Letters in the Dust: The Epigraphy and Archaeology of Medieval Jewish Cemeteries 9789042947030, 9042947039

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INTERDISCIPLINARY STUDIES

IN

ANCIENT CULTURE

AND

RELIGION

23

LETTERS IN THE DUST THE EPIGRAPHY AND ARCHAEOLOGY OF MEDIEVAL JEWISH CEMETERIES edited by LEONARD V. RUTGERS AND ORTAL-PAZ SAAR

PEETERS

LETTERS IN THE DUST

INTERDISCIPLINARY STUDIES

IN

ANCIENT CULTURE AND RELIGION

EDITOR Leonard V. Rutgers (Utrecht) EDITORIAL BOARD Béatrice Caseau (Paris) Wolfram Kinzig (Bonn) Blake Leyerle (Notre Dame, IN) Paolo Liverani (Florence) Anne Marie Luijendijk (Princeton, NJ) Jodi Magness (Chapel Hill, NC) David Satran (Jerusalem)

Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion 23

LETTERS IN THE DUST THE EPIGRAPHY AND ARCHAEOLOGY OF MEDIEVAL JEWISH CEMETERIES

EDITED BY

LEONARD V. RUTGERS AND ORTAL-PAZ SAAR

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2023

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © Peeters, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven ISBN: 978-90-429-4703-0 eISBN: 978-90-429-4704-7 D/2023/0602/10

CONTENTS Acknowledgements .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . VII Abbreviations .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

IX

List of Contributors .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

XI

Introduction .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . Leonard RUTGERS and Ortal-Paz SAAR

1

I. EPIGRAPHY Religious Identity in the Funerary Inscriptions Composed by Jews (and Christians) between the Third and Seventh Centuries CE in Rome and Southern Italy  .  .  .  .  . Antonio Enrico FELLE Remembering the Jewish Dead in Medieval Apulia and Basilicata Linda SAFRAN Cruel and Unusual: Atypical Demise in Jewish Funerary Inscriptions .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . Ortal-Paz SAAR The Medieval Jewish Cemeteries of Sicily .  .  .  .  .  .  . Nicolò BUCARIA

9 35

65 97

Jewish Names and Locations in Medieval France: The Case of Paris, Twelfth–Fourteenth Centuries .  .  .  .  .  .  . 135 Sonia FELLOUS II. ARCHAEOLOGY A Comparison of Medieval Jewish and Christian Burial Practices in York, England .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 201 Jane MCCOMISH

VI

CONTENTS

The Contemporary Interpretation of the Medieval Jewish Cemetery in Toledo: The Archaeology of a Forgotten Place 223 Arturo RUIZ TABOADA The Archaeological Study of Medieval Jewish Cemeteries: The State of Research .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 249 Philippe BLANCHARD Archaeology and Jewish Cemeteries: Political and Religious Issues .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 295 Max POLONOVSKI Bibliography .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 311 Indices .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 341

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Many people participated in the production of this volume. We would particularly like to thank the participants of the workshop “Letters in the Dust,” which took place at Utrecht University in November 2016. The workshop was funded by a Conference Grant Program of the European Association of Jewish Studies (EAJS) and took place within the framework of Reconfiguring Diaspora: The Transformation of the Jewish Diaspora in Late Antiquity, a project funded by the Dutch Research Council (N.W.O.).

ABBREVIATIONS ASPA CIIP

Archivio di Stato Palermo Cotton, H. et al. eds. 2010-2012. Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae / Palaestinae. A Multi-Lingual Corpus of the Inscriptions from Alexander to Muhammad. Vols. I-III. BerlinNew York: De Gruyter CIJ Frey, J.B. ed. 1936-1952. Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaicarum. Recueil des inscriptions juives qui vont du IIIe siècle avant Jésus-Christ au VIIe siècle de notre ère. Vol. I. Europe. Addenda by B. Lifshitz 1975. New York: Ktav Publishing House. Vol. II: Asie – Afrique. Città del Vaticano: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum CIRB Struve, V. ed. 1965. Corpus Inscriptionum Regni Bosporani. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka” IJO Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis. Vol. I. Eastern Europe, 2004. Edited by D. Noy, A. Panayotov, and H. Bloedhorn. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; vol. II. Kleinasien, 2004. Edited by W. Ameling. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; vol. III. Syria and Cyprus, 2004. Edited by D. Noy and H. Bloedhorn. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck IK Corsten, Th., ed. 1997. Die Inschriften von Laodikeia am Lykos. Vol. I: Die Inschriften (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 49). Bonn: Dr. Rudolf Habelt GmbH JIGRE Horbury, W. and D. Noy, eds. 1992. Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt. Cambridge - New York: Cambridge University Press JIWE Noy, D. ed. 1993-1995. Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe. Vol. I: Italy (excluding the City of Rome), Spain and Gaul; vol. II: Rome. Cambridge - New York: Cambridge University Press MAMA Buckler, H. and W.M. Calder eds. 1939. Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, VI. Monuments and documents from Phrygia and Caria. Manchester: Manchester University Press

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Philippe Blanchard Institut National de Recherches Archéologiques Préventives & UMR 5199 PACEA, Bordeaux, France Nicolò Bucaria Associated researcher, Arye Maimon-Institut für Geschichte der Juden, University of Trier, Germany Antonio E. Felle Department of Humanities, University of Bari “Aldo Moro”, Italy Sonia Fellous CNRS, IRHT, Section Hebraïque, Paris, France Jane M. McComish York Archaeological Trust, York, UK Max Polonovski General Curator Emeritus of Jewish Heritage for the French Ministry of Culture, Paris, France Arturo Ruiz Taboada Complutense University of Madrid, Madrid, Spain Leonard V. Rutgers Department of History and Art History, Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands Ortal-Paz Saar Department of History and Art History, Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands Linda Safran Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Toronto, Canada

INTRODUCTION LEONARD V. RUTGERS

AND

ORTAL-PAZ SAAR

This volume originates from an international workshop bearing (almost) the same title, that was organised by the editors on 7-8 November 2016 at Utrecht University in the Netherlands. The idea for the workshop stemmed from research conducted by OrtalPaz Saar on Jewish funerary inscriptions from Southern Italy, as part of a larger project initiated and directed by Leonard V. Rutgers, entitled Reconfiguring Diaspora: The Transformation of the Jewish Diaspora in Antiquity, which is being sponsored by the Dutch Research Council. Our combined work led us to realise that, so far, too little research has been conducted on the interrelationship between the epigraphy and archaeology of Jewish cemeteries and the issue of continuity and change that links ancient with medieval Jewish funerary culture. Consequently, we sought to find a way to bring together scholars from these fields to create a platform for interdisciplinary discussion. Funding received from the European Association for Jewish Studies Grant Programme provided the opportunity for bringing participants to Utrecht. Further funding from the Dutch Research Council allowed for the production of this book. The “Letters in the Dust” workshop included thirteen speakers from nine different countries. Their papers covered an impressive scope, from the medieval Jewish cemetery in York, England to that in Jām, Afghanistan. In addition to the contributors to this volume, the workshop also benefitted from papers by others such as Erica Hunter, and Michaela Selmi Wallisowà. While not included as written pieces, their papers and subsequent discussions left traces of their own in the articles published here. We envisaged the workshop as a roundtable event in which participants would be able to engage in conversations, discuss the current state of affairs (including the many practical challenges that accompany the study of Jewish historical cemeteries), and make plans for future collaborations. All of these goals were achieved, and a fruitful academic collaboration between the speakers (in different forms and pathways) continues to this day.

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L.V. RUTGERS AND O.-P. SAAR

As is evident from the articles included here, this volume seeks to highlight the importance and historical relevance of Jewish inscriptional and archaeological materials, especially because such data continue to play a far too limited role in the modern study of medieval Jewish history.1 While Jewish archaeological materials dating to the Roman period have been systematically studied starting in 1953, when Erwin Goodenough began to publish his magnum opus, archaeological data do not figure much in the study of medieval Jewish history, in part because they have not been readily available.2 As late as 1975, Gérard Nahon observed in relation to the history of the Jews in medieval France that “to research, classify, and study the material supports of divergent religious practices remains a scientific desideratum.”3 His own efforts in this area, published several years later in a collection of essays under the editorship of Bernard Blumenkranz, illustrate the substantial amounts of work left to do by the early 1980s.4 Seen from that perspective, it is hardly surprising to note that when Thérèse and Mendel Metzger published their lavishly-illustrated La vie juive au Moyen Âge in these same years, they specifically chose their illustrations from illuminated books, as opposed to archaeological artefacts, inscriptional materials, or architectural drawings and site plans.5 As for the study of inscriptions bearing on Jewish life in the Middle Ages, work has fared better, but only slightly so. As early as the sixteenth century, Hebraists were already busy recording inscribed tombstones. They were followed by others, who, during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, began to publish Jewish epigraphic corpora, usually grouped by geographical criteria, in which these epitaphs received a more systematic treatment. Still, it is in the nature of such corpora to present said inscribed evidence as largely separate from the bigger archaeological and topographical context in which it has been preserved.6 Inspired by the ideals of nineteenth-century German philology, 1

 For an exception, see Toch 2013 and cf. the considerations of Baumgarten 2018.  Goodenough 1953–1968. 3  Nahon 1975. 4  Nahon 1980a, b. 5  Metzger 1982. 6  Examples include the following: Ascoli 1880; Cassuto 1945; JIWE I-II for Italy; Cantera and Millas 1956 for Spain; Nahon 1986 for France; Scheiber 1983 for Hungary; Wodziński 1996 for Silesia; and more localized corpora, such as Wachstein 1912 for Vienna. More recently, one can notice a change in these traditional formats, 2

INTRODUCTION

3

the traditional epigraphic corpora tend to perpetuate a text-oriented approach to history rather than serve as an entry into the much more complex world of (Jewish) everyday life, practice, and ritualistic behaviour, as exemplified by the totality of the archaeological remains. Does such a state of affairs imply that material remains bearing on the Jewish communities of the Middle Ages are somehow less perceptible, and therefore less important than those that have come to light all across the Mediterranean, but dating to earlier times, like the Roman period? Certainly not. Sustained excavations such as those conducted in the city centre of Cologne, Germany or, more recently, in the cemetery of Via Orfeo in Bologna, Italy, as well as exhibitions like the one dedicated to the Colmar Treasure, on display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in late 2019 and early 2020, indicate that Jewish archaeological remains from the Middle Ages can be as fascinating, as aesthetically pleasing, and as historically significant as Jewish artistic and archaeological remains dating to any other period of Jewish history.7 Even so, it is illustrative of the current state of affairs in medieval Jewish archaeology that the first and only overarching study to date that goes beyond the investigation of individual sites and that looks at some of the larger underlying patterns dates to 2014—a full sixty years after Goodenough first attempted to do this for Jewish materials stemming from the period of the Roman Empire.8 Again though, the fact that this particular study focusses on evidence from Central Europe and does not systematically discuss equally important funerary data from medieval Italy, medieval France, and particularly medieval Spain, illustrates the need for further comprehensive and theoretically grounded studies in this area.9 Such future work is likely to provide us with important new information on the Jewish communities of medieval Europe because this work helps us to supplement and enrich the lofty world of texts and high culture. It promises to do so through evidence bearing on individuals who often left no other trace in history than their own earthly remains but who, crucially, often represent the very good examples being the volume Ketav, Sefer, Miktav (Mascolo 2014), and particularly the epigraphic contribution by Giancarlo Lacerenza contained therein (Lacerenza 2014) and the three volumes of Müller et al. 2011 on Würzburg. 7  Schütte and Gechter 2012; Curina and Di Stefano 2019; Drake Boehm 2020. 8  Harck 2014; Goodenough 1953–1968. 9  For a collection of essays that discusses these sites, again from the perspective of the individual archaeological site, see Salmona and Sigal 2010.

4

L.V. RUTGERS AND O.-P. SAAR

core of the communities that Jewish history is made of. Thanks to archaeology, such individuals from the past stare us straight in the face with an unmitigated directness one does not normally encounter in the other historical sources at our disposal. Through the essays collected in the current volume, we have tried to bring such people back to life and to begin remedying a situation where Jewish epigraphic evidence is studied in isolation—a situation enhanced by the fact that such evidence, having been uprooted and reused as building material through the centuries, often survives in a decontextualised fashion only. Instead, we seek to bridge the gap whereby data are being analysed separately, as two distinct sets, namely either textual or material/archaeological. Because evidence from Jewish cemeteries often results from rescue excavations—a situation where excavators have but little time to pause and reflect on the meaning of the data they are salvaging, usually under stress and pressure—we have furthermore also asked several such excavators to elaborate on some of the more fundamental and structural characteristics of these sites, including the practical and conceptual challenges that arise out of their work on Jewish cemeteries. Finally, whereas earlier work on individual Jewish medieval cemeteries has mostly been published in a variety of European languages, this is the first volume to give access to these sites and the stories they tell in the English language. We begin this collection with a section on epigraphy and an opening contribution by Antonio Felle. He discusses religious identity in Jewish funerary inscriptions dating to the late antique period, thus setting us on our way with his reflections on current views and debates regarding a moment in Jewish history when epigraphy becomes a major, and in certain locations, our only source of historical documentation regarding Jewish life in the Diaspora. Linda Safran then picks up the story by focussing on the rich documentation regarding the Jewish communities of Southern Italy during the medieval period, in this way helping us to focus on the one area in Europe where, perhaps uniquely, there seems to be continuity between the ancient and medieval periods. In a thematic article covering a broad geographical and chronological scope, Ortal-Paz Saar explores Jewish epitaphs from the perspective of demographic, social, and cultural history by discussing funerary inscriptions that allude to atypical or untimely deaths. Nicolò Bucaria then directs our attention to that most fascinating of all Mediterranean islands, Sicily, discussing burial practices, cemeteries, and the epigraphy bearing

INTRODUCTION

5

on a community that was a steady presence on the island from at least the late antique period until their final expulsion/forced conversion in the late fifteenth century, when Sicily fell into the hands of the Crown of Aragon. Sonia Fellous rounds out this section by discussing the rich corpus of Jewish inscriptional materials from France from the perspectiv of onomastic practice. These are particularly interesting, given the still only partially resolved issue of the cultural allegiance and demographic relatedness of Jews in medieval France—situated as they were between the Sephardim in Spain on the one hand and the Ashkenazim of the Rhineland on the other. In the next section, we move on to the archaeology of medieval Jewish graveyards. Jane McComish’s work on the Jewish medieval cemetery of York remains a cornerstone in modern research because it attempts to analyse the site through an anthropological study of the bones and looks at the problem of arrangement and identification based on the site’s topographical features.10 This issue is taken up by Arturo Ruiz Taboada, who delves into the Spanish evidence, using the materials from Toledo as his case study. Philippe Blanchard then takes these discussions a step further, presenting a comprehensive analytical review of the archaeology of medieval Jewish European cemeteries—the first one to appear in the English language. Max Polonovski concludes this section and the volume at large with a strong programmatic discussion about the disputed question of who owns the Jewish past—a small group of ultra-orthodox activists, the modern nation state where remains are found, the Jewish community at large or even all Europeans? What are the most important takeaways from this collection, particularly with an eye to future research in the field of late ancient and medieval Jewish archaeology and epigraphy? First, such research needs to enter into the 21st century in terms of approaches and research methodologies. Over the years, archaeologists have developed a variety of tools to study cemeteries for the purpose of extracting as much information as possible concerning the demography of the populations buried there. Yet, it is only now that such methodologies are beginning to make their mark in the study of Jewish medieval cemeteries, as evidenced by Jane McComish in her excellent work in York some twenty-five years ago, by Arturo Ruiz Taboada and Philippe Blanchard in their ongoing fascinating research on the  Lilley et al. 1994.

10

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L.V. RUTGERS AND O.-P. SAAR

Jewish cemeteries of Toledo and Chateauroux respectively, or by the Italian team working so diligently under Giovanna Belcastro and Valentina di Stefano in Bologna.11 Second, the study of Jewish funerary inscriptions needs to be brought up to speed by making full use of all that a digital approach to these materials has to offer. A pilot study, conducted at Utrecht University in collaboration with colleagues from the Steinheim Institute in Essen and Brown University in the United States, along with further contributing partners from various European countries, is providing us with an indication of what will be possible in the near future.12 Third, Jewish archaeological and epigraphic evidence needs to be contextualised more fully, not only by exploring Jewish sites, but also through a systematic comparison of Jewish and contemporaneous non-Jewish materials.13 Fourth, we need to address the issue of religious sensibility more systematically than we have so far, the only way forward being a sustained discussion with the various partners involved, possibly along the lines of the formula developed in the protracted discussions surrounding Kennewick Man, where heritage communities were involved in a way that, in the end, was productive for all parties involved.14 With regard to the study and preservation of Jewish cemeteries specifically, there is much to be said for all stakeholders to join forces. This is, amongst other things, because we cannot afford to forget about our shared past or to let that past be dominated or politicised by single groups who want to fit everyone into the mould of their own identity, as pointed out by Max Polonovski in his contribution to this volume. Such a collaboration will provide us with a firm basis to start engaging with the fifth and final aspect to be mentioned here, namely, to have these materials partake in what is certainly the most exciting development in archaeology today: the aDNA revolution.15 We conclude this introduction by expressing our hope that this book will be of help in bringing about these larger developments. 11

 Ruiz Taboada in this volume. Blanchard 2019 with references to his earlier publications. For work in Bologna, see Curina and Di Stefano 2019. Also important in this context is Lucena, see, amongst others, De Luca et al. 2013. 12  https://peace.sites.uu.nl. 13  For the ancient world, e.g., Rutgers 1995. For medieval materials, cf. the considerations of Thomas et al. 2017. 14  Colomer 2014; Gerstenkorn 2017. 15  Ostrer 2012; Reich 2018; Toch 2018; Rutgers et al. 2019.

I EPIGRAPHY

RELIGIOUS IDENTITY IN THE FUNERARY INSCRIPTIONS COMPOSED BY JEWS (AND CHRISTIANS) BETWEEN THE THIRD AND SEVENTH CENTURIES CE IN ROME AND SOUTHERN ITALY ANTONIO E. FELLE INTRODUCTION The number of ancient Jewish inscriptions between the Hellenistic age and the end of antiquity (seventh century CE) edited in the main corpora now comprises a little less than 2500 items. This is a remarkable increase compared to the ca. 2000 inscriptions counted for the same timespan by P.W. van der Horst twenty-five years ago.1 As pointed out previously by Van der Horst, as many as 80% of all these ancient Jewish inscriptions are funerary in character. The latest publications confirm this state of affairs.2 The graph displayed here as Figure 1 summarises the general distribution of the inscriptions, using data contained in the most recent editions which, in turn, build on an earlier collection of Jewish inscriptions by J.B. Frey known as the Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaicarum (CIJ).3 The corpora incorporated below include: Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt, dealing with Egypt and Cyrenaica (JIGRE); the two volumes of the Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, pertaining to Italy and the West, and to the city of Rome (JIWE), respectively; and the three volumes of the Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, which collect Jewish epigraphic materials from the Balkan peninsula and Greece, Asia Minor, Cyprus,

1

 Van der Horst 1991, 15–16. More recently, Van der Horst counted 4000 ancient Jewish inscriptions taking into account evidence published in journal papers, single editions and Festschriften (Van der Horst 2014, 4). For the Jewish inscriptions before the Hellenistic age that are not considered here, see Davies et al. 1991–2004. 2  Van der Horst 2014, 12. 3  Published in 1936, CIJ is by now out of date, despite an update (for Europe only) by Baruch Lifshitz in 1975.

10

A.E. FELLE

Figure 1: Jewish inscriptions collected in the main corpora (relating to the Roman world): General distribution.

and the ancient Syria-Palaestina area (IJO).4 To these corpora, I have finally also added an older paper by Le Bohec that collects Jewish inscriptions from Roman Africa.5 As can be seen from their titles, all these corpora (JIGRE, JIWE, IJO as well as the study by Le Bohec) focus explicitly on what they consider to be “Jewish” inscriptions. By contrast, the more recent Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae (CIIP), which obviously also contains many Jewish inscriptions, is based entirely on geography as the single most important criterion for inclusion, the editors of the CIIP making no distinction on the basis of the usual criteria of languages, alphabets, or religions. Indeed, such a distinction would not make much sense in the context of the “Holy Land,” where many peoples and cultures coexisted that differed in ethnic identity, religion, language, and writing systems. However, another and certainly no less important reason for the CIIP editors’ choice in favour of a corpus of the ancient inscriptions from this important area, in which no distinction is drawn between pagan, Jewish, or Christian inscriptions, is the real difficulty to reach a consensus on how to identify an ancient inscription as specifically Jewish (or Christian). 4

 See also the epigraphy section of the PEACE portal: https://peace.sites.uu.nl/.  Le Bohec 1981. See also the useful remarks by Solin 1991.

5

RELIGIOUS IDENTITY IN THE FUNERARY INSCRIPTIONS

11

IDENTIFICATION PROBLEMS Identification problems of the kind discussed here have a long history, as evidenced by discussions presented in the introduction to all of the other epigraphic corpora mentioned above. Because of the difficulties that surround the identification of the cultural affiliations of inscriptions, it has been proposed to add to the obvious labels of “Jewish inscription” or “non-Jewish inscription” a third one: “possible Jewish inscription.”6 Such a label surfaced as early as 1981, as evidenced by the title of the paper by Yann Le Bohec, dedicated to the Inscriptions juives et judaïsantes de l’Afrique romaine.7 The following table 1 presents a summary of the criteria adopted by the editors of the various previously mentioned editions to identify an inscription as Jewish, in the order of their respective importance and reliability.8 This overview demonstrates that the criteria for defining an inscription as Jewish differ from one corpus to the next and also that these collections differ in terms of the relative importance attributed to individual criteria. In my view, the following criteria, listed in the order of their relative significance, are the ones that serve us best in identifying an inscription as Jewish or as possibly Jewish:9 1. Pertinence to contexts otherwise identifiable as Jewish, for example assembly-buildings, or burial places where only Jews were laid to rest 2. Elements of Jewish language and/or writing10 6  Cf. Van Henten and Huitink 2003, 34: “The outcome of this debate is that in many cases one cannot be sure of a Jewish origin, because one criterion is often not decisive; unfortunately, two or more criteria are not always met, simply because inscriptions lack the information for checking more than one criterion. What should be done about such inscriptions? How should the balance be tipped in favor of putting the inscriptions in either the Jewish or non-Jewish category? Or should we acknowledge that we sometimes do not know, or that in some instances we can argue either way? Evidently, the latter position may lead to a third category of possible Jewish inscriptions.” 7  Le Bohec 1981. 8  I have added Kant 1987 here because of its systematic reflection on the issue of what constitutes a Jewish inscription. 9  See also Gibson 1999, 6–10; Van der Horst 2014, 8–12. 10  This specification is particularly useful given inscriptions that contain Hebrew or Aramaic words written in the Greek or Latin script.

Names

Language

Context

Term Iudaeus

Le Bohec 1981

JIGRE

JIWE I

JIWE II

IJO II

Names

1

Images and signs Term Iudaeus

Kant 1987

Editions CIJ

Other specific elements

Other specific elements Images and signs Language

Language

Term Iudaeus

2 Terminology

Context

Terminology

Terminology

Term Iudaeus

Terminology

Names

3 Formulae

Images and signs

Names

Names

Terminology

Names

Terminology

4 Contents

Images and signs Writing

Context

Images and signs Language

5 Images and signs Context

Names

/

/

Context

Other specific elements Context

6 Language

Table 1: Overview of indicators of Jewishness in the main corpora of Jewish inscriptions.

12 A.E. FELLE

RELIGIOUS IDENTITY IN THE FUNERARY INSCRIPTIONS

13

3. Elements mentioned in the text, clearly pertaining to Jewish praxis: a. mention of communities (synagogues) b. recollection of honorific charges or responsibilities within the communities c. reference to peculiar religious feasts d. explicit self-identifications (essentially: Iudaeus, ᾿Ιουδαῖος) e. specific Jewish names and/or formulae 4. Use of identifying figures or images.11 As for the first criterion, it goes without saying that it depends on the other ones. We are able to identify a Jewish archaeological context (for example, a burial area) by “clearly Jewish” finds, such as oil lamps displaying a menorah (although some of these “Jewish objects” may have been also used or reused by non-Jews).12 Our second identifier, namely the use of Hebrew language and script, is certainly the single most helpful indicator to identify the Jewishness of patrons who ordered such inscriptions. However, this feature is not so very useful in the case of inscriptions pertaining to the Hellenistic and Roman world because of the prevailing use of Greek as an inscriptional language, attested also in many written documents from Eretz Israel.13 In the Diaspora, the first epigraphic examples of Hebrew only appear between the end of the third and the beginning of the fourth century CE. Consequently, selecting inscriptions only on the basis of Hebrew language and/or script would imply the exclusion of the majority of ancient inscriptions by Jews: their texts are written in Greek for the most part, and in Latin to a significantly lesser extent. Thus, we have to consider other features if we are to identify inscriptions written in Greek or Latin as Jewish—for example, by looking for clearly identifying terms, such as Iudaeus or ᾿Ιουδαῖος, or explicit references to synagogues or to communal positions within the Jewish communities. However, these features do not occur as often in the inscriptions as one would like. Along similar lines, the onomastic data are not always very reliable in helping us to identify people mentioned in an inscription as Jews. In the Jewish catacombs in Rome, as was observed twenty-five years ago 11

 See now Stern 2008, 33–35.  See Van der Horst 2014, 12 and footnote 50. 13  Cf. Van der Horst 2014, 13–16. 12

14

A.E. FELLE

by Leonard Rutgers,14 we encounter a mix of Jewish and GrecoRoman names, with the latter prevailing as a result of the ongoing integration of Roman Jews into the larger non-Jewish environment.15 More recent work by Tal Ilan, who has collected names used by Jews throughout the ancient Mediterranean in a series of massive volumes, points in the same direction.16 The last indicator in our list relates to images, primarily the menorah and the representation of several other, decidedly less popular Jewish ritualistic objects, such as a lulav or a shofar. However, all of these visual features of Jewishness appear only from Late Antiquity onwards. During the first centuries of the Empire, before the third century CE, such imagery is largely absent because of a prevailing trend among Jews geared towards assimilation to the dominant Roman epigraphic and decorative habits. EARLIER JEWISH EPIGRAPHIC HABITS As for the inscriptions from the city of Jerusalem identified as Jewish in the CIIP (701 out of 714), they essentially consist of the names of the deceased (sometimes with patronymics) only.17 They typically appear on ossuaries, onto which they were engraved rather roughly, using Hebrew, Aramaic, or Greek script. All are dated between the first century BCE and the destruction of the city in 70 CE.18 These ossuaries display a remarkable degree of artistic assimilation with the dominant Hellenistic-Roman funerary culture, both in terms of the decorative motifs used (often they resemble little sarcophagi) as well as epigraphically. However, very often the inscriptions have been poorly written. Frequently, they also do not appear in a central position on the ossuary, as one would expect. This suggests that the short Jewish inscriptions were not regarded as a vital element in the decoration of these Jewish funerary stone containers. Such a practice stands 14

 Rutgers 1997, 145–157.  For the use of names in the Jewish inscriptions from Roman Africa, see the remarks by Solin 1991. 16  Ilan 2002–2012. 17  Donaldson 2000, 379–380. There are only a few exceptions: CIIP I.1, 98, 392; CIIP I.2, n. 1119. 18  Rahmani 1994, 21–23. 15

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in stark contrast to the funerary monuments of the Greco-Roman world, which were aimed at public display and as such sought to impress not just one’s relatives, but all. By contrast, Jewish ossuaries were not designed for public display. Instead, they were placed inside burial complexes that were also used for letting the body of the deceased decompose before his or her bones could be collected and placed into such an ossuary.19 To this should finally be added that once certain commemorative customs are underway in a given locality, they sometimes perpetuate themselves for some time in relative isolation, without necessarily being in conversation with epigraphic trends that manifest themselves elsewhere. This explains why neither the 700 ossuary inscriptions from Herodian Jerusalem,20 nor the seventy Greek inscriptions of the Jews in Leontopolis,21 can be considered as typical of Jewish epigraphic practice during the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods. LATE ANTIQUE JEWISH EPIGRAPHIC HABITS Moving on to some of the overarching patterns one can detect, it appears that in the centuries between the destruction of the Second Temple and the end of antiquity, the geographical distribution of Jewish epigraphic documents changes profoundly (Figure 2). As for the city of Jerusalem, from 70 CE until the Arab Conquest in 638 the CIIP lists only thirteen Jewish inscriptions, all pertaining to Late Antiquity.22 During this time span, most Jewish inscriptions come from the Diaspora, specifically from the Jewish catacombs in Rome, constructed and used during the third and fourth centuries 19

 Donaldson 2000, 380–381. Note, however, that the inscription on the ossuary of the proselyte Ἰούδας, maybe a citizen of Lagania, in Asia Minor, appears very well executed (CIIP I.1, n. 551). 20  Cf. Heszer 2003, 168–170. 21  JIGRE I, nos. 29–105. These inscriptions are to be dated between the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor (180–145 BCE) and that of Vespasian, who closed the Leontopolis temple in 73–74 CE. 22  These documents are assigned to a Jewish patronage only based on their writing and language: CIIP I.2, nos. 752, 790, 791, 881, 953, 954, 957, 981, 1001, 1016, 1017, 1018, 1027. The inscriptions CIIP I.2, nos. 953, 954, 1017, 1018 could perhaps be dated to a period later than the seventh century.

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Figure 2: Jewish inscriptions collected in the main corpora (relating to the Roman world). Distribution in Late Antiquity.

(n.=600).23 Similar patterns emerge in other areas of the Roman Empire, where most inscriptions recognised as Jewish derive from Late Antiquity. This is certainly remarkable: although the presence of Jewish individuals and communities throughout the Roman world is definitely attested in the previous centuries,24 almost all their epigraphic testimonia are datable to a period that ranges from the third to the seventh century CE.25 Reflecting on this, almost twenty-five years ago Ross S. Kraemer wrote the following illuminating words: [we need to] take seriously the possibility, if not the probability, that many inscriptions made by Jews will not contain any specifically Jewish items … particularly in places where Jews were well integrated into the life of the 23  About the Jews in Rome, I mention here only a recent paper by HednerZetterholm 2001. For the Jewish catacombs, see recently Laurenzi 2013. For a possible earlier dating of the Jewish catacombs to the second century CE, see Rutgers et al. 2006, with previous bibliography. 24  However, by other kind of sources. See, for example, the ones mentioned by Solin 2014, 243–244. 25  Noy 1998, 79 remarks that in the western half of the Roman Empire there are only seven clearly Jewish inscriptions datable before the third century CE. See JIWE I, n. 7 (from Aquileia, Northern Italy, first century BCE); n. 14 (from Ostia: first-second centuries CE); n. 18 (from Ostia: second century CE); n. 23 (from Marano, Southern Italy: first century CE); n. 26 (from Naples: end of first century CE); n. 188 (from Villamesias, Spain, dated generically between the first and third centuries CE); JIWE II, n. 553 (from Rome: second-third centuries CE).

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larger community, such as many of the cities, towns and villages of Asia Minor, this may in fact be the case. … Similar observations may no doubt be made for Christian inscriptions as well, since identifiably Christian inscriptions cannot be documented before the third century, and it is hard to believe that no Christians left epigraphical records prior to that time.26

Obviously, such a state of affairs raises several questions that are difficult to answer. Why are there so few Jewish inscriptions from before the Severan era, and why do they suddenly start to appear over the course of the third century? What does this mean in terms of Jewish history and identity formation over time, particularly in the Diaspora? Identification problems are furthermore compounded by the fact that Jewishness can be defined as religious or ethnic/geographical identity, or both. Ethnicity seems to be a defining factor among the earliest Jewish inscriptions we can identify as such, as indicated by the use of typical names or the explicit term Iudaeus / Ἰουδαῖος, which initially seems more of a geographical rather than a religious indicator.27 The evidence as it is allows for the identification of Jewish patrons, just as it allows one to identify patrons related to other ethnic groups. During the first two centuries of the Empire, all these groups were in the habit of adopting the Roman epigraphic habit, Jews being no exception to this general trend. It is important to note here that in the particular case of the Jews, boundaries remained permeable for some time because, in addition to being Jewish by birth, there were also converts or proselytes (προσήλυτοι)28 and people that participated in the inner life of the Jewish community in a more loose, associative kind of manner—the θεοσεβεῖς (or metuentes).29 In cases such as these, there is a continuum with ethnic and religious identity on one side of the spectrum and cultural identity on the other. That relations were cordial follows from inscriptions such as the one found in the theatre of Miletus, which reads:30 τόπος Εἰουδέων τῶν καὶ θεοσεβίον (:θεοσεβείων). 26

 Kraemer 1991, 162.  Mason 2007. 28  The word already occurs on some ossuary inscriptions in Herodian Jerusalem (Donaldson 2000). 29  For the occurrence of these terms in the epigraphic texts, see Rajak 1992, 19–21. 30  IJO II, n. 37, dated to the second-third centuries CE. On this inscription, see the (still) precious remarks of Robert 1964. 27

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Importantly, such an untroubled, organic relationship is also testified elsewhere, such as when we encounter προσήλυτοι and θεοσεβεῖς in a long text recalling donors’ names and inscribed on the pillars of the main entrance of the lateantique synagogue of Aphrodisias, in Caria.31 Many donors are identified by their status of προσήλυτοι (“proselytes”) or θεοσεβεῖς (“God-fearers”). Here, then, is a situation where non-Jewish associates and new converts to Judaism are identified so as to distinguish them from the “real Jews,” i.e., the ones by birth. However, they still appear side-by-side with such Jews and in an architectural setting that was specifically and unmistakably Jewish. Interestingly and no less importantly, once in place, the desire to affiliate oneself with Jews continued well into Late Antiquity. This follows from an epitaph from the so-called hypogaeum Lauridia in Venusia (present day Venosa in Basilicata [then Apulia], Southern Italy), where the Greek word defining the status of God-fearer, θεοσεβής, appears, remarkably, in Latin lettering (Figure 3): Marcus / teuseues / qui vixit / annu qui/ndecim hic / receptus est / in pac.32 To make matters even more complicated, from the Severan era onwards, further religious elements are added to inscriptions from the Roman world that cannot be linked to one cultural or religious group exclusively. Rather, these elements seem to permeate the epigraphic dossier of several different groups at one and the same time. Well-known examples of this include inscriptions that carry dedications to the anonymous θεῷ ὑψίστῳ (to the Highest God).33 One such inscription, which commemorates the construction of a prayer house (προσευχή) in Panticapaeum (Kertch, Crimea), which the imperial governor of Theodosia, Aurelius Valerius Sogous, undertook in the year 603 of Bosporan era (306 CE), reads:34 Θεῷ Ὑψίστῳ / ἐπηκόῳ εὐ/χήν. Αὐρ(ήλιος) Οὐαλέ/ριος Σόγους Ὀ/= λύμπου, ὁ ἐπὶ / τῆς Θεοδοσία / σεβαστόγνω/στο, τειμηθεὶς ὑ/πὸ Διοκλητια/νοῦ καὶ Μαξιμιανοῦ, / ὁ καὶ Ὀλυμπιανὸς / κληθεὶς ἐν τῷ ἐ/παρχείῳ, ὁ πολλὰ / ἀποδημήσας καὶ / ἀποστατήσας ἔτη / δέκα ἓξ καὶ ἐν πολ/λοῖς θλίψεις γενό/μενος, εὐξάμενος, / ἐκ θεμελίου οἰκο/δομήσας τὴν προσ/ευχὴν ἐν τῷ γχʹ 31

 IJO II, n. 14, dated to the fourth-fifth centuries CE. For the late antique dating of the inscription, see Chaniotis 2002. 32  JIWE I, n. 113, dated to the fourth-fifth centuries CE. 33  Ustinova 2000; IJO II, 20–21. 34  CIRB, n. 64.

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Figure 3: Venusia, so-called “Lauridia” hypogaeum. Epitaph of the teuseues Marcus (from JIWE I, n. 113).

To the most high God, who listens, in fulfilment of a vow. Aurelius Valerius Sogous, son of Olympus, the imperial governor of Theodosia, [a man] known to the emperors, honoured by Diocletian and Maximian, who was also called in the province Olympianos, who was absent from home for a long time and spent sixteen years away, and who suffered from many afflictions, having made a vow, built the prayer house from the foundation in the year 603. (Transcription and translation from CIRB)

Much in this inscription conveys the culture of Greco-Roman paganism. At the same time, there is also mention of a high God and of a prayer house, which moves this inscription in the direction of Jewish belief and practice. Something similar also applies to inscriptions that contain the socalled “Eumenian formula”—a phrase coined after the Phrygian city where it is particularly attested in the second half of the third century

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CE.35 This specific formula was used in order to protect tombs from desecration, not—as was usual in Roman inscriptions—by means of a fine to be paid to the city or state aerarium,36 but by invoking divine judgement to be dispensed over against potential perpetrators. Significantly, on inscriptions of this kind, the formula ἔσται αὐτῷ πρὸς τὸν θεόν37 (with variations) is used indiscriminately by Jews, Christians, and maybe even by others.38 Very similar to this are several funerary inscriptions, also from Asia Minor, that evoke the “maledictions written in the Deuteronomy” (… τὰς ἀρὰς τὰς γεγραμμένας ἐν τῷ Δευτερονομίῳ) in order to protect the tombs.39 The formula first appears already in the second century CE, as the epitaph commemorating Flavius Amphikles, found near the city of Chalkis on Euboea, quotes the words of the same passages from Deuteronomy in order to protect his monumentum:40 … τοῦ/τόν τε θεὸς πατάξαι ἀπορίᾳ καὶ / πυρετῷ καὶ ῥίγει καὶ ἐρεθισμῷ / καὶ ἀνεμοφθορίᾳ καὶ παραπλη/ξίᾳ καὶ ἀορασίᾳ καὶ ἐκστάσει δια/νοίας

The text of the quoted biblical passages is as follows:41 πατάξαι σε κύριος ἀπορίᾳ καὶ πυρετῷ καὶ ῥίγει καὶ ἐρεθισμῷ καὶ φόνῳ καὶ ἀνεμοφθορίᾳ καὶ τῇ ὤχρᾳ καὶ καταδιώξονταί σε ἕως ἂν ἀπολέσωσίν σε (Dt 28:22) The Lord will strike you with wasting disease, with fever and inflammation, with scorching heat and drought, with blight and mildew, which will plague you until you perish

35

 Trebilco 2002.  As still in the famous epitaph of the Christian Aberkios, bishop of Hieropolis, in Phrygia: see Mitchell 2008, 304, especially note 7. 37  Trebilco 2002, especially 67–72; see also Ramsay 1895–1897, 514–516; Robert 1960, 398–400. Some examples of Jewish inscriptions with the Eumeneian formula: Ramsay 1895–1897, n. 369; 455, 456, 457; 563 (also in CIJ II, n. 769). 38  Trebilco 2002, 73–83; Robert 1960, 410–413. See Bij de Vaate and van Henten 1996, 26: It is not difficult to find examples of inscriptions which are considered Christian but contain phrases that might be Jewish as well. 39  See, e.g., Strubbe 1997, n. 228. See also CIJ II, nos. 760; 770; Felle 2006, nos. B1098 and B1100; IJO II, n. 213; IK 49, n. 111. For curses on Jewish tombs, see Saar, forthcoming a. 40  Partial transcription from Felle 2006, n. A812, vv. 22ex. – 25. 41  English translation from the Bible New International Version. 36

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πατάξαι σε κύριος παραπληξίᾳ καὶ ἀορασίᾳ καὶ ἐκστάσει διανοίας (Dt 28:28) The Lord will afflict you with madness, blindness and confusion of mind

Although created by Jews for inscriptional use by Jews, this formula that refers to the “maledictions in the Deuteronomy” was similar to the Eumeneian formula in that it was also adopted by non-Jews. Such epigraphic evidence goes to show the extent to which Jews in the Roman cities of the East formed a minority that was influential, respected and culturally well-embedded. More generally, such inscriptions also document how, as late as the third century CE, there still was a common base and a linguistic culture that was shared by different groups and that all of these groups expressed in and through their funerary culture. The existence of such a culture geared towards cultural assimilation is all the more interesting as, during this period, this culture exists in conjunction with the first signs of different religious, monotheistic identities that now begin to emerge and that, intrinsically, aim at separating one group from all others.42 The large epigraphic dossier pertaining to the funerary complex of Beth She’arim in Galilee (Israel) is highly illustrative of the ongoing permeability of cultural boundaries and the continuous appeal of shared epigraphic practices.43 Like other funerary complexes (e.g., Gammarth in Tunisia,44 Venusia in Italy45), the so-called catacombs of Beth She’arim consist mostly of separate and private interconnected tombs and hypogea. The private nature of the tomb complexes at Beth She’arim can best be seen by looking at the inscribed lintels over the tomb gates that display the names of the owners, such as Σατουρνίδου (Figure 4).46 More generally, the significance of the Beth She’arim necropolis rested on it containing the official burial places of the Nesi᾿im (patriarchs), from Rabbi Judah Ha-Nasi (died c. 220) until the end of 42

 Rutgers 1997, 247–249; Lapin 1999, 257–263.  See Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974 for the inscriptions, and, more recently, Weiss 2010 on the funerary complex in general. 44  See now Stern 2011. 45  Colafemmina 2003, 122–129. On the presence of the Jews in Apulia, we have a clear indication in Cod. Theod. 12, 1, 158 (year 398). 46  Weiss 1992, 358–361; cf. Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, 64 n. 150: Σατουρνίου. 43

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Figure 4: Beth She’arim (Israel). Owner’s name inscribed in genitive case over the entrance to a private hypogaeum (Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, n. 150).

the Patriarchy in the first half of the fifth century.47 The presence of tombs containing the earthly remains of the Jewish leadership at the time resulted in Beth She’arim becoming a preferred burial location for Diaspora Jews as well, above all from the Hellenistic East: some inscriptions explicitly refer to the origin of the dead, mentioning cities such as Antiochia, Berytus, Tyrus, Byblos, and Palmyra.48 While all of this indicates that Beth She’arim was very much a Jewish necropolis, the continued impact of Greco-Roman culture on the epigraphic practices of the Jews remains the single most remarkable characteristic of these inscriptional materials. To begin with, the vast majority of the Beth She’arim epitaphs, about 88% of them, 47  The last nasi, Gamaliel VI, died in 429. On the Patriarchy, see now Costa 2013. 48  Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, nos. 136, 137, 141, 199.

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were written in Greek. No less significantly, such inscriptions often contain formulae known from traditional Hellenistic and Roman epigraphic praxis. Thus, we find common acclamations, such as εὐμύρι (may your lot be good),49 or popular sayings, such as the widespread οὐδὶς ἀθάνατος (no one is immortal).50 At the same time, we find also explicit expressions of the belief in future resurrection, as in εὐτυχῶς τῇ ὑμῶν ἀναστάσι (good luck with your resurrection), but again they are phrased in Greek.51 As is the case in the roughly contemporaneous Jewish catacombs in Rome,52 names in Beth She’arim also occur that are typically Jewish, but they do so alongside others that are clearly of Hellenistic or Roman derivations, and there are also examples of sarcophagi decorated with classical themes, the one with Leda and the Swan being the most explicit in terms of iconography.53 Furthermore, there are also metrical epitaphs, even though they are rare, in which we encounter evidence for a fair familiarity with the classical tradition.54 It is only in the later epitaphs (from the fourth century CE onwards) that elements of Hebrew language and lettering appear. Still, Hebrew appears merely in the form of simple acclamations that were added to the texts almost as an afterthought. Up until the end, Greek remained the main inscriptional language in Beth She’arim. To conclude, even in as Jewish a cemetery as Beth She’arim, the inscriptions display numerous features that are neither typically Jewish or Jewish at all. JEWISH EPIGRAPHIC EVIDENCE FROM THE WESTERN DIASPORA IN CONTEXT When we next turn to Jewish inscriptions from the West, we soon realise that Greek is the predominant language there. This is the case, first of all, in Rome, where the percentage of using Greek in epitaphs 49

 E.g. Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, nos. 3, 4, 5.  E.g. Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, n. 193. 51  Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, n. 194. On the Jewish attitude to the resurrection, see Longenecker 2000. 52  Rutgers 1997, 145–157. 53  Konikoff 1986, 9–10; Longenecker 2000, 259–260. 54  Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, nos. 127; 183 (more recently published in Merkelbach and Stauber 2002, nos. 21/01/01; 21/01/02). 50

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dated between the third and fourth century CE reaches over 84% of the total.55 Only very few texts (3%) display the use of Hebrew language or script.56 In the Jewish catacombs at Venusia, dating to the fourth and fifth century CE, the percentage of the Greek inscriptions is very similar to the one attested to in Rome (81%), even when a linguistic drift towards Latin can be detected in these materials.57 This ties into a later development at this site, where one notes a decrease in the use of Greek and a corresponding increase in the use of Hebrew and Latin, starting in the fifth century and continuing into the sixth (Figure 5 below). Despite the inevitable variations, it is remarkable that some of the very same dynamics characterise Jewish epigraphic materials in both the East and the West. This applies not only to funerary inscriptions, as for example in Beth She’arim where among a collection of 220 inscriptions in Greek, a mere twenty-one display elements of Hebrew.58 Very similar linguistic and cultural patterns also emerge in Jewish commemorative inscriptions, such as the one preserved as part of the mosaic pavement of the synagogue of Hammath Tiberias, which commemorates the building of one of the aisles (στοά) of the building (Figure 6):59 Μνήσθῆ εἰς ἀγαθὸν καὶ εἰς / εὐλογίαν· Προφοτοῦρος ὁ μιζό/ τερος ἐποίησεν τὴν στοὰν ταύ/την τοῦ ἁγίου τόπου. εὐλογία αυτῷ / Ἀμήν ‫שלום‬. “May he be remembered for good and for blessing. Profoturos the elder constructed this aisle of the synagogue. Blessing upon him. Amen. Shalom.”

55

 Felle 1999, 669.  Lacerenza 2003, 77. 57  The data are based on the edition of the seventy-five inscriptions pertaining to Venusia published in JIWE I, nos. 42–116. On the languages of the Jews in Venusia, see Leiwo 2003. 58  Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974, nos. 21, 23, 25, 28, 29, 41, 43, 49, 69, 72, 79, 91, 117, 119, 132, 174, 175, 177, 178, 203, 219. On the focused use of specific languages and scripts among Jews (as well as among Christians), see Rutgers 1995, 176–209; Noy 1997; Felle 1999; Leiwo 2003; Felle 2007. 59  Dothan 1983, 60–62, n. 3. English translation from the database of the Inscriptions of Israel/Palestine http://library.brown.edu/cds/projects/iip/viewinscr/ tibe0006 (accessed 20 November 2020). 56

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Figure 5: Use of different writings in Jewish inscriptions of Venusia (percentage values on single timespan).

Figure 6: Hammath Tiberias (Israel), synagogue. Mosaic inscription in the floor. 4th–5th cent. CE (from https://holyland-pictures.com/category/ sea-of-galilee/hamat-tiberias/).

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Whereas the text of this inscription is entirely in Greek, it also contains two Hebrew acclamations at the very end. The first one, amen, has been inscribed in Greek, while the second, shalom, has been inscribed using the Hebrew script. However short such additions are, it is evident that the rendering of even a single word in Hebrew script (or deriving from the Hebrew language) immediately conveys a different kind of cultural identity, even and perhaps especially to those who were unable to decipher inscriptions that contained such Hebrew phraseology. The marking of religious identity, which, as already observed, increases markedly on late antique epitaphs, is not something expressed by language alone. Not coincidentally, there also is an increase in the use of images that complemented and enhanced the written words of the inscriptions. These included the shofar, the etrog, the lulav and (above all) the menorah,60 which enjoyed great popularity among the Jews in Late Antiquity (Figure 7). As such, these symbols are comparable to Chi/Rho monograms and different kinds of crosses that one encounters in contemporaneous epitaphs used by Christians. It could be argued that all of these emblems were more powerful than the accompanying textual formulae, simply because they showed straight away a person’s religious identity in ways that could be understood by all, including those who were illiterate. A sharp increase in the use of these images and signs, which one could consider as ideograms, is attested from the fourth century onwards and continues down towards the very end of antiquity. This increase occurs practically everywhere, particularly at Beth She’arim, as well as in Rome. As for the epigraphic dossier of Venusia, we see similar patterns. While only few of the inscriptions dated between the end of the fourth century and the beginning of the fifth century contain religious imagery (12,5%, see Figure 8), there is once again evidence for a progressive increase in the occurrence of these symbols as time goes by. Four of the eight inscriptions ascribable to the last phase of the catacombs, that is, the sixth century CE, display renderings of the menorah.

60

 Lapin 1999, 260; 263: “The explicit marking of inscriptions as Jewish increases in Late Antiquity.”

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Figure 7: Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano (Terme di Diocleziano). Epitaph of Pomponios, archon of the synagogue of Calcarenses, found in the Jewish catacomb of Monteverde (JIWE II, 165; CII I 384) (photo by the author).

Figure 8: Use of images in Jewish inscriptions of Venusia (percentage values on total of single timespan).

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On a more general note, the generic diffusion of religious markers such as the ones we just discussed serves as a reliable indicator that confirms how, during Late Antiquity, religion came to play an ever more important role in the definition of a person’s identity. All of these markings—and, in the case of Judaism, even the script itself— are meant as explicit signals designed to openly display a person’s religious identity. From now on, for Jews or even for Christians, it was no longer the city or the state, but rather religious identity as expressed by shared social practices that defined a person or group’s identity and sense of belonging. Coded language and visual imagery thus served to assert identity in ways that were perhaps fully comprehensible only by those who shared the same religious identity. OVERARCHING PATTERNS Like early Christian inscriptions, Jewish epigraphic data are most profuse during the fourth century CE, even though there always were significantly fewer Jewish inscriptions than Christian ones. One factor that may help explain this profusion of Jewish inscriptions is that during the fourth century there was a noted increase in the power of attraction of Judaism.61 Whereas in the past, such attraction was felt by pagans only, it was now experienced also by Christians,62 as attested repeatedly and with varying degrees of apprehension and reprimand, for example in the writings of Ambrose of Milan in the West63 and, more systematically, in those of John Chrysostom in the East.64 Late Roman law from the end of the fourth century, and even more so during in the fifth century, also attests to the continued popularity of Judaism, as evidenced by imperial laws placing severe limitations on Jewish proselytism, going as far as to forbid it explicitly. We should not be tempted to think that such fourth century developments point in any way in the direction of a level playing field. In the period stretching from Constantine’s tolerance act in 313 and the 61

 Wilken 1983, 51–54.  Wilken 1983, 66–94. 63  Cf. Ambrosius, Epist. 40.8. See, e.g., Cracco Ruggini 1977; Felle 1997 (esp. 215, and note 34). 64  Wilken 1983. 62

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Edict of Thessaloniki in 380, Christianity and the idea of romanitas became interchangeable to such an extent that after 380, orthodox Christianity became the religion of the Roman Empire. This means that from this period onwards, Judaism and Christianity no longer competed on a level of parity. Thus, this period marks the beginning of a progressive introversion on the part of Jewish communities—a period that continues into the time of the Byzantine Empire and that was certainly enhanced by the very restrictive laws issued by Justinian.65 Other factors also contributed to Judaism becoming more selfreferential in the period from the fifth to the seventh century CE. These included the disappearance of the Palestinian Patriarchate, the rise of rabbinic Judaism, the difficulty (if not the impossibility) for Jewish communities to grow numerically and the growing emphasis on the “ethnic” nature of Judaism. The importance of this latter development follows from the use of words like natio, gens, populus or ethnos,66 not only in legal texts but also in some Jewish inscriptions. As an example, the epitaph of the Christian convert Petrus of Grado states that he was “the only one of his race who deserved to reach the grace of Christ” (solusque ex gente sua / ad Xp(ist)i meruit / gratiam perveni/re).67 The increasingly introverted character of Jewish inscriptional remains contrasts markedly with the ways in which a state-sponsored Christianity could now manifest itself visually. From the fourth century onwards, Christian texts and symbols could be found wherever one turned. They were to be found not only on religious buildings, but on palaces and fortresses (Figure 9), as well as on bridges, alongside roads and in private houses, not to mention in numerous cemeteries.68 All of this was very different from what was now taking place in Jewish circles, as testified, for example, by the inscriptions that survive in the synagogues of Hammath Tiberias and Sepphoris. These inscriptions were increasingly composed in Hebrew and thus were meant to address insiders rather than the later Roman world at large.69 65

 Novellae 37 (dating to 535), 45 (537), 131 (545) 146 (553).  Respectively: Paul. Sent. 5, 22, 4; Cod. Theod. 16, 8, 24; Cod. Theod. 16, 8, 14; Iul., Ep. 25: see Gebbia 2000, 155. 67  CIJ I, 643a; JIWE I, 8. See also Felle 1997, 213–215. 68  E.g. Felle 2015, 363–367, nos. 21–25. 69  See respectively, Dothan 1983; Weiss 2005. 66

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Figure 9: Qasr ibn Wardan (Syria). Great Palace, southern gate, lintel. Year 564 CE (from Prentice 1922, n. 908).

To further illustrate said developments, let us return one last time to late antique Jewish inscriptional materials from Italy. As pointed out before, the percentage of Jewish epitaphs from Venusia dating to the late fourth and beginning of the fifth century CE that has been composed in Greek is high at 81%. This is particularly remarkable because Greek was not a common inscriptional language in Southern Italy at this point in time. Such a general absence of Greek may help explain why in the Jewish inscriptions from Venusia Latin names are so prevalent, namely 60% (Figure 10): in the end and despite the use of Greek, this may have been a Latin-oriented community from the very start. Over the course of the fifth century, the pattern we have just discussed began to change perceivably. Among the twenty-seven epitaphs dating to the fifth century (Figure 5), thirteen are in Greek (48%), seven in Greek and Hebrew (26%), five display the use of Hebrew script only (18%) and, lastly, there is one in Hebrew and Latin and one in Latin only. Next to the appearance of Latin names, which we saw are characteristic of this corpus (Figure 10), Jewish names also start to increase at this stage. When we next move on to the nineteen inscriptions that date to the end of the fifth and the beginning of the sixth century (Figure 5), we notice a further marked change in the distribution of the language and writing system (script) used. Five texts are written wholly in Greek, one is a combination of Greek and Hebrew, four have been wholly composed in Hebrew, four are in Latin and Hebrew, and five are in Latin only. Thus, the use of Greek is seriously reduced, compared with what

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31

Figure 10: Onomastic data of the Jewish inscriptions of Venusia (percentage values on single timespan).

was previously common on Jewish inscriptional materials from Venusia (26%, the same percentage of the absolute use of Latin). Such a reduction goes hand in hand with an increase in the use of Hebrew, which is often employed in combination with Latin (47%). The onomastic data correspond neatly to this change in linguistic patterns (Figure 10): henceforth, Greek names are only sporadically used, while Latin and Jewish names occur in 67% of the inscriptions. As for the last, that is, the chronologically most recent set of ancient inscriptions set up by the Jews of Venusia, namely eight inscriptions that can be dated to the sixth century CE, these no longer display the use of Greek. One text has been written in Hebrew entirely, four are in Latin combined with Hebrew and three are in Latin only. It is remarkable that in these inscriptions, pertaining to the latest period that the Venusia catacombs were in use, the Hebrew language and script no longer appears only as single-worded acclamations that were placed at the beginning or at the end of the texts. The texts are now really and fully bilingual (Hebrew and Latin). Not surprisingly, we encounter both Latin and Hebrew names in the same texts (Figure 5).

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CONCLUSIONS Jewish inscriptions from the ancient world provide us with vital evidence to study how Jewish communities moved back and forth continuously between cultural integration and societal segregation.70 Whereas in Hellenistic times and in the early Roman Empire, appropriation and interaction set the tone, a distinguished and easily recognisable sense of self seems to become the guiding principle in Jewish epigraphic materials at the same time that the Christianization of the Roman Empire was gaining traction. Such a phenomenon can best be seen on Jewish inscriptional materials from Southern Italy: here, Jews increasingly used their own names, their own language, and their own script (Figure 11) to express an identity that was immediately recognisable as Jewish by all, even when its true meaning was only accessible to other Jews.71 Thus, in Venusia Jewish epigraphy comes full circle. It marks the end of an era where Jewish inscriptional practice was often indistinguishable from non-Jewish epigraphic habits. This phenomenon could be better understood by seeing it against the background of new epigraphic habits that now emerge: a deep transformation that occurred during the so-called “Dark Ages”—one whereby the raison d’être of inscriptions no longer depended exclusively on them being exposed or even on them being decipherable.72

70

 Schwartz 2003, 209–210.  See in this volume the contribution by my friend and colleague Linda Safran about the inscriptions by Jews in medieval Apulia. 72  On the notion of non-displayed or non-exposed writing in the funerary sphere, see Felle 2017b, 599–604. 71

RELIGIOUS IDENTITY IN THE FUNERARY INSCRIPTIONS

Figure 11: Venosa, Archaeological Museum. Epitaph in Hebrew of Samuel ben Abia, with final menorah. Year 808 CE (from Colafemmina 1987, Figure 2).

33

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD IN MEDIEVAL APULIA AND BASILICATA LINDA SAFRAN INTRODUCTION A wide range of textual sources attests to the presence of Jews in the adjacent South Italian provinces of Apulia and Basilicata in the Middle Ages.1 These sources include Sefer Yosippon, a reworking of Josephus probably composed in Basilicata and dated to the early tenth century;2 the exceptional family chronicle known as Sefer Yuḥasin or Megillat Aḥima῾az, written in 1054 in Capua to record the glorious deeds of Aḥima῾az’s ancestors in Oria beginning in the eighth century;3 and travellers’ accounts, most notably that of Benjamin of Tudela, en route from Spain to Israel around 1165. Benjamin reports in his Sefer ha-Massa’ot that there were 200 Jewish households in Trani, 300 at Taranto and 10 at Brindisi. Bari had been destroyed in 1156, and he found no Jews (or Christians) living there, but there were 500 households in Otranto,4 from which, surprisingly, no medieval tombstones survive (Figure 1, black dots). Evidence for Jews owning property and doing business in Southern Italy is preserved in contracts, charters and wills from throughout the Middle Ages.5 Numerous piyyutim and midrashim were composed in the region,6 and the Jewish scholars Isaiah the Elder and his grandson Isaiah the Younger lived in Trani in the thirteenth and fourteenth century, respectively, and produced a sizable number of legal and 1  Jews are attested in Apulia and Basilicata in antiquity and Late Antiquity as well, but I am concerned here only with the period from the seventh century CE onward. 2  Dönitz 2013, with earlier bibliography. 3  Bonfil 2009; Colafemmina 2001. 4  Colafemmina 1975b; Benjamin 1995, 101–116. 5  E.g., Trinchera 1865, 30, 36; Colafemmina, Corsi and Dibenedetto 1981; Colafemmina 1990; Colafemmina 1991; Colafemmina 2005; von Falkenhausen 2012b, 286–287; Mascolo and Nardella 2014. 6  Hollender 1994; Geula 2012.

36

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Figure 1: Map of Southern Italy showing provinces of Apulia and Basilicata. Black dots = sites referenced in Megillat Aḥima῾az or visited by Benjamin of Tudela; red = known cemeteries; white = medieval tombstones (map: author, based on GoogleMaps).

exegetical works.7 In addition, Jews living outside the region referred to their South Italian coreligionists,8 and sometimes non-Jews had occasion to do so as well.9 From these written sources, it is clear that Jews lived and died in Apulia and Basilicata for a millennium at least, from Roman times until their final expulsion under the Spanish rulers in 1541.10 We also find their traces in urban topography—streets named Via della Sinagoga, Vicolo degli Ebrei and the like—and in two extant medieval synagogues in Trani,11 four synagogue inscriptions,12 and a newly 7

 Wertheimer 1967; Wertheimer 1978; Ta-Shma 2007a; Ta-Shma 2007b.  Goitein 1971; Colafemmina 1999; Bonfil 1996. 9  Patlagean 1989; von Falkenhausen 2012a, 886. 10  In addition to the sources cited in the previous notes, see Ferorelli 1966; Lelli 2012; Safran 2014. 11  Colafemmina and Gramegna 2009; Gramegna 2014. 12  Safran 2014, database nos. 9, 50, 56, 147; M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, 261–263. Both of these sources contain earlier bibliography. 8

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REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

discovered mikveh in Lecce.13 In fact, it is material culture rather than textual sources that provides the most evidence for the medieval Jewish dead, in the form of graves and epitaphs. In The Medieval Salento: Art and Identity in Southern Italy, I collected and contextualized the medieval Jewish epitaphs from Apulia, including Bari, Brindisi, Oria, Taranto and Trani,14 but it is now possible to expand this corpus to neighbouring Basilicata thanks to a 2014 exhibition and catalogue produced in memory of Cesare Colafemmina, the premier scholar of South Italian Jewry, who died in 2012.15 The material from Basilicata included in the present article is limited to the medieval selection made for that exhibition—stones from Lavello, Matera and Venosa—because there is still no complete catalogue of medieval tombstones from Venosa, the richest site. In what follows, I present information about medieval Jewish cemeteries in Southern Italy before analysing the tombstones, first as material and decorated objects and then as verbal bearers of social and cultural meaning. I conclude with a few questions and suggestions for further research. CEMETERIES

AT

TARANTO, ORIA, BRINDISI, BARI, TRANI VENOSA

AND

There must have been a sizable medieval graveyard, or several, to serve the large Jewish community at Otranto, but so far no traces have been found. If we move northward in Apulia before considering Basilicata (Figure 1, red dots), the first evidence for a Jewish cemetery comes from Taranto. Many of its Jewish tombstones were excavated in the late nineteenth century in an area called Montedoro, east of the old walled city.16 Among the stones were some late antique oil lamps, including one with a menorah in relief and several with a Christogram.17 Therefore, until the seventh century, which is the latest possible date for such lamps, the Jewish and Christian tombs 13

 Palazzo Taurino.  Safran 2014. 15  Mascolo 2014. 16  D’Angela 1988, 114, 115 n. 15. 17  Jurlaro 1967, 61 and pl. IV.1; D’Angela 1994, 61 and pl. IV.1; C. S. Fioriello in Mascolo 2014, I.3. 14

38

L. SAFRAN

may have been contiguous.18 Most of the Jewish tombstones from Taranto are bilingual, Hebrew and Latin, as discussed below. Not far inland from Taranto, Oria was the home of Aḥima῾az’s ancestors, one of whom, Shefatiah, allegedly released his hometown’s Jews from Byzantine imperial orders of forced conversion by healing the emperor’s daughter.19 Regardless of the veracity of this ninthcentury event, the Jews of Oria were all dispersed after Arab raiders sacked the town in 925.20 Before that, they lived inside the walled town, in an area still known as the “quartiere ebraico” (Jewish quarter) and entered via the Porta degli Ebrei (Gate of the Jews). From about the eighth century to the early tenth, they buried their dead in a large cemetery on a hill, the Colle degli Impisi, about 500 meters to the west.21 It had been used as a cemetery by the ancient Messapians, going back several centuries BCE, and some of their monumental chamber tombs survive. The Jews reused many of the large stones as covers for their pit graves. This cemetery was rediscovered in 1978, but the evidence for its use by Jews is limited to a single fragmentary epitaph in Hebrew found in the largest tomb.22 In Brindisi, three Jewish tombstones were found together in a vineyard outside the city walls, about one meter below the nineteenthcentury ground level.23 There is no information available about the form or extent of the cemetery. According to a midrashic source, Jews were brought to Bari by Titus after the destruction of the Temple.24 There were at least two early medieval Jewish burial areas, both south of the medieval city. The first occupied the site of an earlier Roman graveyard and consisted of thirteen tombs. These were found intact in 1922, all containing one or two skeletons and no traces of coffins or grave goods.25 The bodies were consistently oriented with the head to the west, 18

 D’Angela 1994.  Bonfil 2009, 76–80, 260–270. 20  Another soon-to-be-famous local, Shabbetai Donnolo, was taken prisoner on that occasion, as he recorded in his Sefer Hakhmoni. The sack of Oria was also recorded in Christian and Muslim sources. See, e.g., Bonfil 2009, 67. 21  Colafemmina 2012, fig. 10 (aerial view). 22  Ibid., 79–81, reprints Colafemmina 1980. 23  Lacerenza 2014, 197. 24  Colafemmina 1988b, 513. 25  Ibid. 19

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

39

which by the eleventh century was also the regular orientation for Christian graves. A two-meter-long tomb containing two skeletons was dismantled and later recomposed in the form seen in Figure 2; the skulls were at the end with the decorated headstone. What was misidentified by its original discoverer as a frescoed “stylized branch” (ramo stilizzato) is clearly an incised, rubricated menorah with seven branches.26

Figure 2: Bari, tomb for two skeletons with incised, rubricated menorah at head of the deceased, tufa, eighth–ninth century. Bari, Castello Svevo (photo: Linda Safran).

26

 Ibid., 516–517; M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, II.54 (p. 255).

40

L. SAFRAN

In 1923, a small hypogeum was discovered nearby, a five- or sixmeter-long rectangular space with a barrel vault. There were arcosolia—shallow body-length niches with an arched top—at the end and on the sides, plus approximately twenty floor graves. Two intact and three broken tombstones were found here, but presumably they had fallen into the hypogeum after marking burials in the aboveground cemetery. Unfortunately, the space was destroyed immediately, and only a plan, a section and one photograph survive.27 Such arcosolium tombs were also used for privileged Christian graves in built and rock-cut churches, as well as underground tombs and cemeteries,28 but Jewish funerary arcosolia rarely have figural decoration, and the ones in the Bari hypogeum had no ornament at all. In addition, medieval Christian tombs were either inside or close to a church, whereas medieval Jewish graves in Southern Italy were always far from the synagogues. In 1988, another Jewish cemetery was identified south of Bari, in the suburb of Carbonara. There were at least twenty-one pit graves dug among large pagan tombs of the fifth to third century BCE. The later graves were quite elongated (averaging 1.8 by 0.4 m), rounded at the head and tapered at the feet.29 As at Oria, they were oriented east–west. The sole published cover slab from the site has a menorah and a few Latin letters, so it probably dates to the seventh or eighth century.30 The menorah was found face-down over the head of the decedent, which suggests that it was a private and not a public statement of faith, akin to the one in the Bari tomb illustrated in Figure 2. Finally, there is documentary evidence for two additional Jewish cemeteries near Bari in the late Middle Ages. After the expulsion of the Jews in 1510 by King Ferdinand, the Christian proprietors were supposed to maintain the cemeteries, respect the tombs and then restore the property to the Jews if they should return. A few of them did go back, and they used the cemetery just outside the city walls until their final expulsion from all of Southern Italy in 1541.31 27

 D’Angela 1994; Colafemmina 1988b, 518; photo in Mascolo 2014, 53.  See, e.g., Falla Castelfranchi 1990; Safran 2014, 103 and database nos. 32.J, 54.A, 54.st. 29  Lavermicocca 1988. 30  Lavermicocca 1988; M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, II.54 (p. 252). 31  Colafemmina 2012, 78. 28

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

41

Trani’s five extant tombstones date to the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries. The graveyard from which they probably came had been in use since ancient times; it is located outside the medieval city, across the port from the Jewish quarter, which still preserves two of its four medieval synagogues. The cemetery was abandoned in 1294, when 310 Jews were forced to convert to Christianity and the property was granted to the Dominicans.32 Only the earliest of the grave markers was found in this location, however; the findspots of the other stones are unknown and presumably could have come from other cemeteries. The locations of Jewish cemeteries in Basilicata are largely unknown because almost all of the tombstones from there were found out of context. The most famous case is Venosa, where many of them were reused to construct the never-completed church dedicated to the Most Holy Trinity, begun in the late eleventh century. The inscriptions of some of these stones are still visible, embedded in the walls of the church. The medieval Jewish cemetery at Venosa is likely to have been in and around the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre to the south of the church because the white marble used for three epitaphs was almost certainly taken from that building (Figure 3).33 Given the likelihood that Christians were buried near the church that preceded the unfinished one, the Jewish and Christian open-air cemeteries may have been contiguous, as their catacombs were. FORMAL

AND

DECORATIVE FEATURES OF SOUTH ITALIAN JEWISH TOMBSTONES

Having surveyed the limited evidence for medieval Jewish cemeteries in Apulia and Basilicata, I turn now to the epitaphs that were made to commemorate the Jewish dead (Figure 1, white dots). Fortunately, these are better preserved than their settings, even if they still constitute a very small data set. I consider here only tombstones that are likely to date between the seventh and fifteenth centuries. Almost all of the Jewish grave markers are made of local limestone; the exceptions are in Venosa, where two sandstone markers supplement the three marble ones just mentioned. Most take the form of 32

 C. Colafemmina in Mascolo 2014, II.61.  Lacerenza 2014, 192; II.7–8.

33

42

L. SAFRAN

Figure 3: Venosa, tombstone of Avigail bat Ḥeṣron, marble, 808/9. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, s.n. (photo: Mauro Perani).

vertical stelae, usually carved on the two main faces and sometimes on the top and sides as well. Some leave an uninscribed, undecorated space at the bottom to be inserted into the ground at the head of the deceased (Figures 3–4a, b). Indeed, one tombstone in Bari states specifically where it was placed: “This monument was erected at the head of” the departed, one Moses son of Elijah, thus echoing in words the menorah-incised headstone at Bari (Figure 2).34 Other stones were cover slabs, for sealing the grave; these were placed horizontally rather than upright.35 At Trani, however, the late medieval tombstones are very different from others in the region: they are long, body-size stones, rounded or faceted on the top (Figure 5). I am not aware of comparable forms 34

 Safran 2014, database no. 12.B; M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, II.57.  See note 30 above for the cover stone from Carbonara (Bari).

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REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

a Figure 4: Oria, tombstone of Hannah, limestone, seventh–eighth century; (a) inscription; (b) shofar, menorah. Oria, Biblioteca “De Pace–Lombardi,” no. 2046 (photos: [a] from Mascolo 2014, 244; [b] Linda Safran).

Figure 5: Trani, tombstone of Adoniyah son of Baruch, limestone, 1290/91. Trani, Sinagoga Scola Grande, Sezione Ebraica del Museo Diocesano (courtesy Arcidiocesi di Trani; photo: Mauro Perani).

43

b

44

L. SAFRAN

in Europe, but they resemble contemporary Jewish tombstones from the Eghegis cemetery in Armenia, all dated between 1266 and 1346/47.36 The Armenian examples range in length from 65 to 178 cm, so they were presumably carved or purchased to fit the deceased; smaller stones are often found alongside larger ones and probably represent children and parents. The Trani examples, by contrast, are much more consistent in size, measuring between 140 and 210 cm. Figure 6 shows the heights of all the well-preserved Italian tombstones; clearly, the Trani markers were for adults, even though none of them provides the age of the decedent.37 Of the well-preserved upright stelae

Figure 6: Height of well-preserved medieval tombstones (graph: Linda Safran). 36  Amit and Stone 2002; Stone and Amit 2006; in the latter (100), the latest tombstone is dated 1346/47. The dates of these seventy or so Armenian tombstones are according to the ‘document’ reckoning (the Seleucid cycle). 37  On this and the following graphs, a vertical line separates the Apulian sites on the left from those in Basilicata on the right to facilitate geographical comparisons. Data are drawn from Safran 2014 and Mascolo 2014 (as well as Colafemmina 2012, 92, for one lost inscription from Oria).

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

45

everywhere except Trani, those in Apulia tend to be smaller than the ones in Basilicata, where many more stones exceed 50 cm in height. The thickness of the extant stones is shown in Figure 7. Almost all of the free-standing Bari and Venosa examples are on the thin side, but that does not indicate whether they were headstones or cover stones. Of course, it is impossible to assess depth when the stone has been reused in a church wall, sidewalk, or staircase, which is the fate of sixteen examples in Venosa and Matera.38 There is one significant difference between the Jewish tombstones in the two provinces: the great majority of Apulian stones have a sunken inscription field, which yields a neatly framed text (Figures 4a, 8). The sunken field was already used on fourth- and fifth-century stones in Otranto and Taranto, and medieval Christian

Figure 7: Maximum thickness of well-preserved medieval tombstones (graph: Linda Safran).

38

 Lacerenza 2014, II.10–12, II.14–17, II.19–20, II.25–27, II.29, II.31–33.

46

L. SAFRAN

Figure 8: Brindisi, tombstone of Leah bat Yafeh Mazal, limestone, 832/33. Brindisi, Museo Archeologico Provinciale “F. Ribezzo,” no. 1318 (courtesy Museo Archeologico “F. Ribezzo” di Brindisi; photo: Linda Safran).

tombstones in the province also favour the framed format.39 Only one stone in Basilicata has even a slightly raised frame, but it is not neatly cut and perpendicular to the writing surface like the Apulian examples.40 In Apulia, then, there was a long tradition of sunken or framed epitaphs unrelated to faith, but why this formal preference 39

 E.g., Safran 2014, database nos. 104, 156.A.  Lacerenza 2014, II.28.

40

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

47

was not shared by patrons in the neighbouring province is unclear. Perhaps there were a larger number of ancient examples of framed inscriptions in Apulia; it has a much longer coastline than Basilicata and therefore more Roman cities and monumental texts. Nontextual imagery on the tombstones reveals further differences between the two provinces. If they are decorated at all, the stones in Basilicata bear simple incised menorahs, usually with square bases and straight arms; they resemble very closely the kinds of menorahs painted and etched in the fifth- or sixth-century Venosa catacombs. In Figure 9, which marks the grave of two young brothers in Lavello, the menorahs are upside-down in relation to the text.41

Figure 9: Lavello, tombstone of Avraham and Netan’el, limestone, ninth century. Lavello, Palazzo Comunale, Antiquarium (photo: from Colafemmina 1986, courtesy Vetera Christianorum). 41

 Lacerenza 2014, II.30.

48

L. SAFRAN

The Apulian tombstones tend to have a greater quantity of ornament, and it is also more varied. Menorahs have bases with three or more legs that may be curved, straight or sharply angled; the arms also vary in number, between five and nine (Figures 3, 4b, 8, 9).42 There may also be shofars, usually in pairs, with different degrees of stylization. A seventh- or eighth-century cippus from Oria commemorates in Hebrew (one side) and Latin (top) a woman named Hannah; the three other sides depict two shofars and a menorah in relief (Figure 4b).43 This is the only extant example of such a labour-intensive technique being employed for a Jewish gravestone, but relief sculpture is not uncommon among contemporary Christian markers in Southern Italy.44 A monumental tombstone (1.10 m) for a seventeen-year-old girl from Brindisi had at least one menorah incised on the front frame, a shofar on the right side and something mysterious on the left side (Figure 8).45 It is a curved object covered with small concentric circles, so different from the shofar on the opposite side and from all other examples of shofars that it seems unlikely to represent one, even though they are usually shown in pairs. Concentric circles also decorate the raised frame of an epitaph at Bari; there are thirteen of them, drawn with a compass and highlighted in red.46 A tombstone from Taranto published in 1901 but now lost apparently had a six-pointed star,47 and one from Trani has a hard-tosee shield in the space to the left of the sunken inscription field (Figure 5).48 While this is surely an expression of social status desired rather than formal status obtained, nothing prevented Jews in Italy and elsewhere from adopting the heraldic habit common among their gentile 42  Five branches: a stone from Bari, M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, II.57; nine: from Brindisi, Lacerenza 2014, II.51 (misdated to fourth century); Safran 2014, 108 and database no. 18. 43  Safran 2014, 51, database no. 81; Lacerenza 2014, 243–246. The most recent publication of this important tombstone proposes the date 673: Perani 2014. 44  E.g., Safran 2014, database nos. 40, 79.A–B, 110, 156. 45  Ibid., 108, 137, database no. 16; Lacerenza 2014, II.50. 46  Safran 2014, database no. 13; M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, II.58. Another stone decorated with circles is described in JIWE I, 194. 47  Safran 2014, database no. 121; dated to sixth–seventh century in Colafemmina 1980, 201. 48  Colafemmina and Gramegna 2009, 192–193; Safran 2014, database no. 149; and C. Colafemmina in Mascolo 2014, II.61.

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

49

neighbours.49 In sum, the medieval Apulian grave markers display much more ornamentation than those in Basilicata, but the repertory is still restrained in comparison with earlier Jewish tombstones from outside Southern Italy (as well as Jewish catacomb decoration within Italy), which, in addition to menorahs and shofars, could also include Torah arks, lulavs, etrogs, incense shovels and birds (Figure 10).

Figure 10: Zoar, tombstone of Hannah bat Ha[…]l, sandstone, 438. Jerusalem, Israel Museum, no. 90.30.68; gift of Max Ratner, Cleveland, to American Friends of the Israel Museum (photo: Linda Safran). 49

 Safran 2014, 97–100.

50

L. SAFRAN

LANGUAGES

AND

DATING

Before examining their social and religious content, we need to consider what the Jewish epitaphs reveal about local languages and methods of dating. Compared with late antique predecessors in the region, the medieval tombstones contain much more Hebrew. Greek disappears, but Latin that is clearly late antique/early medieval (given its morphological and syntactical features) is often included with Hebrew in epitaphs from Taranto. These bilingual tombstones are thought to be early, usually dated to the seventh or eighth century, whereas epitaphs that exclusively use Hebrew have all been assigned to the ninth century based on a series of firmly dated examples. One stone from Taranto, transcribed in 1902 but since lost, was identified as Aramaic: it said ‫( קובר יוסף בר יוסף‬Tomb of Joseph son of Joseph). Because of the absence of Greek or Latin, it too may belong to the ninth century.50 The choice of language seems odd at first, but two of the fourteen medieval Jewish tombstones in Armenia are inscribed in Aramaic.51 None of the bilingual tombstones bears a date, and, with the exception of the late group from Trani, only one of the Hebrew tombstones in Apulia can be precisely dated (Figures 8, 11): recording this kind of information was evidently considered necessary only from the late thirteenth century on. This contrasts strongly with the evidence from Basilicata, where fully two-thirds of the extant epitaphs indicate the year in which the commemorated individual passed away (Figures 3, 11). The paucity of dated stones in Italy after the early ninth century accords with larger cultural and linguistic patterns in the Byzantine world (the Byzantines ruled mainland Southern Italy from about 870 to 1070), where a recent study found no tombstones at all that could be dated between the end of the eighth century and 1204.52 The Trani tombstones are all dated according to years elapsed since Creation, the usual Jewish formula in medieval times (e.g., Figure 5), but the method used on the one dated Apulian tombstone and six50  Kover should probably be read as kiver, with a yod instead of a vav. JIWE I, no. 193. 51  Amit and Stone 2002, 72. 52  Davies 2013, 213.

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

51

Figure 11: Year of death on medieval tombstones inscribed entirely in Hebrew (graph: Linda Safran).

teen from Basilicata is unique among all medieval communities: it counts years since the destruction of the Temple, understood by medieval Jews to have occurred in 68 or 69 rather than 70 CE. The only other Jewish community that used the Temple’s destruction as the reference point for the year of death was at Zoar, on the eastern shore of the Dead Sea, between the fourth and the early sixth century CE (Figure 10).53 Those tombstones, all in Aramaic, were the first Jewish ones to include any dating information at all; the one illustrated here was erected 369 years after the destruction of the Temple, or 438 CE.54 Three stones in Venosa supplement this formula with the more usual one of years since Creation.55 Only three of the ninthcentury tombstones indicate the month of death, whereas all of the ones at Trani provide that detail. Christian epitaphs in Apulia regularly state not only the year of death—since Creation if in Greek, 53  Naccach 1989 presents an isolated find, an epitaph from Baalbek (Lebanon), that also uses this method (768 years post-destruction, or 837 CE). 54  Misgav 2006, esp. 35–39. 55  Lacerenza 2014, II.11, II.15, II.25.

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since the Incarnation of Christ if in Latin—but also such details as the month, day, hour and indiction.56 In this they stand in a long tradition attested particularly in Rome and possibly fuelled by the wish to record a person’s birth into eternal life.57 In Southern Italy, the destruction of the Temple as a basis for dating was not limited to tombstones; a midrashic compilation copied in Otranto in 1072/73 used the same point of reference.58 It is tempting to connect this unusual method with a desire to reinforce the collective memory of the Jewish communities who traced their origin to forced resettlement by the Temple’s Roman destroyers—but in that case, we would expect inscriptions in Rome to use the Temple formula, too. The dated tombstones all predate the Byzantine reconquest of Southern Italy in the third quarter of the ninth century, so an influx of Romaniote Jews, which “owed a great deal to the rites of the land of Israel,”59 is not the explanation. There were, however, Greek-speaking Romaniote Jews in parts of the region much earlier, and perhaps they maintained special ties to the Land of Israel that can no longer be traced. In any case, reference to the Temple does not look only backward; it also implies expectations for the messianic future, when the House of God will be rebuilt. At least a dozen Basilicata tombstones follow the mention of the Temple with the invocation ‫שיבנה בימינו )ובימי כל ישראל( אמן‬, “may it be rebuilt in our days (and in the days of all of Israel). Amen.”60 The emphatic inclusion of menorahs and shofars, implements used in the Temple, reinforces this longing for the past and the future of the diasporic children of Israel (Figures 3–4, 8–9).61 56  Safran 2014, 49. The late antique tombstones from Zoar also feature multiple dating elements. 57  Shaw 1996. 58  Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, MS Vat. ebr. 31, produced 1005 years since the destruction of the Temple. Stern 2001, 88 n. 324. For the manuscript, Mancuso 2009, 419–420. 59  Reif 2002, 100. At least one emissary from Israel is reported to have visited Venosa in the ninth century: Bonfil 2009, 54, 81–83, 256–257. 60  Lacerenza 2014, II.7–9, II.11–13, II.16–19, II.29, II.31 and possibly II.25– 26, II.32. 61  Wilfand 2009 analyses the late antique tombstones from Zoar, but her remarks seem equally appropriate for the medieval Italian markers that share their method of dating.

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

LIFE-SPAN, KINSHIP, GENDER

AND

53

STATUS

South Italian tombstones for Christians never give the age of the deceased. This is typical of the medieval Greek-speaking world, not only in epigraphy but also in documentary sources. Medieval Latin tombstones are more likely to report the age of death, but the only such examples in Apulia and Basilicata are Jewish (bilingual) ones. Indeed, the age at death is very often provided in Jewish epitaphs, but only up to the ninth century; it does not appear on any of the late stones from Trani. This was a Greco-Roman practice Jews had copied from the non-Jewish environment.62 Figure 12a–b shows the life-spans of all the males and females who are legibly commemorated in both provinces. There are more dates given for men than for women because men are overrepresented in the tombstones, but in this small sampling the number of women is not negligible (Figures 3–4, 8), and in Apulia the numbers are almost equal. Several young children are commemorated,63 but no infants; infant mortality was ubiquitous, and it was not commemorated on medieval Christian tombstones either.64 Twenty percent of these individuals lived to the age of fifty or over, which was a long life in the Middle Ages.65 The prevalence of age-rounding—ages ending in zero—is worth noting (Figures 12a–b). These seven cases represent almost sixteen percent of the reported ages, which in a larger sampling would be statistically unlikely. Nevertheless, the same phenomenon occurs regularly in Byzantine inscriptions and is a standard feature in earlier Greco-Roman epigraphy.66 This rounding probably attests to the difficulty of keeping precise track of age beyond childhood, or, possibly, limited levels of literacy. The specificity of two young children’s ages at death—three years, seven months and seven years, seven months67— is very touching; their parents transparently treasured them.68 62

 Rutgers 1995, 101–107.  Children’s ages are not given in medieval Ashkenazi tombstones. Baumgarten 2004, 235 n. 76. 64  Several infants were, however, commemorated in the fifth–sixth-century Venosa catacombs. JIWE I, no. 78, age five months; no. 85, ages eleven and nineteen months. 65  Statistics and bibliography in Safran 2014, 107–108; see also Shahar 1997. 66  Davies 2013, 232–236; Rutgers 1995, 119–126. 67  Lacerenza 2014, II.9, II.7, respectively. 68  Talbot 2009. 63

54

L. SAFRAN

Figure 12a. Age at death on tombstones, all languages, males (graph: Linda Safran). Ages in Apulia 7, 14, 16, 40, 40, 42, 54, 60, 68; in Basilicata 3, 3, 4, 6, 7 yrs. 7 mos., 13?, 18, 25, 30, 35, 37, 42, 48, 50, 60, 63, 74.

Figure 12b. Age at death on tombstones, all languages, females (graph: Linda Safran). Ages in Apulia 6, 17, 27 or 29, 56; in Basilicata 3 yrs. 7 mos., 6, 21, 30, 67.

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

55

There is more to learn about kinship from these tombstones. The decedent is almost always identified by his or her father’s name, although on three occasions both parents’ names are given (e.g., Figure 9).69 On one stone in Lavello, both a father and grandfather are named, as well as the deceased’s two brothers and son.70 Sometimes the epitaph serves for more than one individual: a boy was memorialized with his uncle in a bilingual marker from Taranto,71 two young sons were commemorated together at Lavello (Figure 9),72 and two “virtuous” young girls are commemorated on a fragmentary ninthcentury stele formerly in Oria.73 We should recall that two skeletons were found in the Bari tomb (Figure 2). Medieval Christian graves in the region often contain multiple skeletons, because they were reused over many years whenever a family member died; the earlier, disarticulated bones were piled at the foot of the tomb or just outside it (Figure 13). Although the evidence is meagre, medieval Jews do not seem to have followed this practice, preferring single or double interment instead. The only other graves in the region that contain just two skeletons were excavated south of the church of Sant’Eufemia at

69  Abraham and Nathaniel, sons of Leon and Leah (Lacerenza 2014, II.30, at Lavello); offspring of an unreadable father’s name and a mother named Esther (Safran 2014, database 133, at Taranto); and Yocheved daughter of Zipporah and Ribai (Safran 2014, database 17; Lacerenza 2014, II.49, at Brindisi). 70  Lacerenza 2014, II.28. See below, Figure 16. 71  Front (Hebrew): ‫פה ינוח בזכרון טוב שמואל בן סילנו עם יחזקאל אחי אביו שחיה‬ ‫( ארבעים ושתים שנה יהי שלום על מנוחתם אמן‬Here rests in good memory Samuel son of Silanus, with Ezekiel his father’s brother, who lived forty-two years. May there be peace on their resting place. Amen); top (Latin): Hic requis[cit benem]emori[us] Samuel filius Silani [cu]m Ezih[ie]l barbane s[uu]m qui vixit annos [X]XXXII. Sit p[ax] sup(er) dormitor[ium eorum. Amen]. (Here rests Samuel, remembered for good, son of Silanus, with Ezekiel his paternal uncle, who lived forty-two years. May there be peace on their sleeping place. [Amen.]). Safran 2014, database 123; Lacerenza 2014, II.36. 72  ‫פה ישכבו שני אחים אברהם נתנאל אברהם היה בן שש שנים ונת)נ(אל היה בן שלוש‬ ‫שני בני לאון ולאה יהי שלום במשכבם תנוח נפשם בצרור החיים הרחמן הוא יחיש זמן‬ ‫( תחיית המתים במהרה אמן‬Here lie two brothers, Avraham [and] Netan’el. Avraham was six years old and Netan’el was three years, sons of Leon and Leah. May peace be on their tomb, may their souls rest in the bond of life. May the merciful hasten the time of the resurrection of the dead, soon, Amen). Lacerenza 2014, II.30. The stele dates to the ninth century but not, as stated, to 830/31. 73  Colafemmina 2012, 92.

56

L. SAFRAN

Figure 13: Quattro Macine (Giuggianello, Apulia), tomb 31 with two skulls; other bones collected outside the grave (photo: courtesy Paul Arthur).

Specchia Preti (Apulia); they date to the thirteenth or fourteenth century.74 My final graph shows the number of male versus female tombstones when information about gender is preserved (Figure 14). 74  Four of eight graves contained two skeletons, and two others were empty. See Scattarella 1981. I thank Paul Arthur of the Università del Salento for alerting me to the Specchia tombs and Michele Bonfrate for procuring the relevant literature.

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

57

Figure 14: Gender of the deceased on medieval tombstones (graph: Linda Safran).

The fact that six sites out of eight preserve female tombstones indicates that both sexes were regularly commemorated with durable markers. However, at least two women in Apulia—one Jewish and one Christian—are unnamed even on their own tombstones,75 which confirms that these monuments are usually more concerned with family status than with a specific individual. A few titles on the tombstones provide additional evidence for status (many more titles appear in the late antique Venosa catacombs).76 There are several references to the honorific “rabbi,” the medieval meaning of which is imprecise (Figures 5, 15). Hannah, commemorated on the Oria stele, is called “domina (lady) Anna” in the Latin text on the top and ‫אישה נבונה‬, wise woman, in the Hebrew; and she is the daughter of R, probably Rabbi, Julius (Figure 4a). A tile placed on the grave of Elijah son of Moses at Bari bears the term istrategos, the Greek word for “military leader” or “general”—a title that was probably not available to Jews and that remains unexplained.77 75

 See note 47 above (“wife of Leon son of David”). The Christian woman’s epitaph is Safran 2014, database 26.C (ca. 1300): “she was such an honest and beloved wife.” 76  JIWE I, 61–149. 77  Safran 2014, database no. 10; M. Mascolo in Mascolo 2014, II.55.

58

L. SAFRAN

Figure 15: Brindisi, tombstone of Baruch son of Jonah, limestone, first half of ninth century. Brindisi, Museo Archeologico Provinciale “F. Ribezzo,” no. 230 (courtesy Museo Archeologico “F. Ribezzo” di Brindisi; photo: Mauro Perani).

Ignoring the Trani stones, whose length almost certainly corresponds to height rather than status, several of the vertical stelae are truly monumental, close to or over one meter in height (Figures 5, 8, 16).78 Such a scale is unprecedented among medieval Christian gravestones, at least in Southern Apulia.79 There are also qualitative differences among the stones in terms of regularity of letters and spacing, complexity of the text, presence of rubrication (Figures 2, 8) and so on. The markers for Leah in Brindisi (Figure 8)80 and Nathan son of Peretz in Venosa are long and fulsome, with the latter described as a grey-haired and honourable man, a leader of his community and his generation.81 Three epitaphs are composed in rhyming prose, 78

 Lacerenza 2014, II.11, II.28, II.30, II.32, II.50.  Safran 2014, database, passim. 80  See note 45 above. 81  Lacerenza 2014, II.19, dated 846/47. 79

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

59

Figure 16: Lavello, tombstone of Put(?) (or Poppo) son of Jovian son of Put(?) Levi, limestone, eighth–ninth century. Lavello, Palazzo Comunale (photo: Mauro Perani).

which indicates the involvement of a competent poet (Figures 4, 16); interestingly, two of these are from Oria, whose tradition of paytanim is recorded in Megillat Aḥima῾az.82 The ability to employ professional authors and/or carvers was surely a sign of social standing.

82  Put(?) [or Poppo] son of Jovian in Lavello (Figure 16) and both the unnamed girls and Hannah at Oria (Figure 4): Lacerenza 2014, II.28; Colafemmina 2012, 92; and Perani 2014, respectively.

60

L. SAFRAN

RELIGIOUS CONTENT

OF

TOMBSTONES

Many of the commemorative formulae on the Italian tombstones are drawn from the Bible or the ancient funerary liturgy and include references to Jerusalem, Eden and resurrection, as well as invocations for peace upon the deceased, both in the tomb and in the world to come. Whereas the general sentiment “May his soul be bound in the bond of life (or: of the living)” is common, the abbreviated form, ‫תנצבה‬, for ‫תהה נפשו צרורה בצרור החיים‬, was used only at Trani (Figure 5). There are also references to sin. For instance, the tombstone of Noṭer son of Elijah at Lavello (838/39) says ‫סליחה וכפרה‬ ‫( תהא מיתתו על כל עוונותיו‬May his death be forgiveness and atonement for all his sins). These have parallels in the region’s Christian inscriptions, although the remission of sins is referenced in church dedications and devotional inscriptions rather than on grave markers.83 This ties into an earlier tradition whereby Jews and Christians typically selected different passages from the Bible for inclusion on their tombstone. A story transmitted in Megillat Aḥima῾az (and in the later Ashkenazic Sefer Ḥasidim) seems to retain a memory of the introduction of both the Babylonian Talmud and geonic knowledge into Southern Italy.84 Colafemmina posited that the citations from the Bavli on the eighth- or ninth-century epitaph of Put (or Poppo) son of Jovian at Lavello might be the earliest such references in Europe (Figure 16).85 Equally intriguing are two references to contemporary piyyutim in ninth-century epitaphs. A poorly preserved stone in Matera invokes a liturgical poet named Aḥima῾az: line 4 says something like “Aḥima῾az should compose for him [the dead boy] a lament (avel)” (‫] [ לו אחימעץ‬ ‫)אבל ] י[הי באשרי זכרו‬.86 Although no ninth-century paytan with that name is known, a contemporary local “Rabbi Aḥima῾az” who is able to recite penitential poetry is cited in the homonymous eleventhcentury chronicle.87 The last lines of the epitaph for Rabbi Baruch of 83  E.g., Safran 2014, database I.A, 94.G, 94.J, 143.A, 146.A, 154.A; and Cassuto 1998a. 84  Bonfil 2009, esp. 53–66, 80. 85  Berakhot 17a and 58b. Colafemmina 2000, 71–76; and Saar forthcoming b. 86  Lacerenza 2014, II.33. 87  Bonfil 2009, 248–250, 258–260.

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

61

Brindisi (Figure 15) contain a series of biblical citations drawn from the ancient funeral liturgy and inserted into a hymn by Amittai of Oria, an ancestor of both the better-known paytan Amittai son of Shefatiah and the eleventh-century chronicler Aḥima῾az. The older Amittai lived in the first half of the ninth century, the likely date of Baruch’s Hebrew tombstone, and it is possible that the hymn was composed specifically for Baruch’s funeral, which would explain its inclusion in the epitaph. The poem is still part of Italian funerary minhag today.88 QUESTIONS

AND

CONCLUSIONS

I conclude with a few specific questions, observations and caveats. How should we understand the upside-down menorahs on the Lavello stele (Figure 9)? Colafemmina posited that the carver incised these symbols across the middle of the stele and then, realizing that the space for the epitaph might be insufficient, turned the stone upside-down to inscribe the text.89 This seems doubtful, given that the available space is roughly the same above and below the menorahs. It is more likely that the sculptor observed (or accidentally created) a crack in the stone above the correctly placed menorahs and therefore changed his plans; in fact, the stone is broken in that area and, misleadingly, is not reproduced in full in the Ketav, Sefer, Miktav catalogue.90 This leads me to two conclusions: first, that the impressively large stone (94 cm) was symbolically claimed for Jewish use by an inexpert carver even before the Hebrew text was added by a professional; and second, that the menorahs were sufficiently recognizable (and potent) as Jewish symbols that their orientation and clumsy execution here were inconsequential. Support for the first conclusion is found on one of the marble epitaphs from Venosa, where a small menorah was apparently inscribed in the centre of the

88

 Colafemmina 1975a; Bonfil 2009, 234; Safran 2014, 108, 137, database no. 18; Lacerenza 2014, II.51. 89  Colafemmina 1986, 176. 90  Mascolo 2014, 224; cf. Figure 9 (Colafemmina 1986, 174), which shows the whole stone as rediscovered in 1985.

62

L. SAFRAN

stone before the text was incised, requiring the carver to reduce the size of the words in the last line to fit around it (Figure 3).91 The chronological distribution of the Jewish tombstones is strangely skewed: there are no stones from Apulia between the midninth century and 1290 and none in Basilicata after the ninth century, even though Jews were living and dying in both provinces until the sixteenth century (Figure 11). Arab raiders destroyed Venosa in 850, but they did not attack all of the sites discussed above, and some places, like Oria (925) and Taranto (928), only suffered in the tenth century. Given the paucity of Byzantine Christian tombstones elsewhere, Byzantine rule after about 870 may have precluded the production of Jewish tombstones, but why would this have continued after the Byzantines were replaced by the Normans, Hohenstaufens and Angevins—all polities that produced grave markers? One reason for their disappearance is that many Jewish epitaphs were reused as building materials for Christians. This is most apparent at Venosa, where numerous stones were inserted into the abbey church in the twelfth–thirteenth century, but the practice certainly continued later.92 Even so, why have late medieval tombstones been found only at Trani? And what explains their dramatic change in form, from the upright stelae used for centuries to low, elongated markers that seemingly correspond to the length of the grave? Was this change due to greater prosperity (permitting larger stones), to developments within local Judaism or to funerary fashions outside the faith? The relationship between Jewish and Christian funerary texts, decorative motifs and practices needs to be studied more closely. In Italy, emphasizing the name of the decedent by placing it at the end of a line, or distributing it over two lines, was done by members of both faiths and in Hebrew, Greek and Latin.93 I have also posited that concentric circles may have had the same apotropaic connotation on two Jewish tombstones as they did in local Christian contexts.94 These visual commonalities should be interrogated across a broader geographical range, and funerary and commemorative practices should be 91

 Mascolo 2014, 205.  As evidenced by the fate of two synagogue inscriptions in Apulia, one installed in a window frame and another in a lavatory; see Colafemmina 1994. 93  Safran 2014, 30. 94  Safran 2014, 137 and database no. 99.B; and note 46 above. 92

REMEMBERING THE JEWISH DEAD

63

compared cross-culturally. As is well known, prescriptive texts are not necessarily a good guide to practices on the ground: witness the fact that some Jews were buried in belted clothes or wearing jewellery, just as Christians were.95 New discoveries are continually being made—most recently, a mikveh in Lecce and a cemetery in Rome96—and more material (and textual) evidence for the Jewish presence in Southern Italy will almost certainly come to light either by accident or through systematic excavation. Scholars still disagree about how even some of the best-known tombstones should be read, so there is more work to be done, especially autoptically, merely to decipher the weathered texts.97 As participants at the “Letters in the Dust” workshop learned, it is impossible to generalize broadly about medieval Jewish death. It is more responsible to talk about regional and local practices, because living Jews could and did respond to diverse religious, cultural and social contexts in different ways. My graphs reveal salient differences in the commemoration of the dead in just two neighbouring provinces in Italy. Despite the small sample sizes, it is worth investigating further the reasons for these dissimilarities and, ultimately, comparing the South Italian evidence with the material culture of memory in other medieval Jewish communities.

 Belted clothing was seen on a skeleton in one of the Bari hypogeum’s arcosolia, but it decomposed upon exposure to the air (D’Angela 1994, 222). In the cemetery in Rome whose discovery was announced in March 2017 (Povoledo 2017), two women wore gold rings and a man was buried with a scale; none of this is permitted under Jewish law, although certain exceptions are allowed. 96  Palazzo Taurino; and see note 95 above. I thank Philippe Blanchard for alerting me to the Roman discovery. 97  See, e.g., Perani 2014 on Hannah’s stele in Oria (Figure 4a). 95

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL: ATYPICAL DEMISE IN JEWISH FUNERARY INSCRIPTIONS1 ORTAL-PAZ SAAR INTRODUCTION Reading funerary inscriptions, be they ancient or modern, often brings to mind questions about the people commemorated therein. Who were they, how did they live—and, sometimes, why did they die? When studying inscriptions written many centuries ago, these questions become harder and harder to answer, as the epitaphs are usually the only record left of those people. Yet some epitaphs supply slivers of information, including tantalising hints about the causes of death. This article will examine Jewish funerary inscriptions that allude to an atypical demise and attempt to discern patterns emerging therefrom. The data surveyed for this aim includes ancient, late antique and early medieval funerary inscriptions that may be identified as Jewish on the basis of the following criteria: they derive from a Jewish context, such as the Jewish catacombs in Italy, or they contain textual or iconographic features related to Judaism. The latter criterion comprises, first and foremost, the use of the Hebrew language, but also typical Jewish names, designations and idioms. Similarly, designs like the menorah and shofar easily identify the inscription as Jewish.2 Chronologically, the data focuses on the late antique and medieval periods, up to the twelfth century, although I have also included a few early inscriptions from the first-second century BCE.3 Given my current research focus, the geographical scope of this article covers Italy, France, Spain, ancient 1  I wish to thank Leonard Rutgers for commenting on this article, and Elíshabá Mata López for her kind assistance with the Spanish inscriptions. 2  The article employs several epigraphic corpora, primarily: JIWE I and II; Cassuto 1945; Nahon 1986; Cantera and Millas 1956; Lacerenza 2014. 3  I originally planned to place the upper limit of the corpus in 1100, but a few later inscriptions from the first half of the twelfth century, which were closely relevant, had to be included as well.

66

O.-P. SAAR

Palestine and Greece. I have not included the area of present-day Germany, nor central and eastern European regions such as present-day Poland or the Czech Republic. Corpora pertaining to these regions contain texts that could fit well into the thematic scope of this article, but they remain the object of a future study.4 Defining what is meant by “atypical demise” is more difficult. Originally, the scope of this article covered only violent deaths or allusions to such. However, as my research progressed, I noticed that some epitaphs do not expressly refer to violence, but they nevertheless reflect unusual circumstances surrounding the deceased or employ atypical expressions that raise questions about the commemorated person’s life and demise. I therefore decided to expand the scope of this study and include not only death by deliberate violence, but also death in accidents, childbirth and epidemics. I have also included epitaphs that suggest the person’s death was unexpected and due to one of the above, even though the cause of death was not explicitly mentioned. In other words, the overarching characteristic of the corpus collected here is atypical death, either explicitly mentioned or merely alluded to.5 Atypical and untimely death is a phenomenon that bears numerous implications, not just epigraphic (which will be explored in the present article), but also social and psychological. These implications are reflected in funerary rituals and may be deduced from ethnographic, literary and archaeological records. In many cultural traditions, ancient and modern, persons who encountered an atypical end were considered “problematic” dead, in danger of interfering—often nefariously—with the living. Alternatively, they were regarded as “special” dead who were allotted distinctive burial forms (e.g., prone burials for leprosy victims) or locations (e.g., children or women who died in childbirth might be buried in a distinct plot of the cemetery).6 Usually, these beliefs cannot be identified in the epigraphic record 4  Some Jewish epitaphs from Germany that reflect a violent demise, namely those that mention the term qadosh (martyr, literally “saint”), have been researched by Michael Brocke 2005. For epitaphs from Central Europe recording a violent or atypical demise see, e.g., Wodziński 1996, nos. 3, 14, 21, 61. 5  For similar studies in the context of Greek and Roman epitaphs, see Lattimore 1962, 142–202; Gunnella 1995. 6  For a good overview of deviant dead and burials in antiquity, see Alfayé 2009. For prone burials, see, e.g., Polo Cerdá and García Prósper 2002; for burials of women who died in childbirth, see, e.g., Klein 2000, 158 (referring however to

67

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

but in archaeological excavations of funerary material. Moreover, the Jewish epitaphs discussed in this corpus have often been dislocated from their original context, and thus no link can be made between the inscriptions and the earthly remains of the people they commemorate. We are left then to explore the preserved words. The article surveys the textual evidence, both in the original language and in translation, and attempts to discuss three main questions. First, what can we learn from an overview of this corpus, and are there any patterns to be observed? Second, what were the reasons that prompted the composers of these epitaphs to mention the cause of death, or allude to it? Finally, can similarities be observed between the Jewish corpus of inscriptions mentioning atypical demise and similar, contemporaneous inscriptions written for and by non-Jews? FUNERARY INSCRIPTIONS ALLUDING DEATH

BY

TO AN

ATYPICAL DEMISE

HOMICIDE

The following Jewish inscriptions recount stories of deaths by homicide, either employing explicit terms or allusions. For the latter, we must exercise caution, since the overall number of such texts is small, and hence few comparisons may be adduced in support of the assumption that they indeed reflect a violent death. A main criterion for identifying allusions to a violent death is the mention of sins or expiation, as will be explained further below (item no. 2). The first and earliest Jewish inscriptions mentioning death by homicide come from the Greek island of Rheneia, next to Delos. These are two nearly identical inscriptions, written in Greek and dated to the second or first century BCE, though they are considered by some scholars to date from the first century CE. Since their discovery in 1834, the inscriptions have been the focus of a rich scholarly discussion.7 Their wording is the only indicator linking them to a Jewish origin, since neither the names of the persons mentioned therein nor any iconographic symbols point towards Judaism. The identification of these two much later periods). There is little information on Jewish deviant burials from antiquity, but for the medieval period, see Schur 2014, esp. 182–183. 7  IJO I 2004, 235–242 (Ach70). For references, see Salvo 2012, 237 n. 10.

68

O.-P. SAAR

texts as Jewish rests on their appeal to “the God Most High” (τὸν Θεὸν τὸν ὕψιστον), as well as several quotations from the Hebrew Bible. Although it is possible that the inscriptions actually stem from a Samaritan and not a Jewish setting, I believe they are important enough to justify their inclusion in this corpus. 1. Rheneia, 2nd-1st century BCE – 1st century CE8 ἐπικαλοῦμαι καὶ ἀξιῶ τὸν Θεὸν τὸν | ὕψιστον, τὸν κύριον τῶν πνευμάτων | καὶ πάσης σαρκός, ἐπὶ τοὺς δόλωι ϕονεύ|σαντας ἢ ϕαρμακεύσαντας τὴν τα|λαίπωρον ἄωρον Ἡράκλεαν, ἐχχέαν|τας αὐτῆς τὸ ἀναίτιον αἷμα ἀδί|κως, ἵνα οὕτως γένηται τοῖς ϕονεύ|σασιν αὐτὴν ἢ ϕαρμακεύσασιν καὶ | τοῖς τέκνοις αὐτῶν. Κύριε, ὁ πάντα ἐ|ϕορῶν καὶ οἱ ἄνγελοι θεοῦ, ᾧ πᾶσα ψυ|χὴ ἐν τῇ σήμερον ἡμέραι ταπεινοῦτα[ι] μεθ’ ἱκετείας, ἵνα ἐγδικήσῃς τὸ αἷμα τὸ ἀ|ναίτιον ζητήσεις καὶ τὴν ταχίστην. I invoke and entreat the God Most High, the Lord of the spirits and all flesh, against those who have treacherously murdered or poisoned the miserable untimely9 Heraklea, and shed unjustly her innocent blood, that the same may happen to them who have murdered or poisoned her, and to their children. O Lord, you who see everything, and you angels of God, for whom every soul humiliates itself on the present day with supplication, that you may avenge the innocent blood, may investigate, and as soon as possible. Both inscriptions from Rheneia feature the famous “raised hands” iconography, signifying the supplication directed towards divine powers.10 Their aim is clear: to request supernatural revenge for the 8

 The transcription and translation are from Salvo 2012, 237. The second inscription, for a girl or woman named Marthine, is nearly identical. 9  The term ἄωρος is often found on Greek epitaphs recording what was considered to be an untimely death, for instance that of children, young people, suicides, murder victims or those who died on the battlefield. Interestingly, epitaphs from Egypt, both Jewish and non-Jewish, also employ it to refer to adults aged thirty and over; see, e.g., JIGRE, no. 109, a second century BCE epitaph for a fortyfive-year-old man. See their discussion of the term on p. 106. 10  For this symbol, see Cumont 1923; Cumont 1927; and more recently Graf 2007, 145–150; Salvo 2012, 234–244. For prayers for justice and revenge, see Versnel 1991, esp. 70–75.

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

69

unnatural deaths of Heraklea and Marthine, a revenge that could not be obtained through recourse to human justice. It is important to note that the “murder” referred to may have been an act of magic (actual or imagined) directed against the two. This possibility is accentuated by the use of two verbs, “murdered” or “poisoned” (ϕονεύσαντας ἢ ϕαρμακεύσαντας, the latter associated with magical practices), implying that the writer did not precisely know what caused the death of Heraklea and Marthine. As can be seen from the literature in note 10, such inscriptions appear elsewhere in the Greek world in non-Jewish contexts. Many of them feature the raised hands design. These are the only ancient Jewish inscription I am aware of that explicitly seek divine revenge for homicide.11 All others are much later and stem from the medieval period. For instance, Nahon 1986, no. 184 (pp. 232–233), possibly dating to the early thirteenth century, contains the phrase “May his blood be avenged” (‫)נקם דמו‬, while Cantera and Millas 1956, no. 1, requests “May God avenge his blood” (‫( )השם יקום דמו‬for these two texts see further below). The latter phrase, often rendered in the abbreviated form ‫הי‘‘ד‬, is commonly found today in texts referring to Jewish murder victims, particularly those murdered by non-Jews for ideological motives.12 While it is certain that other Jewish people died by homicide in antiquity, the inscriptions of Heraklea and Marthine are the only ones I am aware of that mention this cause of death. The next epitaphs in this group derive from a much later period, the early ninth century. The cause of death is not explicitly mentioned, but the epitaph contains hints that might allude to homicide, as will be explained shortly. As opposed to the habitual notion of de mortibus nihil nisi bene, some Jewish epitaphs mention the sins of the deceased, or claim that 11  For Jewish and non-Jewish funerary inscriptions seeking divine revenge for tomb violation, see Strubbe 1994; Strubbe 1997; Saar forthcoming a. 12  The source of the phrase is probably in the eleventh century prayer “Father of Mercy” (‫)אב הרחמים‬, composed after the murders of the First Crusade in 1096. The prayer asks God to “redress the spilled blood of His servants” (‫וְ יִ נְ קֹם ְל ֵעינֵ ינוּ‬ ‫)נִ ְק ַמת ַדּם ֲע ָב ָדיו ַה ָשּׁפוְּך‬, and quotes Deuteronomy 32:43: “Sing aloud, O ye nations, of His people; for He doth avenge the blood of His servants, and doth render vengeance to His adversaries, and doth make expiation for the land of His people” ַ (‫)ה ְרנִ ינוּ גוֹיִם ַעמּוֹ ִכּי ַדם ֲע ָב ָדיו יִ קּוֹם וְ נָ ָקם יָ ִשׁיב ְל ָצ ָריו וְ ִכ ֶפּר ַא ְד ָמתוֹ ַעמּוֹ‬.

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their death will be an expiation (presumably for such sins). This strange phenomenon may be explained by referring to early rabbinic sources, where death in unnatural circumstances is related to an atonement for one’s sins. For instance, in Tosefta Berakhot 6:22, a person entering a bathhouse (considered a dangerous place) should pray: “May it be Your will, YHWH, my God, that you will bring me in peace and you will take me out in peace. And may there not happen to me a disaster. And if a disaster should happen to me, may my death be an expiation for me” (‫ואם יארע בי דבר קלקלה יהא מיתתי‬ ‫)כפרתי עלי‬.13 A parallel text is found in the Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 60a: ‫ואם יארע בי דבר קלקלה ועון תהא מיתתי כפרה לכל‬ ‫עונותי‬. An almost identical phrase also appears in a different context, related to execution by stoning, in Mishna Sanhedrin 6:2. Here, the person condemned to death may utter the confessional phrase “May my death be an expiation for all my sins” (‫תהא מיתתי כפרה על כל‬ ‫)עונותי‬. The phrase is reiterated in Tosefta Sanhedrin 9:3, BT Sanhedrin 44b, and PT Sanhedrin 6,3 (for this context, see more below). Such early connections between a violent death and the expiation of sins led Leopold Zunz, in his Zur Geschichte und Literatur, to regard the mentioning of sins or expiation on epitaphs as reflecting a violent death, either deliberate or accidental.14 I follow this line of argument and include in the present corpus Jewish epitaphs that refer to the sins of the deceased, although their ascription to the rubric of death by homicide (rather than death by accident, for instance) remains uncertain.15 The first such case is an epitaph dated to 838/839 CE. It was placed on the tomb of a man named Noṭer son of Elijah (Eliyah), who passed 13  For the perils of bathhouses, see Sperber 1998, 65–66; Fagan 2016, 240– 242. The collapse of a bathhouse, perhaps during an earthquake, is attested in an undated mosaic inscription written in Greek, uncovered in Hammath Gader, Israel: “No longer be in dread of the water-carrying bath being smashed, which brought infinite sorrow to many, by hurting and killing men, in many cases children, for the [yawning] earth buried it all from above.”; see Di Segni 1997, text 50. 14  Zunz 1845, 333–334. On the relation between expiation and the manner of burial, see Meyers 1971. 15  For sins mentioned in Christian epigraphic evidence from Southern Italy (Salento), see Linda Safran’s article in this volume, note 83. However, the Christian inscriptions referring to one’s sins are all dedicatory (“this edifice was built for the remission of his sins”), not funerary.

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

71

away at the age of twenty-five and was probably buried in the Southern Italian city Lavello, where the stone is still located today.16 Noṭer’s epitaph does not describe what led to his death, which occurred at a relatively young age. However, lines 5–6 may contain a clue leading us to suspect a violent death, possibly by homicide, although other options have been raised, as will be shown below. 2. Lavello (?), 838/83917 ‫ הציון הלז על קבר נוטר בן אליה‬.1 ‫ שמת מבן עשרים וחמשה שנים‬.2 ‫ יבוא שלום וינוח על מנוחתו‬.3 ‫ ותהא נפשו צרורה בצרור החיים‬.4 ‫ סליחה וכפרה תהא מיתתו‬.5 ‫ על כל עוונותיו משחרב הבית‬.6 ‫ שבע מאות ושבעים שנה‬.7 ‫ שיבנה בימינו ובימי כל ישראל‬.8 ‫ אמן‬.9 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

This marker (was placed) on the grave of Noṭer ben Elijah who died at twenty-five years old. May peace come and rest on his resting place, and may his soul be bundled in the bundle of life (or: bundle of the living). Forgiveness and expiation may be his death for all his sins. From the destruction of the Temple (lit.: the House) seven hundred and seventy years, may it be (re)built in our days and the days of all Israel. Amen.

As explained above, the reference to expiation and sins on epitaphs is unusual, and passages in the rabbinic literature indicate that they might allude to death in violent circumstances. This interpretation is also that

16

 The original finding place of the tombstone is unknown. Domenico Tata mentions in his book that it was found in a field, ca. half an Italian mile away from Lavello (Tata 1778, 10–11). Perani 2016, 304 states that the stele actually originates elsewhere: “proveniente da Venosa ma finita a Lavello”. 17  See Lacerenza 2014, 223, 225, with bibliography and good quality image.

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of Graziadio Ascoli, who edited the text in 1880.18 In a highly interesting article, David Cassuto took these allusions a step further and argued that the mention of sins in the above epitaph might actually reflect death by execution.19 In his opinion, Noṭer ben Elijah was judged and condemned to death by a Jewish court that was active in or around Venosa during the ninth century. If he had died by homicide, claimed Cassuto, his sins would not have been mentioned, just the expiation.20 Cassuto certainly raises several convincing points that support his argument, chief among these is the mention of such executions in the famous Hebrew chronicle The Scroll of Aḥima῾az, which was composed in the tenth century in Southern Italy. He is definitely right that Noṭer’s epitaph might reflect death by execution, but there is really no evidence that this was the case, rather than death by homicide, or even an accident. Cassuto’s argument relies on the use of the word “sins,” which he maintains is not found in Hebrew epitaphs during or before that period, except two instances (Noṭer’s and another anonymous epitaph, from Venosa, which will be discussed below, no. 3). However, also the phrases “forgiveness and expiation may be his death” or “expiation and forgiveness,” without a mention of sins, are simply not found in any other epitaphs before these two examples. The next occurrences of such a phrase are dated to the twelfth century, and derive from Spain (1100, 1102) and Italy (1139). In at least one of these three cases, the deceased was undoubtedly murdered, and the mentioning of sins did not reflect execution. Consequently, it may be that the use of a full formula mentioning the sins of the deceased next to the request for their expiation was simply the custom in ninth-century Southern Italy in the case of a violent death, just as it was customary in later centuries elsewhere. 3. Venosa, 848/84921 The following epitaph for a thirty-year-old man bears some similarity to no. 2. It is incised on a stone stele which had to be inserted into the ground above the tomb, as indicated by the large empty space at 18

 Ascoli 1880, 77.  Cassuto 1998b, 186–193. 20  Cassuto 1998b, 188. 21  The epitaph has been published in Cassuto 1945, 116–117 (no. 17), and its image first appeared in Munkáczi 1939. A further discussion of the text appears in Cassuto 1998b, 193–197. 19

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

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the bottom of the text. It was part of the Jewish open-air cemetery of Venosa and later reused as a building block in the walls of the Santissima Trinità complex. The Hebrew inscription is incomplete, with about two lines missing, including the man’s name. ] .1 ‫ מבן שלושים שנה‬.2 ‫[ שפל רוח לעיני כל‬...] .3 ‫ רואי אותו כפרה וסליחה‬.4 ‫ על כל עוונותיו תישן בשלום‬.5 ‫ לחרבן הבית שבע מאות‬.6 ‫ ושמונים שנה שיבנה‬.7 ‫ בימינו‬.8 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

[ aged thirty years […] modest in the eyes of all who see him. Expiation and forgiveness for all his sins. Sleep in peace. From the destruction of the Temple (lit. the House) seven hundred and eighty years, may it be (re)built in our days

Just like Noṭer’s epitaph, also the one above requires forgiveness and expiation for the sins of the man who lay beneath it. What is interesting here is the mentioning of the man’s humility or modesty, coupled with the phrase “in the eyes of all who see him.” This phrase has been interpreted differently by Umberto Cassuto and by his grandson David Cassuto to mean “in the eyes of all who respected him” or “in the eyes of all who see him,” respectively. In line with his previous interpretation of Noṭer’s epitaph as indicating death by execution, David Cassuto argues that no. 3, the anonymous epitaph, was also engraved for a man who was condemned to death and perhaps executed through burning. He bases his suggestion on the similarity to Ezekiel 28:18: “By the multitude of your sins, in the unrighteousness of your trade, you profaned your sanctuaries. Therefore, I have brought fire from the midst of you; it has consumed you, and I have turned you to ashes on the earth in the eyes of all who see you.” (‫ֵמר ֹב‬ ‫תּוֹכָך ִהיא ֲא ָכ ַל ְתָך וָ ֶא ֶתּנְ ָך‬ ְ ‫אוֹצא ֵאשׁ ִמ‬ ִ ָ‫ֲעוֹנֶ יָך ְבּ ֶעוֶ ל ְר ֻכ ָלּ ְתָך ִח ַלּ ְל ָתּ ִמ ְק ָדּ ֶשׁיָך ו‬ ‫)ל ֵא ֶפר ַעל ָה ָא ֶרץ ְל ֵעינֵ י ָכּל ר ֶֹאיָך‬. ְ

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Just as for no. 2, I see no reason to ascribe this man’s death to execution, but I do believe the supporting evidence is strong enough to indicate a violent death, either deliberate (homicide) or accidental. Since later epitaphs that contain the phrase “may his/her death be an expiation” explicitly mention homicide, I suggest this is a more likely option than death by accident. One additional option—which has not been raised by the previous researchers who inspected these two Venosa epitaphs—is that of suicide. Perhaps the explicit mentioning of sins, which David Cassuto tried to elucidate, could hint in that direction. However, there is no reason to prefer this option over death by homicide. The following three epitaphs in the homicide group (nos. 4, 5 and 6) derive from Northern Spain and date to the early eleventh and early twelfth century. They were part of the Jewish cemetery of Puente Castro in the province of León, a location that has yielded rich archaeological finds, as well as written sources highlighting the Jewish presence during the Middle Ages.22 Two of these epitaphs (4 and 6) mention the homicide explicitly, by using the verb ‫נהרג‬, “killed.” No. 5 is missing the verb, because the stone is broken at that point, leaving only the first letter, nun. However, coupled with the reference to forgiveness and expiation of sins, one may assume that this stone was also erected for a person who died by violence. 4. Puente Castro, León, 8 June 102623 ‫  זה הקבר למ׳ יעקב‬.1 (?)‫  בר׳ יצחק אבן קוטם‬.2 ‫  שנהרג בדרך‬.3 ‫  סאי]גן?[ ינקום ייי את‬.4 ‫  דמו ינוח בגן עדן‬.5 ‫  ונשמתו בצרור החיים‬.6 ‫  ונפטר בששי בשבת‬.7 ‫  עשרים יום לירח תמוז‬.8 ‫  שנת שבע מאות‬.9 ‫ ושמונים ושש ומת‬.10 22  For a good summary about the Jewish presence in Puente Castro, see Castaño and Avello 2001. 23  Cantera and Millas 1956, 6–9 (no. 1).

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

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‫ ב]ן א[רב]עים[ וחמש‬.11 ‫ שנים‬.12  1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10. 11. 12.

This is the grave of Mr. Jacob son of R(abbi) Isaac ibn Quṭam(?) who was killed on the road to Sai[gan?]. May the Lord avenge his blood, may he rest in Heaven and his soul in the bundle of life (or: the bundle of the living). And he died on Friday (lit.: the sixth day of the week), twenty days in the month of Tammuz, the year seven hundred and eighty-six, and he died ag[ed f]or[ty] five years.

The editors note that the stone is opisthographic (engraved on both sides). Seventy-six years after Jacob’s epitaph had been engraved, the stone was reused and another text was engraved on its reverse side. This was the epitaph of Isaac son of Samuel son of Sirrai (‫מ׳ יצחק בר‬ ‫)מ׳ שמואל בן סירראי‬, who died at the age of 27 on 28 August 1101.24 Jacob son of Isaac ibn Quṭam was murdered while travelling, in unknown circumstances. Robbery might have been the motive; such murders on the road are attested earlier on Greek and Roman epitaphs.25 It is interesting to note that despite the violent death, Jacob’s sins are never mentioned, nor is there any reference to expiation, as opposed to the epitaphs from Puente Castro and Aquileia (nos. 6, 7). 5. Puente Castro, León, 18 November 110026 [‫  זה הקב]ר[ למ׳ ח]ייא בן‬.1 [‫ נפטר‬/ ‫  מ׳ יוסף בן עזיז הצורף נ]הרג‬.2 ‫  בן חמש וששים שנה באחד‬.3 ‫  בשבת חמשה עשר יום ליר‬.4 ‫  לירח כסליו שנת שמנה‬.5 24

 Cantera and Millas 1956, 14–17 (no. 4).  E.g., Greek: Lattimore 1962, 143; Roman: Gunnella 1995, 13–15; Buonopane 2016. 26  Cantera and Millas 1956, 12–14 (no. 5). 25

76

O.-P. SAAR

‫  מאות וששים ואחד למניי‬.6 ‫  ליון מתא הקבה יזכהו‬.7 ‫  ויסלח עונתיו ויכפר ח׳ט׳‬.8 ‫  חטאיו וירחמהו ויעמ‬.9 ‫ ויעמדהו לגורלו לקץ הימין‬.10 ‫ ויחייהו לחיי העולם הבא‬.11

27

 1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10. 11.

This is the gra[ve] of Mr. Ḥ[yyia ben] Mr. Joseph ben ῾Aziz the goldsmith,28 who [died / was killed]29 at the age of sixty-five years, on Sunday (lit. the first day of the week), fifteen days in the mon(th)30 month of Qislev, the year eight hundred and sixty-one to the counting of the city of León. May the Holly One blessed be He31 absolve him32 and forgive his sins and expiate his trans(gressions)33 transgressions and have mercy on him and rai(se)34 and raise him up in his lot at the end of days (cf. Daniel 12:13) and revive him for the life of the world to come.

The surviving text of Ḥiyya son of Joseph’s epitaph does not suffice to ascertain that he died of violent causes. His age (sixty-five) was certainly advanced enough to assume he died of natural ones. Nevertheless, the stress on the forgiveness of sins and the expiation of 27  One word in this epitaph (‫מתא‬, city) is not Hebrew but Aramaic, reflecting the traditional expression used in Jewish legal documents “to the counting that we count here in the city of X” (...‫)למניין שאנו מונים כאן במתא‬. 28  It is not clear if Ḥiyya was a goldsmith or his grandfather had been one. 29  The only letter surviving in the Hebrew text is nun, which could be both the beginning of the verb ‫( נפטר‬died) as well as of the verb ‫( נהרג‬was killed). 30  The word is abbreviated. 31  The expression is abbreviated. 32  The Hebrew expression ‫ הקב''ה יזכהו‬is usually translated as “May the Holy One, blessed be He, grant him…” followed by such desirable objects as: a long life, children, good deeds, accomplishments, etc. However, I chose to translate here ‫יזכהו‬ as an intransitive verb, meaning “absolve him”, since the expression is not followed by any object, and, more importantly, in the present context it is more logical to understand it as referring to absolution. 33  The word is abbreviated. 34  The word is abbreviated.

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

77

transgressions leads me to believe that this was not the case. The surviving letter nun in line 2 probably was the beginning of the verb ‫נהרג‬, “was killed.” Ḥiyya probably died by homicide or in an accident, but this cannot be absolutely ascertained from the text. 6. Puente Castro, León, 8 August 110235 [.....‫  ז[ה הקב]ר ל[מ׳ ]אב[רה]ם‬.1 ‫  נהרג במדינת ליון תוך המדינה בן‬.2 ‫  חמשים שנה האל ינקום דמו ונהרג‬.3 ‫  בששי בשבת שנים ועשרים יום‬.4 ‫  לירח אב שנת שמונה מאות וששים‬.5 ‫  ושתים למנין מתא ליון ה׳ק׳ב׳ה׳‬.6 ‫  יסלח עונותיו ויכפר אשמתיו ויתן‬.7 ‫  חלק עם הצדיקים ותהי נפשו צ׳ר׳‬.8 ‫  צרורה בצרור החיים יקיץ לחיים‬.9 ‫ ותהי שפכת דמיו כפר אשמיו‬.10 ‫ ויראהו בב]נין?[ אולמיו ויחייהו בתחית‬.11 ‫ המתים כ׳כ׳ יחיו מתיך נבלתי יקמון‬.12 ‫ הקיצו ורננו שכני עפר כי טל ארות‬.13 ‫ וגו‬:  ‫ טלך‬.14  1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10. 35

Th]is is the gra[ve of] Mr. [Ab]raha[m son of… He] was killed in the city of León, inside the city, at the age of fifty years. God will avenge his blood. And he was killed on Friday (lit.: the sixth day of the week), twenty-two days in the month of Ab, the year eight hundred and sixtytwo to the counting of the city of León. The Holy One blessed be He36 will forgive his sins and will expiate his guilts, and will give (him) a place with the righteous. And may his soul be bo(und)37 bound in the bundle of the living (or: the bundle of life). He will awaken to life. And may his bloodshed be the expiation of his guilt.

 Cantera and Millas 1956, 17–19 (no. 6).  The expression is abbreviated. 37  The word is abbreviated. 36

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O.-P. SAAR

11. And He (i.e., God) will let him glimpse the buil(ding) of His palaces,38 and will revive him at the resurrection 12. of the dead, as it is written39 (Isaiah 26:19): “Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. 13. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of 14. light,” and so forth. The man commemorated in this partially-rhymed epitaph was named Abraham. Additional information about his patronym and eventual profession are lost. We know he was murdered inside the city (so, not while travelling, as specified in no. 4), yet no further details are given.40 It is interesting to see here the explicit request for divine revenge, ‫האל ינקום דמו‬, as well as an emphasis on the expiation of sins. After a first appeal to God to “forgive his sins and expiate his guilts” (line 7), the epitaph returns to this again in a more emphatic, rhymed phrase: “may his bloodshed be the expiation for his guilt” (line 10). Clearly, the two Spanish epitaphs described above (5, 6) are part of the same epigraphic tradition and style, and they differ greatly from the Italian epitaphs from Lavello and Venosa. Nonetheless, they share one important feature, the reference to expiation of sins, which—at least in the case of one of them—is evidently related to death by homicide. The last inscription in this section is a rather interesting epitaph commemorating a woman named [?‫שקרלט]ה‬, probably Scarlatta, daughter of Abraham, who died in 1139. The epitaph, inscribed on a small stone stele, derives from Northern Italy, and it belonged to the collection of the eighteenth-century antiquarian Giandomenico Bertoli, who also made a first note of it in his study Le antichità d’Aquileia profane e sacre. The original finding place of the tombstone is unknown, and Bertoli merely mentioned that it was part of his collection, and the only Hebrew inscription that he had seen in 38

 “Palaces” here refers to the rebuilding of the Temple.  The two words are abbreviated. 40  The location of murders as being inside or outside the city appears in some Jewish texts, e.g., a treatise copied in the fifteenth-sixteenth century (but referring to the twelfth century) concerning the use of adjurations, quoted in Schur 2014, 176. 39

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Aquileia.41 The inscription was discussed and edited more than once, the most complete edition being Perani 2016. Perani corrected the inaccuracies of his predecessors, and the following transcription is based on his reading. 7. Aquileia, 23 December 113942 [?‫ והאבן הזאת ה?וש]מ׳‬.1 [‫ לראש שקרלט]ה‬.2 (‫ הכתה‬var.) (?) ‫ בת אברהם הכהן‬.3 ‫ באחד לשבט שנת‬.4 [‫ דתתק ומתתה תה]א‬.5 (‫ כפרה לה מנוחתה ]ש׳[ )שלום‬.6 ‫ וצדקתה עומדת‬.7 ‫ לעד ותציץ כעשב‬.8 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

And this stone was pl[aced]43 at the head of Scarlatt[a] daughter of Abraham the cohen (?) (var. She was struck) on the first of Shevat, the year 4900, and may her death b[e] an expiation for her, her repose [in peace?]44 and her righteousness endures forever45 and she shall flourish like the grass.46

41  “Questo Epitafio Ebraico, fin ora inedito, si vede nella mia Conserva di Lapide in Aquileja. Questa è l’unica Iscrizione Ebraica, ch’io abbia veduta in Aquileja.” Bertoli 1739, 339. 42  Perani 2016, 300–304. 43  Perani’s reading of this broken piece is probably correct, and the letters stand for ‫הושמה‬, “was placed”, in an abbreviated form. There are several medieval parallels, for example in Worms: ‫האבן הזאת הושמה מצבה לראש הזקינה החשובה מרת‬ ‫( מגטין‬thirteenth century); see Epidat database ‘wrm-947’, http://www.steinheiminstitut.de/cgi-bin/epidat?id=wrm-947; or ‫הנה זאת האבן אשר הושמה מצבה לראש‬ ‫ לראש מר‘ רחל‬/ ‫ ;מרת חנה‬for which see the two-person headstone from 1412 ‘wrm-542’, http://www.steinheim-institut.de/cgi-bin/epidat?id=wrm-542 (both accessed 18 June 2020). 44  The word was probably abbreviated. 45  Cf. Psalm 111:3, ‫ ;הוֹד וְ ָה ָדר ָפּעֹלוֹ וְ ִצ ְד ָקתוֹ ע ֶֹמ ֶדת ָל ַעד‬Psalm 112:3, ‫הוֹן וָ ע ֶֹשׁר‬ ‫בּ ֵביתוֹ וְ ִצ ְד ָקתוֹ ע ֶֹמ ֶדת ָל ַעד‬. ְ 46  Cf. Psalm 72:16, ‫וְ יָ ִציצוּ ֵמ ִעיר ְכּ ֵע ֶשׂב ָה ָא ֶרץ‬.

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Initially, the relevance of this epitaph for the present discussion seemed to lie in the reading of one word, found in line 3. Both Mauro Perani and the first editor of the text, Vittore Colorni, read it as the verb ‫הכתה‬, meaning “(she) was struck.” If this reading is correct, it would most likely mean that Scarlatta died a violent death. Another possible reading of this word would be ‫הכהן‬, “the cohen,” as referring to Scarlatta’s father, Abraham.47 Perani maintains that such a reading would not accord with the next line of the text, which lists the date of Scarlatta’s death, and hence requires a preceding verb, like “she died.”48 This, however, is inaccurate, since one can regard the verb (‫הושמ‘)ה‬, “was placed” as the predicate of the sentence, with ‫האבן‬, “stone,” as the subject. In such a case, the sentence would read, “And this stone was placed at the head of Scarlatta, daughter of Abraham the cohen, on the first of Shevat, the year 4900.” There is hence no essential difficulty reading “the cohen” in line 3. Nonetheless, even excluding the word ‫“( הכתה‬was struck”) from the epitaph, I tend to regard Scarlatta’s death as a violent one, based on the text in lines 5–6, “may her death be an expiation for her.” As explained earlier, this phrase tends to indicate a violent death, either in the hands of another person, or perhaps in an accident. What I find particularly interesting in this epitaph is the juxtaposition of “may her death be an expiation for her” with “her righteousness endures forever.” Not only are no sins explicitly mentioned, but the text refers the expiation as being “for her”, meaning Scarlatta herself, not her sins. Obviously, the underlying meaning is the same in both cases, but the tone of Scarlatta’s epitaph is different. The corpus discussed in this article goes up to the twelfth century, but references to death by homicide continue in later years. In addition to the numerous instances referring to Jewish death through martyrdom,49 there are also other instances, in which the murder motive remains unknown. The epigraphic corpus of Jewish epitaphs from Toledo contains interesting examples, such as the rhymed 47

 Colorni 1983. This reading is also favored by Cassuto 1998b, 188 n. 64.  “Tuttavia, questa lettura ha-Kohen, intesa come il cognome del padre di Scarlatta, Abramo, confliggeva con l’inizio della riga successiva nel quale si indicava la data della morte, ossia il 1 giorno del mese di Ševaṭ dell’anno 4900: leggendo haKohen veniva a mancare il verbo, che sempre precede la data di morte, indicante ‘morta, dipartita’ o qualcosa del genere.” Perani 2015, 303. 49  Brocke 2005; Reiner 2011, 254–255; Reiner 2014, 209–211. 48

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

81

epitaph of a high dignitary, Moses son of Joseph son of David (Daud), who was murdered in 1240 (year uncertain) by envious wrongdoers ([...] ,‫ אז התנכלו עליו בני סורה‬,‫[ בא אל ספרד‬...] ,‫ויקנאוהו דברי סרה‬ (‫ והרגיו יחזו צרה‬,‫)לשממון תהיה‬.50 Similarly, the tombstone of Israel son of Joseph, who was killed around the thirteenth century, mentions that he “was struck a blow […] and fell victim” ([...] ‫הכה מכת‬ ‫)ונפל חלל‬.51 Another instance is a long rhymed epitaph, probably written in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, that describes the murder of R. Israel son of R. Moses son of Israel in the hands of an evil gentile.52 This epitaph provides a wealth of details, including the fact that R. Israel was attacked on 11 of Nissan, but died only on Passover (i.e. 15 Nissan or later), without having “raised his head” in between. Thus, what is described is not only the gory attack that led to his death but also his dying process. Also, the 1341 (year uncertain) murder of the dignitary Abraham, son of Samuel, son of Elnecave, is described in detail, albeit in poetic terms that preclude an understanding of the event: he is said to have died in the hands of “the devil,” who struck him with his lance, and his strike was a sudden arrow (‫ חץ פתאום היה מכתו‬,‫( )ויכהו בחניתו‬cf. Psalm 64:8).53 Also, several tombstones from medieval France reflect death by violence, though in a terser manner, by referring to the deceased with the epithet “killed” (‫ )הרוג‬or “holy (martyr)” (‫)קדוש‬.54 Overall, Jewish epitaphs citing homicide as the cause of death are not numerous. One may presume that along the centuries there were more instances of such deaths than were listed on the funerary inscriptions. Thus, the choice of the commemorators to indicate such deaths, either explicitly or as allusions, is intriguing, and we can only guess at the reasons that led them to do so. One may consider here the intended audience of these inscriptions: were these the family and loved ones, or also the passers-by who visited the cemetery and had to be told that this was no regular death, or maybe even the divine entities to whom the 50

 Cantera and Millas 1956, 70–71 (no. 29); Mata López 2017. Note that this epitaph, too, contains a request for revenge: ‘May his killers see misfortune.’ 51  Cantera and Millas 1956, 74 (no. 32); Mata López 2013. 52  Cantera and Millas 1956, 83–84 (no. 41). 53  Cantera and Millas 1956, 106–108 (no. 59). 54  E.g., Nahon 1986, nos. 142, 245 (on which see also Reiner 2011). For an exception, in which the term ‘killed’ refers to death in an accident and not by intentional violence, see Reiner 2011, 254 n. 106.

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living appealed in their request for revenge or expiation of sins? These questions remain of course open, but an interesting future line of inquiry would be an anthropological survey of modern instances in which death by homicide is mentioned on tombstones. DEATH IN CHILDBIRTH Until quite recently, pregnancy and the delivery of a child could be dangerous circumstances. Many women lost their lives during these occasions, often together with their infant. However, the epigraphic record from antiquity to the early Middle Ages is usually silent about such deaths, and the overall number of funerary inscriptions recording them is low.55 Among Jews, only a few cases have survived, one from Palestine and several more from Egypt. This situation changes in later periods, when death in childbirth is explicitly mentioned, sometimes accompanied by unexpected gory details and iconographic renderings.56 An ossuary inscription in Aramaic found in North Jerusalem probably refers to the woman’s death in childbirth. It is undated, but it likely derives from the first century CE. The remains in the ossuary were those of a woman aged 30–35, with a full-term foetus within her pelvic bones.57 The brief text reads:

55  For a selection of Greek and Roman funerary reliefs and inscriptions recording the death of women in childbirth, see Demand 1994 and Carroll 2014, respectively. For child mortality in the archaeological record, particularly in the Jewish catacombs in Rome, see Rutgers 2006 and Rutgers 2015. For a good overview of childbirth, infancy and related topics in the Roman world, see Carroll 2018; for the Jewish world (up to the modern period), see Klein 2000, 155–170. 56  See, for example, the epitaph of Kalomira, wife of Aharon Roman, who died in Istanbul in 1683 (Rozen 2014, 348–350): “For this is the woman with her son lying (dead) at her feet, and another son wrapped inside her innards” (‫הלא זאת‬ ‫)האשה עם בנה שוכב מרגלותיה ובן אחר כרוך בתוך כרעיה‬. See also the moving iconographic depiction of matriarch Rachel’s death during childbirth on the grave of Rachel Teixeira de Mattos (Ouderkerk, Amsterdam, 1716; https://www.findagrave. com/memorial/128185721/rachel-teixeira_de_mattos, Memorial no. 128185721, accessed 20 June 2020). The depiction of biblical scenes relevant to the deceased’s name did not mean that the woman actually died in childbirth. 57  Haas 1970, 48.

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CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

8. Jerusalem, ca. first century CE58 ‫חלת שלום ברת שאול‬ ‫ שלום ברתה‬59‫די שברת‬ Ossuary of Shalom daughter of Shaul who failed to give birth. Peace, daughter!60 Although there have been attempts to find allusions to death during childbirth on other ossuary inscriptions, these remain uncertain due to the lack of corroborating osteological evidence. For instance, Tal Ilan lists four cases (in addition to the one of Shalom daughter of Shaul mentioned above) of funerary inscriptions naming women who seemingly had been buried with their children after dying during delivery, but none of these is supported by skeletal remains and the textual evidence is ambiguous.61 Several funerary inscriptions that explicitly record death in childbirth derive from Egypt. Horbury and Noy list four (JIGRE nos. 33, 85, 99, 106). All are inscribed in Greek, but their context and text indicate that they belonged to Jews. I reproduce here two of the four, very different in style. The first, in metric verse, belonged to a woman named Arsinoe. It begins with an address to the passers-by, beseeching them to weep for the dead woman, and continues with a story narrated in the first person. Here, Arsinoe recounts her life (“my  For transcription, bibliography and photos, see CIIP I.1, 71–72, no. 25. The translation differs from CIIP. 59  The verb ‫ שברת‬is probably a Hebraism denoting a difficult delivery; cf. Isaiah 66:9, ‫אמר יְ הוָ ה‬ ַ ֹ ‫אוֹליד י‬ ִ ‫ה ֲאנִ י ַא ְשׁ ִבּיר וְ לֹא‬. ַ 60  My translation here follows the editio princeps of Joseph Naveh, taking the last two words, ‫שלום ברתה‬, as a farewell greeting from the father to his departed daughter (see Naveh 1970, 37, with two additional options for translation). I find the translation provided in CIIP, “who failed to give birth to her daughter Shalom,” suggesting that “the unborn child received the same name as her mother,” mistaken. The human remains inside the ossuary were of an unborn fetus. Hence, the mother’s family had no way of knowing whether she was supposed to deliver a boy or a girl, since the unfortunate baby never left the mother’s body. Thus, they would not have named the baby in advance of its birth with a female name. 61  Ilan 1995, 117–118. A sixth inscription on her list, from Byblos in Phoenicia, is actually a bronze amulet for protection and not a funerary inscription. For archaeological examples of death in childbirth, see Demand 1994, 72–73; Carroll 2014, 163; and Rutgers 2015, 45. 58

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allotted span was short”), mentioning also that her “soul has flown to the holy ones,” an indication of belief in an afterlife. The text then reverts to an impersonal form, ending with the date. Arsinoe’s story was probably common in the ancient world among Jewish and nonJewish women alike, but the reference to childbirth as a cause of death was nonetheless rare. 9. Leontopolis (Tell el-Yehoudieh, Egypt), mid-second century BCE – first century BCE62 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

Ἀρσινόης τάφος οὗτος, ὁδοίπορε· κλαῦσον ἐπιστάς | τὴν κατὰ πάντα ἀτυχῆν, δύσμορον, αἰνόμορον. | ὀρφανικὴ λείφθην γὰρ ἐγὼι {ἐγὼ} μεικρά περ ἐοῦσα | μηιτρός {μητρός}· ἐπεὶ δὲ μ’ ἀκμῆς ἄνθος ἐνυμφοκόμει, | ἔζευξέν με Φαβεῖτι πατήρ, ὠδεῖνι δὲ Μοῖρα | πρωτοτόκου με τέκνου πρὸς τέλος ἦγε βίου. | καὶ μεικρὸν μὲν ἐγώι {ἐγώ} τ’ ἔλαχον κύκλον, ἀλλὰ χάρις μοι | πλείστηι {πλείστη} ἐπένθηισεν καλλοσύνηι {καλλοσύνη} πραπίδων. | καὶ τάφος ἐν κόλποις κρύπτει τὸ ἐμὸν δέμας οὗτος | ἁγνοτραφές, ψυχὴ δ’ εἰς ὁσίους ἕπετε. | Ἀρσινόης ἐπικήδειος· (ἔτους) κεʹ, Μεχεὶρ βʹ.

This is the grave of Arsinoe, wayfarer. Stand near and weep for her, unfortunate in all things, whose fate was adverse and terrible. For I was bereaved of my mother when I was a little girl; and when the flower of youth dressed me as a bride, my father joined me in marriage with Phabeis, and Fate led me to the end of life in the travailpain of my first-born child. My allotted span was small, but great charm bloomed upon the beauty of my spirit. Now this grave hides in its bosom my chastely nurtured body, but my soul has flown to the holy ones. A lament for Arsinoe. 62

 JIGRE, 69–74 (no. 33). Vertical lines reflect the metric verse division. Translation is continous.

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

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In the twenty-fifth year, Mecheir 2. A second example from Egypt is a stone stele containing the epitaph of a woman whose name has survived only in part (A..this). As opposed to the long and detailed inscription of no. 9, it is relatively concise. It seemingly does not mention A..this’ husband, but provides instead the name of her father. 10. Demerdash (Egypt), first century BCE or CE63 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

ἔτους ϛʹ [Ἁθ]ὺρ ιαʹ. Ἀ[․․]θις Σαββ[α]ταίου ἄωρος λόχω χρηστὴ χαῖρε. ὡς ἐτῶν λεʹ. ΗΒ

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

In the sixth year, Hath yr 11. A[..] this daughter of Sabb[a] taios,64 untime ly dead, in childbirth, excellent woman, fare well. About 35 years old. EB (unclear ligature).

According to Horbury and Noy (JIGRE, 184) “it seems that Jews were the only people in Egypt who cared to record childbirth as the cause of death.” This is interesting, in view of the fact that non-Jews in other parts of the Greco-Roman world had been doing so (although on a small scale) for centuries, yet for those periods there are no Jewish inscriptions outside of Egypt (except that of Shalom mentioned above) that record death in childbirth.

63

 JIGRE, 182–184 (no. 106).  Or perhaps: ‘wife of Sabbataios.’

64

86

O.-P. SAAR

ACCIDENTS, EPIDEMICS AND OTHER ATYPICAL DEATHS It may seem strange to couple accidental demise with death that occurred as a result of disease, but the reason for this is prosaic. In most cases discussed below, we cannot ascertain which of the two it was. We can only assume that the death was atypical, and hence it became part of this corpus. Furthermore, the cause of death could have been neither—some of the people commemorated on these epitaphs might have been the victims of murder or suicide. In any event, accidental deaths or those that were the result of epidemics are rarely featured in the Jewish epitaphs from the periods and regions discussed here.65 Hence, it is worth listing some of the interesting instances among these cases. The first is a Greek epitaph dated to the first half of the third century CE, discovered on the island Kos, and currently lost. The epitaph is included in the IJO corpus and was earlier identified as Jewish based on its iconography, which included palm branches and rosettes on top of the stele. Nevertheless, this identification is uncertain and does not rely on any other criterion. The epitaph commemorates Aurelius Gaius, son of Rufus, of unknown age. While Aurelius’ cause of death is not stated, the inscription mentions that he suffered from many an illness (πολλὰ νόσῳ). This is unusual, although other examples are known from non-Jewish epitaphs.66 It is possible that mentioning these illnesses was meant to provide comfort at the passing of the person, who was at last free from suffering. 11. Kos, third century CE67  1. εὐγενίης  2. βλάστημα καὶ 65  As with other categories, this situation changes in later centuries. From the later Middle Ages onward, Jews begin to record death due to plague and, increasingly, death in accidents. 66  See IJO II, 57, or Graf 2007, 141 (no. 8). A much later Jewish parallel comes from Bohemia, in an epitaph dated to 1372/3 that mentioned the many illnesses the deceased had suffered from, for a prolonged period of time: “[‫חולאי׳ רעי׳ ]ונ‬ ‫( ”אמנים אשר חלה ימי׳ ושנים‬numerous evil [and s]teadfast illnesses, which he had suffered for days and years); see Polaković 2006, 33–34 (no. 6). 67  IJO II, 56–57 (no. 8).

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL

87

 3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10. 11.

συνγενεία διάδημα / Αὐρήλιε Γάϊε Ῥούφου πολλὰ νόσῳ σὺ καμὼν / ἐνθάδε κεῖσαι. χαίροις Γάϊε Ῥούφου. χαῖρε καὶ σ γλυκύτατε φίλε. μν(είας) χάρ(ιν).

 1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  7.  8.  9. 10. 11.

You, the offspring of nobility and the crown of relatives Aurelius Gaius, son of Rufus, who suffered much on account of illnesses, lies here. Farewell, Gaius Rufus. Farewell to you too, sweetest friend. For the sake of memory.

A second interesting inscription is an epitaph inscribed on a small marble plaque decorated with Jewish symbols (menorah, shofar and lulav, as well as an amphora), uncovered in the Monteverde catacomb in Rome.68 It commemorates two children (not siblings, given their ages) who died on the same day. Their cause of death is not mentioned, but it must have been one of the categories covered in this article, probably an accident or an epidemic.69 12. Rome, perhaps third-fourth century CE70 1. 2.

ἐνθά·δε κεῖν·τε Φορτουνᾶ·τος · καὶ Εὐ·τρό·πις · νήπιοι · φι·-

68  The plaque is opisthographic, with the other side containing the Latin epitaph of a fifty-five-year-old woman. Given its dedication, dis manibus sacrum, it is possible that its origin is non-Jewish. See JIWE II, 489–490 (no. 605), but also Rutgers 1995, 269–272. 69  For an overview of children’s death in accidents, see Laes 2004. 70  JIWE II, 100 (no. 118).

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O.-P. SAAR

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

λοῦν·τες · ἀλ·λή·λους · ὃς · ἔ·ζη·σεν Φορ·του·νᾶ·τος · ἔ·τη · τρεῖς · καὶ · μῆ·νας · τέσ·σα·ρες · καὶ · Εὐτρό·πις · ὃς ἔ·ζη·σεν · ἔ·τη · τρί·α · καὶ μῆνας ἑπτά · ἐν · εἰ·ρήνῃ · ἡ · κοί·μη·σις αὐ·τῶν. εἰς μίαν ἀπέθαναν ἡμέραν.

 1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10.

Here lie Fortunatus and Eutropius, children who loved each other: Fortunatus who lived three years and four months, and Eutropius who lived three years and seven months. In peace their sleep. They died on one day.

There are a few other instances of similar inscriptions, in which the identical time of death is mentioned. Interestingly, they all commemorate children. One of these, dated to the first through third century CE, is from Caesarea Maritima in ancient Palestine, and derives from a polytheistic (“pagan”) context:71 εὐψυχεῖτε φίλα μου τε’κνα. εὐψύχει, ΠρεῖσκεΝεμωνιανέ, ἐτῶν ιε’•δοῖ σοι ὁ Ὄσειρις τὸ ψυχρὸν ὕδωρ σὺν τῇ ἀδελφῇ σου τῇ μονοώρῳ ἁρπασθείσῃ σύν σοι. καὶ σύ,Ἰσίδωρε, εὐψύχει, ἐτῶν ζ• δοῖσοι ὁ Ὄσειρις τὸ ψυχρὸν ὕδωρσὺν τῷ ἀδελφῷ σου τῷ μονοώσῳ ἁρπασθέντι σύν σοι. γῆ ὑμῖν ἐλαφρὰ καὶ τὰ κατὰ δοῦσ’ ἀγαθά. Farewell, my dear children. Farewell, Priskos Nemonianos, fifteen years old. May Osiris give the cold water to you and to your sister who was carried off in the same hour with you. And you, Isidora, seven years old, farewell. May Osiris give the cold water to you and to your brother who was carried off in the same hour with you. May 71

 CIIP II, 463–465 (no. 1531).

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the Earth be light for you, and may those things she grants you below be good. Another inscription, found at Zoora in south Palestine and dated to 472 CE, derives from a Christian context. It commemorates two children that were buried in the tomb of their uncle, who died 25 years earlier. The boys died at the same time:72 Εἷς Θεός. Μνημεῖον πρῶτον μὲν Σαμμασέου ὑποδιακόνου, ἀποθανόντος πρὸ ἐτῶν κε. ἔπειτα Λουλιανοῦ,ἐτῶν ε, καὶ Στεφάνου, ἀδελφοῦ, ἐτῶνβ, υἱῶν Ἄντυος.Ἐτελεύτησαν δὲἐν ἡμέρᾳ καὶ ὤρᾳμιᾷ, μετὰ καλῆς πίστεως,ἐν ἔτει τξζ, μηνὸςΠανήμου κβ, ἠμέρᾳ γ. θαρσεῖτε, οὐδείς ἀθάνατος. One (is) the God. Monument (belonging) first to Sammaseos, (the subdeacon), who died 25 years ago; (and) then to Loulianos, 5 years old, and to (his) brother Stephanos, 2 years old, (both) sons of Antys. (The two children) passed away on the same day and hour, having a good faith, in (the) year 367, on (the) 22nd day of the month of Panemos, on (the) 3rd day (Tuesday). Be of good cheer, no one (is) immortal. The inscriptions from Caesarea Maritima and Zoora both stress the identical time of death for the children they commemorate, in these cases siblings. They are thus reminiscent of the Jewish inscription from Rome for the two little friends. Neither of the three inscriptions relates the cause of death, which it seems was less significant than the identical time of death. It is possible that the commemorators wanted to allude to the close bonds that tied those persons (“children who loved each other”), much like in the biblical verse of 2 Samuel 1:23, “In life and in death they were not divided.” The following epitaph in this section commemorates three siblings who died in the same year. Their cause of death is not mentioned, but it must have been due to one of the reasons discussed in this article: either violence (intentional or accidental) or health-related.73 72

 https://library.brown.edu/iip/viewinscr/zoor0382/ (accessed 16 June 2020).  A somewhat similar text is Nahon 1986, 315–317 (no. 272c), deriving from Sainte-Colombe-lès-Vienne and dated approximately to the fourth or fifth century CE. This Latin epitaph commemorates three young children who died within 73

90

O.-P. SAAR

13. Narbonne (Gaul), 688/9 CE74  1.  2.  3.  4.  5.  6.  7.  8.  9. 10.

{menorah} ic requiescunt in pace benememori tres fili D(omi)ni Paragori de filio condam D(omi)ni Sa paudi id est75 Iustus Ma trona et Dulciorella qui vixserunt Iustus annos XXX Matrona ann(o)s XX Dulci orela (sic) annos VIIII ‫שלום על >י