above there was a biggerr boulder, callled Capallus, which was reecognized by shepherdds of San Giorrgio as the reaal boundary, w while the firstt one was

88

Iohannes cconversus: “et postea p remanet herbaticum illlius cenatici ab a ipsa die prima iunii inn antea in illis de d Sancto Georrgio usque in ccapite VIII anno orum” (FV I 11608). 89 “Herbaticuum Salini pertinet domino Bono B massario et Widoni eius fratri et dominis de Seeratico [...] et ippsi habent penssionem de illo hherbatico” (FV I 11607). 90 FV I 118611, 11862.

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pointed out by the parish. The last sign indicated by the witnesses was a fir tree (picium). Within this process of boundary making/modifying, some unidentified gastaldi lixini, whose role it would be extremely interesting to investigate, had previously placed another unspecified sign between Pecedum and Squaranto regule: Vivenzus called Stoltus said that “Pecedum fuit terminatus a Squaranto per gastaldiones lisini.”91 We have further evidence of that positioning in 1214, when some villagers described a boundary this way: “in crucibus et begis que facte ac facta fuerunt inter bona eiusdem ecclesie et bona comunis Maururi et Magrani.”92 In this very circumstance, the necessity to clarify this kind of question, perceived by the locals but mostly by urban authorities, appeared evidently: the villagers were assembled in a meadow owned by the canons in Sommalena, and, by command of the Veronese podestà, had to swear they would define the plots rented them out by San Giorgio “a confinantibus secum,” in the lands of Sommalena, Bruscosa, Costamarisia, Vallis Alta and Provalum.93

4. Towards the fourteenth century and beyond: new transhumant paths? From the late thirteenth century, a sudden decrease of documentation occurred. Therefore, it is almost impossible to extend the study of all of these social, cultural and economic processes to the following decades. This decrease was mainly due to a common weakening of seigniorial rights. In 126494 the canons, who were in a state of deep crisis,95 elected Iacobinus Retana, son of Stambene from Marcemigo, as their administrator, or gastaldus, in “regula Summalene, Bruscose, Provalo, Costamarisie, Vallealte, Flamellai, Baoarii, Centri et eius pertinencia, Tregoncii, Famaori, Flumiselli S. Iohannis et de regula a pede Monte Curto in sursu, et a Progno Calavene versus sero usque ad vaium Mezanarum et a tota curia et pertinencia et plebatus Calavene, et de regula camporum lesini.” The canons, indeed, in those years were forced to delegate the local jurisdiction, not being able to maintain any direct control of those areas. The authority of seigniorial officers was nonetheless still effective in 1295, when two of them,

91

FV I 11862. FV I 8354. 93 FV I 8354. 94 FV I 10797. 95 Stella 2014. 92

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Ottonellus de Wilielmo and Antonius quondam Delaidus, farmer of San Giorgio, denounced some trespasses to the lords.96 These are the last testimonies for almost sixty years: then, in 1354, a corpus of eleven documents,97 which highlights a radically different context. Their complexity involves issues that cannot be tackled in this paper and that undoubtedly deserves a deeper analysis: it would be necessary to provide an adequate historical, social and demographical background– many things changed since the previous century, starting from the irreversible decline of the urban commune–and to justify such a documentary drop. Here I can just remind how in 1287 the bishop of Verona, Bartolomeo della Scala, conceded to Olderico of Altissimo–later recalled as the chieftain of the Cimbri, a Bavarian-Tyrolese population–and to his people the right to dwell in the “desert and uninhabited places” (loca deserta et inhabitata) of the eatern Veronese pre-Alps.98 The new dwellers founded a village–Roveré–at an altitude of 900 m, from which they moved westward in the following decades, colonizing the Frizzolana and founding Bosco Chiesanuova (Fig. 5). Although the expressions “loca deserta et inhabitata” could suggest a demographic decrease also in the high Valdillasi, this is probably untrue: in 1354 the yokes (Sommalena, Saline, Bruscosa, Vallalta) were inhabited, partially cultivated and partitioned into farms measured in “masi.” A “Maso” was a surface of 25 “campi veronesi” (that is a total surface of more than 7.5 hectares), among meadows, wood and other lands. In addition, every tenant had 10 campi of grazing land, a part–proportional to the extent of his farm–of a new lease of 103 campi, and another quota of 12 lands a çovo. The amount (except the 12 lands, whose extent we do not know) is of 503 campi veronesi, of approximately 150 hectares, of which only 30 were explicitly aimed at grazing. The inhabitants were of local origins: five came from Sommalena, one from Vallalta, two from Saline, one from Bruscosa (Fig. 5). This aspect, added to the existence of stable farms, could prove the first diffusion of durable settlements in those slopes.

96

FV I 11312, 11313. FV I 12056 to 12066. 98 Cipolla 1882; Varanini 1991a; 1996. 97

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Fig. 5. Roverrè–in the middlee–and the areass of expansion oof the Cimbri in n the early fourteenth century: Frizzolaana and Silva Communis. C On the right, the high h valley of Illasi and thhe known hamllets of 1354.

5. Conclusions I hope thhat the limitedd tasks assign ned to this papper have been n substantially accom mplished. It haas been possib ble, although for a restricteed period, to point out some particuular aspects off a social and material cultu ure otherwise unknow wn. The invisibility of transhumant sheppherds–surprissing if we think that thhey worked foor one of the best b documennted churches in northern Italy–is broken only thanks t to the disputes, d and the connected d testimonies, that arre the first andd last testimon nies of this syystem of mou untain exploitation. The trannshumant sheppherds of San n Giorgio, from m 1226 onwaards, kept their livestoock from Aprril 1, then, wiithin 20–25 ddays, they reaached the pastures of Sommalena, 70 km north, where they bbuilt a season nal hut in order to prooduce cheese.. Around 3–8 8 June they ddismantled thee hut and started backk to the plains, where, almo ost three montths later, on September 29 they gavve back the herds to San Bartolomeo’s B shepherds. Itt is likely that the whoole transhumaant path, from the mountainns to the Po pllains, was of about 1000–120 km. We havee also pointedd out how the developmentt of a territoriaal system guided by a “seigniorial class” c with prrecise social, ppolitical and economic e strategies haad to rely upoon previous exploitation e loogics. The strructure of seigniorial ppossessions foollowed the sllope line ratheer than the vaalley bot-

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tom, as well as the communities settled in the same ridge had held common lands on the top of it. The absorption, from 1180 to 1220, of these common lands by the seigniors entailed an integrated exploitation of high pastures within a complex economic system (catalysed by the urban market) and in a long-range transhumant system, arguably wider than the one previously practised by local shepherds. Yet, the impact of urban culture was determining for the communities from at least one other perspective. Indeed, leaving written evidence of a reality–the common exploitation– that in Valdillasi was disappearing precisely because of the urban impact itself, it started a process of “construction” and definition of the territory, a shift of mentality from an oral transmission–the narration of the boundary line–to written detailed descriptions, a sort of documental creation of the space. Finally, although many points are still to be studied, one seems to be worthier of further analyses. After the disappearance of the thirteenthcentury disputes, transhumant shepherds seem to disappear, too. One century later, in 1354, Sommalena had already become a stably dwelled farm system, probably still exploited for cheese production, but with no apparent connection to any seasonal livestock movement. This point opens a series of fundamental questions that should direct future research: did the transhumance/alpine hut practices still exist in the fourteenth century and later? How did they eventually change? Eventually, from the crisis of seigniorial power in the first half of the fourteenth century, there developed a context of strong demographic increase; what effect did this have in the negotiation of local authorities? Could local communities gain new rights and freedom?

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Cavallari, V. 1967. “Cadalo e gli Erzoni (Note di storia medievale veronese).” Studi Storici Veronesi 15: 59–170. Ciaralli, A., ed. 2007. Le carte antiche di S. Pietro in Castello di Verona (809/10–1196). Roma: ISIME. Ciaralli, A. and M. Bassetti, eds. Forthcoming. Le carte di S. Giorgio in Braida di Verona (1151–1165). Cipolla, C. 1882. Le popolazioni dei 13 comuni veronesi: ricerche storiche sull’appoggio di nuovi documenti. Venezia: Deputazione veneta di storia patria. Comba, R., A. Dal Verme, and I. Naso, eds. 1996. Greggi mandrie e pastori nelle Alpi occidentali, (secoli XII–XX). Cuneo: Società per gli studi storici, archeologici ed artistici della Provincia di Cuneo. Gabba, E. 1985. “La transumanza nell’Italia romana. Evidenze e problemi. Qualche prospettiva per l’età altomedievale.” In L’uomo di fronte al mondo animale nell’alto medioevo, XXXI Settimana di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo (Spoleto, 7–13 aprile 1983), 373–90. Spoleto: CISAM. Gasparini, D. 2006. “Brebis de montagne…pâturages de plaine. Élevage ovin et agriculture dans les terres de Trévise à l’époque moderne.” In Transhumance et estivage en Occident: Des origines aux enjeux actuels, edited by P.-Y. Laffont, 211–22. Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail. Laffont, P.-Y. 2006, “Transhumance et estivage: quelques conclusions.” In Transhumance et estivage en Occident: Des origines aux enjeux actuels, edited by P.-Y. Laffont, 401–15. Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail. Martin, J.-M. 1993. La Pouille du VIe au XIIe siècle. Rome: École Française de Rome. Menant, F. 1993. Campagnes Lombardes au Moyen Âge. L’économie et la société rurales dans la région de Bergame, de Cremone et de Brescia du Xe au XIIIe siècle. Roma: École Française de Rome. Migliavacca, M., F. Saggioro, and U. Sauro. 2013a. “Le vie per i monti.” In Tracce di Antichi Pastori negli Alti Lessini. Alla scoperta di segni di avventure umane nel paesaggio, edited by U. Sauro, M. Migliavacca, V. Pavan, F. Saggioro and D. Azzetti, 54–61. Verona: G. Bussinelli Editore. ʊ. 2013b. “Ethnoarchaeology of pastoralism: fieldwork in the highlands of Lessini plateaus (Verona, Italy).” In Ethnoarchaeology: current research and field methods, edited by F. Lugli, A. A. Stoppiello and S. Biagetti, 217–23. Oxford: Archaeopress.

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Rossini, E. 1991. Il cardinale Adelardo II (1188–1214) e il Comune di Verona a Legnago, Roverchiara e Monteforte d’Alpone. Studio analitico con trascrizione e note di 33 documenti originali. Verona: Archivio storico della Curia vescovile. Saggioro, F. 2008. “Medioevo in grotta. Tracce di frequentazione e di occupazione nella Lessinia Centro-Orientale.” La Lessinia – Ieri, Oggi Domani 31: 95–100. ʊ. 2013. “Il pascolo in Lessinia tra età romana e medioevale.” In Tracce di Antichi Pastori negli Alti Lessini. Alla scoperta di segni di avventure umane nel paesaggio, edited by U. Sauro, M. Migliavacca, V. Pavan, F. Saggioro and D. Azzetti, 175–89. Verona: G. Bussinelli Editore. Simeoni, L. 1922. Il Comune Veronese sino ad Ezzelino e il suo primo statuto, Venezia: Reale Deputazione di Storia Patria. Stella, A. 2011. “Per una integrazione del Codice diplomatico padovano. Documenti dal Fondo Veneto I dell’Archivio Segreto Vaticano (1166– 1183).” Scrineum Rivista 8. http://scrineum.unipv.it/rivista/8-2011/stella.pdf ʊ. 2014. “Signoria ecclesiastica e comunità rurali. S. Giorgio in Braida di Verona e il distretto del Fiumenovo (secc. XII–XIII).” PhD diss., University of Trento. Varanini, G. M. 1983a. “Spunti di vita economica e sociale nella montagna veronese alla fine del medioevo (da un processo del 1488).” La Lessinia. Quaderno culturale 6: 127–34. ʊ. 1983b. “Le regole del bosco di Negrar (Valpolicella) e appunti su beni e pratiche agrarie comunitarie nel veronese (secoli XV–XVI). Note e documenti.” Archivio veneto 121: 95–114. ʊ. 1984. “Montagna e collina nell’agricoltura veronese del Duecento.” La Lessinia ieri oggi domani. Quaderno culturale 7: 103–22. ʊ. 1988. “Note sull’insediamento nella montagna veronese nel Trecento.” Terra cimbra 56/57: 31–57. ʊ. 1991a. “Una montagna per la città. L’alpeggio nei Lessini veronesi nel Medioevo.” In Gli alti pascoli dei Lessini. Natura storia cultura, edited by P. Berni, U. Sauro, and G. M. Varanini, 1–75. Vago di Lavagno (Verona): La grafica. ʊ. 1991b. “Gli Alti Lessini nella Carta Topografica Quattrocentesca Veronese detta dell’Almagià.” In Gli alti pascoli dei Lessini. Natura storia cultura, edited by P. Berni, U. Sauro, and G. M. Varanini, 46–7. Vago di Lavagno (Verona): La grafica. ʊ. 1996. “Questioni di confine nei pascoli della Lessinia alla metà del Trecento.” La Lessinia. Ieri oggi domani. Quaderno culturale 19: 113– 20.

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ʊ. 2005. “Abitare in Lessinia.” La Lessinia. Ieri oggi domani. Quaderno culturale 28: 27–32. ʊ. 2006. “L’invenzione dei confini. Falsificazioni documentarie e identità comunitaria nella montagna veneta alla fine del medioevo e agli inizi dell’era moderna.” In Distinguere, separare, condividere. Confini nelle campagne dell’Italia medievale, edited by P. Guglielmotti, 1–26. Reti Medievali–Rivista VII/1. http://www.rmojs.unina.it/index.php/rm/issue/view/6. ʊ. 2013. “Azzo VI d’Este († 1212) e le società cittadine dell’Italia nordorientale: convergenze e divergenze di progetti politici fra XII e XIII secolo.” Terra e storia. Rivista estense di storia e cultura 2(4): 135-77 Varanini, G. M. and E. Demo. 2012. “Allevamento, transumanza, lanificio: tracce dall’alto e dal pieno Medioevo veneto.” In La lana nella Cisalpina romana. Economia e Società. Studi in onore di Stefania Pesavento Mattioli. Atti del convegno (Padova-Verona, 18–20 maggio 2011), edited by M. S. Busana and P. Basso, 269–87. Padova: Padova University Press. http://www.rm.unina.it/biblioteca/scaffale/Download/Autori_V/RMVaranini-Demo-Lana.pdf Volpe, G. 1996. Contadini pastori e mercanti nell’Apulia tardoantica. Bari: Edipuglia. Wickham, C. 1982. Studi sulla società degli Appennini nell’Alto Medioevo: contadini, signori e insediamento nel territorio di Valva (Sulmona). Bologna: CLUEB. ʊ. 1985. “Pastoralism and underdevelopment in the early Middle Ages.” In L’uomo di fronte al mondo animale nell’alto medioevo, XXXI Settimana di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo (Spoleto, 7–13 aprile 1983), 401–52. Spoleto: CISAM.

IN SEARCH OF THE SHEPHERDS: ARCHAEOLOGICAL AND HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVES FOR THE STUDY OF SALT AND ANIMAL HUSBANDRY IN THE NORTH OF THE KINGDOM OF GRANADA ANTONIO MALPICA CUELLO, SONIA VILLAR MAÑAS, GUILLERMO GARCÍA-CONTRERAS RUIZ AND LUIS MARTÍNEZ VÁZQUEZ UNIVERSIDAD DE GRANADA (SPAIN)1

1. Introduction This work is part of the research project entitled “Salt and livestock in the kingdom of Granada (thirteenth–fifteenth centuries)” (HAR2011–

1

Antonio Malpica Cuello: Catedrático de Arqueología Medieval del Departamento de Historia Medieval y Ciencias y Técnicas Historiográficas en la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras A. Universidad de Granada. E-18071 Granada. e-mail: [email protected]. Sonia Villar Mañas: Contratada de investigación FPU del Departamento de Historia Medieval y Ciencias y Técnicas Historiográficas en la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras A. Universidad de Granada. E-18071 Granada. email: [email protected]. Guillermo García-Contreras Ruiz: Contratado de investigación con cargo a proyecto del Departamento de Historia Medieval y Ciencias y Técnicas Historiográficas en la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras A. Universidad de Granada. E-18071 Granada. e-mail: [email protected]. Luis Martínez Vázquez: Doctorando del Departamento de Historia Medieval y Ciencias y Técnicas Historiográficas en la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras A. Universidad de Granada. E-18071 Granada. e-mail: [email protected].

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24767), aiming to enhance the comprehension of the importance of stockbreeding in the Nasrid kingdom of Granada.2 Given the impossibility of covering the whole territory, we decided to split the study area in two. The first surveyed and analysed zones were the northern provinces of Granada and Almeria. The main reason why this area was chosen as the starting point of the project has been the persistence of traditional animal husbandry and its visibility in the landscape. Although the footprint of livestock in this area may still be evident, dating the elements associated with stockbreeding is not always as straightforward as it may seem. Water tanks, drinking troughs, drove roads and so on are some of the structures that have been in use at all times, though most of them have been refurbished or constructed later on (making it impossible for us to date them). The methodology used allowed us to establish a first approach. It could be summarized as the use of all available sources: historical cartography, aerial photographs (recent and historical), written sources, and techniques like place name analysis, ethnographic interviews, observation of livestock activities, and of course, archaeological surveying.3 Our goal is to understand animal husbandry in the Middle Ages. However, in this first phase of the project ethnological and archaeological analysis was performed according to the existing record, in order to collect any possible information, regardless of historical period. In any case, it should be noted that agricultural activity has overshadowed the study of livestock, and we may have confused historiographical deficiencies or lack of documentation with a lower weight of this activity in the rural economy.4 In short, livestock activity has been considered marginal and we will try to change the idea of shepherds as an “invisible” social agent.

2

We want to make special mention of all the people who have given selflessly of their knowledge. At all times, both pastors and people of the various villages and farms visited have offered all their help without which we could not have developed this project. We also thank Marcos García García, Ángel González Escudero, Jose Antonio Narváez Sánchez and Sergio Rodríguez Dengra for their help during archaeological and ethnological surveys campaigns. 3 The combined use of these techniques, to which we must add zooarchaeology, is becoming more and more the standard research strategy of our project (Villar Mañas and García García, forthcoming). On the same line, the proposals and reflections of Lorenzo Cara Barrionuevo are very interesting: cf. Cara Barrionuevo 2009. 4 Malpica Cuello 2012.

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2. Area description This area, north of the provinces of Granada and Almeria, is known as the Altiplano de Granada (Plateau of Granada). It has low population density and extensive area of medium and low quality.5 It is characterized by wide and semi-desert plains and reduced irrigated agriculture along the rivers. The plateau is surrounded by mountains, forming a natural corridor and an important historical path between the southern and eastern parts of the Iberian Peninsula. The survey was planned considering the great length of the area and the fact that livestock covers large distances in its seasonal movements. The space was mainly divided according to physical geography, the mountains and the plains. The final division was into four mountain ranges (“Sierra” in Spanish) and the plains surrounding them (Fig. 1): • Sierra de La Sagra: the northernmost mountain range and also the one with the highest peaks. Its highest point is Pico de La Sagra, with 2381 meters. It is surrounded by a wide plain where the two main settlements are La Puebla de Don Fadrique and Huéscar, and there are other settlements such as Galera. • Sierra de María: further east, north of Almería. Its maximum height is Cerro del Poyo (also called Pico de María), at 2045 m. The plain known as Campo de María surrounds it, and Orce is the most important settlement in the area. The village of Maria is in the foothills of the mountain. Other important settlements in its northern sector are Cañadas de Cañepla and Topares. • Sierra de Baza: located in the southern part of the study area, with several peaks exceeding 2000 m: Santa Barbara, at 2260 m (where the Prados del Rey, the King’s meadows, are located); Rapa at 2228 m; Calar at 2224 m (where the Prados de la Fonfría are located). Below this mountain lies a broad plain with several settlements: the city of Baza and the village of Benamaurel or Cúllar, for example. • Sierra de Castril: located northwest of the study area, the longest, most abrupt and inaccessible of the mountain ranges. Like the Sierra de 5

Information from the Institute of Statistics and Cartography of Andalusia from the Ministry of Economy, Innovation, Science and Job of the Andalusian Community. Website: www.juntadeandalucia.es/institutodeestadisticaycartografia/sima/smind18.htm.

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Baza, it has several peaks over 2000 m: Tornajuelos at 2136 m, La Empanada at 2107 m and Pico del Buitre at 2021 m. Below these mountains a broad plateau stretches with important cities such as Cortes de Baza, Castilléjar and, of course, Castril.

Fig. 1. Location of the study area, indicating the names of the main mountain ranges.

The Plateau has a semi-arid Mediterranean climate. Only Castril, its mountains, La Puebla de Don Fadrique and La Sagra have a humid Mediterranean climate. All rivers are tributaries of the Guadiana Menor, which runs northwest–southeast leading to the river Guadalquivir. Its main tributaries from east to west are: Castril, Guardal, Cúllar and Bravatas. In addition to the rivers there are many springs, mostly in the mountains and their foothills; used to irrigate the fields and for livestock. Some examples are

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Bugéjar, in the fields of La Puebla de Don Fadrique, or the source of Tornajo in the Sierra de La Sagra.6 Other important features in these landscapes are the wetlands and salt marshes. The main ones are El Baico (between Baza and Benamaurel),7 El Margen (between Cúllar and La Alquería),8 Laguna Seca (Castril), Parpacén and Fuencaliente (both in Huéscar). The single example of saltworks documented in this territory, that of Bacor, is also important. Livestock profits from all these natural resources–wetlands, salt marshes and saltworks.

3. Settlement The environment described has influenced the settlement patterns (Fig. 2). The main villages are located along waterways; between them there are large empty spaces dotted with farmhouses and manor houses. Paths and drover roads connect all places. These settlements have a hierarchy. Baza has the largest population; it has always been the most populous site of the region, and it has been considered a town since the tenth century. On a second level we find Huéscar, Castril and Orce. Their status derives from the historical possession of infrastructures and services such as schools, hospitals and markets. The third level has the largest number of villages, relying on the previous ones. The fourth level consists of farmhouses and manor houses scattered throughout the territory.9 These settlement patterns began in the Middle Ages,10 especially from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries when these spaces formed the border between Christians and Muslims. At that time very important fortifications were built. Fortified villages and towers date to the Middle Ages, being constructed not only as a defensive system but also for administrative purposes. Their location depends on geostrategic interests, especially the control of the “road spaces.”11 Some examples are Tíscar (in the province of Jaén),12 Castril,13 or the different fortified settlements in the northern and 6

More information about the geographical context is available on the website of the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Environment: http://sig.mapa.es/siga/. 7 Martín 2010. 8 Bertrand and Sánchez Viciana 2009, 152; 168. 9 Torices Abarca and Zurita Povedano 2003. 10 Malpica Cuello 2011. 11 Franco Sánchez 2005. 12 Barceló et al. 1989. 13 Alfaro Baena 1998; Malpica Cuello 2006.

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western slopes of La Sagra.14 They controlled several valleys with important routes for driving livestock between the plain and the mountain. A defensive organization is to be seen also on the plateau, especially around the town of Baza. Many towers lie there protecting the city, but also the drove roads.

Fig. 2. Map of the settlement pattern, showing the main places mentioned in the text.

4. In search of the shepherds When the project began it was quite hard for us to find a starting point, even though there were written sources, bibliography and suggestive place names in the area. However, the actual starting point came with the ethno14

Adroher Auroux and López Marcos 2004.

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graphic interviews, when we started to understand the territory and how to undertake the study. Although livestock is mostly stabled today, most of the shepherds referred to traditional seasonal movements. Some of them still manage their herds in a traditional manner. The main livestock movement takes them from the plateau to the mountains and vice versa: this is the so-called “transterminance,” where medium haul distances are traversed. However there are still shepherds practising transhumance (mainly in the mountains of Castril and La Sagra) though increasingly less every day. Both movements are undertaken along drove roads (many of which are historic) passing by several milestones (water tanks, drinking troughs etc.) to get to the meadows, usually of common use (for those paying the fees). Therefore, the main analysis units were established. Possibly the most important ones are the drove roads, linking mountains and plain, but also the settlements. These are fundamental to the whole Iberian Peninsula because there is a need to move the cattle seasonally, looking for meadows that otherwise cannot be found because of drought on the plains in the summer. This is the reason why finding those roads and their associated elements is fundamental to understanding how animal husbandry evolved in the area (Fig. 3). Some of the drove roads identified are: • El camino real, (the King’s highway or the royal road) from Pozo Alcón to Cartagena passing through Castril, Huéscar and La Puebla among other settlements. It is known today as Vereda de Pozo Alcón and it is guarded at one point by a medieval watchtower (the torre de la cantera de Valentín in Huéscar). • La cañada real de Orce (Orce’s royal glen), passing through several settlements such as Orce and María. It is known today as cordel de Orce and crosses other historic pathways such as “Salar’s glen,” guarded by the Salar tower and leading to Venta Micena; also the path to Cañadas de Cañepla, a settlement whose disputes with María over livestock spaces are well known in the written sources.15 • La Alquería’s pathway, coming from Cúllar Baza and passing through the salt marsh of El Margen. It is known as “el Cordel de Galera.” There are other paths in the surroundings, controlled or guarded, like the 15

Malpica Cuello 2013.

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previous ones, by medieval watchtowers, among which stands out the “Atalaya de Guzmín,” placed at a crossroad. Apart from the main roads there are several pathways and trackways (or sidewalks) not demarcated as drove roads used from immemorial time for the livestock. A good example might be the tracks (cordeles) going up to the mountains.

Fig. 3. Maps with the main driveways, water tanks and medieval towers.

Other significant landmarks for livestock can be found in the surroundings of the drove roads. An important part of the work has been to document all those facilities associated with animal husbandry, especially water tanks and drinking troughs as they may indicate a crossing point in a drove road or even a place for the commons. As for the drinking troughs, their location marks a crossing point, usually on the plain, or a pasture in the

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mountains or the plain. Among those documented one type of evidence stands out: a well (for water extraction) linked to the drinking trough. We wonder then whether the construction of these structures comes after the drove roads or whether the search for water somehow determined the livestock passage. Another type of evidence illustrating very well the effective exploitation of water, in a place where it is rather scarce, is a fountain bringing water to a drinking trough on one side and a washing area on the other, in addition to a water reservoir (Fig. 4). Unfortunately, dating most of these elements is an impossible task. In fact, in most cases they are very recent constructions and whether they may have replaced more ancient structures is almost impossible to determine. The same goes for pens, caves and shelters. These structures have been taken into account to determine the spaces used for the livestock such as rest places, summer pastures etc., though with no chronology. The only way to classify them is through their typology and location, waiting for further comparisons which may allow us to understand whether the constructions are recent or not. Some of the water tanks have been ascribed to the Middle Ages. Some of them, like those in Campo de María (Falces, Zalayo y Ventorrillo), were studied and signposted, though with little dissemination. It is true that vaulted water tanks usually indicate medieval origins, as this technique starts, at least, during the Almohad period, around the twelfth or the thirteenth century. This hypothesis was suggested by Lorenzo Cara and Juana María Rodríguez for Almería where they analysed, among others, the Falces water tank.16 Until now, 14 vaulted water tanks associated with livestock spaces have been located in the whole area. Among these, 4 are directly related to the Baza mountain range, 3 to the María mountain range and the other 7 are on the plateau between La Sagra and the Castril mountain. Many of these tanks (like the one in La Amarguilla, the Cortijo de Ros, or the Aljibe del Rey in the plain below the mountains of Castril) have been re-modified and only the underground tank has been preserved. It is thus impossible to measure their area or capacity. However, some of them are still standing, preserving their original structure. Some examples are the water tanks of el Ventorillo, Zalayo and los Falces (in Campo de María), the one in Orce (called Taale), another one between El Margen and Galera (in the road to Guzmín), the one between Santiago de la Espada and la Puebla de Don Fadrique (in El puerto 16

Cara Barrionuevo and Rodríguez López 1989.

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de La Vidriera, in La Sagra) and the one in San Antonio’s farmhouse and Cuesta Blanca’s farmhouse (at the foot of the mountains of Baza). The measures vary between 13.60 m long, 2 m external height and 5 m in the front (measurements obtained via the mean of all the extant water tanks). These measures indicate roughly the capacity in these water tanks, all of them without exception linked with different drove roads. Name Falces

Length 28 m

Height 2m

Front 5.30 m

Zalayo

15.20 m

Ventorillo Taale (Orce) Llanos Malascabras Cortijo Don Celso Cortijo San Antonio Cortijo Cuesta Blanca Camino de Guzmín La Vidriera El Moral La Amarguilla Cortijo de Ros Campo del Rey

22.60 m 5.40 m 11 m

2.35 m 2.50 m 2.20 m

4.80 m 6m 7.60 m

13 m

2.05 m

5m

10 m

1.60 m

4.15 m

6.75 m

2.10 m

5.20 m

10.60 m

1.60 m 1.84 m

3m 4m

Observations Capacity: 742,500 litres. There is medieval pottery around Buried, but edges are still exposed

Has a double dome Buried

Partly buried Buried Buried Buried

Tab. 1. Information about water tanks associated to livestock spaces located in the whole area. The location for some of them, at the foot of the hills, in the plateau, indicates the need to provide water to the livestock where it was not easy to obtain. Some of them got their water supply through raining, and are thus located where the slope of the mountains allows the water to be channelled towards them. Some are supplied through a canal (Falces, with water coming from la Alfaguara). They are, in all cases, dissociated from the main settlements, to avoid livestock interfering with the irrigated fields, and most of them are in the foothills, to use the water before going to the

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summer passtures, usuallyy located abo ove 1500 m, with optimall climatic condition foor grass growiing in a seaso on where it w would be impo ossible to maintain a ccattle herd in the t plains. Some m meadows and summer s pastu ures have beenn identified and a documented in thheir current staate, but also in n the historicaal sources. Several pplace names evoke e the own nership of som me spaces forr the livestock, norm mally those wiith the highest quality, for the king or the t elites, who may have granted access a to foreeign herds in exchange for a fee.17 Thus, the Sttate, the royal household or o the elites coontrolled an important i part of the aanimal husbandry activities. Some exampples are: Los prados p del Rey (The K King’s meadow ws) in Baza, Los prados ddel Conde (thee Count’s meadows) inn Castril, or the t King’s fieelds, on the pplateau betweeen Castril and Castilléjjar, currently a grazing land d in which theere was a vaullted water tank used unntil recent times.18

Fig. 4. Some examples of waater tanks.

Controlliing the summ mer pastures located in thhe mountains was important becaause the higheest quality graass grew theree. In the plateeau it was 17

Not just heere, but also inn other parts off the province such as the lim mits of the Vega de Grannada (Martínez Vázquez 2013)). 18 Informatioon provided byy the present inhabitants of “Cortijo del Rey” R who showed us pictures of the hiistoric cistern and a its location.. This tank has now been destroyed to ccreate a weighinng scale for heaavy vehicles.

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not always possible to find good quality grass, not even in the winter, unless the pastures were irrigated or cereals were cultivated on purpose for the livestock, such as in Bugéjar, where the Spring allows very good grass to grow. In Los Prados farmhouse (Venta Micena) a peasant assured that cereal were cultivated “to be kept for the winter,” otherwise the snow would force them to the transhumance. In La Alquería, some neighbours interviewed stated that the area had always been a natural meadow (pasture) for the animals because of the high amount of groundwater, now dry for the construction of wells. According to those people, the pastures had always been common and everyone made the most of it, even the cows that “formerly” came in transhumance and stayed there for a while, paying the owners the agreed fee. Where the pastures were not irrigated the grass was poor in quality. This is also due to the soil quality and the climate conditions. The bushes are difficult for the ruminants to digest,19 which makes salt supply fundamental. Without salt the animals’ feeding was not complete, as the medieval Andalusian treatise-writers knew very well.20 That is the reason why the livestock spaces are linked to the wetlands and salt marshes (as stated above), through which the main drove roads pass. The wetlands are particularly important for animals. They are permanent vegetation reserves, where water is usually charged with all kind of minerals, a most important input for the livestock. Particularly interesting is the presence of salty water, mainly for ruminants. The ingestion of salt comes from the consumption of halophytic vegetation (adapted to grow on salt marsh). The importance of this relationship between animal husbandry and salt (Fig. 5) has also an impact on place names, as we can see in the so-called Salty Glen (Cañada del Salar) north of Orce. When there are no halophytic spaces or the flocks cannot be taken to the pastures, goats and sheep are usually provided with salt stones, dropped in the barns by the stockbreeders.21 Making salt on the inlands is an activity limited to few areas. In the north of Granada the conditions are optimal in many places–enough salty 19

Malpica Cuello 2008a. For example Ibn al-Awwan 2003. 21 This practice was documented in ancient written sources. For example Ibn al Awwam writes “…that the beast that feeds on plants needs to be given some ground salt (…) if the beast is reluctant to eat the salt, its mouth shall be opened, its head lifted to prevent spilling the salt, and if it rejects it, its mouth shall be opened with a stick and the salt be put into it” (Ibn al-Awwam 2003, 531). This practice continues today, as confirmed by several pastors during our ethnological surveys. 20

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water, wind and abundant insolation–;22 however, the fields have not always been set up to create saltworks. Only that in Bácor is known within the study area and it dates back to the Middle Ages;23 another one mentioned in the source, in Huéscar, is still not located. Other identified saltworks, such as Quesada, Cuenca, Chíllar and Hinojares, Zacatín, Periago and Ballesteros, match roughly with livestock transit areas.24 In some areas saltworks were not made in spite of the optimal conditions, leaving the space as pastures for the livestock (with the halophytic vegetation referred to above). That is the case of El cortijo del Prado, near Venta Micena.

Fig. 5. Relation between main settlements, drove roads, meadows and saltworks in the study area. 22

Malpica Cuello 2008b; García-Contreras Ruiz 2011. Camarero Bullón 2001-2002. 24 Malpica Cuello 2000-2001. 23

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5. Productive activities. Agriculture and animal husbandry: two sides of the same coin? On the plateau between Baza and Huéscar there are basically three economic pillars: agriculture and pastoralism in the plains; logging and hunting in the mountains where we also find the summer pastures; and, as a result of both, wool trade.25 All these activities are complementary to each other. However, we will only discuss the relationship between the two main activities: agriculture and animal husbandry. Traditionally, agriculture and stockbreeding have been seen as opposed activities in al-Andalus26 although in most parts of feudal Europe they have always existed complementarily. The main question we pose is the condition of meadows, pastures and other lands devoted to livestock on the one hand, and rainfed or irrigated agricultural land on the other. When both the activities appear to occupy the same space, the existence of the above-mentioned complementarity can be inferred. We cannot forget that livestock must pass through fields and can also be used for fertilizing the fields during the fallow. In addition they are useful for ploughing or as pack animals. In certain areas that relationship has been documented (e.g. La Alquería or Campo de María). From the sixteenth century onwards, when written sources rise in number, a law regulates the most valued resouces: grasslands, forests and water.27 This may be due to two processes: first, the intention of the lords to fence a place to hunt,28 and second, the conflicts over the management of animal husbandry spaces between the new Christian conquerors and the previous Muslim owners (called “mudéjares” or “moriscos” afterwards, under the control of Christian conquerors, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries).29 These conflicts give us an idea of the importance of both economic activities and the problem of combining the open pastures, like the commons, for the foreign herds.30

25

Díaz López 1995; Girón Pascual 2011. Malpica Cuello 2013 27 Díaz López 2002. 28 Sometimes it was the personal hobby of a man on the prowl: “…la dehesa de la Alfaguara que el marqués [de los Vélez] en 1540 reconocía tener ‘para mi pasatiempo de caça’ fue objeto de especial protección” (Andújar Castillo 1996, 86). 29 Díaz López 2002, 42–6. 30 There is an interesting piece of evidence of the existence of common pasture in the Huéscar area: “[en] tienpos de moros e todos los otros lugares del reyno de 26

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For example, Don Fadrique, Lord of Huéscar, stated that any foreign livestock entering the mountain pastures before May 20 cause damage to the local herds as they will find very little grass.31 In any case, the lawsuits to which we had access depict a partial picture of the common management in medieval times. As for modern times, the picture provided is that of a continuous and conflicting relationship between peasants and herders for control of the land. This conflicting relationship was real only in a very particular situation, as when livestock increased its power because of, among other things, the wool trade. However, we have no evidence on whether or not Andalusian livestock reached a number so high as to threaten the agricultural interests. We should not forget that farmers could participate in the cattle ranching. Without going into further detail, current shepherds of the region informed us about the need to grow grain for the livestock and store food for the winter when snow or ice stop the grass from growing. When not even cultivation is possible, the only alternative is transhumance.32 Actually, what we can see at the moment is a rational integration between different economic activities that take place in rural areas, that is, between agriculture and stockbreeding, but also with other employments of the physical environment, such as forestry or wetlands exploitation. We have been informed about the existence of irrigated areas in the mountains intended for livestock grazing in Tíscar in medieval times.33 This gives us a clue about the antiquity of the mountain pastures and its relationship with cultivated fields. Also important is the integration of livestock in agriculture. In the neighbourhood of Baza in the late Middle Ages, after the Christian conquest, there were complaints because there was not enough bread to feed

Granada ha oydo dezir e es notorio que heran pastos comunes” AGS, Consejo Real, legajos 53, fol. I. (cf. Malpica Cuello 2013, 22). 31 “…demás del perjuicio que a los ganados de los que vienen a ervajar a la dicha sierra se sigue de no señalar el dicho día, tanbien los vecinos de la dicha villa que salen fuera a invernar con sus ganados reçibirían mucho daño sí quando truxesen sus ganados a la dicha sierra la hallasen hollada de los ganados de los vecinos desta dicha villa que con lo cercano della ayan pastado los inviernos y entradas de verano” Archivo Municipal de Huéscar, Ordenanzas de don Fadrique, 1414, leg. Sin clasificar. (Díaz López 2002, 43). 32 Personal communication from shepherd Jose Luis Garcia Reche from “Cortijo de los Prados” (Venta Micena). 33 “...en la cima de esta montaña hay rebaños y campos cultivados y perfectamente regados, de forma que este hisn es tan importante por sus recursos como por su situación ventajosa” (Al-Idrisi 1969, 202 in Arabic, 248 in Spanish traslation).

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the army. There was a shortage of animals to work the mills or carry the bread.34 Another example is that of “the Virgin’s canal,” a broad ditch of over 20 km of trail, rising in Sierra de La Sagra and going to the Campo de Torralba, in the plain of Huéscar. Throughout its length, this canal brings water to several farmhouses35 which use it to create small orchards. Besides, different shepherds and farmers (interviewed between October and November 2012) told us that the canal is used at some points for the animals as a drinking trough. In its initial section it is used to irrigate one of the mountain meadows (summer pastures). This canal and some of these farmhouses appear in sixteenth-century sources, a clue to the antiquity of the system.36

6. Some final words After all, are we dealing with an “invisible culture?” The amount of livestock-related infrastructure, the quantity of documents referring to stockbreeding and even the settlement organization to control the drove roads is clearly very important. Thus, we are reconsidering if what has happened is an effective process of keeping them hidden, from the recent historiography about al-Andalus. From the sixteenth century production seems to be much more controlled, in order to maintain the State through the taxation system. It may have influenced the expansion of rainfed agriculture and greater control over the livestock crossing sites. According to our analysis we may see a transformation in the twelfth century when animal husbandry seems to have a place in the State’s management (in al-Awam agricultural treaty there is a part devoted to stockbreeding, while previous treatises on agri34

In Baza, June 22, 1489, The King communicates to the doctor Talavera that his secretary Fernan Alvarez came to send money, and instructs them about how to pay and supply the army: “por falta de las bestias fueron muy flacas non se pudo haser y el pan que ouierdes sea por mitad.” B. AGS Guerra Antigua, leg. 1315, p. 15 (de la Obra Sierra 2011, doc. 2, 29). 35 “Cortijos de la Cueva del agua,” “Cortijo del Girón,” other called “Montilla,” “Cortijo Molina,” “Zabar,” then other called “Hazagrande,” the “Cortijo del Quemado;” the channel passes in front of the “Ermita de la Virgen de la Cabeza” and from here continues to the “Cortijo de Marmolance,” the “Cortijo de Santa Teresa,” other called “Valentín” and the “Cortijo de los Llanos.” 36 “Otrosí que qualquier pastor que abriere el açequia prinçipal syn liçençia de los dichos alcaldes para echar agua a sus ganados, fuera de la madre de dicha açequia, caya en pena de seisçientos maravedis.” (Díaz López 2010, 162).

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culture do not include them directly). Also the infrastructure seems to have grown at that time: possibly with the creation of drove roads and most surely the construction of several water tanks. Livestock becomes more and more visible after the sixteenth century; however, the shepherds will become more and more invisible up to the present day. Especially after the industrial revolution, like many other rural activities, they suffered a degradation from the current capitalist system, whose dynamics have led to massive production at great speed. Shepherds are also changing, many of them living in the city and driving their herds by car, though some others maintain the traditions in one way or another. Our interest is to understand what happened in previous historical periods. The importance of pastoralism may have been greater as it was an important activity (where even the authorities were interested) and the shepherds themselves provided essential products such as meat, wool, animal skins and so forth. Possibly a part of them was marginalized, as depicted by Ibn Jaldun in the fourteenth century: the shepherds doing the transhumance were nomads after all, not integrated in any settled town.37 The area analysed may have been unique within the Kingdom. Future analysis of other areas will enable us to make further comparisons, though some advances have already been made, clearly indicating that livestock in medieval economies was more important than it is today.

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Cazorla.” In I Coloquio de Historia y Medio Físico. El agua en zonas áridas: 169–82. Almería: Instituto de Estudios Almerienses. Bertrand, M. and J. R. Sánchez Viciana. 2009. “Canalizos y tajeas, dos sistemas de captación de agua mediante galerías subterráneas en las altiplanicies granadinas. Andalucía Oriental.” Arqueología y Territorio Medieval, 16: 151–78. Camarero Bullón, C. 2001-2002. “Geografía de la sal a mediados del siglo XVIII.” Boletín de la Real Sociedad Geográfica 137/138: 129–60. Cara Barrionuevo, L. 2009. “Huellas de pastores: observando los paisajes ganaderos de los ‘extremos’ granadinos.” In Análisis de los paisajes históricos. De al-Andalus a la sociedad feudal, edited by A. Malpica Cuello, 169–202.Granada: Alhulia. Cara Barrionuevo, L. and J. M. Rodríguez López. 1989. “El ámbito económico del pastoralismo andalusí. Grandes aljibes ganaderos en la provincia de Almería.” In I coloquio de Historia y Medio Físico. El agua en zonas áridas: 631–53. Almería: Instituto de Estudios Almerienses. de la Obra Sierra, J. 2011. Correspondencia de Hernando de Zafra. Granada: Universidad de Granada. Díaz López, J. P. 1995. “El aprovechamiento de los recursos naturales en el siglo XVI: Ordenanzas ecológicas de Huéscar.” Hespérides: Anuario de investigaciones 3: 215–25. ʊ. 2002. “Paleopaisaje y legislación concejil en Huéscar (Granada) durante el siglo XVI.” Nimbus 9-10: 39–55. ʊ. 2010. “Un ejemplo de ordenanzas de regadío: el riego en Huéscar en el siglo XVI.” In El agua domesticada. El paisaje de los regadíos de montaña en Andalucía, edited by J. R. Guzmán Álvarez and R. M. Navarro Cerrillo, 160–65. Sevilla: Junta de Andalucía. Franco Sánchez, F. 2005. “La caminería en al-Andalus (ss. VIII-XV J.C.): Consideraciones metodológicas, históricas y administrativas para su estudio.” Transportes, Servicios y Telecomunicaciones 9: 34–64. García-Contreras Ruiz, G. 2011. “Production and use of salt in al-Andalus. State of the art and perspective for its study.” In Food in the Medieval Rural Environment. Processing, Storage, Distribution of Food. Ruralia VIII, 7th–12th september 2009, Lorca, Spain, edited by J. KlápštČ and P. Sommer, 31–43. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers. Girón Pascual, R. M. 2011. “Los Lavaderos de lana de Huéscar (Granada) y el comercio genovés en la Edad Moderna.” Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria, Nuova Serie. Vol. LI (CXXV) Fasc. I: 191–202. Ibn al-Awwan. 2003. Libro de Agricultura, translated and edited by J. I. Cubero Salmerón: Sevilla: Junta de Andalucía. 2 vols.

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Ibn Jaldun. 2007. Introducción a la Historia Universal (Al-Muqqadima). Córdoba: Editorial Almuzara. Malpica Cuello, A. 2000-2001. “La vida económica en la frontera nazarícastellana. Ganadería y sal en la zona nororiental del reino de Granada.” In Le monde du sel. Mélanges offerts à Jean Claude Hocquet. Journal of Salt History, edited by C. D. Litchfield, R. Palme, and P. Piasecki, 101–24. Journal of Salt History 8–9. Hall in Tirol: Berenkamp ʊ. 2006. “Un asentamiento fortificado en la frontera nazarí-castellana: Castril de la Peña.” Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 24: 197–225. ʊ. 2008a. “El medio físico y la producción de la sal. Propuesta para el análisis de las salinas granadinas desde una perspectiva arqueológica.” In Medio Ambiente y Arqueología Medieval, edited by José María Martín Civantos, 145–62. Granada: Alhulia. ʊ. 2008b. “Techniques et aménagements des salines médiévales de l´intérieur des terres en Andalousie orientale.” In Sel, eau et forêt D´hier à aujourd´hui, edited by O. Weller, A. Dufraisse, and P. Pétrequin, 433–50. Paris: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté. ʊ. 2011. “Paisaje y poblamiento del espacio fronterizo nororiental del reino nazarí de Granada.” In El paisaje y su dimensión arqueológica. Estudios sobre el sur de la Península Ibérica en la Edad Media, edited by M. Jiménez Puertas and L. Mattei, 17–53. Granada: Alhulia. ʊ. 2012. “El agua en la agricultura. Agroecosistemas y ecosistemas en la economía rural andalusí.” Vínculos de Historia 1: 31–44. ʊ. 2013. “Organización del territorio y estructuras económicas en la frontera nororiental del reino de Granada.” In Sal, agricultura y ganadería: la formación de los paisajes rurales en la Edad Media, edited by S. Villar Mañas, 19–41. Palma de Mallorca: Vessants. Martín, F. M. 2010. “Aproximación a los saladares granadinos: El criptohumedal de Molino Baíco (Baza, Granada).” Péndulo. Papeles de Bastitania 11: 9–24. Martínez Vázquez, L. 2013. “Entre la vega y la sierra de Granada. Los paisajes productivos y la producción de paisajes en la Baja Edad Media.” In Sal, agricultura y ganadería: la formación de los paisajes rurales en la Edad Media, edited by S. Villar Mañas, 71–98. Palma de Mallorca: Vessants. Torices Abarca, N. and E. Zurita Povedano. 2003. Cortijos, haciendas y lagares: arquitectura de las grandes explotaciones agrarias de Andalucía. Provincia de Granada. Sevilla: Junta de Andalucía. Villar Mañas, S. and M. García García. Forthcoming. “Propuestas para el estudio de la ganadería andalusí. Aproximaciones desde los registros

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arqueológico y etnográfico.” In El registro arqueológico y la arqueología medieval. Actas de las XIII Jornadas de Arqueología Medieval de la Casa de los Tiros (Granada, 12–14 de junio 2012), edited by A. Malpica Cuello and G. García-Contreras Ruiz.

PART V: FURTHER ISSUES

SOCIETY IN ERTO AND CASSO: ORAL HISTORY AND NEW INVESTIGATION METHODS FABRIZIO FILIOLI URANIO UNIVERSITÀ DI PISA (ITALY)

1. Research Objectives The aim of this research is to establish the material and non-material links that connect the people of Erto and Casso to their valley. In order to do so, I administered a questionnaire to the local community to assess their personal representation of the landscape, the patrimony and the cultural knowledge they recognize as their own. It is important to explain why the survey I undertook didn’t take into account the village of Longarone, the most affected by the Vajont dam disaster. In fact, the area I studied is limited to the Vajont valley because I wished to analyze the landslide as a process having roots before 1963, and specifically when SADE (Società Adriatica di Elettricità, Adriatic Energy Corporation) initiated dispossessions on the territory. The expropriations didn’t include Longarone; hence, the village didn’t go through the deterritorialization which affected Erto and Casso from 1948. It is indeed a turning point for the territorial rationality of the valley, since the town council started selling its belongings to SADE, opening the field to the first expropriations. Therefore I analysed the events in a very precise order, based on the whole territorialization, deterritorialization and reterritorialization processes (known as T/D/R). This analysis draws on both printed materials and informants’ interviews. In order to do so, I took into account Armand Frémont 1976 paradigm on special analysis. In fact, Frémont highlights three dimensions in a regional organization.1 He describes the region as a natural framework where residential and productive areas, different uses of the soil and communication networks coexist. Inside this framework the 1

Mainardi 2003, 32.

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researcher can find the social relationships between the human beings, as they are projected and engraved in places such as public buildings and squares. Moreover, and completing this framework of relationships between the inhabitants and their territory, the perception of space and places needs to be taken into account. Mythology, tradition and symbols are part of a social and territorial system. They act as non-material links between people and places and are full of psychological values. The region, a place full of life experiences, assimilates perception of the territory and organization of the space (images, ideologies, values). This dimension based on perception and symbolism is the last piece of the wide set of relationships between human beings and their territory.2 Each transformation of the territory is therefore seen as a continuous sequence of the aforementioned T/D/R process suggested by Raffestin in 1984.3 Every T/D/R cycle represents the shift from one territorial (and social) organization model to another.4 This perspective is extremely useful in analysing the construction of a territory; moreover, it allows us to follow the sedimentation of the material and non-material signs potentially leading to a patrimonialization process.5 In this analysis, we can therefore acknowledge the second interpretation of material and non-material sediments as the identification of a specific value (economic, aesthetic, symbolic etc.) when moving to a different phase of the T/D/R cycle.6 These changes in the territorialization process may involve a lack of energy, but they are nonetheless necessary to keep alive certain components of the local territorial milieu.7 Hence, it is paramount to carry on a second reading of past sediments, starting then a patrimonialization process linked to development dynamics. By doing this patrimonialization it is possible to guarantee sustainability on a long term basis, not only looking at financial aspects but also keeping in mind cultural, social, political and environmental perspectives.8 The analytical tools I used to assess the perception of the landscape and territory in the Vajont Valley are parish maps. These maps allow the researcher to examine the transformations of a certain place and project its future perspectives. It is therefore possible to retrace a thick network of 2

Ibid. Dansero and Governa 2003, 29; Raffestin 1984, 69–82. 4 Ibid. 5 Dansero and Governa 2003, 30. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 8 Ivi, 32. 3

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relationships between the residents, their historical patrimony and fundamental ideological bookmarks. It is an instrument that enables the exploration of local culture and knowledge while ensuring their transmission to future generations. In fact, the map itself is created by the interviewees’ responses to specific questions and it is fruit of their collective memory. It can be in form of a typical cartographic representation marking places acknowledged by the whole community or it could be a text explaining the work that has been carried out and highlighting the collective patrimony of the interviewees.9 With my questionnaire, I tried to draw attention to the ideological bookmarks of the people from Erto and Casso; moreover, I tried to understand which places now represent their own identity. It is clear that this particular history, created by assembling interviews and based on an oral culture that gives it its specific value, might be quite different from official history, by reason of following a different path. In fact, oral and local history and official history are motivated by different needs, and guided by different logics.10 Official history tends to give an objective image of the past and is conditioned by specific ideologies11 and this is why it is often different when compared to collective memory. Regarding the landslide, the only journalist who reported on the dangers for the people living in the valley was Tina Merlin, sued by SADE after she published an article in the newspaper L’Unità, for giving “false and exaggerated news that could result in public nuisance.”12 In the end, the Court of Milan cleared the journalist, having found nothing “false, exaggerated or biased.”13 Nevertheless and while the severity of the situation had been acknowledged, SADE was able to continue the work on the dam even when mount Toc threatened to slide in the lake, leaving Erto and Casso people’s complaints unheard. Direct interviews with the witnesses (or informants) enabled me to highlight several changes otherwise impossible to find. Oral history can gather the details of a daily life passed on to the following generations as tradition and as taught practices.14 When talking to a survivor about the Vajont disaster, the researcher can keep in contact with a world that no

9

www.mappadicomunita.it Dansero and Governa 2003, 42. 11 Calandra 2004, 37. 12 Merlin 2006, 88 (translation by the author). 13 Ivi, 106. (translation by the author). 14 Passerini 1984, 3. 10

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longer exists by reason of being swept away; nevertheless, and because of the oral testimony, this reality is actually brought back to life. The interviewee, in this context, has two sides: one lives in the present and one remembers the past and is able to describe it. This double nature naturally influences the interviewer, allowing him to relive the past of the interviewee through his own words.15 The researcher is then capable of noticing moments of continuity and conflict of a group of people. A brutal rupture such as the Vajont landslide can therefore enable us to understand the transformations in the local community’s unconscious and in its hopes as well as the genesis of these inevitable changes after such a drastic and disastrous alteration of the landscape and the territory of the Vajont valley. A historian’s role must be to interpret sources, especially oral sources. An oral testimony is a merely potential source until the researcher is able to make it emerge through interviews.16 Field research is therefore not only the result of what the interviewees are able to tell; it also depends heavily on the kind of questions the historian is able to ask and on the kind of relationship he is able to create with the interviewees. A researcher can be himself biased and distort the interviewees’ words; he needs to let the source speak for itself, not insisting on several questions but rather asking them at a later time.17 An interview can be defined as an encounter and a dialogue between two actors. Therefore, it would be wrong to ignore the presence of an interviewer when transcribing the responses, as the gathered information wouldn’t have been the same if the questions asked were different. Moreover, a peculiar element of the oral testimonies is their unicity:18 it is unlikely that one person would be able to tell exactly the same story twice.19 In fact, time has a specific influence on memories: it elevates them. A significant part of the unconscious becomes a memory: understandably, it is therefore important that the questions asked by the historian are written with the answers when transcribing an interview. To this purpose, it is recommended that each interview be repeated several times in order to add details previously ignored. The interviewee’s memory is virtually inextinguishable;20 since the interviewee will never tell the same story twice, it is likely that new details will be added every time.

15

Contini 2001, 50. Portelli 1999, 160. 17 Ibid. 18 Ivi, 161. 19 Ibid. 20 Ivi, 160–161. 16

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Concerning my research, I designed a questionnaire which would highlight both the changes in the landscape and territory of Erto and Casso and the ideological bookmarks of the valley. The idea here is to rebuild the collective memory of these people especially around the most important bookmarks. In order to do so, it has been necessary to ask about the landslide, cause of irreparable devastation both on people’s ways of life and on the memory of what has been destroyed. The rupture has been so brutal that local people have been thrown into a new world that didn’t feel theirs, leaving profound scars on their collective memory. I also tried to investigate a utopian present as it would be if the landslide never happened; not only it is utopian, it is also timeless, as it is an impossible historical dimension. In other words, I asked what would have happened if mount Toc had never fallen down. You could define it as history based on several “what ifs,” able to cast a light on an alternate present reality.21 In conclusion, we can affirm that oral history is able to cast a new light on what official history usually ignores22 by allowing those who remained unheard to speak. This is how processes that symbolize people’s unconscious23 are able to emerge. The other important aim of my research is to draw attention to requests for a better management of the territory–a territory we interpret as the place where daily life happens and therefore in need of being developed and improved according to Erto and Casso people’s needs.

2. Territorialization Valcellina is the Western part of the Carnic Alps, developed around the Cellina river basin.24 Commonly, Valcellina is said to include the Vajont basin, even if it is a tributary of the Piave River.25 Between these two valleys there is Passo di Sant’Osvaldo (827 m above sea level), allowing human contact between the two mountain sides from the most ancient times. It is in fact easier for people living in the Vajont valley to move upwards, going to the top of the mountain and towards Valcellina, rather than to cross the canyon separating the valley from the Piave River.26

21

Portelli 1985, 19. Bermani 1999b, III. 23 Bermani 1999a, 36. 24 Valussi 1963, 6–7. 25 Ivi, 7. 26 Ivi, 7–8. 22

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The historical administrative unit has existed at least since the eighth century. In fact, at that time, Lombard feudatories donated the lands of Barcis, Cimolàis and Erto to Sesto Benedictine Abbey (located in the western part of Friuli); in the first half of the tenth century, Claut was donated as well.27 This is when Erto first appears in the historical record; its inhabitants speak a mixed language formed of Friulano and Ladino, maybe by reason of them being descendants of the German Cimbri.28 The toponym “Casso” first appears in written sources in 1332;29 it was probably founded as a village of shepherds and coal-merchants coming from the Piave valley.30 It is situated at the entrance of the valley, towards the Belluno side of the mountain, and its people speak a different dialect, closer to the Venetian and Bellunese dialects spoken in Longarone.31 On the left bank of the Vajont river, and in front of Erto and Casso (called Nert and Càs in their respective dialects), is mount Toc, an extremely important mountain through the centuries for its woods, of primary interest for the people living nearby. In 1866, Erto and Casso eventually became one municipality, “Comune di Erto e Casso.”32 Lacking efficient routes (the first road connecting Clàut to Longarone was finished in 191333), the villages carried out economic exchanges only for subsistence, in other words only when necessary for the community to survive. Peddling became a distinctive trait of Erto and Casso34 since Friuli was annexed to the Kingdom of Italy (Regno d’Italia). It was mainly an activity carried on by women, who went with their baskets (in Italian, gerle) usually two by two, married women, children and elder women together. They left their houses during spring or summer and went fora pal mont (out there in the world) to sell wooden crafts made during the long winter months by their husbands, fathers, brothers and sons; they usually sold kitchen tools such as spoons, ladles, rolling pins and bowls. They were away from two weeks up to two months; they were called sedonere, from the Friulano term for spoon, sedòn.35 This activity clearly served the purpose of integrating the poor agricultural production of the valley; on the terraces of Casso beans and potatoes 27

Ivi, 9. Merlin 2006, 27. 29 Valussi 1963, 44. 30 Ibid. 31 Merlin 2006, 27. 32 Ivi, 35. 33 Valussi 1963, 110. 34 Merlin 2006, 34. 35 Radaelli 2006a, 25. 28

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are usually cultivated. Potatoes are carefully selected to grow into a specific and refined variety, white and small, called “Bianca di Casso.”36 Moreover, at the beginning of spring and usually until autumn, people from Erto and Casso moved to the left bank of the Vajont River, around the villages of Prada and Pineda, where they owned their stavoli and their summer houses.37 The cattle are put out to pasture in the high mountains, usually starting on the thirteenth of June, Sant’Antonio’s day, and lasting until the seventeenth of September;38 Casso inhabitants usually avoided going near Val Zemola, as this was a pasture for the cattle of Erto; instead, they used to take their cattle further away and towards Longarone and Zoldo. A lot of them have families living there, and they feel more at home in Val di Piave.39 People spent the summer in their Alpine huts (malghe), they processed cows’ milk40 and transformed it into butter and cheese. Shepherds, smallholder farmers, pedlars, lumberjacks and stonecutters worked to support their families. At night, then, the nine taverns of Erto and the two taverns of Casso were full of people; the money earned was spent on wine and grappa, there was lots of laughing and shouting, everyone played the game of morra and usually swore.41 However, the swear words are typical expressions in the Erto and Casso language42 rather than an act of blasphemy. Religion is in fact usually heart-felt especially when talking about the Good Friday procession, a tradition alive since 1631.43

3. Deterritorialization It is important to highlight that the deterritorialization process of Erto and Casso’s valley began several years prior to the landslide of October 9, 1963. In 1948, the town council examined the SADE proposal and sanctioned the selling of the land of the Vajont valley.44 After the selling of the 36

Valussi 1963, 71. Ivi, 47; 76. 38 Corona 2007, 86. 39 Valussi 1963, 77. 40 Ivi, 78. 41 Merlin 2006, 28. 42 Ibid. 43 Radaelli 2006b. 44 Merlin 2006, 43. 37

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communal land, smallholder farmers also had to sell their personal belongings to SADE; the government gave SADE permission for the construction of a dam and an artificial lake as public services.45 Since SADE controlled the land market, the society itself was able to establish ridiculously low prices for Erto and Casso’s fields, rejected by people of the villages. Thanks to the mediation of the Mayor, Caterina Filippin, the price was fixed at 100 lira per square metre, still below the usual contractual price of 150–200 lira.46 A Committee, chaired by Paolo Gallo, the Mayor’s husband, was created to negotiate with SADE; however, the Society always refused to hear the citizens. Moreover, SADE asked for a police station to be built in Erto for public safety, while another already existed at Cimolais, less than 5 km away.47 In 1956, SADE continued in its stride, starting evictions of those who refused to sell their houses and suing journalists who dared publish false, exaggerated and biased news of the dam.48 The Mayor and her husband started to become elusive and ambiguous, while SADE insisted on chasing people away. The Society didn’t even think of where these people were going to live after losing their land, pastures and houses, as their main goal was to maximize the profit with minimal effort. In the meantime, and unbeknown to the villagers, Mayor Caterina Filippin also sold her lands to SADE.49 Fractures between the villagers started to emerge, with some wanting to sell and others wanting to resist. Several farmers spontaneously offered their lands to SADE, who ended up buying them at the lowest price possible, around 18 liras.50 These were the new conditions, and failure to comply would only lead to eviction.51 The construction works for the dam began; in April 1957, SADE presented a new project to the Ministry, to increase the height of the dam from 200 to 266 m, consequently raising the artificial lake to 722.5 m above sea level.52 On May 19, 1960 SADE asked for a second flooding test to bring the lake to 660 m above sea level and was granted permission a month later.53 45

Ibid. Ivi, 46. 47 Ibid. 48 Ibid. 49 Ivi, 47. 50 Ivi, 48. 51 Ivi, 56. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid. 46

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However, on November 4, 1960, a landslide of 300 m fell from mount Toc into the lake, generating a freak wave that miraculously didn’t hurt anyone.54 But the houses on the left side of the valley were now damaged because of the continuous earthquakes coming from the mountain. SADE then proceeded to the evacuation of the people living on the left side of the valley.55 Erto and Casso inhabitants started to notice a deep crevice on mount Toc, and started to worry for their own safety and security.56 Nevertheless, the Society wanted to pursue the construction of a road between Erto and Pineda and was granted permission by the Prefect in 1961 to access all buildings needed for the construction of the road, the dam and the artificial lake. SADE bought the other eighty-eight cadastral units by December.57 On January 13, 1962 SADE asked and was granted permission to flood the lake up to 680 m above sea level, then in May got permission to flood up to 700 m above sea level. During the summer of 1962 the lake was constantly flooded and emptied while keeping an eye on the mountain to see what was happening.58 SADE also asked and was granted permission to forbid access to the lake under 730 m above sea level.59 In December 1962 the law for the creation of the Italian Electric Utility (ENEL) was implemented; this implied that the dam was now directly owned by the State.60 In order to be able to sell the construction at a higher price, SADE asked permission to flood up to 715 m above sea level. Rumbles and earthquakes continued, and the population could no longer suffer SADE vexations. On September 2, 1963 the municipal administrator wrote a letter to the Society, demanding a safety and security assessment of the dam and a written statement that no damage was going to impact Erto and Casso. If the Society was unable to provide these official documents, it would be forced to remove from the territory the causes of the impending danger before damage could occur in Erto.61 Ten days later, SADE responded that its local office was keeping the reservoir and Erto bank side under daily routine controls. SADE specifi54

Ivi, 95. Ivi, 102. 56 Ibid. 57 Ibid. 58 Ivi, 118. 59 Ivi, 120. 60 Ivi, 123. 61 Ivi, 130. 55

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cally wrote that the reservoir would not affect Erto’s safety and security since the village was situated much higher than the artificial lake even when fully flooded.62 Mount Toc, however, continued to slide down more and more rapidly; only on September 26, 1962 did SADE finally agree to lower the level of the artificial lake.63 On October 8, 1963 the land slid about 60 cm; at 10.39 pm on the following day, the mountain eventually collapsed with a massive landslide of about 260 million m3 of forest, earth and rock, which fell into the reservoir at up to 110 km per hour. Erto and Casso were damaged; San Martino, Le Spesse and Longarone were entirely destroyed.64 Before the huge wave could pass the dam, the air was compressed at the entrance of the Vajont valley, acting like a bottleneck. It exploded near Longarone: the shock wave was comparable to the nuclear fallout of two Hiroshima bombs.65 Erto and Casso were then flooded by a second huge wave twirling in the middle of the artificial lake. Erto and Casso counted 159 casualties, Longarone almost 2000.66 The history of the great Vajont dam, that lasted twenty years, was over in less than three minutes, in an apocalypse resulting in the holocaust of two thousand victims.67 On October 10, the survivors’ diaspora began: some of them moved to Cimolais or Claut, while others moved to Pordenone, Belluno, Milan or Turin where they had family or friends.68 On October 11, 1963 the official order was given to completely evacuate the valley.69

4. Reterritorialization The displaced people from the valley spent the following winter in Cimolais or Claut, hosted in private houses or hotels. They received a daily allowance and did not work; they drank and got drunk, unable to think about their future.70 62

Ibid. Ivi, 132. 64 Ivi, 145. 65 Paolini and Vacis 2008. 66 Merlin 2006, 151. 67 Ivi, 145. 68 Ivi, 151. 69 Ibid. 70 Ivi, 152. 63

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However, in the meantime, some of them started to go back to Erto to live in their old home during the day, going back for the night to Cimolais, as permanent guest of a town and people they did not really know.71 By that time, people lived in fear that mount Toc would slide again, as ENEL and SADE hypothesized. Erto and Casso town council, based in Cimolais, appealed to that hypothesis to justify the plan of abandoning Erto and Casso and moving the whole community elsewhere.72 But the people did not agree and wanted to see the artificial lake emptied so that the dangers could be eliminated and they could rebuild their homes and their life. The stubbornness of the town council started to raise suspicions and people started wondering whether the Society still thought about using the artificial lake as a source of hydroelectric energy production.73 The entrance to the road through Valcellina was still officially prohibited, but during the winter and until the summer of 1964 people from Erto continued to go back to their village, even to spend the night there. ENEL reacted by cutting electric power.74 But people based in Erto continued their work of pulling out the bodies from the ruins during the day, raising money to pay for coffins and funerals. At night, they met and talked about the future steps to undertake. Symbolically, an Italian flag was raised on top of Erto’s church, both as a sign of grief for the dead and as a sign that people were alive and still inhabited the village. The priest started celebrating mass every day even though it was considered illegal, and fields started being cultivated again. Now about 300 people wanted to stay in Erto, as could be seen from the walls where they wrote “W Erto immortale” (Long live the immortal village of Erto).75 The local authorities were well aware of the situation, but decided to overlook it. The town council, however, still worked towards a final desertion of the valley and decided to hold a referendum imposing a choice between three new sites: Maniago, at the entrance of Valcellina; Ponte nelle Alpi, towards Belluno; San Quirino, in the Pordenone valley.76 It was a quite useless move since no project had been approved to start rebuilding the village, nor had any administrative declared Erto conclusively unfit for

71

Ivi, 155. Ivi, 156. 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ivi, 156–157. 76 Ivi, 157. 72

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habitation.77 The results were, nevertheless, disastrous, as half of the population didn’t go to vote and the other half was split between the three sites. A month after the referendum, people found out that Giuseppe Samonà, appointed by the Ministry of Public Works to draw up plans to rebuild the destroyed villages, had sent out a proposal to rebuild Erto in a safe area, upstream from the old village.78 A new referendum was asked for, including this possibility as one of the choices, but the town council argued against it because people had already voted.79 On October 9, 1964, Erto’s inhabitants went back to their village to commemorate the dead; the local authorities even allowed the use of power for the anniversary.80 That night, men and women of Erto started guarding the transformer room in order to prevent the authorities from cutting off the power: they were successful, and electric light has never left Erto since that night.81 At 10:45 pm, the time of the tragedy, the remaining people from Erto celebrated their dead by themselves, with no official ceremonies or local authorities. The church bells rang and left profound echoes in the valley; fires were lit on the shores of the lake. It was a personal tribute to the people killed by the landslide.82 Only in 1965 a new referendum was held, asking the local community to choose Maniago, Erto or Ponte nelle Alpi to rebuild the towns. But only the head of each household could choose, by a specific procedure, in the town hall. 294 households and a total of 1425 people from Erto and Casso chose Maniago; 97 chose Erto, for 442 individuals total; 70 chose Ponte nelle Alpi, 368 people. Erto was therefore split in three factions, and each part was reconstructed in a different valley.83 In Maniago, an area for the rebuilding was easily identified, at the expense of local farmers evicted from their lands; in Erto some people were still living in their old houses because none of the construction works had started.84 However, and finally, the artificial lake was slowly emptied.85

77

Ibid. Ivi, 158. 79 Ibid. 80 Ivi, 159. 81 Ibid. 82 Ivi, 159–160. 83 Ivi, 160. 84 Ibid. 85 Ivi, 161. 78

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Some changes were immediately visible; the main road cutting through the village didn’t have a name and transit was now forbidden because of unstable ground. However, it was called 9 ottobre (October 9).86 People lived in the houses between the town square and the cemetery. The road was declared unfit for transit, yet the houses could be inhabited, while the ground was still unstable. Religious functions were allowed in the church, even though it was in the impracticable perimeter. It is hard to find a logic in these events; for example, the day before the tragedy, people from Erto and Casso were advised to evacuate their cattle from mount Toc, but not to leave the area themselves. After the tragedy, with the same scheme, the road was declared unstable, but the area is livable. The forbidden access notice soon disappeared.87 The construction works in Erto started, 830 m above sea level, in 1971, almost ten years after the landslide. The new town is called Stortan. It is built on a beautiful and sunny side of the hill, overlooking the lake. It is built on different terraces, around the two new main buildings, the town hall and the church, in a new square. These buildings happen to be hideous and clash with the beautiful environmental surroundings. The new houses, however, appear beautiful to look at, terraced houses built with visible wooden beams; they overlook the old Erto. 150 households decided to live in the area, and new ones have been formed ever since. The old village of Erto, however, has remained for the longest time the centre of community life for these people. It’s in the old Erto that, on Good Friday, a few years after the tragedy, people started reenacting the tradition of the procession representing the Passion of Christ. Thousands of people used to come from the surrounding villages and valleys, even the original inhabitants of Erto and Casso now dispersed in neighbouring towns.88 The Vajont Lake isn’t menacing any more, as its water is down to 632 m above sea level. The mountain is now stable. An electrical system keeps the water to this level, draining excess water through a tunnel behind the dam, to be discharged in the Vajont canyon. Casso, however, is almost completely abandoned. The houses there are for the most part intact, as a testimony of a specific urban settlement built by people living in these mountains since the beginning of time. The buildings are made of stone, just like the old houses in Erto, cut in quarries in the mountains and carried there with huge effort; the people of Casso

86

Ibid. Ivi, 164. 88 Ibid. 87

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built the houses in ancient times. The old village can be seen, in front of mount Toc, under the Salta Mountain. Toc, the Sick Mountain, Salta, the Trembling Mountain, those are the meanings of their names. The local toponyms are a sign of an ancient wisdom, the ancient knowledge of rocks and grounds acquired by a population used to living and surviving in these mountains and valleys. Those were the real experts, a lot more competent than the “experts” who later led to disaster.89

5. The Interviews To select my interviewees, I used a random sampling method.90 Sample: 11 people from Erto (7 women, 4 men) and 2 from Casso. Age range: 27–71 years for people from Erto and 51–89 years for people from Casso. Age average: 55 for Erto; 70 for Casso. The small size of the sample is also due to the fact that a large part of the local community refused to be interviewed or to talk about the 1963 tragedy. Some are still grieving and struggling with the trauma and loss of their beloved. They are often affected by flashbacks, insomnia, inability to talk about the disaster and bad memories. The Vajont landslide has been a real holocaust for the local survivors.91 The importance that people attribute to the mountain, the woods and the environment in general emerges immediately; the old town with its abandoned or destroyed houses is part of the past, a memory and a warning so that in the future people’s lives will always come before economic interests; the churches represent faith in a religion acting as the glue of the community as well as a place of encounters and prayers; San Rocco Church is particularly important by reason of it being built to honour the Saint who stopped the plague; then there are other environmental aspects such as San Daniele Books (typical local rocks) and local flora and fauna. It is also important to highlight that the valley is situated in the Parco Naturale Dolomiti Friulane (Natural Park of Dolomiti), a protected area of 37,000 hectares, the biggest one in Friuli-Venezia Giulia.

89

Ivi, 181–182 The interviews were conducted in summer 2008 as part of fieldwork. 91 Cf. Vastano 2008, 106–10. 90

Society in Erto o and Casso

212

W WHICH OF THESE ELEMENTS, IN YOUR N, CHARACTERIZE EERTO'S OPINION LA ANDSCAPE E TODAY?

MO OUNTAINS, FORE ESTS, RIV VERS (34%) DA AM AND LANDSLIIDE (133%)

2%

2%

2% %

2%

OLLD TOWN CENTER R AND HO OUSES (11%)

2%

ALLPINE HUTS, SUM MMER DIA AIRIES (11%) TH HE VALLEY (8%)

5 5%

34%

8%

TH HE PASTURES (8% %) SA AN DANIELE'S BOO OKS (5%)

8% 1 11% 11%

13%

TH HE TERRITORY'S IN TEGRITY (2%) TH HE MUSEUM ON THE T VA AJONT DISASTER (2%) FLLORA AND FAUNA A (2%) SA AN ROCCO'S CHURCH (2% %) OTTHER CHURCH (2%)

Fig. 1. Chart of responses too the question “Which “ of thesee elements, in your y opinion, characterrize Erto’s landscape today?”

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W WHAT WO OULD YOU U LIKE TO R REBUILD THAT USSED TO EXIST BEFOR RE THE EDY? TRAGE H ISTORICAL CENTR RE (39%)

7%

TH HE VALLEY AS IT WAS W BEEFORE THE DAM AND A RTIFICIAL LAKE (1 19%)

7%

TH HE OLD TOWNS (7%) (

7%

39% % TH HE PASTURES (7% %)

7% 7%

DA ANCING HALLS (7 7%)

7% 19 9%

DA AIRY SHOP (7%)

BU ( UTHCER'S SHOP (7%)

Fig. 2. Chart of the responses to the questiion “Which buiilding that exissted before would you like too rebuild?” the tragedy w

The charrt represented in Fig. 1 show ws the value tthat the comm munity attributes to thhe historic tow wn centre, an important ideeological book kmark for Erto inhabitaants. The answ wers show a clear desire to go back to life in the vaalley as it used to be bbefore the dam m and artificiaal lake were buuilt. The Vajo ont valley used to be a large canyon attaining greaat depths befoore widening into fields and pastures under mounnt Toc. The butcher’s shoop and the daairy were

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more than m mere businesss stores, they y were a placce where peop ple could meet and chhat, just as the dance halls were. w San Marrtino’s churchh is to be conssidered in a sliightly differen nt way as it used to bee the most anncient building g in the valleyy and was en ntirely destroyed by thhe shockwavee.

W WHICH OF TTHE FOLLO OWING A ACTIVITIESS SURVIVED THE VAJJONT DISA ASTER? 6% TTRADITIONS (82% %)

12%

L UMBERJACK (12% %)

82%

BBASKET MAKING, "GERLE" (66%)

Fig. 3. Chart of the responsses to the question “Which off the following g activities Vajont disaster??” survived the V

Traditionns are heartfeelt, as this chaart shows. Thhe most impo ortant one still is the G Good Friday Prrocession, in other o words thhe representatiion of the Passion of thhe Christ; it iss indeed one of o the most anncient traditions of Friuli. The lum mberjack profeession has been kept alivee because fireewood remains the m main heating fuuel during thee winter. How wever, the artissanal production of ttraditional basskets (gerle) is almost exttinct; only an old man still crafts thhem. Peddlingg is also a losst tradition, ass more efficieent means of transport are now availlable.92 The charrt representedd in Fig. 4 hig ghlights a greeat number off requests for a better aaccess to diffe ferent services such as locall businesses. The T highest demand is for local shops s such ass clothes selleers, hairdresseers and a fuel station; at the momennt, it is indeed d necessary too go to Longarone (circa 10 km aw way) or Claut (15 ( km away)) to fill up a caar.

92

This inform mation is the ressult of an interv view.

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Another interesting reequest concern ns the creationn of geology, architecture and bottanical workshhops so that students s can bbe attracted to Erto and study its terrritory and histtorical centre.

WH HAT WOU ULD YOU LIKE L TO SEEE IN ERTO O THAT STTILL HASN'T BEEN D DONE? REESTORE THE OLD HOUSES (300%) TH HE CREATION OF A SMALL ARRTIFICIAL LAKE AT T A SAFE HEEIGHT (20%)

10% 30%

10 0%

ORE BUSINESSESS AND MO SH HOPS (CLOTHES STORE, HA AIRDRESSERS, ETC C.) (10%) EM MERGENCY ROOM M (10%)

10%

W WORKSHOPS (10%)

10 0% 10%

20% GA AS STATION (10% %)

MO ORE COOPERATIO ON BEETWEEN THE RESIDENTS (100%)

Fig. 4. Chart of the responsees to the question “What wouuld you like to see s in Erto that still hasnn’t been done?”

It is alsoo important to t mention th he high numbber of requessts for an Emergency Room; in case of emergency, in fact, the ambulancce cannot come from tthe hospital att Belluno (30 km k from Ertoo) but has to co ome from Pordenone, as Erto is in Friuli F and not in Veneto. If tthe situation is i critical, a helicopter is sent rather than a car. Moreover, M in soome cases, priivate citi-

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zens had to take patients to the hospital themselves as the ambulance took too long to arrive.93 A peculiar request was made by some respondents to create a small artificial lake. It needs to be said that there is now only a small pond of what used to be the artificial Vajont Lake, almost dried in the summer months. The survey response seems to suggest that the local community would agree on the creation of a new artificial lake that could attract tourists, assuming that safety and security conditions are met and only after a thorough geological examination of the territory. However, because of past history, in respect for the victims of the tragedy and in regard to the survivors who still haven’t and may never process the 1963 tragedy, we need ultimately to rule out the option of the dam being used as a source of hydroelectric energy. The Vajont Valley and the towns of Erto and Casso, as mentioned above, went through different phases in the development of their territory. The original territorialization is strictly linked to the reliance upon the valley and what it can offer to the local communities; local people could and were used to survive with the products cultivated on that land. External contacts were limited to the pedlars, leaving town with their traditional baskets (gerle) full of spoons and kitchen tools to be sold in exchange for food to complement the valley’s resources. Beside agriculture and peddling, local people lived on the products of their cattle; cows and sheep guarantee the local production of milk and cheese. They also hunted; hooved animals, wild grouse and martens lived in the valley and were hunted for their meat. Moreover, the woods were used to collect firewood, used as fuel for heating and to craft the objects sold by the pedlars. Erto and Casso were really the heart of the local communities; the lives of the people happened in these streets and the places allowed everyone to find their role in society. Streets, squares and taverns were the common places for meeting and chatting. The artisan, the stonecutter, the blacksmith, the shepherd and so on, all had a specific activity and role and all were fundamental to create a balance on which the entire community was based. The material links that create a network between people and their territory are evident; but there are also non-material ones such as traditions and symbols that are just as important and recurrent in everyday life. The Good Friday procession, or the tradition of moving the cattle to summer pasture on June 13, Sant’Antonio’s day, are linked together in a combination of sacred and secular tradition. They constitute the symbolic relations 93

This information is the result of an interview.

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that connect people to specific places and are enriched with psychological value. Houses, mountains and woods are places where the local community can exist and to which people can relate not only in terms of economic production but also with a sentiment of affection and gratitude. This specific symbolism of each location and unique perception of the territory is part of the network connecting human beings and their territory. The situation obviously changed between 1948 and 1963, when SADE started dictating evictions, building the dam and the lake and up to the tragic landslide of mount Toc. This was called deterritorialization, as the social and organizational models changed inevitably. The evictions moved people away from the valley and forced them to find work on the dam construction site. The real rift emerged as workers appeared for the first time in a society based on agriculture and pastures. The fields started being submerged by the water of the artificial lake, and the peculiar cultivations of the region such as a potato variety (Bianca di Casso), disappeared. The community was conflicted on what to do, some stayed and fought and others sold and moved. The people working on the dam owned salaries and started buying radios, motorbikes; money changed a population used to hard work and rural life. Moreover, the lake kept being flooded with water and the cultivated fields disappeared; the farmers had to become construction workers. October 9, 1963 represents the highest point in the deterritorialization process. The destruction of a territory made of material and non-material links is complete. It is not only about the high number of deaths; it is about what the valley used to be and will be no more. The beautiful canyon cutting through the Dolomites in Friuli was flooded to become an artificial lake, than suffered a landslide of 260 million cubic metres of earth and rocks collapsed from mount Toc. The lake was full of debris, the landslide violated the valley and killed 2000 people between Erto, Casso and Longarone. The whole framework in which people from Erto and Casso had lived and the context they created and could relate to was destroyed and cannot be rebuilt as it used to be. A new territoriality of the valley started again when people first went back to their old houses in Erto. Stortan was built in 1971, 830 m above sea level, overlooking old Erto. It is a modern village, with wooden houses that appear to be cosy and welcoming, as opposed to the stone-based buildings in old Erto. However, Erto still has the same ideological value for the community that it used to have before the landslide, especially because it represents the past and acts as a memory of the tragedy. Erto and Casso are strongly yet invisibly linked to mount Toc, the landslide and the dam, as those are the main places where the historical and cultural patri-

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mony of the valley is built. They are the heritage of a past engraved in the territory and in the relationship between it and the local community. It is therefore necessary to start a patrimonialization process by attributing a new value to patrimonial objects.94 It is a complicated manoeuvre bearing on present issues and future expectations.95 The fabrication of a patrimony in fact connects the latter directly with real economic and social objectives while integrating it in territorial dynamics and giving it a specific role.96 The dam is both a material and a non-material sediment as it is both a sign of what it should have been, an industrial building, and of what it caused, 2000 deaths and a total destruction of Erto and Casso’s valley. It can be identified as a crucial element representing common patrimony for the local community as well as a sign of the endogenous potential for the development of the area.97 This potential, in order to be capitalized, needs to be recognized and valued by the local community, for it to become an expression of local subjectivity.98 The dam is visited by c. 150,000 tourists every year.99 Local actors could benefit from it if they would acknowledge the dam as an economic activity and a source of new jobs. Erto and Casso could also be managed as local development tools; some of the damaged buildings could be restored and used as museums. For example, in the neighbouring village, a house called “Museo Casa Clautana” has been transformed in an exhibition following the life of a woman from Claut; the itinerary shows the woman in her house, in the fields and peddling.100 The ultimate scope would be for the tourist to be absorbed by the past dimension of the territory by recreating the house of early 1900. It would be helpful and interesting if the dam could be involved in the process of creating museums, so that people would come for the dam and still visit Erto and Casso. Some people might also be interested in buying or renting a house to restore it. Erto and Casso are built on a natural shelf facing south; to complete the model of local sustainable development we could carry out a study to assess the feasibility of hot water or electric power production by solar and PV panels on the rooftops. The two villages would then represent the en-

94

Mainardi 2003, 32. Ibid. 96 Dansero and Governa 2003, 34. 97 Ibid. 98 Ibid. 99 This information is the result of an interview. 100 http://www.comune.claut.pn.it/ 95

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trance of the Natural Park of the Dolomites, indeed characterized by the wilderness.101 It is essential that the people from Erto and Casso conduct these proposals themselves. The administration of the survey enables the issues and requests of the local community to be highlighted. The community, according to the survey, appears to be for the most past withdrawn; this proves that the traumatic event of the landslide is still important and the people have a tendency to grieve for the past rather than think of a future. The devotion to the villages is evident and so is the request that they become peopled again. The community expresses the desire to go back to what the valley used to be before the landslide, when SADE hadn’t started to violate the territory and people lived happily. The tragedy changed the people and made them even more suspicious towards foreign actors then they used to be. The inhabitants of Erto and Casso appear to be stuck in an impossible dimension of what could have been, with a desire to live in an alternative present where Toc never fell and people never died. In this context, only a few actors are able to promote local development. For example, they request a better reception for the tourists at the dam. This would mean a great income and new job positions for the local community. Moreover, a small artificial lake in a safe position would enrich the environment and may very well attract new tourists. These requests come, indeed, from only a very few people but still remain important as they could engage the whole territory and the local actors. A rebuilding process of the two sites is essential, as the majority of the population wants it; moreover, other requests such as the creation of the lake could be answered. In fact, the layout of a new milieu has to be treated as a whole, taking into account all the proposals made by the inhabitants. The main obstacle lies in finding agreement between the actors and engaging more and more the residents of the valley, in a plan oriented towards the future. Erto and Casso people need to be open to transformations and to a number of changes that would need to be proposed by the local actors themselves, in a bottom-up logic. Parish maps allowed the identification of the basic ideological bookmarks of the valley. From the answers to the surveys, here is a list of the main components: 1. Erto and Casso old villages 2. The dam and the landslide 3. Mount Toc 101

Cf. Zerbi 2006.

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4. 5. 6.

Mountains, woods and rivers The new village of Stortan The Museum with the permanent exhibition and Museum of the Vajont disaster 7. San Daniele Books The milieu and the ideological bookmarks that the local people recognize as their own are not only positive values. In fact, the dam, the landslide and mount Toc are the historical marks of 1963 tragedy. Even Stortan is viewed with suspicion because its construction didn’t take into account the original landscaping of Erto. Moreover, the Museum is the place where the valley’s memory is kept and where history is exposed for everyone to see. The components that only carry positive values are those related to the natural environment (mountains, woods, rivers, San Daniele Books). They used to be a source of life for the people from Erto and Casso, and the only elements that allowed them to survive. The environment has now acquired a more esthetical value of a place beautiful to look at and to visit; it has hence become a place of refuge from the chaos of daily city life. It is interesting to analyse what an interviewee drew when asked to produce a parish map. Fig. 5 is clearly a drawing of the Vajont dam with the mountains in the background. This is part of the milieu: it is part of the common patrimony of the people from Erto and Casso and is therefore a potential for local development of the territory. With almost 150,000 people every year, good management of the dam could represent a great income for the municipality and the creation of new job openings. In conclusion, I would like to present another drawing from a different interviewee. In Fig. 6 the interviewee has ranked with numbers the ideological bookmarks. A number 1 is written over the houses, meaning the historical centre of Erto; second comes the dam and third is the lake. However, the lake represented in the drawing is not the actual remains of the old artificial basin, but a new lake that would cover the valley bottom offering a suggestive landscape and natural interest for the tourists. This is one of the proposals of the local community for the development of their territory. An effort has to be made so that external actors (such as the new Salumificio, a cured pork factory, built on the landslide) don’t impact on the valley’s landscape and composition. Only local actors can create a territorial network representing a social expression of a common will. They have to develop each component of

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the milieu concurrently in order to achieve a positive result that all the local actors could benefit from. Only a true appreciation of the territory and a significant change based on both an agreement between local actors and the engagement of the whole community can guarantee a sustainable and constant local development, one that Erto and Casso residents always wished for and never got. The future of this community can no longer be postponed; with twenty people living in Casso and four hundred inhabiting Erto the future could be of a complete desertion and increasing depopulation. Erto, in Italian, means steep; now more than ever the Vajont valley hangs suspended between past, present and indeed a steep path towards the future.102

Fig. 5. Interviewee’s drawing 1.

Fig. 6. Interviewee’s drawing 2.

102

Filioli Uranio 2010, 381.

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Fig. 7. The daam seen by the landslide.

Fig. 8. Aboutt 2 km from the landslide.

Fabrizio Filio oli Uranio

Fig. 9. Erto, vview from the leeft side of the Vajont V valley.

Fig. 10. Cassoo, view from mount m Toc.

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Fig. 11. On thhe walls of Ertto “SADE + EN NEL + GOVER RNMENT = 25 500 deaths total.”

Fig. 12. An old Erto house damaged d and ab bandoned after tthe landslide.

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Fig. 13. The nnew town of Stoortàn.

Bibliogrraphy Bermani, C.. 1999a. “Fontti orali e ricerrca storica in IItalia.” In Intrroduzione alla storria orale. Sttoria, conservvazione dellee fonti e pro oblemi di metodo, edited by C. Bermani,vol. B 1, 1–126. Rom ma: Odradek. Bermani, C C., ed. 19999b. Introduzzione alla sstoria orale.. Storia, conservaazione delle fonti e prob blemi di meetodo, vol. 1. 1 Roma: Odradekk. Calandra, B B. 2004. Laa memoria ostinata: H H.I.J.O.S., i figli f dei desapareecidos argentiini. Roma: Caarocci. Contini, G.. 2001. “Meemoria colletttiva e storia delle comu unità.” In Introduzzione alla stooria orale. Essperienze di ricerca, editeed by C. Bermanii, vol. 2, 41–60. Roma: Odrradek. Corona, M. 2007. Il volo della martora a. Torino: CDA A & Vivalda Editori. E Dansero, E. and F. Governa. 2003. “Patrimoni industriali e sviluppo locale.” IIn Patrimoni Industriali. I Una U geografia per lo svilupp po locale, edited byy E. Danseroo, C. Emanuel, and F. Govverna, 11–42. Milano: Scienze Geografiche Franco F Angelii. Filioli Urannio, F. 2010. “Il Vajont. Per una letttura della fraana come processoo.” Geostorie. Bollettino e notiziario n del centro italian no per gli studi storico-geograficci 18(3): 377– –82.

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Mainardi, R. 2003. Geografia regionale. Roma: Carocci. Merlin, T. 2006. Sulla pelle viva. Come si costruisce una catastrofe. Il caso del Vajont. Verona: Cierre Edizioni. Passerini, L. 1984. Torino operaia e fascismo. Una storia orale. RomaBari: Laterza. Portelli, A. 1985. Biografia di una città. Storia e racconto: Terni 1830– 1985. Torino: Einaudi. ʊ. 1999. “Sulla diversità della storia orale.” In Introduzione alla storia orale. Storia, conservazione delle fonti e problemi di metodo, edited by C. Bermani, vol. 1, 149–66. Roma: Odradek. Radaelli, P. 2006a. “In bilico sul futuro.” MERIDIANI Montagne, Dolomiti Friulane, 22: 14–38. ʊ. 2006b. “La sacra rappresentazione del Venerdì Santo.” MERIDIANI Montagne, Dolomiti Friulane, 22: 62. Raffestin, C. 1984. “Territorializzazione, deterritorializzazione, riterritorializzazione e informazione.” In Regione e regionalizzazione, edited by A. Turco, 69–82. Milano: Franco Angeli. Valussi, G. 1963. I paesaggi e i generi di vita della Valcellina. Trieste: Università degli studi di Trieste. Vastano, L. 2008. Vajont, l’onda lunga. Quarantacinque anni di truffe e soprusi contro chi sopravvisse alla notte più crudele della Repubblica. Milano: Ponte alle Grazie. Zerbi, C. 2006. “Il parco che si tutela.” MERIDIANI Montagne, Dolomiti Friulane 22: 42–58.

Audiovisual Paolini M. and G. Vacis. 2008. Vajont 9 ottobre 1963. Orazione civile, Einaudi. Stile Libero video, DVD.

Sitography http://www.mappadicomunita.it/ http://www.comune.claut.pn.it/

TRACES OF AN INDIAN COMMUNITY IN THE CITY OF SUMHURAM, OMAN: INVESTIGATION OF MATERIALS FOUND DURING EXCAVATIONS SILVIA LISCHI UNIVERSITÀ DI PISA (ITALY)

1. Introduction The city of Sumhuram (third century BC–fifth century AD), placed by the Khor Rori lagoon, is the most important pre-Islamic settlement in the Dhofar region, in Southern Oman (Fig. 1).1 It was identified in the middle of the nineteenth century as the port-city of Moscha Limén, mentioned in the Periplus Maris Erythraei, a text by an unknown author dated to the first century AD.2 Since the time of its discovery it was evident that its commercial vocation placed it within a complex system of exchange between India and the Mediterranean.3 Sumhuram was founded by the Kingdom of Hadramawt in a place that was geographically strategic to control the most important Indian Ocean trade routes of the time. The Kingdom of Hadramawt wasn’t the only power in South Arabia during that age. It shared the control of the region with the Kingdoms of Saba, Qataban, Ma’in and later with the Kingdom of Hymiar too. Sumhuram is a small fortified port-city (around 1 hectare), built on a rocky hill approximately 25 m high, that grants control over the surrounding territory. The lagoon in front of the city is a perfect natural port, while behind it lies the Nejd region, where the highest quality frankincense was, and still is, produced. The archaeological research carried out since 1996 by the IMTO (Italian Mission to Oman) has led to the identification of different functional areas inside the city: the residential quarter (area A), the cult quarter (area 1

I would like to thank Prof. A. Avanzini, University of Pisa, for letting me work in the site of Sumhuram and Dr. A. Pavan for her precious advice. 2 Casson 1989. 3 Avanzini 2003; 2008.

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F) and the commercial quarter (area B). Inside these areas streets, many workshops, private dwellings of different size, a temple dedicated to the god Sin and the market square (where the majority of trading took place) have been identified. The square leads to the so-called “sea gate,” a secondary entrance to the city facing the lagoon, built probably in order to facilitate the transporting of goods. The main entrance is monumental and tripartite, with the aim of keeping strict control over the entrances. The city walls had to be at least 9 or 10 m high although today nothing higher than 5 m is preserved. Outside the city, next to the lagoon shore (wadi Darbat), a sanctuary was also identified and called the extra-muros temple.4 The slow abandonment of the city during the fifth century AD appears to be due to the formation of a strip of sand, which still closes the estuary of the wadi Darbat, making it difficult for the large commercial ships that frequented it to use the creek.

Fig. 1. Map of the Arabian Peninsula and the Indian Ocean, with the location of the sites mentioned.

4

Pavan and Sedov 2008.

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A significant amount of imported materials have been retrieved on the site during the excavations. Most of them are pottery fragments and personal ornaments in different material. However, there are also less common materials of particular interest (votive statuette, coins) that highlight even more the close relationship that existed between Sumhuram and the Indian sub-continent since very ancient times. This chapter aims to provide a new interpretation of the presence of artefacts of Indian origin found inside the fortified city of Sumhuram. The presence of foreign people in the ancient city is often attested, but the problem of their sedentism is rarely faced, since it is difficult to find evidence of their constant presence. Only recently evidence of rice has been found in Egypt, suggesting the presence of Indian merchants residing in that country.5

2. Sumhuram and long distance trade The study of the ancient routes crossing the Indian Ocean started in the middle of the twentieth century.6 The interest was mainly focused on the relationship between the Mediterranean and India. In a Romano-centric view, scholars tended to take into account the period following the conquest of Egypt by the Romans, relying in part on the description given by the Periplus Maris Erythraei.7 Therein, emphasis is placed on a lucrative trade with abundance of luxury goods and spices, which involved numerous cities on the coasts of countries bordering the Indian Ocean. In the last twenty years the focus shifted also to the previous period, that of the foundation. This new point of view led to the reformulation of many theories and shed new light on long distance trades. The shores of south Arabia, a compulsory stop in the journey from the Indian subcontinent to the Red Sea, acquired more and more importance, which allowed the collection of a wealth of material information on contacts not mentioned by the sources. In this context the city of Sumhuram, placed on the southern shore of the Arabian Peninsula, is an essential stop in long distance trades. The area in which it stands is particularly suitable as a landing place and its proximity to the region of Nejd (a pre-desert area in which the highest quality frankincense is made) has always allowed the city to export large quantities of frankincense.

5

Cappers 2006. Wheeler 1951; 1954; Raschke 1975; 1978. 7 Casson 1989. 6

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The era in which the city of Sumhuram develops sees India undergoing a period of transition. It passes in fact from the so called Megalithic Culture to the early historical period. This was a period of great changes that became more evident under the Mauryan dynasty and the imperial expansionist policies of King Asoka.8 The many imported materials found during excavations bear witness to the relationship with Italy, some islands of the Eastern Mediterranean (Cyprus and Greek islands), Egypt, Yemen, Mesopotamia, Iran and India. Below, the materials found during archaeological excavations of IMTO will be analysed, attesting the strong relationship between the city of Sumhuram and the Indian sub-continent.

3. The Indian materials at Sumhuram The Indian materials discovered at Sumhuram, presented in this paper, have already been the object of investigation.9 The purpose of this paper is to discuss some aspects of the development of trade in the Indian Ocean through the analysis of the remains of material culture found in the city of Sumhuram, taking into account the possibility that since the formative period there was not only a movement of goods, but also of people.

3.1. Non-common materials Since the beginning of the archaeological activity in the city of Sumhuram strong relationships that linked it with the Indian sub-continent were perceived. During the first archaeological excavations, carried out by F. P. Albright and W. Phillips at the head of the mission of the American Foundation for the Study of Man (AFSM) in the middle of the twentieth century, the first evidence of the relationship between Sumhuram and India was found. A bronze statuette10 of clear Indian manufacture, representing a young woman in a dancing pose, was found during the excavations (Fig. 2). There are two possible interpretations: it might represent the deity Salabhanjika11 or a young woman making trees bud with a touch of her foot.12 The discovery of this statuette is of great importance because it is the only example found outside its territory of origin, India. It is in fact extremely 8

Pavan 2011. See, for example, Albright 1982; Yule and Kervran 1993, 69–106; Sedov and Benvenuti 2003; Pavan 2011; Pavan and Schenk 2012; Lischi and Pavan 2012. 10 Albright 1982. 11 These figures represent a woman standing near a tree and grasping a branch. 12 Goetz 1963. 9

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rare to find Indian objects in Arabia and in the other countries that entertain a relationship with India.13

Fig. 2. A bronze statuette found in Sumhuram of clear Indian manufacture and probably representing a divinity.

From recent studies, carried out by the Italian Mission to Oman, the relationships between India and Sumhuram are emerging with increasing certainty, emphasizing their continuity since the third century BC. In this context remains of exceptional importance were found, such as two Indian coins, the only examples found in the Arabian Peninsula–one of the King Kaniskha I and the other of Abhiraka, Satrap of Barygaza.14 It should also be recalled here the fortunate finding of a fragment of etched plaster. Through the engravings we can recognize a man on a horse that appears to be moving, a figure with humanoid characteristics in the middle, and at the bottom, another highly stylized humanoid figure raising its arms, and a large fish, probably a whale. The most impressive pattern is the representation of a two-masted ship, closely resembling in structure and iconography the ship impressed on an Indian lead coin attributable to one of the first Indian rulers, probably Vasishtiputra Sri Pulamavi (second century AD) (Fig. 3). 13 14

Pavan 2011, 102. Pavan 2011.

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Fig. 3. Reproduction of the etched plaster found in Sumhuram, highlighting a twomasted ship figure clearly comparable to the one impressed on an Indian coin.

3.2. Pottery Beside the exceptional findings mentioned above, over the years a large number of pottery fragments belonging to the Indian pottery types, have been discovered. Many studies have concerned the Indian pottery found in Sumhuram from the early excavations,15 however, thanks to recent investigations and new interpretations, the emerging scenario is far more complex than it was previously imagined.16 The study of pottery materials found in Sumhuram has confirmed the presence of Black and Red Ware (BRW), Rouletted Ware (RW), Wheeler type 18, Fine Grey Pottery and a large number of utilitarian vessels (Fig. 4). The pottery of the original RW is documented by the discovery of fragments from three different pottery containers. From the distribution pattern of this pottery, produced along the Ganges valley, we understand that following the trade routes, it ran along the eastern coast of Bengal down to the island of Sri Lanka. It reached the port of Sumhuram probably starting from the southern tip of India. This means that the area of Muziris, rather than the area of Barygaza, should have been the area of contact between India and Sumhuram in the period of RW. Fragments of RW imitation were also found in Sumhuram, although no one knows with certainty 15 16

Yule and Kervran 1993; Sedov and Benvenuti 2003. Pavan and Schenk 2012.

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where it was produced, even if its provenance from the southern part of India or Sri Lanka has been proposed.17 On one of the fragments of RW imitation, traces of riveting have been found: therefore, it seems possible to say that this pottery was considered valuable enough to be repaired when it was broken.18

Fig. 4. Sumhuram pottery of Indian origin. Left: fragment of Rouletted Ware (RW); right: fragment of Paddle-impressed jar from India at Sumhuram.

Fragments of Fine Grey Pottery were also found; it is a high quality pottery which tends to imitate the lead containers, so it is hard to think it was included in the goods commonly traded. Tomber19 suggests that it was used for the personal supply of Indian merchants or sailors who lived in enclaves away from the motherland, but it is possible that this type of pottery was used as a particularly valuable object of prestige to donate to people of high status with which important Indian people had relations.20 The massive presence of utilitarian vessels could be considered as a marker of the presence of an Indian community, even if it cannot be discounted that this type of pottery belonged to the local sailors that replaced it while travelling along their route. What is certain is that the presence of the Tamil-Brahami inscription from the first century AD on this type of pottery confirms that it belonged to people of Indian origin. The fragment with inscription, found in 2006, was probably reused as a lid and shows the word “nantai kiran,” a composite Indian personal name (Fig. 5).21 The presence of RW and Wheeler type 18, both in Sumhuram and in other ports that led to the Mediterranean sea, such as Berenike, Myos 17

Pavan and Schenk 2012, 198. A similar situation is found in Tissamaharama (Schenk 2006, 124, fig. 1c). 19 Tomber 2008, 74. 20 Schenk 2001, 128; 2006, 138–40. 21 Bukharin 2002. 18

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Hormos and Coptos is very rare. Their discovery in Sumhuram allows us to argue that they arrived before the first century BC. It is probable that contacts between India and Sumhuram existed even before, but only in order to exchange perishable goods that left tangible traces of their passage.22

Fig. 5. Fragment of lid with Indian inscription.

3.3 Personal ornaments There are interesting findings also among the beads, which seem to confirm this ongoing relationship with the Indian sub-continent. The high amount of “Indo-Pacific beads”23–small glazed tubes of cables and monochrome moulded around a rod, called lada–is evident. They were commonly cut and polished to obtain the required shape and size, rarely exceeding 5 mm in diameter (Fig. 6 left).24 In the city of Sumhuram these glass beads make up about 19% of the total beads recovered25 and are attested in different colours. This type of beads was found in most of the sites that overlook the Indian Ocean and the Pacific Ocean and it seems that the major centre of production and redistribution was the city of Arikamedu,26 in India. Besides, 26 beads of agate and carnelian that make up 46% of the stone beads were unearthed up to 2010. Deposits of these semi-precious stones have been identified in Yemen,27 but it seems that until the tenth century

22

Tomber 2008, 16, 54–5; Ray 2003, 216. Lischi and Pavan 2012, 187. 24 Francis 2002. 25 Lischi and Pavan 2012. 26 Francis 1987; 1991. 27 Lischi and Pavan 2012, 188. 23

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AD these were used almost exclusively to produce signet rings.28 It is likely therefore that the raw material came from India, while beads were manufactured locally, as the discovery of a semi-worked nodule of agate in area B29 and a carnelian bead finely smoothed and with numerous traces of drilling in area F30 seems to indicate.

Fig. 6. Selection of beads found in Sumhuram. Left: Indo-Pacific beads. Right: agate, carnelian and amethyst beads.

In the Periplus Maris Erythraei the city of Barygaza is mentioned as a major exporter of carnelian,31 and some cities in the Deccan, Paethana and Tagara, are mentioned as significant production centres.32 Agate was exported to Barygaza, and even now Cambay and the area of Ujjain are famous for the high quality raw agate extracted.33 Also the agate of Gujarat was much appreciated, as the high amount of ferrous minerals inside the stone enabled, through a particular heating carried out during the crafting process, a particularly intense reddish orange colour to be obtained (Fig. 6 right).34 Finally, two beads made from the processing of drilled fish vertebrae represent about the 13% of the bone beads found. We have no attestation, in southern Arabia, of this kind of artefact, but in the island of Bet Dwarka (Gujarat, India) they are used as earrings (Fig. 7).35 The presence of similar beads seems to be attested at Uruk and Ebla. Here however their use as 28

Francis 1989, 26. Lombardi 2002, 73, cat. 28. 30 Lischi and Pavan 2012, 188. 31 Casson 1989, 77, 206. 32 Stern 1991. 33 Jyotsna 2000; Deo 2000, 31. 34 Kenoyer, Vidale and Khan 1991; Moorey 1999, 110. 35 Gaur, Sundaresh and Vora 2005, 30–1. 29

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beads is disputed, due to the difficulty of inserting the wire into the holes.36

Fig. 7. Left: fish vertebrae from Sumhuram used as beads. Right: drawing of two beads, the first from Sumhuram and the second from the site of Bet Dwarka.

4. Conclusions The analysis of the artefacts of Indian origin found in Sumhuram highlight the role and importance of the city in the long-distance trade that developed in the Indian Ocean from ancient times. Certainly the city became a strong link over the centuries due to its proximity to the source of highest quality frankincense (the region of Nejd) and its geographical position at the centre of the southern coast of Arabia. Its location was strategic in the routes that connected the eastern shores of the Indian Ocean with the West and the Red Sea. Even the written sources, although more recent than the first contacts with India, show the importance of the city of Sumhuram (identified by the name of Moscha Limén); the anonymous author of the Periplus described how sailors were hosted in the city during the winter time, the season being too late and thus the winds not favourable to take them back to their homeland. ...and after these, a harbour, designated for loading the Sachalite frankincense, called Moscha Limén. Some vessels are customarily sent to it from Kane; in addition, those sailing by from Limyrike or Barygaza that passed the winter, because of the season being late…37

Considering the quantity and quality of the objects found in Sumhuram, it seems likely that the city not only had commercial relations with 36 37

Pinnock 1993. Periplus Maris Erythraei 35.32.

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India, but also hosted an Indian community. The presence of objects such as the cult statuette, the fish vertebrae beads, the inscribed ceramic fragment and the large quantity of utilitarian vessels, seems to confirm this hypothesis. Also for the city of Berenike, which (as we have seen) had close relationships with Sumhuram, the presence of an Indian community was assumed. The possibility that an Indian community lived in Sumhuram is therefore plausible. This hypothesis enriches and complements the current knowledge of the fortified city of Sumhuram, giving it a more and more distinct character as a real urban centre in the middle of a complex net of international exchanges, rather than simply being a trading/military outpost dedicated to the export of frankincense to Qana.

Bibliography Albright, F. P. 1982. The American expedition in Dhofar, Oman, 1952– 1953. Washington D.C.: PAFSM VI. Avanzini, A., ed. 2003. Khor Rori Report 1. Arabia Antica 1. Pisa: Edizioni PLUS. ʊ., ed. 2008. A port in Arabia between Rome and the Indian Ocean (3rd C. BC– 5th C. AD). (Khor Rori Report 2). Arabia Antica 5. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Bukharin, M. D. 2002. “An Indian inscription from Sumhuram.” Egitto e Vicino Oriente 25: 143–44. Cappers, R. T. J. 2006. Roman Foodprints at Berenike: Archaeobotanical Evidence of Subsistence and Trade in the Eastern Desert of Egypt. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology. Casson, L. 1989. The Periplus Maris Erythraei: Text with Introduction, Translation and Commentary. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Chiavari, C., M. Degli Esposti, G. L. Garagnani, C. Martini and F. Ospitali 2011. “Ancient metallurgy at Sumhuram (Sultanate of Oman): Technical aspects of raised inscriptions on South Arabian bronzes.” Archaeometry 53(3): 528–46. Deo, S. B. 2000. Indian beads. A Cultural and Technological Study. Pune: Deccan College Post-Graduate and Research Institute. Francis, P. 1987. Bead emporium: a guide to the beads from Arikamedu in the Pondicherry Museum. Pondicherry: Museum Publication. ʊ. 1989. “Beads in the Early Islamic period. Beads.” Journal of the Society of Bead Researches 1: 21–39.

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ʊ. 1991. “Beadmaking at Arikamedu and beyond.” World Archaeology 23(1): 28–43. ʊ. 2002. Asia’s Maritime Bead Trade. 300 B.C. to the present. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Gaur, A. S., K. H. Vora, Sundaresh 2005. Archaeology of Bet Dwarka Island. New Delhi: Aryan Books International. Goetz, H. 1963. “An Indian bronze from South Arabia.” Archaeology 16: 187–89. Gupta, S. 2004. “Pottery from Kamrej Excavations.” Journal of Indian Ocean Archaeology 1: 34–66. Horton, M. C. 1996. “Early maritime trade and settlement along the coasts of eastern Africa.” In The Indian Ocean in Antiquity, edited by J. Reade, 439–59. London: Kegan Paul International. Jyotsna, M. 2000. Distinctive beads in Ancient India. Oxford: Archaeopress. Kenoyer, J. M., M. Vidale, and K. K. Khan 1991. “Contemporary stone beadmaking in Kambhat, India: patterns of craft specialization and organization of production as reflected in the archaeological record.” World Archaeology 23(1): 44–64. Lahiri, N. 1992. The archaeology of Indian trade routes (up to c. 200 BC). Delhi: Oxford University Press. Lischi, S. and A. Pavan. 2012. “Le perle di Sumhuram: appunti per una tipologia di vaghi di collana dall’Arabia meridionale.” Egitto e Vicino Oriente 35: 175–92. Lombardi, A. 2002. “Small finds from 1998 campaign: catalogue.” In Khor Rori Report 1, edited by A. Avanzini. Pisa: Edizioni PLUS. Magee, P. 2010. “Revisiting Indian Rouletted Ware and the impact of Indian Ocean trade in Early Historic south Asia.” Antiquity 84: 1043–54. Mahadevan, I. 1996. “Tamil-BrƗhmi Graffito.” In Berenike ‘95. Preliminary Report of the Excavations at Berenike (Egyptian Red Sea Coast) and the Survey of the Eastern Desert, edited by S. E. Sidebotham and W. Z. Wendrich, 205–8. Special Series no. 2. Leiden: CNWS Publications. Moorey, P. R. S. 1999. Ancient Mesopotamian Materials and Industries, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. Pavan, A. 2011. “Sumhuram as International centre: the imported pottery.” In Along the aroma and spice routes. The harbour of Sumhuram, its territory and the trade between the Mediterranean, Arabia and India, edited by A. Avanzini: 99–112. Pisa-Pontedera: MB Vision–Bandecchi e Vivaldi.

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Pavan, A. and H. Schenk. 2012. “Crossing the Indian Ocean before the Periplus: a comparison of pottery assemblages at the site of Sumhuram (Oman) and Tissamaharama (Sri Lanka).” Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 23: 191–202. Pavan, A. and A. V. Sedov. 2008. “The temple extra-muros.” in A Port in Arabia between Rome and the Indian Ocean (3rd C. BC–5th C. AD). Khor Rori Report 2, edited by A. Avanzini: 377–97. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Pinnock, F. 1993. Le Perle del Palazzo Reale G di Ebla, Roma: Università degli Studi di Roma La Sapienza. Raschke, M. G. 1975. “Papyrological evidence for Ptolemaic and Roman trade with India.” In Proceedings of the XIV International Congress of Papyrologists, Oxford 24–31 July 1974, 241–46. Greco-Roman Memoirs 61. London: British Academy. ʊ. 1978. “New studies in Roman commerce with the East.” In Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt, edited by H. Temporini: vol. II.9.2, 604–1361. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Ray, H. P. 2003. The archaeology of seafaring in ancient South Asia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Salles, J. F. and A. V. Sedov. 2010. Qani’: Le port antique du Hadramawt entre la Méditerranée, l’Afrique et l’Inde–Fouilles russes 1972, 1985– 1989, 1991, 1993–1994. Indicopleustoi 6. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers. Salomon, R. 1991. “Epigraphic remains of Indian traders in Egypt.” JAOS 111 (4): 731–36. Schenk, H. 2001. “The development of pottery at Tissamaharama.” In Ancient Ruhuna: Sri Lankan-German Archaeological Project in the Southern Province, vo1.1, edited by H.-J. Weisshaar, H. Roth, and W. Wijeyapala: 59–195. Mainz: von Zabern. ʊ. 2006. “The dating and historical value of Rouletted Ware.” Zeitschrift für Archäologie Außereuropäischer Kulturen 1: 123–52. Sedov, A. V. 2008. “The coins from Sumhuram: the 2001A–2004A Seasons.” In A port in Arabia between Rome and the Indian Ocean (3rd C. BC–5th C. AD), edited by A. Avanzini: 277–316. Arabia Antica 5. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Sedov, A. V. and C. Benvenuti. 2003. “The pottery of Sumhuram; general typology.” In Khor Rori Report 1, edited by A. Avanzini: 117–99. Arabia Antica 5. Pisa: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Sidebotham, S. E. 2011. Berenike and the ancient maritime Spice Route. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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Stern, E. M. 1991. “Early Roman export glass in India.” In Rome and India. The ancient sea trade, edited by V. Begley and R. D. De Puma: 113–124. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Strauch, I. and M. Bukharin. 2004. “Indian Inscriptions from the Cave Hoq on SukutrƗ (Yemen).” AION 64: 121–38. Tomber, R. 2000. “Indo-Roman trade: The ceramic evidence from Egypt.” Antiquity 74: 624–31. ʊ. 2007. “Rome and Mesopotamia–importers into India in the first millennium AD.” Antiquity 81: 1–17. ʊ. 2008. Indo-Roman Trade. From pots to pepper. London: Duckworth. Tomber, R. and V. Begley. 1999. “Indian pottery sherds.” In Berenike 1997: Report of the 1997 Excavations at Berenike and the Survey of the Egyptian Eastern Desert, including Excavations at Shenshef, edited by S. E. Sidebotham and W. Z. Wendrich: 161–81. Special Series no. 4. Leiden: CNWS Publications. Wheeler, R. E. M. 1951. “Roman contacts with India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.” In Aspects of Archaeology in Britain and beyond: Essays presented to O. G. S. Crawford, edited by W. F. Grimes: 345–81. London: H.W. Edwards. ʊ. 1954. Rome beyond the Imperial Frontier. London: Pelican Books. Wheeler, R. E. M., A. Ghosh and K. Deva 1946. “An Indo-Roman trading station on the east coast of India.” Ancient India 2: 17–124. Yule, P. and M. Kervran 1993. “More than Samad in Oman: Iron Age pottery from Suhar and Sumhuram.” AAE 4(2): 69–106.

PEOPLE AND THINGS: CERAMIC PETROGRAPHY AS A MEANS FOR EXPLORING THE HIDDEN WORKINGS OF LOCAL COMMUNITIES IN POSTPALATIAL CRETE FLORENCE LIARD NATIONAL FUND FOR SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH AEGIS, UNIVERSITÉ CATHOLIQUE DE LOUVAIN (BELGIUM)1

1. Introduction In Minoan times, communal feasting involving the massive consumption of drink is considered a significant, integrative social practice taking place at different levels and scales, within the simplest households as well as the large public buildings or palaces. The archaeological evidence for such practices is plentiful for the Protopalatial and Neopalatial periods (ca. 2000–1450 BC) but much less for the Final and Postpalatial periods (ca. 1370–1200 BC). This scarcity of evidence is usually interpreted as suggestive of a marginalization of these massive consumption practices during a

1

This study is funded by the National Fund for Scientific Research (Belgium) and is undertaken as part of the Aegean Interdisciplinary Studies (AegIS, UCLouvain). The petrographic analysis has been completed in the context of the Fitch Award 2013 (British School at Athens) and the Richard Seager Fellowship 2013 (INSTAPEC Study Center for East Crete). My warmest thanks go to the 24th Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities in Ayios Nikolaos (Crete) for the sampling permits, my supervisor Prof. J. Driessen and the Director of the French School in Athens Prof. A. Farnoux for allowing me to study the material from ‘Pit I’ at Malia, to Dr. E. Kiriatzi and Dr. E. Nodarou for their useful comments on my petrographic results, and to Prof. C. Knappett (University of Toronto, Aegean Material Culture Laboratory) for enabling me to compare my thin sections with his own samples from Malia.

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time of “social disorder” and “cultural decline” after the apogee of Minoan civilization, and of the introduction of a more elite-oriented practice. In this paper, I explore how petrography can help us to grasp new insights into the social structures and workings of Bronze Age communities in Crete, as well as some of the intricacies of these collective consumption events. The ceramic petrographer examines sherds with a polarizing microscope in order to identify their mineralogy, texture and microstructure. Reference to anthropological models helps to clarify potting technologies, distribution of know-how, and pottery import networks but also the related social structures and collective symbols that characterize the producers and consumers. I will first discuss some of the results of earlier analyses carried out on Bronze Age pottery from Crete. Then I will discuss through a specific case-study the physical existence of participative groups of people in a feasting event during the Postpalatial period. My analysis focuses on the favissa from Quartier Nu at Malia, in north-central Crete, with comparanda provided by Late Bronze Age drinking cup deposits from nearby Sissi.

2. Late Bronze Age Crete: historical context, social structures, and ceramic petrography The Cretan Late Bronze Age is a relatively long and complex period which may have seen a succession or co-existence of diverse political and social organizations. Indeed, the island has often been depicted as fragmented into a number of small territorial entities that thrived through interaction with one another2 and have a palace as their main base of power.3 Around 1650 BC, a widespread destruction event hit the three main Old Palaces Knossos, Phaistos, Malia as well as other important centres of the Middle Bronze Age.4 The outcome was that sophisticated and monumental administrative buildings were rebuilt on a larger scale, more numerous and powerful than their predecessors.5 Minoan culture seems to enter its Golden Age: through outlying settlements, the New Palaces controlled regional hinterlands, they regulated the artisans and their labour, the storage of local and imported raw materials and artefacts, as well as the redistribution of all types of goods.6 Conspicuous consumption also reached its apex: 2

Cherry 1986. Krzyszkowska and Nixon 1983. 4 Driessen and MacDonald 1997, 12. 5 Van Effenterre 1987. 6 Nixon 1987; Rehak and Younger 1998, 128. 3

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large ceramic deposits have been found, many of them in palatial contexts, with thousands of plain drinking cups assembled in a structured way.7 The intricate relationships between this phenomenon, the social and political division of the landscape, and the “factional competition” of the time have been investigated elsewhere.8 One must admit that the high degree of homogeneity in the Neopalatial material culture appears to indicate some sort of strong centralization and stratification among the communities of the island. Beyond it, however, recent reappraisals of archaeological records have also been able to detect regional dynamics and local specificities. They led scholars to wonder whether they had not previously been “trapped into established theoretical models” for studying the Cretan Bronze Age societies.9 New archaeometric techniques contributed to re-evaluate the traditional theories. Day gave a major impetus to ceramic petrography by giving a detailed account of potting techniques and vessels provenance for an entire archaeological landscape in eastern Crete. It helped greatly to characterize a variety of production modes, supply strategies and exchange networks at the regional scale, but also to redraw interstate frontiers with a “bottomup” approach that outlines the role of secondary centres within a sitehierarchy.10 Through his analysis of undecorated storage jars in central Crete he demonstrated a lesser degree of specialization in a region which was previously assumed to be under full-control of Knossos. The clay recipes turned out to be excellent markers of a previously unknown diversity in workshop organization and revealed the persistence of long-lived practices from the Early Bronze Age.11 Later, other scholars examining conical cups at Mochlos pointed out the coexistence of several potters’ communities with their own know-how, possibly competing for a local demand.12 On Akrotiri, Knappett and his collaborators advocated that the influence of Cretan communities on the traditions and technologies of the indigenous populations could take place without a colonization per se, by the means of a “technological transfer,” i.e. the adoption of a potter’s wheel and the incorporation of Minoan pottery features into local styles. This practice

7

Gillis 1990, 146; Hamilakis 2008. Hamilakis 2002, 194–97. 9 Driessen 2001a, 65. 10 Day 1991; 1995; 1997. 11 Day 1988. 12 Evershed et al. 2000. 8

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could have been a way for locale elites to strategically engage in social emulation and competition.13

Fig. 1. Some Bronze Age sites of Crete and regions where significant ceramic production and distribution systems were established. Outlined is the Plain of Malia.

Crete suffered a period of major disruptions between Late Minoan IA (LMIA) and Late Minoan IIIA2 (LMIIIA2). Archaeologists have now enough evidence to believe that the Minoan civilization is wrecked by a violent earthquake during the early LMIA phase, and was further severely damaged by the eruption of the Santorini Volcano at the end of the phase.14 Driessen and Macdonald have convincingly shown that there was no single destruction phase of the settlements during LMI, but rather successive events of demolitions and abandonments during LMIA and LMIB; in reaction, those in control of the palaces and villas would have increasingly restricted access to them.15 The political frameworks that had prevailed during the previous millennium disappear at the end of LMIB, although a palatial-type administrative activity continues at Knossos.16 Apart from some chronological problems that have been disputed elsewhere,17 the nature of this economic, administrative and political control over the island has been explored with much attention during the past decades. It still remains unclear whether 13

Knappett and Nikolakopoulou 2008. Driessen and MacDonald 1997. 15 Ibid., 12. 16 Hatzaki 2004. 17 Hatzaki 2007, 199–200; Driessen 1997. 14

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invading mainlanders established their rule on (central) Crete with Knossos as their capital18 or a surviving Knossian elite strategically borrowed symbols of authority, bureaucracy and cult from the mainland seeking more syncretism and the restoration of a political and social supremacy.19 The first archaeometric data that have been obtained from ceramics do show innovations in raw material choices and potting techniques at Knossos and indicate a Mycenaean connection.20 The same conclusion has been reached with Tournavitou’s technological and typological analysis of the ivory/bone industry of the time.21 A more recent reappraisal of the material culture of the time suggests that a new cultural identity may have been built at Knossos from a variety of emblematic elements, some of which were borrowed from the mainland as well as further afield, such as Egypt and the Near East.22 This concept of borrowing is particularly interesting to consider here, as some coarse ceramics vessels sampled at Mycenae, Knossos and among the so-called “peripheral” areas of the Aegean world revealed clear technical specificities that suggest both sites had individual polities on their own terms.23 The site of Knossos and its innovative ceramic types and styles have traditionally been viewed as the principal cultural nexus in Final Palatial Crete.24 But this assumption has been adjusted as some recent discoveries demonstrate intra-island regionalisms in pottery production. At Kommos, during LMII the types and styles were still well rooted in a LMIB late local tradition, while close similarities with the Knossian model only appeared during LMIIIA1.25 C. Langohr has demonstrated that during the post-LMIB period several regional centres have developed: a Knossian model was reproduced in a variety of ways that were imbedded into a local Cretan past; the reproduction of these Knossian practices also incorporated several tendencies that may have existed regionally during the Neopalatial times.26 In the same way, epigraphic evidence suggests that the heartland of the “Knossian kingdom” was probably limited to central Crete, whereas some other regions of the island may have preserved their own hierarchical structures and were not, or to a lesser degree, involved in the eco18

Doxey 1987; Popham 1994. Driessen 2001a. 20 Riley 1983, 284. 21 Tournavitou 1997. 22 Driessen and Langohr 2008 23 Riley et al. 1981. 24 Popham 1980, 165–66; Preston 2004, 137. 25 Arvanitakis 2007. 26 Langohr 2009. 19

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nomic strategy of Knossos.27 Driessen’s reassessment of the Linear B archives from the Room of the Chariot Tablets concludes that the Amari and Lassithi areas may have been under a mid-category of political control, with a non-oppressive exploitation; the kingdom’s extent may have changed over time and those regions included only during LMIIIA.28 The tablets also mention diverse elite categories among which the “collectors” may have been in charge of a few places and had holdings across the territory.29 Some members of the royal family may even have governed the most important towns.30 As we shall see, the possible presence of Knossian populations in other regions of Crete, at least from a certain stage of LMIIIA onwards, is particularly interesting regarding the petrographic data I obtained from the feasting pit at Malia. Nevertheless, some scholars do not agree with the idea of the existence of any regional centre other than Knossos before the early LMIIIA2.31 Indeed, archaeological evidence suggests that Malia invested some significant administrative function at some point during the post-LMIB period.32 Transport stirrup jars, inscribed in Linear B and uninscribed, have been discovered at the domestic habitation of Quartier Nu neighbouring the previous Palace. These jars in fact belong to LMIIIB deposits, although they might be holdovers33 or demonstrate the continuation of a Final Palatial system of administration and redistribution.34 Interestingly, the mineral composition of their clay indicates that, out of eight samples, one inscribed jar has probably been imported from central Crete along with five uninscribed ones, while the data for the remaining jars remain ambiguous.35 During LMIIIA, some signs of recovery and reoccupation are observed on many sites, although most settlements are smaller and less urbanized than their Neopalatial predecessors. At Knossos, a destruction event is documented for the transition LMIIIA1–2. It is not mirrored at other sites, where recovery continued relatively smoothly into early LMIIIB. Whatever its cause, this transition is significant as it ended Knossos’ longstanding

27

Driessen 2001b. Driessen 2001b, 111. 29 Driessen 1992. 30 Driessen 2001b, 112. 31 Merousis 2002, 165. 32 Farnoux and Driessen 1991. 33 Rehak and Younger 1998. 34 Farnoux and Driessen 1991, 91. 35 Day and Jones 1991. 28

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role as the centralizing administrative centre in Crete and marks the scattering of its artistic prominence.36 According to current evidence, there was no palatial administration anywhere in Crete, at least from the late LMIIIB to the end of the Bronze Age. Processes of pottery production and exchange worked on a much more regional, and even local, basis. Decision making as well as social organization seem to have been fairly unspecialized on most sites. Petrographers suggest that newly thriving centres may have developed in eastern Crete, with a common language of potting technologies and a complex network of relationships between them.37 At Karphi in the hinterlands of Malia, the mineralogical data obtained from eighty LMIIIB–C ceramic vessels and ritual objects document a high diversity in clay recipes and forming techniques at the start of, mainly, two local clay resources. These results point to the idea of household, or at least unspecialized, production.38 Such a diversified pattern of production matches the petrographic results obtained from ritual plaques and figurines sampled at Kavousi in eastern Crete.39 Interpretations point to non-centrally controlled autonomous entities sharing a common ideological structure.40 The Plain of Malia seems to have been particularly prosperous during the Postpalatial period. At Sissi, the hilltop saw the reoccupation of what could be the most important building on-site from the end of LMIIIA2, if not earlier.41 A similar phenomenon is recorded at Malia, especially at Quartier Nu,42 and the pottery at Quartier Gamma indicates a significant on-site activity already during the LMII–IIIA1, with a repertoire that is clearly imitative of Knossian styles.43 Finally, several pits attest the holding of feasting activities during LMIIIA1 and LMIIIA2/B at Sissi, during LMIIIA2/B at Malia.

3. Feasting events in Protohistoric Crete The distinction between domestic and public consumption can easily be drawn owing to its scale and quality44 but also to the distinctively non36

Rehak and Younger 1998, 150. Nodarou 2007. 38 Nodarou and Iliopoulos 2011, 338–42. 39 Day et al. 2006. 40 Nodarou and Iliopoulos 2011, 345–46. 41 Driessen 2011, 28. 42 Farnoux 1990. 43 Farnoux 1997, 146–47. 44 MacGillivray 2007, 106. 37

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domestic character of the pottery. Collective drinking phenomena in Crete are strongly associated with social and political dynamics, the negotiation of identities, and the dialectics of power. They are described as actions promoting social structure45 or as “bodily manners that were often the markers of distinction for cosmopolitan elites.”46 Therefore, through a judicious examination of their remains, the archaeologist can reconstruct in detail some significant transformations, upheavals and instabilities within the history of a civilization.47 Some scholars have emphasized the interest to compare realities that predate and postdate the establishment of palatial institutions on Crete, because they may be the times when factional competition is the most severe.48 The first expression of the use of collective drinking goes back to the Early Bronze Age and even the Neolithic. The material from the Early Minoan I to IIB occupation at Knossos has received special attention in the literature, with the joint programme of typological and petrographic analysis conducted by Day and Wilson.49 The site of Knossos has often been seen as the seat of worldly authority throughout the Bronze Age, but scholars are beginning to consider it as one of the major centres for communal gatherings, a sanctuary or festival hall, at least until the Late Minoan IB period.50 During EMIIA, drinking cups that were apparently used in the context of collective consumption events show original shapes, with the appearance of individual goblets. This phenomenon indicates a new relationship between the consumer and what is consumed, and it might reflect a decisive change in social practice in general: the emphasis is put on the person initiating interpersonal rather than intergroup contacts.51 It promotes some “communal individualism.”52 Moreover, petrography has revealed a complex production pattern, with similar cup-types fashioned in multiple locations, and pastes dedicated to diverse ceramic functions but produced in the same vicinity.53 A specific body of Vasiliki cups that were imported from eastern Crete may represent a higher-valued element than

45

Borgna 2004, 174. Hamilakis and Sherratt 2012, 189. 47 Wright 1995, 291. 48 Hamilakis 1998, 129. 49 i.e. Wilson and Day 1994; Day and Wilson 2004. 50 MacGillivray 2007, 106. 51 Day and Wilson 2004, 58–9. 52 Hamilakis and Sherratt 2012, 191. 53 Wilson and Day 1994, 42. 46

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the local cups.54 Therefore, both the symbolic value of the artefact and hospitality probably had a significant role to play in the performance.55 Very different contexts are advocated under the First and Second Palaces respectively.56 Moreover, a high variety characterizes the deposits of the Protopalatial period itself. The material from the MMIB Deposit A in Early Magazine A at Knossos displays a clear quantitative and qualitative hierarchy among the goblets. This has suggested a vertical stylistic variability, indicating a “patron-role feast” that does not exclude the concurrent strengthening of community ties.57 In contrast, the material from the Lakkos at Petras bears little evidence of such a division. A similar stylistic diversity is reproduced in parallel groups of vessel shapes, resulting in a visual complexity that would rather indicate a strong horizontal variability and, perhaps, competition between groups of users of equal or contested rank.58 There is an apparent multiplication and enlargement in the scale of feasting during the Neopalatial period.59 Pits contain huge amounts of mass-produced, highly standardized conical cups that obviously do not aim at a personal differentiation. At that time, group identity, social affiliation60 or factional competition61 seems to become more important than hierarchical power and interpersonal contacts. Such an assemblage has been found at Sissi, and petrography indicates the predominance of a wellstandardized recipe produced locally.62 The practice is far from dying after the fall of the Neopalatial centres, but it appears to be much less intense and more restrictive. Its social significance might change again. The Minoan society, which may have been for a long time mostly corporate in structure, evolves towards a more vertical and hierarchical organization.63 Accordingly, there is a noticeable evolution towards exclusive events. Collective drinking seems to be associated with ceremonies of initiation and aristocratic performance,64 and 54

Wilson and Day 1994, 39–40. Day and Wilson 2004, 58–9. 56 Knappett 1999a, 418. 57 MacDonald and Knappett 2007, 171. However, Hamilakis has stressed the fact that the ceramics studied might not always come from primary deposition contexts (Hamilakis 2008, n. 15). 58 Haggis 2012, 196–97. 59 Girella 2007. 60 Borgna 2004, 247. 61 Hamilakis 2002, 194–95. 62 Liard 2012. 63 Borgna 2004. 64 Wright 1995, 307. 55

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this trend may originate from the mainland: the reproduction of new customs along with their social meaning must have had a key role in the development of a new socio-political complexity in Crete.65 Wright even suggests that Mycenaean populations participated in these events along with Minoan communities, probably in honour to each other.66 The vessels are mostly footed cups of high quality, which also implies high-rank associations in collective drinking.67 Performance in serving and drinking attains new potency as kylikes and “champagne cups” are raised and shown, rather than hidden in the palm of the hand as happened with the conical cup.68 The archaeological evidence so far suggests that these events took place in the immediate neighbourhood of large habitation or communal buildings during the Postpalatial period. Pits containing quantities of drinking vessels possibly related to feasting events are documented on a few sites, at Palaikastro in eastern Crete,69 Sybritos Amariou70 and Haghia Triada71 in central Crete, in the Rubbish Area North at Chania.72 The high concentration of LMIIIB and LMIIIC deep bowls and craters at Phaistos is worth mentioning too.73 In the region of Malia, the neighbouring deposits at Sissi and Malia find an echo in the absence of any centralizing power and the development of intra-regional competitions.

4. Feasting events in the region of Malia during the Postpalatial period On the site of Sissi, a lakkos attributed to the Postpalatial period extends in an open area between the two main buildings at the summit of the Boufos Hill.74 This pit FE081–also connected to another one, FE087– includes drinking vessels, decorated buff rytha, stirrup jars and kalathoi in well-sieved fabrics, along with some fragments of cooking trays, tripods and other coarse utilitarian vessels.75 Such accumulations may be the re65

Wright 1995, 292. Wright 1995, 292–93. 67 Whittaker 2008, 96. 68 Hamilakis and Sherratt 2012, 193. 69 MacGillivray et al. 2007. 70 Prokopiou 1997. 71 D’Agata 1997. 72 Hallager and Hallager 2003; 2011. 73 Borgna 1997. 74 Devolder 2011, 151–52. 75 Langohr 2011, 188. 66

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sult of a succession of depositions postdating the Knossian period, each of them sealing off the debris deriving from an earlier event. An undisturbed layer at the bottom of the pit is dated to LMIIIA2/B. Conical cups, large semi-globular cups with a bevelled ogival bottom, and everted cups are well-represented. The vessels are hard-fired and thin-walled, most often burnished and eventually slipped in surface; a fine, dark red fabric is by far predominant.76 A few conical cups have been submitted to petrographic testing. The results have been published elsewhere77 and provide a comparison with the Maliote material. Four kilometres further West and presumably during the same phase, a similar event of collective drinking is taking place at Malia, at the borders of an habitation zone at Quartier Nu. Owing to the surprising quantity, good quality and noteworthy preservation of its material, the so-called favissa is mentioned among the most meaningful examples of intentional deposition of artefacts in early Postpalatial Crete.78 It is composed in its main part of a selective disposal of nicely-finished drinking vessels, whose typological features indicate a chronology no later than the LMIIIA2/B. The lesser quantity of fragmented coarse domestic wares and transport jars probably comes from a cleaning operation of a floor-level that was destroyed by fire at the end of the same phase. “Champagne cups” and kylikes dominate among the drinking sets. Shallow bowls are fairly common too, but large globular cups and shallow everted cups are scarcely attested in comparison to the fair amount recorded at Sissi. Wares are mainly buff, less frequently red in colour and always well-fired, whereas the Sissiote material includes mostly red wares. Surface slipping or burnishing, but also the dark monochrome painting of external surfaces is very common at Malia.

5. Description of the drinking vessels from the favissae at Malia-Quartier N 5.1. Macroscopic analysis of the kylikes and “champagne cups” As a general remark, the production of drinking vessels in the region of Malia sees the introduction of new technological profiles and the development of local trends, with a dominance of footed cups at Malia that is not reproduced at Sissi. Each site has its own variations on general models, 76

Liard 2011. Liard 2012. 78 Driessen et al. 2008. 77

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some of them bearing a Mycenaean influence. The macroscopic examination of the paste, forming techniques, firing conditions and surface treatment suggests a moderate time investment (clay-sieving, surface slipping, high-firing, no decoration). All these characteristics can be linked to the general trend of better-quality potting that is reported after the LMIB79 at Knossos but also on other sites of Crete.80 5.1.1. Typology My proposal for a typological grouping relies mostly on the structural characteristics of the lower profiles of the cup-disc, stem, lower part of the bowl. Indeed, a close examination of the upper profiles has not led to any obvious correlation between the handle section and the body-curve, the rim and the lip. Three basic types are identified among the “champagne cups:” • A “flat/conical type” with a disc showing the combination of flat borders and a conical profile towards the foot. It has a relatively long and large conical stem with a hollow underside. The lower profile of the bowl is very shallow and angular, and it is markedly differentiated from the almost vertical upper part. • A “conical type” is characterized by the lack of any flat portion of the disc, by thicker walls and disc and by a coarser manufacture in general. The stem is moderately high and tightened at the base of the bowl. The bowl is moderately deep and widely open, mostly conical to slightly incurved toward the rim. • The “concave type” displays a smooth progression from the slightly incurved disc, through the low and squat stem, to the deep and conical bowl. Two basic types are identified among the kylikes: • The small- or tall-sized kylix with a slightly incurved and conical disc, a relatively short stem which is markedly thicker towards the upper part, and an explicitly shallow and rounded bowl. Handles are rarely preserved. • The tall-sized kylix with a flat disc, a long, slightly convex and relatively narrow stem, and a very wide, conical to almost concave bowl. The walls are usually thicker than those of the previous type, owing to the taller size of the vessel and the much smoother connection between the structural elements. Handles are rarely preserved. 79 80

Arvanitakis 2007. Hatzaki 2005, 85, 107–112.

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5.1.2. Fabrics and surface treatments Four fabrics can be identified with the naked eye: two red and two calcareous. They are semi-fine to very fine in granulometry. No macroscopic indication would go against recognition of these productions as being local, i.e. from the Plain of Malia. • Fabric A: dark red fabric (2.5YR 6/4 to 6/6 in Munsell chart, 2010 edition) with grey core, dark pellets and coarse calcareous inclusions. • Fabric B: orange fabric (2.5 to 5YR 6/6) with brown pellets, purple flakes, white and grey silts, with either a smooth or gritty texture. • Fabric C: light brown fabric (7.5YR 7/4 to 6/4) with red rounded pellets. • Fabric D: very pale brown to pinkish buff fabric (10YR 8/3 to 2.5YR 8/2) with dark angular inclusions and sparse quartz crystals. Some of the vessels are either burnished, or self-slipped, or painted dark or red monochrome either on the outside or on all surfaces, while others are left plain. Attempts to define close relationships between each paste and specific surface treatments or cup profiles have proved flawed. One can only mention that the red fabric A is most commonly slipped, burnished or monochrome-painted, while the red fabric B is usually left plain (gritty examples) or red-slipped (smooth examples). As for buff fabrics C and D, there is no specific trend.

5.2. Petrographic analysis Twenty “champagne cups” and kylikes have been carefully selected among the Maliote deposit for the purposes of the microscopic examination. This sampling was made on the basis of the macroscopic grouping of the fabrics. It includes at least one exemplar of each profile variation and surface treatment that are represented for each paste. The thin sections were manufactured at the Fitch Laboratory of the British School at Athens and examined under a Leica DMLP polarizing microscope. A comparative analysis with the petrographic samples that are published for other Bronze Age sites of Crete has been undertaken at the INSTAP Study Center for East Crete in Pacheia Ammos (American School of Classical Studies at Athens). The results presented here are preliminary and aim to summarize the main trends of production, distribution and consumption of the pottery that can be suggested so far. In order to be able to discuss the provenance and social identity of the participants in the event at Malia, it is essential to first distinguish between

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local and imported products.81 It is also through such comparison that diverse potting techniques can be identified among the local component of the assemblage. 5.2.1. Local production The petrographic data indicates a clear connection between the local production at Malia and the potting choices identified among Late Bronze Age drinking assemblages at Sissi.82 1. Light orange to red fabric with clay pellets, silicate-rich clastic rocks and phyllosilicates (Fig. 2a) Two “champagne cups,” one kylix. This is a tight and homogeneous group in terms of mineralogy and texture. All samples are unified by their reddish, orange, to yellow XPL matrix colours. Reddish brown argillaceous inclusions are also fairly common and distinctive; they may represent a typical Maliote feature. Streaks and whorls in a yellowish, speckle-textured and probably calcareous material may evidence some clay mixing. This is not a high-fired pottery. The inclusions are distributed in two main populations of grain-size. Angular quartz crystals dominate, fresh alkali feldspars and arenite are common, against a lesser amount of coloured micaschists and phyllosilicates. Chert and calcimudstones are rarely attested. This fabric group represents a long-lasting potting tradition in the region of Malia. It was already the most attested and standardized group among LMI conical cups analyzed at Sissi.83 Similar mineralogical features composition is also documented among the productions from the Protopalatial workshop at Malia84 and at the Postpalatial Quartier Nu.85 The occurrence of oxidized ferromagnesian minerals within this clay-base matches the properties of the terra rossa in the broader region of MaliaSissi.86

81

It has to be noted that no pottery workshop has been discovered at Malia; the concept of local production is deduced through the mineralogical and textural properties of the pottery observed under the microscope, and their correlation to the geological resources in the broad vicinity. 82 Liard 2012. 83 Liard 2012. 84 Poursat and Knappett 2005, 18–20, pl. 69, Fabric 2C. 85 C. Knappett, unpublished report. 86 Poursat and Knappett 2005.

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2. Orange fabric with quartz crystals and clay pellets (Fig. 2b) One “champagne cup,” one kylix. This semi-fine to fine fabric is closely tied to fabric 1 and may represent a variation in a broader chaîne opératoire of production, involving some clay levigation or lacking any temper. It is attested throughout the Late Bronze Age at Sissi and it is more particularly bounded to the MMIII phase of the Neopalatial period.87 The matrix texture and microstructure are similar in all respects to those of Fabric 1, and the suite of aplastics partly reproduces those of Fabric 1. This is a well-compacted groundmass with bright orange XPL colours and a significant optical activity which indicate that this pottery has obviously not been fired at a high temperature. It has a loose distribution of non-plastics that are roughly restricted to the reddish clay pellets and quartz. Micaschists, chert, coloured phyllosilicates (mainly slates) and sandstones are minor inclusions. 3. Deep red to dark brown “alluvial” fabric (Fig. 2c) Two “champagne cups,” one kylix The fabric shows a very smooth gradation between reddish brown to yellowish grey colours under the polarized light. The very weak optical activity of the fabric pinpoints a high-firing. This fabric is finer-grained with very fine quartz visible in the groundmass, alongside with coarser fragments of silicate-rich rocks, stained quartz, and rounded feldspars. Slates and phyllites are almost absent. The argillaceous inclusions are indicative of a Maliote production.

Fig. 2. Petrographic photographs of the local fabrics identified among the drinking vessels at Quartier Nu: Fabric 1, Fabric 2, Fabric 3 (XPL, field of view 3 mm. F. Liard)

This petrographic group is recorded among the LMI material at Sissi; it has been identified as a local production that is probably made of a distinct raw material from the main fabric group.88 The mixing of red clay with 87 88

Liard 2012, Fabric II. Liard 2012.

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alluvial sediments is already reported for the pottery workshop of the First Palace at Malia, but it seems to be an uncommon feature, specific to conical cups and lacking from other vessel types89 except a one-off pithos.90 5.2.2 Broadly regional productions 4. Greenish brown fabric with quartz, siltstones, clay pellets and few metamorphic rocks One “champagne cup,” one kylix. This is a compacted, greenish brown fabric which has been obviously high-fired owing to the total absence of optical activity. Its calcareous composition is outlined by the dusty spreads and local concentrations of micrite. The groundmass also contains silty quartz crystals, ferromagnesian minerals, and very fine to semi-coarse brown clay pellets with neutral optical density. Darker argillaceous inclusions with sharper boundaries and quartz microcrystals are suggestive of clay mixing. Aplastics stand out from this very fine-grained background; they indicate that an alluvial tempering has taken place at some stage of the chaîne opératoire of production. Rounded quartz and fewer feldspar crystals, quartz siltstones, microcrystalline chert are the main types of inclusions. Fragments of medium to high-grade metamorphic rocks (i.e. granulitic gneiss, quartz/amphibole sandstone grading into hornfels, blueschist) are marginally attested. This fabric shares several textural and mineralogical characteristics with two groups that are represented among drinking sets and vessels for the transportation of liquids at Postpalatial Mochlos in eastern Crete. One of the groups at Mochlos is suspected to be an import from central Crete,91 the other from the Mesara.92 The mineralogy described above is connected to the metamorphic component of the “Melange” formation which crops out in south-central Crete. However, a similar fabric is already identified at Malia during the Protopalatial period; it is possibly made of calcareous clay from Chersonissos.93 On-going geological research also suggests that the provenance of such clay might actually be broadly regional.

89

Poursat and Knappett 2005, 18. Poursat and Knappett 2005, 16. 91 Nodarou 2010, 10. 92 Ibid., with reference to Day 1995, 161. 93 Poursat and Knappett 1995, 12. 90

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5. Very fine greenish fabric with iron-rich patches One “champagne cup.” This fabric seems to be a very fine variation of the previous group, but the lack of any aplastic inclusion above the very fine size-range makes such a relationship uncertain. Like the previous group, the groundmass lacks any optical activity and bears very fine to semi-coarse clay pellets with neutral optical density. Ferromagnesian minerals are absent or not visible though, but this may be the result of a higher-firing. The darker argillaceous inclusions as well as the hematic dots and iron-rich patches– which have turned amorphous in this case–are other common characteristics. 6. Ochre fabric with quartz, dark mudstones, serpentine, plutonic rocks One “champagne cup.” This is an orangeish-ochre fabric of probably low-calcareous composition. The matrix is characterized by a very weak to absent optical activity under the crossed-polarized light and a silty texture. It displays a fair amount of ferromagnesian minerals, with white and coloured micas, possibly depleted amphibole and, quite importantly, some very fine fragments of serpentine. The few coarse inclusions include dark brownish red mudstones with quartz, coloured micas, chert fragments and hematic dots; both matrix- and grain-supported varieties of the sandstone are attested. Angular and iron-veined chert fragments are also fairly common, alongside with occasional plagioclase and glaucophane crystals, as well as serpentine and chlorite fragments with a typical mesh texture. This one-off champagne cup may belong to the wide Bronze Age potting tradition that is recognized in south-eastern Crete throughout the Bronze Age, although I will point out the possibility of a broadly regional provenance of the vase or at least its raw materials. 5.2.3. Probable imports 7. Brownish fabric with dark clay pellets and alluvial sand: import from East Crete? One kylix. The mineralogy of this one-off kylix mostly includes quartz crystals and fine-grained metasandstones that are markedly water-worn. Phyllosilicates are absent. The optically inactive, dark brown groundmass contains micritic pellets of various sizes. The optical and textural properties of this fabric indicate that it must have been prepared by mixing alluvial red clay with some calcareous material, which does not resemble the usual potting

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practice at Malia. It is obviously high-fired and consequently the orientation of the clay domains cannot be defined. The argillaceous pellets are also very distinctive, with dark isotropic colours, turbid structure and internal cracks. Some amorphous patches that are randomly distributed within the paste are most likely oxide-rich concentrations naturally occurring in the red clay-base. This sample does share several mineralogical and textural similarities with a petrographic fabric identified at Postpalatial Mochlos,94 Chrysokamino and Petras95 in eastern Crete, where it is assigned a provenance from Palaikastro in the East of the island. This group is also uncommonly attested at LMI Sissi.96 8. Low-calcareous orange-brown fabric with clay pellets and siltstones, sparse quartz and phyllosilicate: import from central Crete? One kylix, one “champagne cup.” This fabric is probably the result of the mixing of a silty red clay with a few calcareous material, but it includes no microfossil. The calcareous component appears in the form of turbidities, dusty streaks, vesicles and nodules. The red clay-base was probably highly ferromagnesian, as indicated by the noticeable content in oxydized mica silts (mainly biotite and fewer muscovite) as well as the few oxidized amphiboles that appear under the cross-polarized light. The dark brown siltstone is the dominant type of inclusion; it has usually a grog-like appearance and loosely-distributed microcrystals of quartz, feldspars and micas. Clay pellets with a neutral optical density are also fairly common. Quartz crystals, mica-chlorite aggregates (shales?) and silicate-rich sandstones are minor aplastics within this group. This fabric shares many similarities with the Early Iron Age material analyzed at Knossos.97 It is also recognized among vessels connected with the transportation and consumption of liquids at Chrysokamino and Mochlos, in eastern Crete, during the Postpalatial period. A provenance from north-central Crete, and possibly from a workshop in the region of Knossos, is suspected for these ceramics.98

94

Nodarou 2010, 11, Fabric 10. Nodarou 2007. 96 Liard 2012, Fabric VI. 97 Boileau and Whitley 2010. 98 Nodarou 2007. 95

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9. Orange fabric with clay pellets and red siltstones, microfossils and silicate-rich inclusions Two kylikes. This fabric can be considered a more calcareous variation of Fabric 5. In this case crinoids, foraminifera, alguae and molluscs, as well as many micritic microvesicles are attested. Some streaks in a more orange and birefringent material demonstrates an incomplete mixing between two types of clays. The aplastics include quartz crystals, metaquartzite with an equigranular or stretched metamorphic texture, orange siltstones bearing mica, quartz and chert microliths with a preferred orientation. Ochre, yellow and orange shales, microquartz chert, few plagioclase crystals as well as very rare high-grade metamorphic rocks–pyroxene/amphibole-bearing gneisses–are other possible inclusions. According to the data available so far, a provenance from north-central Crete is suggested. 10. Brownish-ochre fabric with microfossils, chert and quartz One kylix. This is a much more calcareous fabric than the two other ones ascribed to central Crete, but the suite of inclusions as well as the bioclastic elements are very similar. With further analyses, it might turn out as a highcalcareous variant of the two previous groups. Foraminifera, algua and crinoids are very outstanding in the dark ochre/brown matrix as well as are streaks of dusty calcite, micritic vesicles and coarser aggregates. The suite of inclusions is the same as mentioned for Fabric 9. 11. Orange fabric with translucent clay pellets, fresh quartz and rare microfossils: import from unknown provenance One “champagne cup.” Under the cross-polarized light, this fabric is characterized by bright yellow to orange colours and moderate optical activity. It has a compacted matrix with a very fine silt-sized texture. Fresh crystals of quartz, saussuritized alkali feldspars, calcimudstones, silicate-rich sandstones, and chert are common minerals within the groundmass. But the dominant type of inclusion is a well-rounded orange translucent clay pellet bearing silicaterich microliths (meta-arenite, quartz crystals, chert) as well as rare foraminifera. The obvious calcareous composition of this fabric distinguishes it from the Maliote productions. Other differences that render probable the idea of an import are the recurrence of very fine olivine and augite crystals in the matrix, as well as the sparse fragments of high-grade metamorphic

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rocks (gneiss?). The provenance of this champagne cup remains unknown so far.

6. Interpretation of the results In spite of the preliminary character of the analysis and the small number of samples involved, one can see that a macroscopic study alone cannot sufficiently address the technological aspects of pottery production nor the provenance of the cups. Out of nineteen samples, four are broadly regional productions and seven are probable imports, most of which come from the central regions of Crete. The imports from north-central Crete are mainly kylikes, while Fabrics 4, 5 and 6 are primarily champagne cups. The profiles of the cups from north-central Crete are often different from the products manufactured in the Maliote area. The question of a differential ostentation according to cup typology has to be further investigated in the present case, but the value of variations in the material culture for defining group identity has been evoked in many studies dealing with local99 or regional significance.100 The same observation concerning typology can be made for the possibly southern-central examples. Such imports are documented at Knossos from Early Minoan III onwards.101 Petrographers have also been able to detect close bounds between the Mesara and the region of Knossos under the administration of the Old Palaces, with the consumption of Mesarian products at Knossos.102 Moreover, ceramologists suggest that the Mesara must have continued to be culturally strong or politically influent under the “Knossian” rule: it first maintains its own potting traditions during LMII before adopting the Knossian styles, with maybe the presence of itinerant potters coming from the capital during LMIIIA1.103 This tradition has probably been well-rooted enough to be maintained after the end of the Final Palatial period. The results obtained so far can either demonstrate some significance of central Crete in the import networks and demand regulation at Malia, or populations bringing off their own cups to the Maliote event. Given the socio-political significance that is advocated for feasting events during the LMIII, there is a remote possibility for a non-local elite being present at 99

Haggis 2012. Nodarou 2007; Brogan 2011. 101 Nodarou 2010, 11. 102 Day and Wilson 1998. 103 Arvanitakis 2007. 100

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Malia, maybe aiming to hold back some influence over what had once been part of its economic interests. But above all, I shall pinpoint the diversity in the fabric recipes and cup typologies; it suggests a multiplicity of producers and/or consumers. For what concerns the strictly local pottery, the production is split between three recipes that involve indifferently “champagne cups” and kylikes. Connections are observed between our data and the results obtained from a previous analytical work carried out at Sissi and Malia. They demonstrate that the raw clays or the ceramic fabrics have been consumed at the regional scale during successive phases of the Late Bronze Age.104 Fabric 1 displays the highest homogeneity in its petrographic features; there is also a clear standardization in cup profiles and surface treatments. It is already this fabric that was the most attested among the workshop productions of the First Palace at Malia,105 and it also happens to be the most consistent among the LMIA cup assemblage at Sissi.106 It can be assumed that specialists reproduced a same know-how and/or working for a same demand; these data also pursues the idea of a mass-production. In contrast, the cups made of Fabrics 2 and 3 lack any consistency in their profiles and surface treatments; they seem to have been produced in a nonspecialized context. Fabric 2 is a simplified version of the chaîne opératoire that characterizes Fabric 1. Fabric 3 shows connections to a potting tradition that makes use of an alluvial raw material and that is reported for other regions of Crete; it could reveal the existence of a common technical language across diverse regions of the island. Fabric 4, 5 and 6 are rarely attested and belong to distinct typological groups; in the case they turn to be broadly regional productions, they suggest a clear decentralization of the potters’ activity. These results picture the dominance of one standardized group of cups at the side of marginal fabrics. Therefore, as I see it, artisans’ communities worked on diverse grounds within the Plain of Malia during the postpalatial period, with various levels of specialization, extensive raw material resources, and an unequal access to a long-lasting know-how.

7. Conclusions and preliminary hypothesis This paper has dealt with petrographic studies carried out on Cretan Bronze Age ceramics and gives evidence of how this technique has helped 104

Liard 2012. Poursat and Knappett 1995. 106 Liard 2012. 105

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to define better intricate social and historical issues that archaeology alone has failed to fully understand. The data obtained from the feasting deposit from the Postpalatial period at Malia enables us to see this region of the island as strongly decentralized during the last decades of the Bronze Age, but far from enduring a socio-cultural and political decline. Along with the archaeological context, the composition and taphonomy of the ceramic deposit, the microscopic examination shows that some sort of social hierarchy probably survived from earlier periods. The local communities seem to have established in their everyday lives some exchange networks, cultural models, and technical skills that more than likely, directly or indirectly, originated from Knossos. Moreover, the potters’ communities around Malia may have worked on diverse grounds and for diverse demanders. But petrography also suggests contrasted levels of standardization between the local productions and more further afield, possibly differentlystructured workshops. As we have seen, the archaeological and epigraphic evidence gathered so far indicates that the central regions of Crete may have been an integrative part of the Knossian “Kingdom” for a few decades before LMIIIA2/B. My hypothesis is that the social background of local communities does not change that much after the ultimate fall of the palatial centre(s) in Crete. The overall political landscape is certainly more fragmented and decentralized than it previously was, but habits, social status and symbolic references in everyday lives, as well as in collective activities, must have remained more or less the same. It seems that diverse groups of people gathered in Malia to share, protect, or impose part of their own custom or identity which may have been complex as definite at various scales.

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Driessen, I. Schoep, and R. Laffineur, 179–99. Aegaeum 23. Liege and Austin: Université de Liege and University of Texas at Austin. ʊ. 2008. “Time, performance, and the production of a mnemonic record: from feasting to an archaeology of eating and drinking.” In DAIS: The Aegean Feast, edited by L. Hitchcock, R. Laffineur, and J. Crowley, 3– 19. Aegaeum 28. Liège and Austin: Université de Liège and the University of Texas at Austin. Hamilakis, Y. and S. Sherratt. 2012. “Feasting and the consuming body in Bronze Age Crete and Early Iron Age Cyprus.” In Parallel Lives: Ancient Island Societies in Crete and Cyprus, edited by G. Cadogan, M. Iacovou, K. Kopaka and J. Whitley, 187–208. BSA Studies 20. London: British School at Athens. Haskell, H. 1997. “Mycenaeans at Knossos: Patterns in the Evidence.” In La Crète mycénienne, edited by J. Driessen, and A. Farnoux, 187–93. BCH Supplément 30. Paris : Ecole Française d’Athènes. Hatzaki, E. 2004. “From Final Palatial to Postpalatial Knossos: A View from the Late Minoan II to Late Minoan IIIB Town.” In Knossos: Palace, City, State, edited by G. Cadogan, E. Hatzaki, and A. Vasilakis, 121–26. BSA Studies 12. London : British School at Athens. ʊ. 2005. “Postpalatial Knossos: Town and Cemeteries from LM IIIA2 to LM IIIC.” In Ariadne’s Threads: Connections between Crete and the Greek Mainland in Late Minoan III (LM IIIA2 to LM IIIC) (Tripodes 3), edited by A. L. D’Agata and J. Moody, 65–108. Athens: Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene. ʊ. 2007. “Final Palatial (LM II-LM IIIA2) and Postpalatial (LM IIIB-LM IIIC Early): MUM South Sector, Long Corridor Cists, MUM Pits (8, 10–11), Makritikhos ‘Kitchen,’ MUM North Platform Pits, and SEX Southern Half Groups.” In Knossos Pottery Handbook. Neolithic and Bronze Age, edited by N. Momigliano, 197–251. BSA Studies 14. London: British School at Athens. Knappett, C. 1999a. “Can’t Live Without Them: Producing and Consuming Minoan Conical Cups.” In Meletemata: Studies in Aegean Archaeology Presented to Malcolm H. Wiener as He Enters His 65th Year, edited by P. Betancourt, V. Karageorghis, R. Laffineur and W.-D. Niemeier, 415–20. Aegaeum 20. Liège: Université de Liège. ʊ. 1999b. “Assessing a Polity in Protopalatial Crete: The Malia-Lasithi State.” American Journal of Archaeology 103(4): 615–39. ʊ. 2004. “Technological innovation and social diversity at Middle Minoan Knossos.” In Knossos: Palace, City, State, edited by G. Cadogan, E. Hatzaki, and A. Vasilakis, 257–65. BSA Studies 12. London: The British School at Athens.

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Knappett, C. and I. Nikolakopoulou. 2008. “Colonialism without Colonies? A Bronze Age Case Study from Akrotiri, Thera.” Hesperia 77(1): 1–42. Kritzas, Ch. 1996. “NȑĮ İʌȚȖȡĮijȚțȐ ıIJȠȚțİȓĮ ȖȚȐ IJȘȞ İIJȣȝȠȜȠȖȓĮ IJȠȣ ȁĮıȣșȓȠȣ.” In ǾǯǻȚİșȞȑȢ ȀȡȘIJȠȜȠȖȚțȩ ȈȣȞȑįȡȚȠȣ ǾȡȐțȜİȚȠ. Heraklion: ǼIJĮȚȡİȓĮ ȀȡȘIJȚțȫȞ ǿıIJȠȡȚțȫȞ ȂİȜİIJȫȞ. Kryzskowska, O. and L. Nixon, ed. 1983. Minoan Society. Proceedings of the Cambridge Colloquium 1981. Bristol: Classical Press. Langhor, Ch. 2009. ȆǼȇǿĭǼȇEǿǹ. Etude régionale de la Crète aux Minoen Récent II-IIIB (1450–1200 av. J.-C.). 1. La Crète centrale et occidentale. Aegis 3. Louvain-la-Neuve: Presses Universitaires. ʊ. 2011. “La céramique MMIIIB-MRIIIB de Sissi.” In Excavations at Sissi, II. Preliminary Report on the 2009–2010 Campaigns, edited by J. Driessen, 175–92. Aegis 4. Louvain: Presses Universitaires. Liard, F. 2011. “Macroscopic analysis of three Neopalatial and Postpalatial conical cup assemblages. Preliminary Remarks on the Late Bronze Age semi-fine fabrics at Sissi.” In Excavations at Sissi, II. Preliminary Report on the 2007-2008 Campaigns, edited by J. Driessen, 197–210. Aegis 4. Louvain-la-Neuve: Presses Universitaires. ʊ. 2012. “Petrographic analysis of three Neopalatial and Postpalatial conical cup assemblages.” In Excavations at Sissi. Preliminary Report on the 2011 Campaign, edited by J. Driessen, 171–86. Aegis 5. Louvain-la-Neuve: Presses Universitaires. MacDonald, C. and C. Knappett. 2007. Knossos: Protopalatial Deposits in Early Magazine A and the South-West Houses. BSA Supplementary Volume 41. London: The British School at Athens. MacGillivray, J. A. 2007. “Protopalatial (MM IB–MM IIIA): Early Chamber beneath the West Court, Royal Pottery Stores, the Trial KV, and the West and South Polychrome Deposits groups.” In Knossos Pottery Handbook. Neolithic and Bronze Age, edited by N. Momigliano, 105–49. BSA Studies 14. London: The British School at Athens. MacGillivray, J. A., L. H. Sackett, and J. Driessen. 2007. Palaikastro: Two Late Minoan Wells. BSA Supplementary Volume 43. London: The British School at Athens. Merousis, N. 2002. “Changes in the Economic and Administrative Organization of Crete in the Late Minoan II-III Period: A New Proposal.” Annual of the British School at Athens 97: 163–69. Nixon, L. 1987. “Neo-palatial Outlying Settlements and the Function of the Minoan Palaces.” In The Function of the Minoan Palaces, edited

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by R. Hägg and N. Marinatos, 95–8. Swedish Institute in Athens, Series in 4°, 35. Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Athens. Nodarou, E. 2007. “Exploring Patterns of Intra-regional Pottery Distribution in Late Minoan IIIA-B East Crete: The Evidence from the Petrographic Analysis of Three Ceramic Assemblages.” In Archaeometric and Archaeological Approaches to Ceramics, edited by S. Y. Waksman, 75–83. BAR IS 1691. Oxford: Oxbow. ʊ. 2010. “Chapter 1: Petrographic analysis of the LM III pottery assemblage”. In Mochlos IIB. Period IV. The Mycenaean Settlement and Cemetery. The Pottery, edited by R.A.K. Smith, 3-14. Prehistory Monographs 27. Philadelphia: INSTAP Press. Nodarou, E. and N. Iliopoulos. 2011. “Petrographic Analysis of Postpalatial pottery at Karphi.” In The Pottery from Karphi: A Re-examination, edited by L. Preston Day, 378–86. BSA Studies 19. London: The British School at Athens. Popham, M.R. 1980. “Cretan Sites occupied between c. 1450 and 1400 B.C. ” In Annual of the Brisih School at Athens 75: 163-67. ʊ. 1994. “Late Minoan II to the End of the Bronze Age. ” In Knossos, A Labyrinth of History. Papers in Honour of Sinclair Hood, edited by D. Evely, H. Hughes-Brock and N. Momigliano, 89-102. Athens: British School at Athens. Poursat, J.-Cl. and C. Knappett. 2005. Fouilles exécutées à Malia. Le Quartier Mu IV. La céramique du Minoen Moyen II : production et utilisation. Etudes Crétoises 33. Athènes: Ecole française d’Athènes. Preston, L. 2004. “Final Palatial Knossos and Postpalatial Crete: A Mortuary Perspective on Political Dynamics.” In Knossos: Palace, City, State, edited by G. Cadogan, E. Hatzaki, and A. Vasilakis, 137–45. BSA Studies 12. London: British School at Athens. Prokopiou, N. 1997. “Late Minoan III Pottery from the Greek-Italian Excavations at Sybritos Amariou.” In Late Minoan III Pottery Chronology and Terminology, edited by E. Hallager and B. P. Hallager, 371–94. Monographs of the Danish Institute at Athens 1. Athens: Danish Institute at Athens. Rehak, P. and J. G. Younger. 1998. “Review of Aegean Prehistory VII: Neopalatial, Final Palatial, and Postpalatial Crete.” American Journal of Archaeology 102(1): 91–173. Riley, J. 1983. “The contribution of ceramic petrology to our understanding of Minoan society.” In Minoan Society. Proceedings of the Cambridge Colloquium 1981, edited by O. Kryzskowska and L. Nixon, 283–91. Bristol: Classical Press.

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Riley, J.A., D.P.S. Peacock and C. Renfrew. 1981. “The Petrological characterization of Late Bronze Age ceramics from Knossos and Mycenae.” In Actes du XXème Symposium International d'Archéométrie, Paris 26-29 mars 1980. Vol. III, 245-50. Revue d'Archéométrie 1. Paris: Groupe des méthodes pluridisciplinaires contribuant à l'archéologie. Tournavitou, I. 1997. “Arts and Crafts: Contrasts and Comparisons between Neopalatial and ‘Mycenaean’ Crete. The Case of Ivory.” In La Crète mycénienne, edited by J. Driessen and A. Farnoux, 445–54. BCH Supplement 30. Paris: Ecole Française d’Athènes. Van Effenterre, H. 1987. “The Function of Monumentality in the Minoan Palaces.” In The Function of the Minoan Palaces. Proceedings of the Fourth International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 10–16 June, 1984, edited by R. Hägg and N. Marinatos, 85–7. Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Athens. Whittaker, H. 2008. “The Role of Drinking in Religious Ritual in the Mycenaean Period.” In Dais: The Aegean Feast, edited by L. Hitchcock, R. Laffineur R., and J. Crowley, 89–96. Aegaeum 29. Liège and Austin: Université de Liège and University of Texas at Austin. Wilson, D. and P. Day. 1994. “Ceramic Regionalism in Prepalatial Crete: The Mesara Imports at EMI to EMIIA Knossos.” Annual of the British School at Athens 89: 1–87. Wright, J. 1995. “Empty Cups and Empty Jugs: The Social Role of Wine in Minoan and Mycenaean Societies.” In The Origins and Ancient History of Wine, edited by P. E. MacGoven, S. J. Fleming, and S. Katz, 287–310. Food and Nutrition in History and Anthropology. New York: Gordon and Breach Publishers.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE PIRATES GONE? AARON L. BEEK UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA (USA)

1. Introduction This paper functions as an essay exploring the many possibilities and pitfalls rather than attempting to come to one true conclusion. Nevertheless, it is my hope that some aspects of the nature of piracy will become clear. It is a troublesome topic precisely because our Roman sources continue to claim that the problem is over, yet when it next appears textually, it is as a full-blown problem. In some cases, it is clear also that whether the activity is piracy is very much debated. This paper also seeks to clarify why describing non-pirates as pirates was a fruitful activity. It is the nature of history that the victorious tell the tales. And this is particularly true with criminals, such as pirates, whose only record in the books comes from their attacks and their eventual defeats. We know next to nothing about the pirates themselves, and we have only their enemies’ word to show that they were pirates in the first place. We do see famous orators, from Isocrates to Cicero, decrying the depredations of pirates. These pirates were enemies of everyone, and even if Rome’s longstanding neglect of sea power encouraged piracy, Rome still repeatedly raised large forces to crush piracy “once and for all.” Furthermore, the label “pirate” or “bandit” became a common slur to pin on political enemies, as Cicero does with Catiline and Antony. Of particular note, however, is the fact that Roman leaders keep claiming that the pirate menace is now over. The most famous, of course, is Pompey, but Augustus claims this achievement as well. In the imperial period it becomes commonplace for governors and prefects to claim a similar distinction. Despite these claims, there is evidence for substantial pirate activity within years of each “elimination.” Yet, if the pirates are eliminated with such regularity by the state, we must explain their reappearance either by a substantial motivation for engaging in piracy, by concluding that they were never truly eliminated in the first place, or by suggesting that the label of “pirates” was merely a

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convenient fiction to attack someone with public approval. My paper contends with all three possibilities and attempts to clarify just why ancient piracy is so resilient in the face of Roman opposition and tries to identify whence these pirates came.

2. A continual motivation for piracy One might well argue that people are continually motivated to engage in piracy; there is not one single solution or single group to eliminate. Indeed the problem cannot be “fixed” as the system is not actually broken. Theoretically, then, as pirates are eliminated, new people become pirates. In other words, piracy is a niche needing to be filled. We can quite readily see the economic side of piracy: the ships, men, and time are the investment, with the loot as the return. The question is whether men were “pushed” into piracy because they lacked other means or whether they were “pulled” into piracy because piracy was lucrative. It is impossible to ascertain which was true for every pirate, but the former seems more likely in the textual evidence. The Romans blamed poverty for driving people into piracy. Strabo, for example, said: ਥʌ੿ ȜૉıIJİȓĮȞ IJȡĮʌȑıșĮȚ įȚ੹ IJ੹Ȣ ਕʌȠȡȓĮȢ (They were compelled into piracy by want) when discussing the Greeks and Trojans in the aftermath of the fall of Troy. For Strabo, this becomes a general principle, to which we will return later.1 Generally speaking, the theory was simply that if a group of people does not have what it needs out of its own resources, it will take what it needs by force. The logical step was to forestall piracy by providing necessities. Dio credits the third-century bandit Bulla with telling landowners ਙȖȖİȜȜİ IJȠ૙Ȣ įİıʌȩIJĮȚȢ ıȠȣ ੖IJȚ IJȠઃȢ įȠȪȜȠȣȢ ਫ਼ȝ૵Ȟ IJȡȑijİIJİ, ੆ȞĮ ȝ੽ ȜૉıIJİȪȦıȚ. (Feed your slaves, so that they may not turn to brigandage).2 This is an interesting passage because it tells us that escaped slaves tend to become brigands (and many brigands come from slave backgrounds) and their motivation is principally one of being neglected. The injunction to feed slaves suggests that Bulla’s raids specifically targeted especially negligent or cruel slave-owners. Escaped slaves were not the only such pressured group, however. Another (and more dangerous) such group was that of underpaid soldiers. At the beginning of the fourth century, Diocletian ascribed need as driving

1 2

Strabo 1.3.2, cf. Appian, Iberian Wars, § 100. Dio 77.10.

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otherwise law-abiding people, specifically his own soldiers, into banditry.3 Under this principle, the needs must be met, and people will violate laws in order to meet those needs. Only a few decades earlier, Probus, after defeating Palfuerius, determined to hire the young men of Isauria into the army to prevent future bandits.4 Nor are they alone. Severus is said to have exhorted his sons to enrich the soldiers;5 Dio further charges Severus with causing the youth of Italy to turn to banditry because he allowed the praetorian legions to recruit from the entire empire.6 Instances where individuals joined up with pirates out of a sense of glory and profits to be gained are apparently exclusively from the mid-first century BC.7 Overall, by this theory, piracy cannot be eliminated by force. Pirates in general, and especially individuals, could be dissuaded from certain targets or kept in check by force. But as need increased, people would take greater risks as pirates. The only way to eliminate piracy, in a sense, was to fully employ the pirates, thereby taking away their motivation, or alternatively, to redirect their efforts by subsidizing them to go after a different target. The alternative had the additional drawback of drawing more people into the profession so that if they stopped being paid, the problem became even greater. Diocletian and Probus subscribed to the first tactic while five centuries earlier, the Macedonians and Seleucids subscribed to the second. And as we will see later in this paper, Pompey’s famous campaign may not have been altogether dissimilar. Employing these tactics reveals a focus on a limited end: removal of piracy as an immediate hindrance. Additionally, there may have been motivations for the states to keep pirates around. Since pirates formed a ready supply of trained sailors, they had a use in the Hellenistic Period that outweighed their inconvenience. Even when the Mediterranean was increasingly under Rome’s control, small-scale piracy served as an enemy for young Romans to campaign 3

This is seen in the preamble of the Edict of Maximum Prices. (CIL III, 801–841 or see Graser’s translation in Frank 1940, vol. 5, 307 ff.) 4 SHA, Probus 16.4 5 Dio 77.15. Severus himself doubled soldiers’ pay, and his sons took his advice, as Caracalla soon increased soldiers’ pay significantly again. See also Fuhrmann 2012, 136–37, who focuses on the soldiers’ role as a policing force but ignores (in this place) the propensity of soldiers to turn brigand when not supported by the government. See Knapp 2011, 213 for an assertion that this was precisely the main concern of Severus, not the personal security of his sons. 6 Dio 75.2, see also Fuhrmann 2012, 134 7 These pirates are alluded to in Rauh 2003, 190–93, and specifically described in Plutarch (Pomp. 24).

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against. Nevertheless, these considerations do not outweigh the motivations for turning to piracy. By the evidence shown here, I suggest that piracy was more common in more troubled times because the population became more desperate. At the risk of making an argumentum ex nihilo, the relative lack of pirate reports from the period of the Pax Romana suggest that piracy was less common because the people were relatively prosperous, not because the Roman fleets were strong enough to prevent it.

3. Piracy was never eliminated An alternate suggestion is that the Romans who claim to have destroyed piracy never did anything of the sort. Whether through force or bribery or neglect, the most important thing was the credit for eliminating the scourge, not the elimination itself. Republican governors gained more credit for squashing an outbreak of bandits than they did by preventing banditry from happening in the first place. A rebellion, however, was not to the governor’s credit, so when possible, a governor would be careful to cast any sort of internal armed conflict as criminal activity.8 Furthermore, if piracy was not a full-time occupation, it becomes impossible to separate the pirates from the farmers, shepherds, fishermen, and craftsmen precisely because the pirates were farmers, shepherds, fishermen, and craftsmen. Let us examine the credit-seeking nature first. This provides a useful explanation for the speed of Pompey’s victory of the Cilician pirates. Essentially, most of the pirate groups threw themselves on the famous clemency of Pompey rather than fight it out. Having accepted their surrender, Pompey distributed them land. Contrary to the claim that this prevented piracy by moving the pirates inland away from the temptation of the sea, all the sites selected for occupation were near the sea or navigable rivers, and the new residents of at least one of these places (Dyme, on the northwestern edge of Achaea) were known for practising piracy less than a generation later. It is noteworthy that the “elimination” of piracy by providing them farmland, well noted in Plutarch,9 corresponds well to Strabo’s argument that pirates and bandits come from lands with poor soil and turn to piracy rather than starvation. Neat as it is, it begins to fall apart when one notes that the Cilicians are mainly repatriated to Cilicia. Furthermore, Pompey’s strategy here parallels the strategy that Roman commanders (e.g. Quintus Servilius Caepio, Marcus Marius, Titus Didius) had taken in 8 9

See Fuhrmann 2012 181–86, for the provincial governor’s role as a crime-fighter. For instance Plut., Pomp. 28.3–4.

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Iberia during the Viriathic War and afterwards, so it is less innovative than traditionally credited. In a monument erected by Pompey and recorded by Pliny, Pompey claims a victory over the pirates and over the east in general that combined his numbers into a great sum: “...fusis fugatis occisis in deditionem acceptis hominum centiens uiciens semel LXXXIII, depressis aut captis nauibus DCCCXLVI, oppidis castellis MDXXXVIII in fidem receptis...” (After 2,183,000 men had been scattered, routed, slain, or taken prisoner, after 846 ships had been sunk or captured, after 1538 towns and fortresses had been received into the [Roman faith...])10. Through not specifying who they surrendered to, not differentiating between the types of defeats handed out, and not specifying the conflicts, Pompey can claim a greater number. While these are certainly great accomplishments, Pompey’s display of clementia meant that many of these men and towns were now Pompeians. Elimination was never the goal; the goal was to adduce this power to his side. Plutarch even notes in his Life of Pompey that the pirates immediately joined his side and began hunting out their erstwhile compatriots.11 Pompey ended piracy effectively by hiring the pirates, not by eliminating them. By making them his clients rather than killing them, he gained for himself a pool of manpower at little financial cost and a redistribution of land that was praised in an era often very much opposed to land redistribution. Unlike the later measures taken by Augustus or Probus, it is not at all clear that Pompey truly intended them to change occupations. Furthermore, they became loyal to him, not to the state.12 Further support for this theory can be found in the Cilicians who supported Sextus Pompey. We have little evidence, but we know Sextus employed two admirals with Cilician names and we know many old Pompeians rallied to him after his father’s death.13 I would suggest that we can suppose these two to have been recipients of the elder Pompey’s clementia and retained as advisors. Pompey was neither the first nor last to claim to end piracy in Cilicia. From around 100 BC onwards, the various magistrates celebrated their triumphs over Cilicia, from Marcus Antonius to Cicero.

10

Plin., NH 7.97 Plut., Pomp. 27.4 12 I did not become aware of Kathryn Welch’s book Magnus Pius (Welch 2012) until after this conference. The entire book, but especially the first two chapters, serve admirably to explain how the followers of the elder Pompey continued to follow and serve the younger Pompey well into the thirties. 13 It may be useful here to refer to Welch 2012, 43–119. 11

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We note that in some periods, the pirates are definitely specialists: the Illyrians of the fourth and third centuries BC or the Cilicians of the first century BC.14 Others are less notably so, instead being pirates of opportunity. These people are detected by the archaeological record. Such pirates are effectively invisible whenever they are not actively engaged in acts of piracy. They are undetected by the archaeological or historical record because they are detected as other, decidedly non-piratical figures. This partial identification obscures reality. No artefacts are essentially piratical. Pirates wear the same clothing, use the same utensils and weapons and live in the same style of dwellings as regular folk. While the Illyrian and Cilician pirates had ships built for running and coves and waters into which a regular warship could not sail, these other pirates escaped notice by blending in. We see one such example, albeit fictional, in the novel Leucippe and Clitophon,15 where a fishing vessel suddenly reveals itself to be a pirate ship in disguise. These are pirates of opportunity, generally engaging in a legitimate trade. It is not for nothing that wrecking (luring a boat aground to attack the crew and steal the cargo) was treated much like piracy and punished similarly. Later Roman laws inform us that these punishments were extended to those sheltering the bandits and that merchants could be punished for reselling stolen goods. Such laws go to show us the other prohibitions were ineffective at preventing piratical acts. Even the “specialist” pirates follow this trend in many ways. They too generally use the same equipment, clothing and shelter as any other sailors. Yet it is clear that they exist. We have additional examples of Romans claiming victory over pirates or, more often, bandits. Furthermore, the description “killed by bandits” was a not uncommon epitaph.16 Not only that, individuals might form a posse to pursue vigilante justice against bandits.17 Evidence for not “eliminating” the pirates save by stopping the piracy can be seen simply in examining the campaigns of a few years later. When the Rhodians defeated the Cretan cities in the Cretan war, they required those Cretans to hire out as mercenaries to the Rhodians.18 As mentioned 14

Even these “professional” pirates are difficult to track. Rauh 2003, 169–201, shows fairly clearly that the Cilician pirates left no distinguishing traces in Cilicia that would distinguish them from native Cilicians. 15 Arch. Tat., Leucippe and Clitophon 5.7. 16 See, for example, the inscriptions CIL XIII.2667 and CIL III.6733. 17 We see examples of this in CIL III.1579 and CIL III.1585, but also a literary example in Apuleius’s Metamorphoses, 7.13. 18 These Cretans are seen fulfilling that agreement in Livy 33.3–5. It is, however, also clear that Philip had Cretan mercenaries there also. See also Ormerod 1924,

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before, Sextus Pompey enlisted ex-pirates to fight for him against Octavian; Octavian, after waging an anti-piracy campaign against the Liburni Illyrians, brought their Liburnians to Actium years later. If the pirates could serve as a useful tool, then the Romans would not throw that tool away.

4. The eliminated were never pirates The third, and most contentious, of my theories is that the peoples eliminated or defeated were never pirates in the first place but, instead, were called pirates as part of a case built up against them. In some cases, the issue is whether the acts are piracy or warfare. Only states can be at war, so one purpose of describing a group as pirates is to deny their statehood. Some extremely early examples of this are found in the period of Greek colonization. Zancle was settled either as a city-state or as a pirate base before it was conquered by another Greek expedition.19 The Phocaeans, leaving Asia and settling at Alalia in Corsica, made their living through raiding.20 The Greek historians, however, tend to cast their expulsion from Corsica as warfare rather than a defence against piracy.21 If an action is against piracy, it might not be considered a war. In some sense there is no apparent goal other than monetary gain. But in others, like the examples of Sextus Pompey or Metellus and the Balearic Islands, that is not the case. Sextus Pompey, to examine the first example, was fairly clearly a competitor in the civil wars of the Late Republic, but in memory, he is held up as a villain. Augustus, in the Res Gestae, claims the elimination of piracy as one of his great deeds: “Mare pacavi a praedonibus.” (I freed the sea from pirates.)22 That Augustus refers to Pompey and not one of the Illyrian bands he defeated is clear from the following line about runaway slaves and the further mention of the oath required of Gaul, Spain, Greece, Africa, Sicily and Sardinia (which were the provinces controlled by Sextus and Lepidus).

138–39 and Perlman 1999, 134–37 for this treaty. The relevant treaties with Rhodes are IC III.iii.3A (Hierapytna), SEG XXIII.547 (Olous), and SEG XLI.768 (Chersonesos). 19 See Hdt. 6.22–24 and Paus. 4.23.7 for the first settlement and Hdt 7.154 for the conquest. 20 Hdt. 1.165–167. 21 See Herodotus 1.167, where the Etruscans who gained the most from the battle were cursed with divine punishment. 22 Aug., Anc. 25.

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Furthermore, in the Res Gestae, he elides his military victories with those over Antony without mentioning either. He captured more than six hundred ships of trireme size or larger.23 He never mentions Antony, Brutus or Cassius by name, and only mentions Sextus when referring to the year of his consulship. Here Augustus refers to his war against Pompey as the “servile war”24 on the grounds that his forces were runaway slaves.25 The resulting implication is clear. Defeating a contender in a civil war is no great praiseworthy act. But quelling a slave rebellion and eliminating piracy are. Accusations such as freeing slaves are commonplace accusations towards opponents in civil wars. Cicero accuses Catiline of the same, yet that accusation has no clear grounding in fact.26 In 1.27 of In Catilinam, Cicero says: “ut id, quod esset a te scelerate susceptum, latrocinium potius quam bellum nominaretur.” (That that which had been wickedly undertaken by you should be called piracy rather than war) In the Philippics, Cicero repeatedly names Antony a latro. The Misenum Accords, however, do attest to the irregular tactics of Sextus Pompey, suggesting that these accusations were more valid. Nevertheless, the fact that the younger Caesar and the younger Pompey came to terms, terms which gave the younger Pompey a consulship and acknowledged his control of the islands, at that, displays that Augustus did not treat Pompey as a pirate.27 Here, Augustus won the propaganda campaign. The tactics used by Sextus–holding up grain from Rome, blockading straits–were fairly conventional tactics for a Roman who held a larger navy but smaller army than his opponent. For a second example, I would like to examine the case of Metellus Balearicus, where what seems like a normal enough small-scale Roman campaign is upset by Strabo’s offhand comment: “they have always had enemies plotting against them.”28 The account by Orosius is pretty straightforward, if short: 23

Aug., Anc. 3. Roughly three hundred from Antony, another three hundred and twenty from Pompey, and probably a few dozen from the Illyrians, though the Illyrians typically used biremes of the Liburnian style. 24 Aug., Anc. 27. 25 Aug., Anc. 27. This is also asserted earlier, in 25. 26 Sallust, by comparison, in Bellum Catilinae, states that the conspirators are trying to foment a slave uprising at 24.4 and 46.3 though Catiline scorns the aid of slaves at 56.5. 27 His later execution without trial in Asia, however, does suggest the treatment of a pirate. See Welch 2012, 279–84, for Pompey’s death. 28 Strabo 3.5.1.

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Where Have All the Pirates Gone? Isdem temporibus Metellus Baleares insulas bello peruagatus edomuit et piraticam infestationem quae ab isdem tunc exoriebatur, plurima incolarum caede conpressit. At the same time, the well-known Metellus subdued the Balearic Isles by war and suppressed the pirate infestation which had arisen there by a great slaughter of the inhabitants.29

Here, Orosius is probably following Florus, who in turn is probably following book 60 of Livy, which is unfortunately lost to us. Orosius simply states that Metellus slaughtered the inhabitants to stop piracy. Now, Florus, who has something of a tendency to emphasize the barbarity of all non-Roman peoples, delivers the following passage: Quatenus Metelli Macedonici domus bellicis agnominibus adsueuerat, altero ex liberis eius Cretico facto mora non fuit quin alter quoque Balearicus uocaretur. Baleares per id tempus insulae piratica rabie maria corruperant. Homines feros atque silvestres mireris ausos a scopulis suis saltem maria prospicere. Ascendere etiam inconditas rates et praeternauigantes subinde inopinato impetu terruere. Sed cum uenientem ab alto Romanam classem prospexissent, praedam putantes, ausi etiam occurrere, et primo impetu ingenti lapidum saxorumque nimbo classem operuerunt. Tribus quisque fundis proeliantur. Certos esse quis miretur ictus, cum haec sola genti arma sint, id unum ab infantia studium? cibum puer a matre non accipit, nisi quem ipsa monstrare percusserit. Sed non diu lapidatione Romanos terruere. Nam postquam comminus uentum est expertique rostra et pila uenientia, pecudum in morem clamorem sublato petiuerunt fuga litora, dilapsique in proximos tumulos quaerendi fuerunt ut uincerentur. Since the house of Metellus Macedonicus had become accustomed to agnomina from war victories, after one son became Creticus, there was not a long delay before the other was called Balearicus. The Baleares, at that time had ravaged the seas with their piratical disease. You might wonder that a savage and woodsy people would be daring even to look upon the seas from their crags. Still, they climbed aboard rough boats and, sailing about, terrified others by an unexpected attack.30 But when they saw the Roman fleet coming from the deep sea, thinking it a prize, they boldly rushed it and in the first rush, covered the fleet with a great cloud of stones and rocks. They each fight with three slings. Who can marvel that their blows are sure, when with these alone they are armed, this their one study 29

Oros., Hist. adu. pag. 5.13.1. Praeternavigantes might well be the object rather than the subject here. Nevertheless, the meaning is clear.

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from infancy? A boy does not receive food from his mother, except that which she struck down to demonstrate. But they frightened the Romans with their stones not for very long. For after they had come close, and they experienced the ships’ rams and the javelins, they fled, clamouring like cattle, to the shore, and hid out among the nearby hills, and they had to be sought out so that they could be conquered.31

In this passage, Florus justifies the Roman action against these feros homines. Florus is at pains to show that Rome is glorious and anyone with whom Rome engages in war is necessarily bad. For comparanda, one might wish to examine his accounts of the Gauls, the Illyrians, or the Macedonians.32 Florus is somewhat more reserved when it comes to describing the Greeks and Carthaginians, whose vices lie more in effeminacy and deceit than in savagery. Overall, Florus seeks to justify some sort of Roman imperialism, where Rome’s civilizing mission outweighs the harm it might do in the process. Strabo’s passage is perhaps a bit more balanced: ıȣıIJȘıĮȝȑȞȦȞ ʌȡઁȢ IJȠઃȢ ਥȞ IJȠ૙Ȣ ʌİȜȐȖİıȚ ȜૉıIJȐȢ, įȚİȕȜȒșȘıĮȞ ਚʌĮȞIJİȢ, țĮ੿ įȚȑȕȘ ȂȑIJİȜȜȠȢ ਥʌૃĮ੝IJȠઃȢ ੒ ǺĮȜȚĮȡȚțઁȢ ʌȡȠıĮȖȠȡİȣșİȓȢ, ੖ıIJȚȢ țĮ੿ IJ੹Ȣ ʌȩȜİȚȢ ਩țIJȚıİ. įȚ੹ į੻ IJ੽Ȟ Į੝IJ੽Ȟ ਕȡİIJ੽Ȟ ਥʌȚȕȠȣȜİȣȩȝİȞȠȚ …having associated with the pirates in those seas, they all got a bad name, and Metellus, surnamed Balearicus, marched against them. He it was who built the cities. But owing to the great fertility of the country, these people have always had enemies plotting against them…33

It should be noted that, just like Orosius and Florus, Strabo has other agenda to push. For Strabo, as mentioned before, poverty breeds piracy. Pirates then come from rough, unproductive lands, like Liguria and Cilicia. The Balearic Islands, mild, wooded and fertile, do not fit this description and would serve as a counterexample. Diodorus even says, albeit in passing,34 that the islanders were victims, not perpetrators, of piracy. It is thus in Strabo’s interest for the inhabitants of the Balearics to be peaceful, just as it is in Florus’s interest to show them to be hostile. This argument about geographic determinism likely has its roots in Posidonius, whom we know Strabo to have used, but the idea may even go back to Herodotus. In 31 Florus 3.8. The epitome of Florus is either given in a two-book system or in a four-book system. All references here are using the latter. 32 Florus 1.13 ff., 2.4 (Gauls); 2.5 (Illyrians); 2.7 (Macedonians). 33 Strabo 3.5.1. 34 Diod. 5.17.3.

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any case, the ਥʌȚȕȠȣȜİȣȩȝİȞȠȚ are likely the Massiliots, the Roman ally who also prompted the 125 campaign in Liguria. The other argument, that of guilt by association, where the islanders acquired the reputation of pirates for associating with Ligurian pirates, also neatly fits into Strabo’s program. We also know that the Romans campaigned in Transalpine Gaul and Sardinia from 126–120, and any refugees may well have soured Roman opinion toward the Baleares.35 One problem with the Roman anti-pirate campaigns is that they have few, if any, fixed targets. Fixing on a friendly harbour would be one way to strike at the pirates without sailing about aimlessly. This, in a way, could recall the previous section, in which instance Metellus simply requires the appearance of defeating the pirates, an appearance which he can satisfy through making an example of the Baleares. I consider it fairly convincing that the invasion of the Balearics was a land-grab on the part of Metellus, who had not only a poor territory to govern and veterans to pay off, but relatively little money and a famous father who conquered another people.36 Whether the Balearic islanders practiced piracy or not is a fairly moot point. The relevance here is that commanders and historians regarded the practice of piracy as sufficient grounds for a campaign. If a commander wished to avoid litigation on return, establishing the enemy as clear wrongdoers was useful. This analysis, I argue, can readily be applied to other campaigns, such as the Dalmatian campaign of 119 or the Cretan campaign of 69–67. And like Sextus Pompey, Catiline, and Antony, other figures labelled as criminal might simply have been the losers of history’s civil wars. Thus the term “pirate” had a political weight and effect that cannot be ignored when looking at historical examples of piracy.

5. Conclusions I do not pretend that any of the three items I have described solves the problematic issue. I do think that these suggestions enhance the modern reader’s conception of the pirate. Indeed, mixing the three might give us the best sense of the role of piracy. As mentioned previously, governors 35

These arguments, along with the suggestion of Massilia’s involvement, can be found in detail in Morgan 1969, 217–31. 36 Macedonicus. This is also mentioned by Florus in the above passage (3.8.1) Florus also mistakenly puts Balearicus as the younger son of Macedonicus, with Creticus as his older brother. Creticus was actually his nephew, not his brother, and Florus places the Balearic campaign sixty years later, to have it coincide with Pompey’s campaign, the campaign in Crete and the campaign in Cyprus.

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sought credit for eliminating banditry or piracy. During the republic especially, there was more credit to be gained by allowing banditry or piracy a foothold and then eliminating it in a campaign than there was to be gained by simply having a peaceful province. We cannot discount soldiers acting as bandits themselves, sometimes trumping up charges of banditry to pin on civilians. Controls over this sort of behaviour occur with a regularity that attests to their ineffectuality.37 So what does the disappearance of piracy from the historical record entail, if not necessarily an absence of piracy? I would argue that it displays either a lack of elite interest in piracy, indicating that pirates were operating on a scale too small for the magistrates to bother with, or that the pirates were successful enough to enlist and become legitimate operators, regardless of whether their activities changed. If pirates could become mercenary auxiliaries, the historians had no reason to describe them as pirates, but the imperial fears of the soldiers when they have no immediate personal risk reveals that the manpower they employed may have come backgrounds which the emperors would prefer the soldiers not return to. The description of piracy in the ancient world could have repercussions. An accusation of piracy could serve to de-legitimate a person or people. Magistrates had much to gain by eliminating piracy and much to lose by allowing it to appear. Thus piracy tended to only be described in situations that were favourable to the speaker. If there were no gains to be had by publicizing pirate activity, then pirates stayed “invisible.”

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For example the Digest 1.18.6.5–6 forbids soldiers to use their position for monetary gain, but only limits requisitions in the case of the poor. See also Knapp 2011, 214 –15.

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